The Burning Time Page 4

  The two officers stepped aside as Ben Roberts, Cattaraugus County’s Medical Examiner, stood up. “’Morning, Harry.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ good about it, Ben.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “What’ve you got for me?”

  Roberts shook his head, his salt and pepper hair cut so short that you could see the liver spots on his scalp. Silvery grizzle covered his chin and sunken cheeks, evidence he’d been roused from the first of his several daily naps.

  “Same as the others?”

  “Yep. Third one this week. She’s got some busted ribs and a broken nose.”

  “What’s that tell you?” Showalter took off his hat and wiped his forehead. Sweat was gushing from every pore in his body. By the time he left here, he’d need to change his shirt.

  “She didn’t try to stop the fall. Usually a jumper will hold their arms out, like this.” Roberts demonstrated, crossing his arms in front of his face. “It’s instinctive. Injuries like hers usually mean she was unconscious, or nearly so, when she hit the water.”

  “So she was attacked and then thrown or dropped.”

  “I didn’t say that. No evidence of pre-mortem violence. No bruising, no blunt force trauma to the head or neck, no strangulation marks. I’ll know more after the autopsy report comes back. She might’ve been drugged.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, there’s those weird marks on her, across her legs and chest, just like the others. Large and circular. Reminds me of the marks a lamprey or leech leaves on its victims.”

  “So they’re bite marks?”

  “No, I just said they look like that. I’ve fished this river all my life, and there’s nothing in there that could have made those marks. I need to do more work on that.”

  “Anythin’ else?”

  “Some damage to the fingers, probably from when she climbed the pedestrian wall on the bridge. Joseph over there”—he pointed to one of the officers—“found some bloody fingerprints. Also, her feet are cut up pretty bad. She walked a long ways with no shoes.”

  “So you’re tellin’ me someone got her out of bed, made her walk naked for God knows how far, drugged her, and forced her to jump off a bridge, all without touchin’ her?”

  Roberts shrugged. “That’s one explanation.”

  “I sure hope you have a better one.”

  “Sleepwalking.”

  “What?” Sweat rolled off Showalter’s bulbous nose onto his tie, joining the egg yolk stains from breakfast.

  “People can do crazy things in their sleep, Harry.” Roberts closed his black medical valise.

  “Gimme a break, Ben. Three young girls all sleepwalkin’ off the bridge and into the river, in one week?”

  Roberts shrugged. “Right now, it’s the best I’ve got, at least until we get the toxicology results back.”

  “Christ on a crutch.” Showalter kicked at the mud and stones. “Call me as soon as you identify the body, willya?”

  “Sure thing, Harry. Stay cool.” Roberts headed up the sloping bank, his spindly legs as surefooted and steady as they’d been twenty years ago when he and Showalter used to duck hunt not a hundred yards from where they stood right now.

  Stay cool. Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have three dead girls on his hands, waiting for someone to find their killer.

  Because if there was one thing Showalter was sure of, those girls had been killed, which, in a morbid way, was good.

  A murderer on the loose was bad enough.

  But not nearly as bad as trying to tell the mayor they had a sleepwalking epidemic.

  * * *

  “And the Lords sayeth unto them, scream, scream for your lives! And ask yourselves, ‘If the Gods are good, if they are wonderful, why do they inflict pain upon us? Why do they ask us to offer our bodies up to them?”

  Reverend Christian slammed his hands down on the pulpit’s wooden surface. His wireless microphone amplified the noise and sent it cascading throughout the church. The heavy thud sounded in time to the thunder booming outside, the eighth day in a row that storm clouds had blanketed the town, full of threatening pyrotechnics. But the only moisture came from the one hundred percent humidity that turned the air into a steaming soup.

  It was standing room only in Our Lady of Perpetual Hope, and the packed crowd seemed to pull in Christian’s energy and spit it back out, over and over, until the atmosphere reminded him of being inside an electrical plant.

