The Journeyman

Part Four of Five

by Allen Woods

9:25 P.M.

The suffocating night billowed underneath the jersey hanging down to Teshawn Brooks' knees. It was an old Atlanta Falcons' jersey, jet-black with the number 21 printed on the front and back. It was Deion's jersey before he sold out and moved to other teams. He was still one of Teshawn's favorite players, he grudgingly cheered for him against every team but the Falcons, and he still wore the faded cotton-nylon blend on hot nights like this one.

Six years ago, Teshawn's father had taken him to the Dome in Atlanta to watch Deion play. It was a game with the Niners so of course the Falcons lost, but it was still one of Teshawn's fondest memory. Not only because Deion had two interceptions guarding Jerry Rice, but also because Atlanta was an incredible city. Compared to Hotlanta, Ithica was a spec on the back of a flea. One downtown city block in Atlanta housed more people than his entire neighborhood in north Ithica. In Atlanta they had real restaurants--instead of country cafes--they had pro sports teams--instead of Ithica's single A baseball team, the Mudhens--and there were real chances to get ahead. Atlanta had schools and his dream, to attend Morehouse, waited for him there.

It will happen, Teshawn reminded himself. He'd studied hard, had a solid chance of graduating as valedictorian next year, and Morehouse would almost certainly offer him a scholarship. Life was looking up for Teshawn. No more living in the impoverished black neighborhoods of Ithica. That was his real dream--to get out. Teshawn was using his mind to escape.

Strolling down the clay alley behind the Fourth Street strip mall, he kicked up small plumes of orange dust as he walked, and reviewed the analysis he'd read at the library earlier in the evening. His summer reading assignment was to complete and write an essay concerning the use of motif in the Canterbury Tales. The assignment made Teshawn want to crawl inside a cave and disappear--it was that boring--but he decided not to repeat the mistakes of summer past and wait until the second week of August to begin. He was already halfway through the mind numbing tales and had resorted to literary criticisms--a rather small section of the Ithica public library--for ideas about motif.

Teshawn rolled his eyes and purposefully kicked a fat chunk of clay across the alley. It rolled end over end, small bits breaking away as it collided with the impermeable ground, and bumped into a pair of shoes. He looked up, seeing a man staring back at him. A white man. He didn't look pleased. "Sorry," Teshawn said genially and he shrugged his shoulders.

The man, Teshawn guessed he was about fifty years old and twenty pounds overweight, muttered something incomprehensible and knocked the dust off his loafers. Teshawn rolled his eyes and kept walking. Don't stop, just let it go, he thought. He's probably afraid of me anyway. Why do white folks get their shorts in a wad when they pass a black man on the street? Half of them are afraid to look at me and the other half are so PC that they gawk.

Teshawn continued walking and glanced over his shoulder once. The old man was still leaning against the back wall of the Blockbuster Video store and he also noticed someone else farther down the alley. A tall kid, much younger than the old man, walking the same direction as him.

Teshawn thought nothing of it and returned to his academic fretting. He always had more questions than answers. It made him a good student. Why was it so important to read Chaucer in the first place? During the past three years of honors English classes, he'd read Dickens, Poe, Faulkner, Fitzgerald--whom he genuinely enjoyed more than the other writers--and Twain. Teshawn was aware of the pattern. They were all white and dead. Why didn't they read any black writers? Angelou, Hurston, Walker--he would have settled for any of them. Two fifths of Ithica was black, minorities constituted almost half the population of the high school, yet they still read books written by dead white guys.

Teshawn didn't have a problem with those writers in general--except for perhaps Faulkner, who put him to sleep faster than a lullaby--but why not add some diversity? It couldn't hurt, he thought. At least it wouldn't hurt him.

He shifted his purple Jansport backpack to the other shoulder. It wasn't late yet, but he was tired. Summer heat had a way of draining the strength out of him. Lumbering forward, he breathed audibly like a vacuum, when he saw someone else emerge from the dark shadows surrounding the alley. Another short white man, but Teshawn's eyes never made it as far as his face. His gaze leveled mid-chest. The man's black T-shirt depicted a Rebel flag surrounded by coruscating lightning with this message printed around it: You Wear Your X, I'll Wear Mine.

Teshawn's feet stopped. The remaining strength melted out of his hands and his backpack slid through his fingers like sand sifting through a funnel. It hit the clay with a quiet thud as he looked over his shoulder again. Four men approached him from behind. The two he'd seen before and two other white guys he hadn't seen. Teshawn barely breathed. Heels clicked softly as they circled him, the orange glow of the alley's street lamps casting diffuse shadows across their faces. Each man eyed him from head to toe and Teshawn tried not to move. His eyes darted back and forth, aware of the two men behind him. Those two are the most dangerous, he thought. Can't let them stay behind me.

