Currency of Souls (19 page)

"The hells' that supposed to mean? No one's pullin' my strings but me."

"There are two pennies in your pocket that say different. Sometimes, givin' selfish people what they want is enough to bring a town to its knees, as it will bring you to your knees."

"Wintry, come on," I yell out at him, disgusted by the quaver in my voice. I lunge forward, through the smoke, through
her
, and gasp. She feels like winter mist on my skin. I kill the stereo.

"You should have told him you didn't kill me," she says sadly.

"I know. There's a lot I should have done."

"That you didn't know how isn't good enough. Apathy is sometimes worse than murder." She starts to fade, dissipating like the Cheshire cat, only it isn't her smile that remains clear while she dissolves, but her eyes. "You should have told him the truth."

"Wintry..."

He half-raises a hand in acknowledgment, and opens the door, then slowly, painfully, eases himself into the seat. "We goan leave the kid?"

"Yeah."

Wisps of smoke curl from the broken stereo. I sense him looking at it, then at me, and I put the car into gear to get us moving. I roll down my window. The fresh air cures the nausea.

"They ain't always right, you know," Wintry says.

"I know. But she was."

We head for Hill's house, Brody a dark dwindling shape in the rearview.

Part Three: The Illusion of Free Will

Chapter Fifteen

Reverend Hill's house sits by itself on a grassy slope, segregated from the rest of the community by a short stretch of woodland on one side, and the river on the other. Hill's predecessor, the benevolent and much lamented Reverend Lewis, was never comfortable being so far from his flock, and was busy finalizing plans for the purchase of a smaller, more modest place in the town center when for reasons known only to him, he decided to string himself up. When Hill came to Milestone, he sneered at the idea of what he called an "odious hovel", and quickly made his home out here, in the tall narrow house he deemed just big enough to contain a man of his importance. "You'll know where I am if you need me," he advised his parishioners, "But know too that I have little time to waste on trivial matters that you yourselves have the power to cure."

The only time he would take an interest in the people was when one of them came to him with a blemished soul, but even those misguided few quickly realized that whatever god it was that Hill claimed to worship, it wasn't one they recognized, or wanted to have their lives governed by. But fear kept them—kept us—within his power.

From the get-go he was an asshole, and everyone knew it. A fire-and-brimstone man they didn't need, or want, but they were stuck with him, and as Cobb once said, "In troubled times, you can't be choosy about which preacher's voice you end up listenin' to."

Gracie's right. We should have killed him three years ago, as soon as it became clear what we'd been saddled with, but despite everything we'd seen and heard, and despite instinct telling us what the wise thing to do was, we did nothing. For three years we kept going back to that tavern, kept drinking ourselves numb and waiting for the keys to be jingled, waiting for Hill to tell us which sinners we were going to erase from the world as repentance for our own transgressions.

And every Saturday night, one of us would. Take the keys, get in the car, drive, and kill. Pretend the screams and the horrible thud against our hoods were deer, then come back, drink some more and wonder when that spiritual cleansing would kick in.

Never did of course, and never will.

He never wanted to save us from Hell. He brought Hell to us. But even he can't be blamed, not entirely, for what's happening in Milestone, tempting as it is to pin this nightmare on him.

No.

This town is dying because we're killing it.

* * *

"You want to wait here?" I ask Wintry, and watch his eyes slide slowly past me, to the house with its stained and buckled siding, leaf-choked gutters, unpainted frames.

He licks his lips, grunts with pain, and closes his eyes. "You might need my help."

"What is it you think you're going to be able to help me with in your condition?"

His shrug is slight. "Never know."

"Wintry, look. I appreciate the backup, but I'm not sure I have the time to wait for you. My boy's in trouble. I got to get to him, so do me a favor, all right? Wait here. If the ground cracks open and imps come flying out, or if the house takes off and starts spinning, then you come help me. I'm sure I'll be glad of it. All right?"

He smiles weakly, but I know he's not happy.

"See you soon," I tell him, and shut the door.

A long gravel path twists its way around a large granite boulder that bears the names of all the clergymen who have presided over matters of the spirit in Milestone, going back as far as 1820, when the town's soul was the charge of a Protestant minister by the name of Edgar Saxton. Seventeen men succeeded him. Sixteen of their names are etched there forever in the face of that boulder. Only Hill's name is missing, and I reckon it'll stay missing, unless his replacement decides he deserves the acknowledgment, if a replacement ever comes.

Though I'm running on fumes now and my head is threatening to split in the middle, I jog my way up the path, my pulse racing the closer I get to the house, and the red Chevy parked outside the main door. In a way I'm relieved to see it. It means Kyle's still here. But another part of me seems to have been betting on the fact that he wouldn't be, that either I'd make it here too late, or find that Kyle went home. Or back to Iris.

On the dashboard, there's a worn deck of playing cards wrapped in a rubber band. Next to them is a pack of Camel Lights, one cigarette poking from the foil. Maybe they belong to Iris, or someone Kyle gave a ride to. Maybe they're Kyle's. That I don't know is just another one of those things I'll have to sit down and chastise myself about later. No time for it now, even though I've just wasted five minutes staring at the damn Chevy.

As I skirt around the car and make my way to the door, the gravel crunches under my boots loud enough to give me away. No harm in that. I'm not here to surprise anyone.

As it turns out, the front door's shut, but not locked. It's got one of those fancy brass handles with the little button on the top you have to press down to open the latch. With a cursory check of the curtained windows for faces that aren't there, I depress the button and the door swings open without a sound.

