Part 13 (1/2)

They decided to leave that night. It was a long drive, and the idea of waiting simply to get a couple of hours of bad sleep didn't wash.

Grady had trained Mary on the stick-s.h.i.+ft over the past two weeks, but decided to get behind the wheel first. They stopped at an all-night fast food joint and got on the road around two. The interstate was deserted, so Grady floored the Toyota until the needle reached ninety. She talked and talked. Mary interjected something now and again, but she loved listening.

After more than an hour, the conversation dwindled, and Mary's eyes felt heavy. She nodded off.

The sky is close to the land. The sand s.h.i.+nes and burns. In the engorged sky beasts swim amidst the clouds on wings gilded by bone, their red eyes painted into their heads.

The car stopped and Mary stirred.

”You okay?” asked Grady.

”Hunh?”

”You were talking in your sleep.”

Mary pressed a lever; she and her seat returned to their upright positions. She looked around. ”Where are we?”

”South Carolina.”

The rest stop was lit by street lights, most of which were dim or out. Soda and junk food dispensers rested behind gates wide enough for a hand. Padlocks lined the gates. A single building was at the end of the sidewalk. Next to the restrooms, half a dozen semis sat dark and silent. Theirs was the only car.

Grady opened her door. ”Gotta pee,” she said, jogging away.

Mary was still a moment, then got out to stretch her legs. She pa.s.sed the humming vending machines, glancing instinctively at their shadows, and strolled to the end of the sidewalk. The moon bathed a series of stone picnic tables. On the nearest, an abandoned gossamer stretched from the pebbled seat to the chalky top; a breeze worried it, but failed to sail it. Past the tall gra.s.s, black woods curled over its secrets. Cricket song and a hysterical owl rose from the center of the darkness.

Mary jumped back, seeing a flash of movement at the farthest picnic table. It was a man. He hunched over, took his feet. She backed up as he faced her; his hand moved. She prepared to run for it, but the man only stroked his beard. He wore a long T-s.h.i.+rt, and the likeness of a bearded man in sungla.s.ses was half-covered by his own beard. His paint-smeared blue jeans pooled at his boots; but for a few strings of denim, a hole nearly showed his left knee.

”Mary!”

Mary took a last look at him.

”Come on!”

She backed up.

The man waved.

A few miles down the road, Mary asked, ”You didn't see that guy?”

”What guy?”

”The guy next to the picnic table.”

”I was only looking for you. That doesn't mean there wasn't a guy, just that I didn't see him.”

”He was creepy,” said Mary, staring at the white-lined rus.h.i.+ng road.

”b.u.ms are.”

”Yeah,” she replied. ”I had the weirdest feeling, though, looking at him.”

Chapter Seventeen: Baptism.

1.

They had come for her.

Shortly after sun-up there was a banging on the door, a pause, then another round of hammering, and this time it was accompanied by a voice, unmistakably Durham's, telling them to bring out the girl.

Montague hadn't yet slept-he'd sat next to her for what had seemed on one hand an eternity and on the other no longer than a single stretched out moment, stroking her hair, telling her all would be set right, and when she'd occasionally snuck her hand inside his, he'd been almost unable to remain seated for his excitement. He'd left her room not more than an hour ago.

Now, he crept from his bed and jarred the door, stared out the opening. His parents burst out of theirs, and his father flung open the girl's door. She screamed-the first sound Montague had heard her make-and it was all he could do to stay put. He wanted to confront Father, stand before him with clenched fists. He wanted to free the girl. But Father spoke to her in a soft voice, and soon he appeared in her doorway, and she was cradled in his arms. Montague flushed. Her arms were around his father's neck, her face buried in her chest, and he thought, I could carry her.

2.

Joseph Greer kicked open the door and stepped outside, the girl in his arms. Several men, all of whom he'd known for years, stood before him, dressed in the familiar all-white baptismal robes. All but one wore glum, almost blank expressions. All but the preacher.

”If you're going to go through with this, I'm taking her.”

The preacher's eyes danced in the morning light.

The twelve men in white formed a gauntlet between the girl and river.

Joseph set her feet into the dirt, kept his hand on her a moment, then backed up. She stood unsteadily, eyeing the men before her. ”It's alright, honey,” he told her. ”I'll be right here if you need me.” She turned, and her eyes seemed larger than they had yesterday. They were filled with questions, but he had no answers, so he did all he could and pointed toward the men. She took a deep breath, and for a second he thought she was about to speak. Instead, she stepped forward. The line wavered. No doubt they'd heard about yesterday's strange events. He wasn't sure he could believe it all, but many of downtown's buildings had been damaged, at least that much was true.

She didn't look in either direction as she processed between them, and the men didn't look at her. They're spooked, thought Joseph. Then he caught sight of the preacher, who was knee deep in the water and beckoning, and he circled, creeping under a cypress that reached over a river, making his way along the bank until he found a vantage point. He wasn't sure he liked this girl-and was d.a.m.n sure he didn't like where she was staying-but, whatever her nature, no child deserved to be caught in the sights of a demon like Nathaniel Durham.

The preacher called to her once she'd reached the end of the line, and she gasped as if she hadn't seen him until now. She stepped back, but the line closed into a semi-circle. Durham smiled, called her again. Greer stood on the tips of his toes. If they pushed her . . . . But then she was past them, within the preacher's reach. He grabbed her by the arm; she didn't struggle. He turned her around so she faced the deacons. He laid one hand on her back, the other firmly on her arm, and began to speak about John the Baptist, telling the same old story about locusts, the wilderness, heads on serving platters, and doves voiced by the Almighty.

The whole thing bored Joseph. Church was a fact of life, and he supposed it did no harm-considering yesterday, he supposed he might need to reconsider this idea-but he would rather be hunched over a set of numbers than listening to Durham explain the mathematics of salvation. He followed The Golden Rule, lived by The Ten Commandments, but didn't understand the pageantry of meeting. A practical and a.n.a.lytical man was Joseph Greer.