Latent heat crested into the circle surrounding Teshawn and he suddenly realized that this is how a stew must feel. He was boiling alive and couldn't stand their silence. What the hell did they want? What were they waiting for? Finally, he shouted, "So what be it!" The words rambled together and jumped out of his mouth, just as Teshawn wanted it to sound. If he was lucky, maybe these fools had watched enough bad television to believe that black men who spoke like that all carried guns. For the first time in his life, a stereotype might help him.

You're dead Teshawn!

The voice rang between his ears, but he didn't have time to react. Suddenly, all five men were on him. His eyes swelled shut after the first few blows and he fell to the ground, their feet stomping his ribs and the side of his head. Epithets hurled down on him. He was an unclean nigger without a brain and should go back to Africa and swing through the trees with the other monkeys. The insults became a jumble of multifarious voices. He couldn't determine which man said what, but he didn't care. They hurt as much as the boots and fists.

Kill him! Kill the dirty negroid!

Where had that voice come from? It was different than the slandered timbres he'd heard so far and then Teshawn realized, that voice came from my head!

A thick rubber boot sole mashed his testicles against his left thigh and Teshawn gasped in white-hot agony. He'd never been hit in the balls. Guys always protected that tender area whenever they fought or played sports. These white trash fuckers had chosen to ignore that unwritten rule of combat and Teshawn thought he might die. The pain was so intense that he couldn't breathe, every muscle in his body locked up, and he thought his heart would explode. These guys were out for blood. This attack was premeditated, he realized. They had waited for him in this alley and now they were going to kill him off.

You're dead, Teshawn!

Why? What the fuck did I ever do to them?

You were born.

They pounded him unmercifully and as a protective cloak of unconsciousness began to wrap around his battered body, Teshawn heard the voice again. Stop. Leave now. Your work is done. And they did. Teshawn couldn't see, reservoirs of blood pressed against the whites of both his eyes, but he felt the tiny vibrations as the men walked away. They didn't run. They walked, meandering casually.

Why'd they stop? It was an absurd question considering his circumstances, but disbelief swept over Teshawn. They had me dead. They could have killed me. Who called them off?

As the final seconds of consciousness ticked away, Teshawn Brooks came to a stunning conclusion. The voice that made them stop, the one they all heard, sounded the same as the voice inside his head. The left side of his bloody body fell to the ground, stirring tufts of clay dust, and Teshawn didn't remember anything until he woke up in the hospital a day later.

Chapter Eighteen: Revelations

9:28 P.M.

Everything was a blur to James. Wan lines of hazy light and blaring car horns inundated his senses. Though he'd never experimented with it, James approximated the feeling to being high on mescaline. Minute capillaries throbbed across the vitreous membranes of his eyes. Snaredrums throbbed against his ears and his head felt like a giant heart, pulsating ever faster as it neared a stage of critical explosion. A fuzzy cat floated in the air. It's black on white eyes reminded James of the cartoon cat, Felix. Reading his thoughts, the surreal feline winked at him, its triangular ears perking like sails that had caught a gust of wind.

"Wh-Where am I? James mumbled with a cotton mouth.

Felix opened his mouth and a long tongue unfurled, becoming a bright red carpet. "Welcome home, James."

"Uhh," he groaned, unable to form the words.

"All sorts of mysteries in Ithica. A source for every shadow, right?" Felix said cheerily. "You ought to be more careful. It's bad for the eyes." And the cat's eyes narrowed into sparkling shards of coal, jet black and smoldering.

Then they spread apart, widened into vertical slits, and turned sour-apple-green.

***

Minutes passed like delirious seconds and when James awakened, he had no idea how long he'd been out. He was aware of his surroundings and saw Ithica through the foggy lenses of near-unconsciousness, but his stamina slowly built up again. The slice in the back of his leg had begun to clot, the flesh knitting together, and he didn't feel half as woozy as he had only minutes ago. Voices had sounded lethargic, a 45 record played on 331/3 speed, and waves of light seemed to trail every movement. It was the ultimate drug trip and James cared not to repeat it. He wasn't going to die, he hadn't lost too much blood, but he was weak and slow. When his vision cleared and the high C chord stopped ringing in the middle of his head, he awakened to unfamiliar surroundings.

