Joan Hess - Misery Loves Maggody

"You asshole," Joy said as she sat up. "Next you'll be saying you want your handprints on that sidewalk in Hollywood. Armed robbery's no big deal."

"Is too," he said. "What's more, when the cops show up, I'm gonna get my shotgun and make my stand in the doorway. Nobody's walking away."

Jim Bob felt a chill run down his spine. For one thing, he didn't doubt Saddam's sincerity for a second; if the cops showed up, all hell would break loose in the form of tear gas and assault weapons. Nobody in the shoddy little house would be in any condition to crawl, much less walk away. What's more, he was not only a fugitive waiting to be charged with murder, he was also implicated in an armed robbery. There was no way the police would believe he was an innocent party.

Saddam lurched to his feet. "I'm gonna get a chainsaw."

Kevin realized he had to do something, and pretty darn quick. If he ran out of gas and had to hitch a ride to a gas station, it could be hours before he got the four-wheel back to Idalupino, who probably had noticed it was gone by now. She'd be madder than a wet hen. The minute Jim Bob got back from Hot Springs, she'd be griping in his ear and he'd have to promise to fire Kevin to shut her up.

He glanced in the mirror. The police cars were still there, their lights flashing, but they were keeping their distance. It was making him kind of nervous, though. It'd seemed like at least one of them would get tired of driving so slow and go ahead and pass. There were a lot of other vehicles back there, too. Something special was going on over in Oklahoma. It was too darn bad he didn't know what it was.

Dahlia was most likely already back at home, seeing to Kevvie Junior and Rose Marie. Thinking he could find her had been a dumb idea. About all he could do was stop and fill up the tank, then take the Bronco back to the supermarket and pray Idalupino didn't suspect him of being the culprit that borrowed it.

Up ahead he could see the white lights of a service-center plaza. It looked like a right fine place to buy gas and maybe treat himself to a can of pop and a candy bar before he drove back to Maggody. The last thing he wanted to do was spoil his supper. Dahlia kept a real close watch on what he ate.

He put on the blinker and pulled into the parking lot. He'd sort of expected the police cars to git on about their business, so he was surprised then they all turned in behind him. He stopped at a pump, cut off the engine, and felt in his pants pocket for his wallet. He'd just remembered where he'd left it when he heard a voice amplified by a bullhorn say, "Get out of the vehicle and keeps your hands above your head."

Kevin closed his eyes.

The Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred had determined through intensive prayer that he and he alone had been chosen to do something. Martha had pleaded with him, but his mind was clear and his mission set forth in words as plain and straight forward as the Scriptures, which he had quoted to her as he packed his bag: "Moreover this they have done unto me: they have defiled my sanctuary to profane it; and lo, thus have they done it in the midst of my house."

She hadn't looked real convinced, and had gone so far to have raised her voice before he'd reminded her of the fifth commandment. Perhaps he'd erred when he allowed her to take a position at the high school as a secretary. None of her fellow employees came to the church; as far as he knew, she could be mingling all day with drunkards and atheists. This wasn't to say that he didn't trust her. She was stout, loyal, and submissive. When her mother had died, she'd accepted the burden of caring for the two of them and seeing to the time-consuming chores required to keep the church functioning smoothly. He might have been able to call on another member of the congregation to wax the floors, sweep, dust, brush cobwebs off the rafters, and take the preschool Sunday school class every week, but he'd lacked volunteers. Besides, Martha was as stalwart as her biblical namesake. She was eager to do God's work. Her eyes shone with dedication every Sunday morning, just as her mother's had done.

Hitebred threw the bag in his car and drove past the church to a logging trail. He parked, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and murmured a prayer for the continued health of Miz Burnwhistle, who was again convinced she was teetering on the edge of her grave. He wasn't real sure who among the members of the congregation would dare to criticize him if he missed the big event, most of them having already dropped off so many covered dishes after false alarms that the actual funeral gathering would be a sorry affair when and if it ever happened. According to Miz Burnwhistle's daughter-in-law, the freezer held no less than a dozen greenbean casseroles, six pot roasts, and four lemon bundt cakes (with powdered-sugar drizzle). The daughter-in-law, who lived in Farberville and worked as a lawyer, had sounded a bit stressed.

The current generation of Burnwhistles had all moved away, as had most of the young folks. Scurgeton had nothing to offer them. Family farms had been bought out by corporations that bulldozed barns and filled in ponds in order to construct endless acres of chicken houses. Fewer children were joining 4-F and aspiring to win blue ribbons at the county fair for little heifers with shy brown eyes.

Hitebred took his overnight bag and walked back to the church. If the satanists were still bent on their wicked ways, they would hold their ritual on Saturday night in order to defile the holiness of the Sunday morning service. Never would they suspect he would be waiting for them in his office, erect in his chair, his ears tuned to the slightest sound, his hand poised to call the sheriff's department and summon a heavily armed squadron of men to burst into the church and cart them off to jail.

Although he knew that pride was a sin, Hitebred saw himself on the witness stand, his eyes blazing with righteousness and his words inspired by no less than the Holy Ghost. The jury would be spellbound, the judge and bailiff leaning forward, their mouths agape with awe. The miscreants, a sorry collection of slovenly, long-haired boys and girls-why, they'd fall down on their knees and whimper for forgiveness when they heard themselves condemned to eternal suffering. Whether or not he saw fit to forgive them would depend on the sincerity of their apologies. There was no room for ambiguity.

The church was dark. Hitebred let himself inside, locked the door, and groped his way through the folding chairs to the office door. He found the chair behind the desk, sat down, and set his Bible and a thermos of coffee within reach. Thus armed, he leaned back and awaited the arrival of Satan's onslaught.

Brother Verber was surprised when it began to sink in that he had been given the opportunity to do something that would expand his ministry. When he'd first climbed onto the table and exhorted the sinners to quit their drinking and gambling and spend the morning in church, he'd sensed that the message was not well received. However, once he'd pulled out the piece of paper with his lyrics and suggested that everyone present learn how to go about avoiding sin, his audience had turned oddly attentive.

"The thing is," he said, praying that the wobbly table would hold him, "you can't linger on the syllables. You have to keep moving along like draftees in boot camp. Now the first line goes like this: 'Atheism, bestiality, cunnilingus, drive-in movies… evolution and excessive body hair.' You want to try it, just to make sure we've got the pace?"

Those in the bar seemed willing to do their best. After a couple of false starts, it came together and Brother Verber beamed down at them as they applauded their group effort.

"Very good," he said, accepting a libation from a waitress who looked just like a miniskirted angel. "This is real kind of you."