John Miller - Death Draws Five

Ackroyd and Yeoman looked at him, and he shrugged. Now was not the time, Ray decided, to open up. “Sounds nuts to me,” he said.

“Got any more questions?” Ackroyd asked, looking from Ray to Yeoman.

“How many teams are out looking for the boy?” Yeoman asked.

“Three others, as far as I know.” Jesus paused. “They’re not all Allumbrados, though. Most of the guys on my team weren’t, though a couple were credenti.”

“Running short on nutcases?” Ackroyd asked.

Jesus looked very badly like he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Bye-bye,” Ackroyd said, pointed, and popped.

Jesus had time for one startled, betrayed look, then he vanished.

“Where’d you send him?” Ray asked.

“Where he belonged. Bellevue.”

“Probably not a bad choice,” Ray said innocently.

Ackroyd sighed and looked around the forest clearing. “Not what do we do?”

“Pray we find the boy,” Yeoman said, “before these nutcases do.”

Amen, Ray thought, but just nodded.

New Hampton: The Snake Handlers’ Commune

Jerry and the Angel helped three of the commune members, Josaphat, Josiah, and Jehoram, carry the bushels of produce into the kitchen. It was hard to be so close to so much tempting food, because Jerry had a bad case of the munchies from the contact high he’d gotten off Mushroom Daddy. He didn’t think he could wait for dinner.

Hungry as he was, it was clear that Angel was hungrier. Ravenous, in fact. The boys left them in the capable hands of Hephzibah, an old woman who looked like an extra from The Grapes of Wrath, who ran the commune’s kitchen. When she learned that they were both hungry she put out a supply of leftovers—cold fried chicken, home-baked bread, mashed-potatoes, corn on the cob, green bean casserole, tomato and cucumber salad, and a couple of apple pies—and watched in awe as Angel packed away enough food to feed a platoon. Jerry was getting a little embarrassed by Angel’s gustatory display, but the food was so good and he was so munched out that he really wasn’t all that far behind her in the leftover demolition. To assuage his conscience he slipped Hephzibah a couple of twenties that Ackroyd had given him earlier to cover the cost of their generosity.

Jerry was so taken with the simply prepared, yet unbelievably fresh and tasty fare that he didn’t even think of pumping Hephzibah for information on John Fortune’s whereabouts. Neither did Angel. They were both surprised when the sounds of an electric guitar wafted through the air, penetrating even Jerry’s dazed consciousness that was threatening to slip into a digestive torpor after he’d polished off the last of the potato salad.

“That’s the call to worship,” Hephzibah said. “I hope you’re both satisfied for now.” She looked at Angel, who had glanced up disappointedly from the fragments of the apple pie she’d just devoured. “Supper will be after service. If you’re still hungry.”

A loud belch escaped Angel. “Excuse me. Please.”

At least, Jerry thought, she had the grace to look mortified

Hephzibah waved it away. “That’s all right, honey. Long as you enjoyed everything.”

Angel looked down guiltily at the empty platters and plates and pie tins, as if aware for the first time of the devastation they’d wrought. Jerry wondered if she actually enjoyed anything in life.

“It was great, all of it.” He looked at Angel. “I guess we should mosey on up to the, uh, services. Right, Angel? We have to thank Uzziah”—he was the commune’s leader—“for your generosity to a couple of strangers.”

“Friends of Daddy are friends of ours,” Hephzibah said. “Besides, the generosity you receive is equal to the generosity you give.”

Jerry frowned. “Wasn’t that a Beatles’ song?”

Hephzibah leaned forwards as if revealing a great confidence. “Close. You can learn much from the lyrics of Lennon and McCartney. Almost as much as from the Book itself.”

Jerry nodded. “I’ll remember that.”

Angel seemed sunken even deeper in a digestive stupor than Jerry. Not unlikely, Jerry thought, if this was the first time she’d experienced a marijuana high. Which was probable. First-time users usually didn’t get off much, but Jerry suspected that just as the Daddy’s vegetables were so tasty, his other produce, as it were, was probably as potent in its own particular way. Jerry took her by the arm and helped her step away from the table.

“See you at the service, then,” he said, steering Angel out of the kitchen.

Everyone seemed to be moseying towards a whitewashed structure set on a high point a little bit apart from the scatter of other structures. It was in better shape than most of the other buildings, with a fresh coat of whitewash and a well-maintained wood frame and shingled roof. The sounds of the guitar called to them.

“Say,” Jerry said. “Isn’t that ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Angel said. “It sounds like rock and roll and I know nothing about the Devil’s music.”

“Oh, lighten up for once, would you?”

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Angel said. “It will be dangerous for both our bodies and our souls.”

“Yeah, well, we have to check them out. We’ll get a gander at their service. Ask a few questions. Maybe slip Uzziah a couple more twenties to take care of the damage you did to their larder—”

“You ate their food as well!” Angel said, stung.

Jerry sighed. She seemed to be one of those women who didn’t respond well to criticism, no matter how mild. “Let’s not go comparing who did what to the refrigerator, all right?” Jerry said.

Angel was reluctant, but she followed him. As they ambled up the hill to the church, Jerry noticed an oddly-decorated tree standing off by itself. He wasn’t sure what kind of tree it was. It had bottles of all colors, shapes, and sizes tied to its branches by strips of cloth. The bottles hung close enough together that when a wind blew they jangled softly against each other, making an odd, strangely pleasing music that could be heard even above the wailing tones of the electric guitar.

“What is that thing?” he asked, wondering.

“It’s a Spirit Tree,” Angel said.

“Spirit Tree?”

She nodded. “That’s what I said.” They stopped to look at it for a moment. “They’re common down South, but then so are snake cults. I ‘spect these people came up from somewhere near the Appalachians, bringing their snakes and Spirit Trees with them.”

“What’s it supposed to do?” Jerry asked.

Angel reached up and touched a cobalt blue bottle that had once held a stomach tonic, looking at it as if it contained the secrets of the universe. “Oh, the noise they make in the wind is supposed to scare away ghosts. Or maybe catch them if they get too close.” She let go of the bottle and it swung back, tinkling softly as it glanced against one of its fellows. “Anyway, that’s the foolish superstition. Come on,” she said, as if suddenly galvanized. “We’re missing the beginning of the service.”

They went on up to the church where they found seats in one of the back pews. It was already filling up. There were maybe thirty people inside with a dozen or more still filing in. The wooden pews were skillfully handcrafted. The floor was laid wooden planks, polished, and cleanly swept. The church’s interior was whitewashed plaster. The walls were unadorned except for some folksy portraits of Jesus Christ, most of which concentrated on the more gruesome aspects of His life. Christ scourged. Christ crucified. Christ with the crown of thorns. Most of the images made Jerry shudder. They resembled scenes more suitable for horror movies than a church, though he wasn’t really familiar with anything but the staid upper-class Protestant services he’d largely abandoned once he became an adult.