A thick wooden chair with high armrests supported him. The back of his head rested against one of the broad slats along the back of the tall chair and he felt something at his feet. His injured calf felt flabby and numb, but something was down there. Leaning forward, without realizing how close he actually came to toppling over and landing on the scratched hardwood floor, James saw a forest of wild black growth. It was hair.

Scottie, he realized, the events of the last hour creeping back into his mind. He had followed Scottie after Cletus drove off and something had happened. Someone had assaulted them.

No, not us, but him. Someone went after Scottie and I tried to help. Christ, what was I thinking? Why did I stick my neck out for him?

James couldn't recall his reasoning or the sense of doleful fury he had experienced, but as he looked down at Scottie, none of his questions seemed to matter. For whatever reason, he had decided to help this odd kid and now he returned the favor. James couldn't see clearly--plumes of wild hair and the sweat glistening on Scottie's back obscured the view--but he felt the bandage wrapping around his cut leg. Scottie was trying to help.

He probably saved my life, James considered. He wasn't sure how much blood he had lost in that park, but he would have lost more if not for Scottie.

Scottie's labored breathing created a din that was almost as loud as the tearing bandage. He spun it around James' leg repeatedly and if his calf weren't so numb, James would have realized that it was wound too tight. His circulation was cut off and James couldn't feel a thing. His head rolled across his neck, lolling from side to side, as he struggled to get his bearings. Scottie's apartment was filthy.

He sat in the middle of a large open room without any other furniture. There were three doors, one small enough to be a closet and another slightly ajar. Through it, James glimpsed a darkened room with a lumpy mattress laying on the floor, surrounded by rat droppings.

Anything but rats! His skin crawled and James shut his eyes. Squeamish worms crawled through his stomach and throat, making him queasy, and he breathed deep to combat the feeling. When he opened his eyes, James stared straight ahead, consciously avoiding the sight of rat feces. He glared at the third door. It had three chains and two dead bolts on it.

Makes sense, James thought. If I dealt drugs I'd want security, too.

A large stereo with three feet tall speakers sat at the far end of the room, across a minefield of dirty clothes and unwashed dishes. Scottie obviously had never heard of hygiene. A large open fireplace with maroon hearthstones adorned the corner of the room. It was large enough to heat the whole apartment in winter, but debris overflowed from it. Ashy white contents spilled onto the floor, scattered like dust. James questioned what it was, but not for long.

Drawing another deep breath, his stomach churned its meager contents. He felt the vomit rise half way up his windpipe and then settle in his stomach again. He finally noticed something wrong with the air. Maybe it was the putrefying food strewn across the floors or maybe it was the sullied socks and underwear laying in plain sight, James wasn't certain which culprit, but a sour fetor hung in the room like the stench of death on a battlefield. It was a stale funk that cloyed at both nostrils. It was the rotten odor of a teenage boy, home sick from school, who decided to masturbate four times in the course of one afternoon. The place absolutely reeked and James' stomach churned again. Only this time he didn't regurgitate, he coughed.

Gooey braids of saliva flew from his mouth as he coughed long and hard, struggling to expel the awful fetor. It clung to his lungs like the spores of an ancient mold and James coughs turned raspy. He thought about the funk clinging to him, adhering to his skin and infecting his wound. He almost hacked up a lung. When the fit had passed, he opened his eyes and looked down. Scottie was staring up at him, smiling.

His head ticked to the side, the sinews of his neck straining at the unconscious jerk, but he continued to grin. At age nine, the doctor had diagnosed Scottie with Meige's Syndrome. There were therapies that helped him contain the spasmodic twitching, but Scottie's case was severe. His whole life he'd endured the taunts and glares from people who had never seen a man suffering from what appeared to be a constant grand-mall seizure. Scottie found ways to ignore their taunts and names. He smiled. "Man, I knew you'd be fine. Man oh man, Scottie knows how to take good care of cuts."

"Th-thank you," James mumbled and he rubbed his glistening face with both hands. Sweat covered his body and a few rivulets had crept into his left eye. It stung horribly and James rubbed at it, but felt Scottie's anticipatory glare. He awaited affirmation. "You s-s-saved m-me. Th-thanks."

"Good deal, man. No problem at all, none at all. All in a day's work." His head craned down again and James heard the bandage winding around his tense leg. It ripped like tearing cloth. "I owe you a debt of thanks, man. You saved Scottie, too. In the park. Remember, man? You saved me. Scottie can't ever pay you back enough."

"Yes, y-you c-can," James said with renewed energy. The burst faded quickly as fiery pain raged through the back of his leg. The numbness was fading. James slumped back into the stiff chair and allowed his chin to rest on his chest. An exhausted film glazed over his eyes, but his mind raged with thousands of questions. Of them all, James knew which to ask first. "You c-can t-tell me about C-Carrie M-M-Mason."