  “The answer is simple, my friends. You belong to the Gods! Your bodies are Theirs, your souls are Theirs. Does your dog stand up and tell you what to do? No! And neither can we give orders to the Gods! They who see all, who know all, hold within Their hands the power to crush the life from us or reward us with our greatest dreams. He who is obedient and serves Them shall earn favor. Those who stray shall feel Their wrath. So sayeth the Ancient Ones, in the time before times!”

  Christian paused for breath. All eyes were on him; looking around, he saw no patrons whispering to each other, no faces slack with boredom.

  No, these people, his people, had come today to hear him speak.

  To hear the Word.

  “Too many people follow the path of the Other instead of the Word of the Gods! And now the burning time has come upon us! The sleeping giant wakes! Listen to the night. It speaks!”

  Thunder exploded outside. Heads turned to the windows and then back again. Christian lowered his voice, and it was the only sound in the room.

  “Hear me, people. Judgment Day cometh upon us. Will it find you ready or will it find you wanting?”

  Cyrus Christian held onto the silence for a count of three.

  “This is the Word of the Gods.”

  “Amen!” The word leaped out of three hundred throats.

  “Amen, indeed,” he responded. “Now, please turn to page eighty-three. The song today is ‘We Shall Overcome.’”

  Chapter 7

  John Root pretended to sing along with the rest of the congregation, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Christian’s sermon had warning bells a’clanging in his head, as his mother used to say. He’d arrived too late the previous week to hear the Reverend’s talk, and so he had nothing to compare this one to. But certain words had caught his attention. Ancient Ones. The Other. Gods instead of God.

  Is he the one? Or is he under the influence of the one I seek? Perhaps a simple test will tell...

  After Mass, John waited outside among the churchgoers eager to speak with their new reverend. Christian stood by the tall, wooden doors of Our Lady of Perpetual Hope, his long hair dangling in the sultry air. Finally, it was John’s turn. He approached the younger man, his hand outstretched.

  “Reverend Christian, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your sermon today.”

  The reverend’s black eyes narrowed. “Thank you, sir. And your name is?” He extended his own hand.

  Just as flesh touched flesh with an electric spark, someone bumped into John, breaking the contact.

  “Sorry, dude.” The tall, skinny man with the braided goatee gripped John’s wrist to keep him from falling.

  “No problem. Good day, Reverend.”

  John hurried down the wide steps. Several dozen people still mingled at the bottom, and he wove his way through them, eager to put some distance between himself and the church.

  Christian’s voice followed him. “What’s your name, sir?”

  He ignored the question and continued walking, crossing the parking lot as fast as he could.

  * * *

  Billy Ray Capshaw had been approaching Reverend Christian when the unmistakable figure of Tony Lopez caught his eye. Towering several inches above the people around him, Tony’s Caribbean complexion and long pony tail stood out among the farmers and townspeople like a dog among cats. Even worse, he hadn’t bothered to hide his tattoos, blatantly flaunting them by wearing a wife-beater T-shirt.

  Christ. In a farm town like this, he’s as subtle as a fart in an elev
ator. What’s he thinking? Focused on his old partner in crime, he’d walked right into a guy talking to Reverend Christian and never even thought to snag the man’s wallet.

  Losing your touch, Billy.

  “Who was that?” Reverend Christian’s voice burst through Billy’s musings, startling him.

  “What? Who?”

  “Get your head out of your ass, Billy. Him.” Christian pointed toward a man with silver hair descending the church steps.

  “The old man? I don’t know. I’ve seen him around a couple of times.”

  “Find out for me.” The reverend entered the church.

  Billy tagged along. “You mean right now?” Following some old geezer wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He had to get Tony alone and make sure the idiot kept a low profile.

  Christian turned around so fast Billy fell back a step. “Is that a problem, Mister Capshaw?”