I'm greeted by the smell of furniture polish, which isn't what I expected. Not even sure why. Maybe it's because the exterior has fallen into disrepair, or because the man who lived here up until some hours ago made everyone he encountered feel dirty so I naturally assumed his home would smell like filth. It doesn't though, nor does it look filthy. Just the opposite. I step into a hallway with dark varnished floorboards and a wide colorful rug which depicts the Virgin Mary in a typically beatific pose, her hands clasped in prayer, doves circling her head, her eyes rolled up so far to look at the Heavens she looks like she might be having a seizure. There's a bare coat rack to my left, the wood the same dark shade as the floor, and a few feet further in, a little ways past the rug, there's a small table with two drawers, the surface of which is completely free of dust and reflects the light from the quaint chandelier suspended from a small brass dome in the high ceiling.

I wonder if Hill had a maid.

The hall is short and opens at the end, where to the left, an arched doorway leads to the heart of the house. To my right, a set of stairs—as dust-free as every other surface I've seen so far—rises up and around behind me, running past the oval stained glass window above the door, and on to the second floor, the landing of which is overhead, and manned only by shadows.

It occurs to me that the sharp smell of polish and the immaculate cleanliness of the place don't make the place seem homely, but preserved. The kind of smell you get in a museum, or anywhere else you go to look and admire, but not touch.

At this point, I should call out for Kyle, just in case he hasn't heard me coming and does something rash because I've startled him, but there's a noise now, coming from somewhere beyond the arch; a shuffling sound, barely noticeable over the thumping of my own heart in my ears. Papers, I'm guessing. That's what it sounds like. The same sound the newspaper used to make when my father rustled it at the supper table. His way of telling us to shut up. For a few years I thought he was human only from the waist down, his upper half made of paper and black print.

I make my way into the darkness of the arch and on, into another short hallway, this one just as pristine as the last. There are windows to my right, and though the glass is regular, not stained, and clean, the morning sun seems to be straining to get through. On the opposite wall there are three doors, the middle one open. I cross to that side and poke my head in. It's a bathroom: sink, toilet, bath, no shower, and it's deserted.

The sound comes again, as if it's meant to draw my attention, to direct me, and it's coming from the room I've passed to get to the bathroom, the first door in the row from the arch.

My pulse quickens. Blunt pain taps at my right temple like an icepick. I go to the door, open it, half-expecting to feel a bullet rip through me before I get the chance to see who's holding the weapon.

But no bullet comes, and there's no weapon.

I'm in what I guess is the living room, and there's a man sitting on a brown leather couch across from two matching armchairs. I guessed right, he's reading a newspaper, but I don't have to wait for him to lower it to know it isn't my son.

"Took your time, Tom," Cadaver says in a hoarse whisper, as he closes the newspaper, folds it in half and sets it on the arm of the couch. He looks at me, expression grim, and motions for me to sit in the armchair opposite him. For a moment I don't comply, just watch as he retrieves his little microphone and jams it to his throat.

"Where's my son?"

"Sit," he commands. "This is how it's supposed to go. So do what I say." A sympathetic look crosses his ancient face. "
Please
."

Oddly enough, there is no mockery in his tone. The plea is a sincere one, so I take the seat, feel myself sink into it. Might be comfortable if I wasn't wired to the moon right now. "Where is he?"

Cadaver sits forward, one hand on his knee, the other holding the mike to his throat. "Upstairs," he tells me.

I start to move.

"Wait."

"What?" I'm already on my feet, impatient to be gone from this room.

"You ain't ready to see him."

"The hell I'm not."

He gestures at the seat again. "Please. I ain't fixin' to keep you from seein' him, but now's not the right time. You need to listen first."

"I'm not sure I want to hear what you have to say."

"Maybe so, but it will help you."

"And why would you want to help me?"

"I ain't your enemy."

"I seem to recall Hill said the same thing."

"Hill was an idiot."

"Can't argue with that."

"Please...sit."

I don't move. Can't. The door's not that far away and I'm standing.

"Kyle ain't goin' nowhere, Tom. He's restin'."

Resting? Here? Of all the ways I imagined finding Kyle when I got here, taking a load off sure isn't one of them. I can't tell if Cadaver's being straight with me. He managed to fool me for three years into thinking he was a harmless old man, and there's not much hope I'll be able to figure it out just by looking at him, so I do as he asks.

"Why is he here?"

"We made a bargain."

"I know: a one-way ticket out of here, right?"

Can't fault the kid for that. I don't think I've met anyone in this town who didn't dream of leaving it far behind them. But if that was what he got for his efforts, then why is he still here?

"That's right."

"In exchange for what?"

"I think you already know."

I do, but I want him to say it, to bring the gavel down on what I've been told, and what I feel deep down in my gut.

"Tell me."

"In exchange for you."

There's a glass-fronted bookcase behind the couch. In it I can see my reflection, but the gaunt overweight creature staring back at me with hollow eyes isn't someone I recognize. I bring my gaze back to Cadaver. "My life for his escape?"

"I offered to bring back the woman he loved. I offered to bring back Flo and grant him safe passage from this town."

"That's quite an offer. I'm flattered you thought it would take so much for him to sell me out. He'd probably have done it for a six-pack." I can't keep the ugly tone from my voice.

"You don't know your son very well, Sheriff."

"Either do you, apparently." I draw my fingers down my face. "So if he made the deal, how come I'm still breathing?"