"Carrie Mason, man," Scottie said without looking up. His tone implied surprise.

"Yes, p-p-please."

"Why you want to know about her, man?"

"It's imp-p-portant t-to me."

"Can't be that important. So much to say, so little time. Where to begin, where to begin? Hey man, you sure you want to know?"

Caution tinged Scottie's inquiry. Despite his natural flippancy, James detected reserved circumspection in the kid's voice, a warning that the answer wouldn't be pleasant. It should have made James worry, but he was desperate, blindly following any lead. Scottie's trepidation made him more curious. James nodded.

"Carrie had lots of secrets, man," he explained as the ripping of the bandage grew louder and faster. "Everyone in Ithica has secrets, man, and Carrie knew too much. She knew things about the town and people here, man."

"Wh-what th-th-things?"

"Bad things. Carrie learned too much about a lot of people. She never found out about me, though. No, sir, man. Carrie knew things about almost everyone in town I'd guess."

"She h-h-had enemies?"

"Friends, enemies, they're all the same, man. We're all made of meat. I think Carrie saw something she shouldn't have or said something when she should kept her trap shut. Know what I mean. Everyone got something to hide, man. Little secrets, the skeleton in closet with its rattling chains. Marlowe, man. Marlowe, waiting to come around on Christmas Eve and show you where it's at. We all got those closets, man. You got yours and I got mine."

James' other leg began to tingle. The injured calf numbed again, but now his other leg was beginning to lose sensation. Tingly mice paws scampered up and down his skin and the cloudiness in James' mind began to clear. "Sc-Scottie, wh-what are y-y-you d-doing?"

He didn't answer. Suddenly the sounds of wrenching bandages became frantic; one long rip as Scottie wound it faster and tighter. As shock and disbelief combined with his unanswered question, James looked down and saw that Scottie was wrapping his other leg, but he wasn't using a bandage. It was duct tape. "Sc-Scottie," he repeated, still confused.

He jumped into James' lap, pressing his sore back against the slats of the chair, almost toppling them over. Sweaty, bloated flesh mashed James' cheek and he waved his arms wildly, but Scottie had pinned him. James struggled to stand, but his legs wouldn't move. The duct tape held firm and his muscles ached as they wrestled with the unyielding wooden chair.

"Scottie!" he mumbled through his mashed cheeks, but the sound of tearing duct tape was his only response. Scottie backed off, allowing the chair to sit firmly on the ground, and James lunged at him, but couldn't move. Three revolutions of metallic tape around his torso and biceps held firm. He was completely immobilized.

"I can't help myself, man," Scottie opined, his eyes widening into longing, desperate voids. He was changing. His breathing slackened as he slipped out of his shirt. It fell to the ground in a cotton heap and James yanked at the tape around his chest. His hands couldn't reach it, but that didn't stop him. After what he saw on Scottie's chest, James had to get away.

Superficial lacerations, worn pallid by age, covered Scottie's pectorals and abdomen. It appeared as though an army of hawks had taken turns ripping through his flesh with serrated talons. There was no design or pattern to the scratches. They covered his skin like a latticework of colorless veins. Walking across the room, Scottie switched off the lights.

James felt his heart vibrate throughout his body as darkness fell over them. The sheen of the moon was the only illumination and its tiny fingers of light barely crept through the window behind him. He couldn't see Scottie. He was gone.

Abruptly, his eyes flashed to the fire place again. Under the glow of moonlight, James recognized the white and gray ash. Deep inside the hearth, some fragments hadn't completely broken apart into ashen dust. Smooth, scarred pieces glinted in the pale light. They were bones. Crushed human bones.

He's behind me by now! James thought randomly and he tried to scoot the chair sideways, but it wouldn't budge. The shellacked wood was heavy and durable and suddenly a harrowing thought passed through James' fervent mind. This isn't the first time he's done this!

Music blared into his ears and James screamed haughtily. He didn't know why he hadn't screamed a moment ago, but it was too late now. The cyclic blare of the heavy metal was louder. James couldn't even hear himself. Bass vibrations shot out of the tall speakers like cannonballs and he gasped with each rhythmic beat. He knew the song--Kashmir by Led Zeppelin. The thunderous beats overpowered the captivating harmony of the electric bow and then Robert Plant's wailing voice resounded throughout the apartment. James shuddered, his breathing devolving into quick gasps of oxygen. He panted like a dog.

