Part 57 (2/2)

”We still have to have our discussion,” I said.

”So come home, Travis. Alone.”

”I'll be right there.”

I came up with some lame excuse I can hardly remember, something about being sick, tired, or incompetent. I don't know. But I told Parker I was leaving for a while and ran to my Trooper.

I climbed in, closed the door, started the engine, then bowed my head to pray, gripping the steering wheel tightly enough to reshape it. I intended to burst into desperate prayer. I was going to tackle, wrestle, and grapple with G.o.d, crying out in earnest supplication for Morgan's life and my own and for the tattered soul of Justin Cantwell. I was going to bind and rebuke the powers of darkness and cast them out. I would be waging holy warfare in the heavenlies. It was going to be a struggle- Before you pray . . . said the Lord.

I looked up. It was quiet inside the Trooper, and suddenly, strangely quiet in my heart. It threw me. What happened? One moment I was ready to leap into the fires of h.e.l.l and whip-in-the-spirit whatever evil forces might come my way, and the next moment- well, I felt as if I were sitting in heaven. I saw nothing unusual-no visions, no angels, no lightning bolts or faces in the sky. The same cruel, crazy world was in full swing outside my winds.h.i.+eld: The lights were still flas.h.i.+ng, the cops were still running around, and the floodlights were still there, along with the TV cameras.

But I felt as if I were somewhere else.

How can I describe it? Jesus was in the Trooper with me. I would never presume to put words in his mouth, but I felt him saying, Could we take a moment to review?

I let go of the steering wheel and listened.

MORGAN SAT QUIETLY, praying only in her mind, her wrists anch.o.r.ed to the arms of the chair, her ankles taped together and immobile between the chair legs. Cantwell was sitting at the table, leaning on his left elbow, breathing hard, the knife dangling in his right hand. Though he looked fatigued, the vicious, animal expression never left his eyes. He had made no effort to clean any of the blood off himself. If anything, there seemed to be more blood than before. A pool of red was gathering in his chair and he was sitting in it.

”So you're one of them, aren't you?” he asked.

”One of . . . whom?”

He leaned forward and held the knife under her chin. ”You're a church lady, aren't you? One of the *reverends.' Did Travis tell you what I did to a *reverend'?”

His raging eyes were only a foot away. She could smell his breath, his sweat, the blood, now spoiling like meat left out too long. Near Eastern, the Angel, and the Hitchhiker were hovering, lingering, present in the room, sometimes visible, always felt. The house had become an outpost of h.e.l.l.

It made the peace she felt all the stranger to understand. She never would have expected this enveloping sensation of rest, as if she were somehow separated by a holy capsule from all that was occurring around her. It settled over her the moment her struggle was over and her options gone-the moment Cantwell's last strip of tape went around her wrist and there was nothing more she could do but trust.

Her voice was steady and gentle as she replied, ”He mostly told me what the *reverend' in your life did to you.”

He leaned back, letting the knife rest in his lap. ”Maybe he did find out everything.” He looked down at Henchle's body. ”Did he tell you who else was there?”

Morgan thanked G.o.d as she recalled the name. ”Uh, I think the name was Gallipo.”

Cantwell looked pleased. ”Conway Gallipo, Nechville's permanent chief of police! Very good.”

”Travis pieced it together, the part about Gallipo. He figured it would take two people: one to hold your arms, the other to drive the nails.”

He waved his knife in her face as he lectured, ”That should tell you a lot about me and why we're sitting here right now.” Victoriously, he placed his foot on Henchle's back. ”This little act of G.o.d was for Gallipo's sake.” He saw her grimace. ”Hey, come on. You didn't trust Henchle either-”

He straightened and looked around the room like a guard dog alerted by a noise.

Morgan felt a stirring in the room, a cold flutter in the air, a sense of alarm-on their part.

Then she heard the slam of a car door.

THE BUNGALOW LOOKED COZY and inviting. The porch light was on, and warm lamplight created a glow behind the drapes.

But it felt cold and sinister, and I knew the devils were inside. I stood by the gate for just a moment, gathering my thoughts and reviewing what the Lord and I had discussed all the way down here, that he and history were on my side. There was never a moment or aspect of my life G.o.d didn't have his hand on, and this little adventure was no exception. All I had to do was walk into the house and let him take it from there.

I knew Kyle and the others were still praying. I said a last prayer of my own and stepped through the gate.

I had never regarded myself as a man of keen spiritual discernment. Sure, I could usually get an inkling that something or someone wasn't quite right, but it was Marian who could sense the presence of a demon and be correct every time. I used to wonder and even ask her how she did it and what it felt like. Tonight I didn't have to wonder. I could feel a presence in my house as directly, as pungently, as any man could feel a hateful stare or a poisonous taunt. I gazed at the drawn drapes as if the spirits might be looking back at me from behind them. I glanced into the tops of the trees, a little surprised not to see some shadowy creature perched in the limbs.

They were watching me, waiting for me, expecting to play the game by their rules. Come on in, they dared me.

I continued down the walkway and stepped onto the porch.

I heard some movement inside. The sc.r.a.ping of a chair. Morgan gasping. A muttered threat.

I called through the door, ”Justin. It's Travis. I'm coming in.”

There was no reply, although I did feel a painful twist in my gut as if I were stepping off a cliff. I took hold of the doork.n.o.b.

We're ready, they seemed to say. Come on in.

Well I'm ready too, I thought, and we're coming in.

I turned the k.n.o.b and opened the door slowly.

The first thing I saw was Justin Cantwell in my dining room, streaked and stained with red, gripping Morgan by the hair and holding a knife to her throat. The second thing I saw was the tape that bound her to the chair. The third thing was Brett Henchle, dead on the floor. I was sickened but not shocked. I remained still. Cantwell was breathing hard, shaking-and desperate.

”Hi there.” I thought my voice would crack or quiver, but it didn't. ”It's me.”

”Close the door!” he hissed.

I closed the door.

”You weren't here for the first part of our meeting!” he said, nodding at Henchle's body. ”But you can see who's in charge!”

I raised my hands so he could see them, then went slowly to the chair by the door and sat down. ”I'm all ears.”

The ceiling felt low, as if the joists were supporting a mountain. Breathable air seemed scarce. Though I had just come through the front door, I felt it would not open again. The house, with only three living people in it, felt suffocatingly crowded.

Cantwell released his grip on Morgan's hair and she shook the kink out of her neck. By leaning shakily on the back of her chair, he made it to the table. By steadying himself against the table, he worked his way back to his own chair and sat down.

”Justin,” I said, ”you're hurt.”

He ignored me. ”You see, Travis?” His voice was weak. ”I've played a better game. I've healed more sick, fed more hungry, brought hope to more hopeless, and now I even decide who lives and who dies. People are afraid of me!” He slumped forward, his elbow on his knee, his head drooping. ”And that makes me G.o.d!”

I shrugged. ”If you can't trust him, be him. Is that how it works?”

”It works.”

”So I see. I can also see you need a doctor.”

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