CHAPTER SEVENTEEN1THEY WHEELED THE dead baby out at exactly 6:41 PM; Richard knew this because he was glancing at his watch when he heard the sound of the serving cart, and looked up.Wheeled him out on a metal serving cart, he would later think, appalled. My sweet God . . .Before this happened the Reverend had stood silent for a time, eyes closed in meditation, his palms pressed together, fingers pointing like little church steeples. The rest of the assemblage shuffled their feet and fidgeted impatiently, some of them coughing into fists. When he opened his eyes and began to speak, Richard jumped.“Welcome, everyone. We’ve all been acquainted—at one time or another—with the expression ‘culling the herd’, have we not?” A few nods came, some muttered affirmations. “But what does this mean, precisely: an eradication of the sick? Does it mean reducing the parasitic overpopulation? Getting rid of those too frail and weak among us, perhaps, as your forebears once did right here in B
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN1“WELL?” ASKED RICHARD from where he crouched in Deadmond’s front yard.“Don’t know,” said Tommy honestly. “Never seen anything like that in my life, man. Maybe I need to hit church more often.”Richard had resigned to staying the night at George and Glee’s, so here they were. Otherwise, Katie and he would be out at the motel now, for sure. “Something wasn’t right about it. Not right.” He chewed the tender inside lining of his cheek, staring at a gruesome Latex lawn zombie which sprouted from the neighbor’s darkened yard across the street.“Nope,” Tommy agreed, hands stuffed into his pants pockets against the chill.They had been outside the Deadmond home for half-an-hour or so, hashing over what had happened, the resurrection they’d witnessed. Richard couldn’t shake the feeling it was no miracle, but instead, that—like the rubber zombie rising up across the street—what they had seen in the church was more than just unnatural. Unclean, was a word that leapt to m
CHAPTER NINETEEN1THE FOLLOWING DAY The Rock River Guardian carried a story about the newest plague pit found near town, and how the grisly remains of twenty-four hapless souls had been pulled from the mass grave so far. There was no mention of Henry Putnam’s inexplicable rebirth last night, of course, just a short paragraph regarding the family’s tragic carbon monoxide deaths.Tommy called Franklin’s cell phone and they agreed to get together out at Blessing Acres orchard, after he wrapped up his schedule early for the day. Richard and Katie stopped off at the Nightlight Inn to shower and grab a change of clothes first. Richard hadn’t wanted to do it at Deadmond’s, hadn’t wanted to hang around there for anything other than breakfast and morning coffee with George. So, after pulling on some oversized sweatshirts and clean blue jeans, they reclined on the neatly made beds and watched cartoons awhile, eating microwave popcorn from the motel’s vending machine lounge.He paid the room
CHAPTER TWENTY1“WHAT THE HELL are you doing here?” came a voice from behind them, just as Tom was hiking his work boots on. They all turned together, and when Richard saw Chip Priewe standing at the mouth of the Anasazi Bridge by the metal A-frame sign, it felt as though ice-cold river water had suddenly seeped into his stomach, filling it.“Answer me,” said the police chief, smacking on Clorets gum. “This bridge is closed to the public. What are you doing here?”“Why’s that?” Tommy asked, shaking droplets from his hair. “Why is it closed?”Priewe studied them. “Safety reasons. How did you get yourself all wet there, Thomas?” He chewed briskly, hand rested on the butt of his holstered service revolver at his hip.“We saw the fish,” Richard said, trying to think of a way out of this. “From the roadway. Dead fish, floating in the river. We’re wondering what caused it. Any ideas?”The uniformed chief peered over the side, taking in the spectacle. “Not a clue. But you people need
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE1SIMON JULIAN RECLINED naked in the arms of Jesus, surveying his chapel’s sanctuary for the last time.He had shed his clothes and folded them neatly, applied some eyedrops, and had ascended into the welcoming outstretched arms above him. The Reverend sprawled corpselike in the large Christ statue’s embrace, blinking until his eyes cleared. His gaze fell upon the stained glass windows over the alcove.Where next? he wondered, feet and hands dangling, head craned to one side. Hop ship for a life abroad, another continent—or remain close by? Explore this doleful heartland a bit longer.Kansas, say: to the small town called Codell perhaps—ravaged by a tornado on May 20th of the year 1916 . . . and then again one year later on the same date: May 20th, 1917 . . . and again precisely one year after that: on May 20th of 1918—all three storms coming on like enraged beasts in the early evening hour.So many places full of hopelessness and human grief. Places of maddeni
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO1THERE ARE PARTS of Illinois known for their inspiration, places of important historical significance and remarkable beauty. Places to give one pause, just knowing they could exist in a flat, windswept floodplain state such as this. On the flipside of that coin, the dark side of it, there are also areas of desolation and blight-ridden anguish. Stark places where menace walked, natural and unnatural, where even nightbirds chose to hide and take to roost rather than sing their evening songs.The Island was of the latter.Angell Island was named after Clarissa St. Angell, first woman from the township of Blackwater Valley ever to graduate college and actually earn a degree. She had been born into poverty out on the remote island in the year 1860, and the poverty of the place had only increased since then. Along with the decay and disrepair.A hodgepodge of shabby little houses and trailers, the 33-acre tract of land sat floating off shore in swampy muck out on the
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE1“SAY YOUR NAME for me,” the old woman said. “Speak it now.”Hesitation: “Richard Franklin.”She repeated his words, pronouncing them slowly—“Richard” came out as Ricard.“Now say mine.” Her tongue darted over shriveled lips that were barely there. “Say it.”A small red fox with half its tail gone was circling around his shins, he’d noticed, brushing against them. “Witch Beulah. But I’m not sure . . . ” Richard swallowed. “Beulah the Witch.”The puckered mouth curved. “Why have you come this night? What would your pleasure be, eh? And why should I help you?”“His little girl—” Truitt began.“Let him speak it himself, Thomas.” Her eyes glinted obsidian-black in the firelight. “Well?”Richard spoke, going over it all again, telling her about Katie and raking fingers through his hair, telling her that he had nowhere else to go. She listened, allowing him to finish before beckoning them both.They followed her through the dark, followed the swish of her ski
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR1LISTEN, MY PRETTY-WITTY. Listen to me now.Katie heard the voice enter her head, plain as day. Felt it reaching from far off to connect with her mind somehow. She stiffened involuntarily, her arms tightening around the cremation urn. Was this a trick?Your father will find you, it continued, invading her thoughts, but first you must trust me and listen, eh? Close your eyes, cover them so that you cannot see. They are coming. And your father will find you.There was a brief pause, a scanning of her trepidations. Who is this? the young girl wondered, eyes shifting.Your mother paid a kindness to me once. I am repaying it to you. Do what I say, and do not look. No matter what you hear, what you feel, do not look. Do not see . . .I’m afraid, thought Katie, and the voice reached into her head in response.Do not be afraid. You have your mother’s gift. Let it flow through you. Take hold of it, child. The power lies within you . . . it is yours. It always has be