  The preacher’s eyes were like two black lasers. Billy practically felt their hot gaze boring into his skull, cutting through flesh and bone, exposing his deepest secrets to the light.

  “N...No, it’s just that they delivered the shingles for the roof yesterday, and I need to open them up so I can get started tomorrow….”

  “Billy Ray.” Christian’s voice went low and soft. “How hard can it be to find one man’s name in a town this size? In the name of the Ancients, do I have to do everything myself?”

  “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  The Reverend’s narrow head nodded once. “Good. Ask Mrs. Kapinski. She seems to know everything about everyone.”

  Christian strode away without another word, his boots thumping on the worn carpet.

  Great. Helen Kapinski is the last person I want to talk to.

  Every time the old crone saw him, all she wanted to do was ask him what he’d been up to since he’d left town after high school. Her constant prying was worse than being questioned by that overfed chief, Showalter.

  Fat pig. Everywhere I go, he’s there.

  Billy had run into him just that morning at Rosie’s. Officer Big-Belly had been stuffing his porcine face with steak and eggs when Billy walked in for coffee and a buttered roll.

  “’Morning, Billy Ray. Heard you’re bunkin’ at the church these days.”

  A gob of thick, yellow egg yolk had dropped from Showalter’s lip onto his chin. One fat, sausage-shaped finger came up, scooped the escaping goo and pushed it back into the man’s mouth.

  Billy’s stomach did quick flip, and he was suddenly glad he hadn’t ordered his usual egg sandwich. “That’s right. Reverend Christian said I could stay as long as I want.”

  “Sure beats paying for a room,” commented an older fellow sitting next to the chief. Showalter gave the old coot a narrow-eyed glare and returned his attention to Billy.

  “Thought you’d be on your way outta town by now.”

  Billy shrugged. “I can use the money the church is paying. Besides, it’s kinda nice being back in town.”

  Showalter stood up, his wide shoulders and belly blocking out the view of the people behind him. “A wise man once said ‘You can’t go home again,’ or something like that. Things here ain’t the same as they were when you was a boy. I don’t put up with no bullshit.”

  The waitress came back with Billy’s coffee and roll. He handed her two dollars and grabbed his bag. “Good thing I ain’t selling any.”

  He nodded to the girl to keep the change and walked out. He could feel Showalter’s beady squint on his back as he headed for the door.

  * * *

  Now, walking down the back hall to Helen Kapinski’s office, he shook his head and wondered if it was worth staying in Hastings Mills.

  Kapinski, Showalter, a crazy preacher, and now Tony Lopez. I’ll be lucky to grab the cash and get out of here without the cops on my tail.

  Then he thought about how nice it would be to waltz into Vegas with a suitcase full of money in his hand.

  C’mon, Billy. You’re plenty smarter than a dumb cop, an old bag, and a bible-thumper. And if Tony starts causing trouble, well, who’s to say he hasn’t been the one killing those girls? An anonymous note to Showalter might not be a bad idea.

  Feeling better than he had all day, he opened the office door and went inside.

  * * *

  John sat on his bed and tried to slow his racing thoughts. His attempt at finding out more about Cyrus Christian hadn’t been a complete failure, but it hadn’t made things any clearer, either. Just as he’d made contact, the new handyman at the church had jostled him before he could ascertain Christian’s true nature. An unlucky coincidence.

  Or was it?

  It was possible the handyman was involved somehow.

  I’ll have to keep an eye on both of them, while avoiding them at the same time.

  He knew well that the one he sought was not only a master of assuming identities, but in asserting his power over those around him, using mind games and dark magics to pull their strings, like some evil puppet master.

  So I’ll have to watch them both and still keep alert for the man behind the curtain.

  He sighed as a spiritual exhaustion settled on him like a heavy blanket, the weight of the years crushing his soul the same way the heat and humidity seemed to crush his body, sapping his strength from the inside and out.

  In the fading light of the late afternoon, he lay back and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Sally Mundt twisted back and forth in her bed as the voice in her dreams spoke to her.

  Sally, it’s time. Damon is waiting for you.

  Damon? No, he left me. Dumped me for a cheerleader.

  He made a mistake. He wants you back.

  But...he treated me so badly.

  That’s all in the past. He’s waiting for you, to make everything all better.

  The open window carried the sound of distant dogs howling, and despite the heat, she shivered in her sleep.

  Hurry, Sally. He won’t wait all night.

  “Damon...” she whispered.

  Maybe this time would be different.

  Yes. Yes, it will, the voice said. The softly whispered words echoed in her head, over and over, until they pushed all other thoughts aside.

  Yes.

  Dressed only in her cotton nightshirt, she climbed the windowsill, catching a brief whiff of musky sex from between her legs. Just thinking of Damon made her wet.

  He’s waiting.

  Just as she had when she was a little girl, Sally scurried down the slope of the porch roof and into the branches of the old elm. From there it was a simple matter to shimmy down the branch and drop five feet onto the soft grass of the front yard.

  Where...?

  Go to the bridge.

  The picture appeared in her mind. The Main Street Bridge.

  Hurry.

  Running as if her life depended on it, Sally headed south on Birch, paralleling Main Street. Her breath came in hard gasps but she continued on, imagining Damon waiting by the steel railing, perhaps already impatient.

  Perhaps thinking she wasn’t coming.

  She forced her legs to move even faster. Her lungs burned and sweat ran from her forehead. Her nightshirt stuck to her chest, outlining the contours of her breasts. When she reached the Johnson’s farm, she cut across the field, pushing her way through the rows of half-grown feed corn.

  Five minutes later, she burst from the stalks, struggling to breathe. Colored motes danced in her vision.

  “I’m coming,” she tried to call out, but the words were little more than a croak. On trembling legs, she staggered to the embankment and up the hill. When she reached the top, she didn’t waste time wiping the sweat from her body or the blood from her broken fingernails. She crossed the road and climbed the divider on the side of the bridge overlooking the Alleghany River.

  “Damon? Where are you?” Was she too late? She looked up and down the road, but only empty darkness waited, broken at periodic intervals by the greenish glow of the street l
amps.

  Look down, Sally.

  She did, and her heart skipped a beat. There he was, his arms open wide, as if to hug her.

  Or welcome her.

  Go to him. He’s waiting.

  “Damon,” she whispered and leaped from the bridge. His image smiled, and she felt herself smiling in return. Then her expression turned to horror as the face below her morphed into an obscene parody of Damon’s all-American good looks. The skin fell away, revealing the bloody skull beneath. Instead of a tongue, a black snake with glowing red eyes wriggled and curled between yellow, aged teeth.

  Sally opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. She hit the water face-first, crashing right through the dead-Damon’s chest. As rubbery, impossibly-strong tentacles encircled her body, and her lungs filled with cold, muddy water, she heard the voice in her head one last time.

  Laughing.

  Chapter 8

  The following morning brought no relief for John. Still distracted by the events of the previous afternoon, the stifling heat pounded at him as he made his way across town to the Anderson’s house. He arrived, sweaty and enervated, at eight, just as Danni and Mitch were leaving.

  “There’s cold water and ice tea in the fridge,” Danni said. “Make sure you stop and rest. The last thing I need is to have you pass out from dehydration or heat stroke while I’m gone.” She smiled to take the sting from her words. “Besides, I’m not sure my insurance would cover it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m going to work on the porch today, so I’ll be in the shade.”

  “All right. Mitch will be home at noon, and he can fix lunch for you both.”

  John waved as the car pulled away and then laid out the tools he’d need. In the past week, he’d already replaced the kitchen linoleum and patched the holes and cracks in the sheetrock throughout the entire house. Over the years, he’d found he had a real knack for carpentry, enough so that the projects at the Anderson’s were moving along fast and easy.