Coruscating silver light glinted from the darkness, a reflection of the meek moonlight, and James caught his breath. At least he knew where Scottie was, but as he stepped into the faint light, James wished he hadn't seen him at all. Blood dripped from his left index finger as he painted parallel lines under his eyes. Three straight line of blood under each eye, each an inch long. Tiny runnels dribbled off the highest lines, connecting the designs in a bloody mess like mascara running down a woman's cheeks on a hot afternoon. A straight razor glinted in Scottie's hand. The smile had disappeared form his face, but his lips parted briefly as his lengthy tongue extended outward to partake of the sour air. It darted to his cheek, tasted a drop of the blood with the tip of his pink muscle, and then the tongue returned to his mouth.

This can't be happening! James rationalized as he closed both eyes. The music filled his ears and his heart beat faster as he visualized Scottie's deranged face moving closer, the razor pressing against his throat. He couldn't stand it. James had to know what was happening and he opened his eyes. The darkness of his mind, unknown anticipation was worse than Scottie.

Scottie stalked forward, hunched over as he adroitly flipped the razor from one hand to the other. His dexterous tricks were remarkable, twisting the double-edged blade between his thin fingers without breaking the skin, but James didn't notice. He couldn't take his eyes off Scottie's vacant face. The man he had saved in the park wasn't there anymore. Scottie had become something else, sociopathic and dark.

"P-p-please don't!" James screamed. He couldn't hear Scottie's response over the music, but he read his lips: I need you. I can't help myself, man.

Scottie lunged forward and bent to his knees. James' skin crawled in retreat, but had nowhere to go. He suddenly felt the cold metal of the razor pressed against his belly. Stomach muscles contracted, but Scottie slid the side of the blade farther up his shirt.

James couldn't stand the sight of his vacant face anymore and he tossed his head back until it collided with the top of the chair. It was barely far enough. He turned his gaze skyward and concentrated on the artificial stucco ceiling. It will end quickly, James convinced himself.

White-hot pain brought his head back down. Searing agony blazed across his entire chest. It was so intense that he couldn't scream. James stopped breathing as his mouth contorted into a taut oval. Deep grooves ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth and James never imagined such pain was possible. Scottie tugged at his shirt, allowing it to billow outward, and James gawked as a tiny piece of his flesh fell into his lap. It was the tip of his left nipple.

"Stopppp!" he screamed as tears sprung from his eyes.

Scottie smiled. He pushed the shirt up to James' chin and pressed his face against his hairless chest. The intense pain abated slightly as James felt a new sensation. Something wet groped at the open wound. Scottie pressed his tongue against the sore and sucked the blood. His tongue wiggled incessantly, French kissing the gaping hole in James' chest until he pulled back, his lips coated crimson.

"I need it," Scottie repeated. An innocent quality resonated in his voice, but only for a moment. Scottie rose up and backed away from the chair. "I need it!" he screamed, much more violently, almost accusatory. He reached into the black duffel bag on the floor and pulled out a gallon sized Ziploc bag full of coke. He simpered ferociously and clutched the bag between his clawing fingers. The precious powder sifted between his hands. "I need it!"

A long tear opened the plastic bag. Scottie wielded the razor with surgical precision and he squeezed the bag, the powder billowing toward the opening. His chest heaved with strained breaths as Scottie plunged his entire face into the plastic slit. He snorted for as long as he could, one long breath, and pulled his face away slowly. He grinned, lost in a state of ecstasy. White granules clung to his lips, chin, a round spot on the tip of his nose, but the coke changed color on his cheeks. It mixed with the streaks of blood to form viscid pink clumps.

"I need you! I need it!" he shouted.

Scottie dove forward again and scooped the severed nipple into his hand. He cradled the scrap of warm flesh like a Sparrow's egg, blew on it, watched the tattered end waver in the breeze, and then he opened wide. Tossing the nipple into his mouth, he bit down hard, chewing it like gum. It was an appetizer.

"S-S-Somebody help m-me!" James screamed at the top of his lungs. Scottie screamed too, mocking his futile attempt. Then it became a laugh. A deep guffaw resonated from his throat and James clutched the cherry wood armrests. His nails dug into the hard wood, bracing him. Scottie lunged forward, aiming for his right ear, as James closed his eyes.

Nothing happened. He opened them and saw Scottie standing across from him, laughing madly. He lunged again, aiming for the sternum, and stopped mere inches form the skin. Then he retreated and laughed.

"St-stop m-mocking m-me! Get it over w-w-with!"

Scottie nodded and licked the side of his blade. "Thanks again for saving me, man. You never know what kinds of creeps are following you in this town, but I gotta do what I gotta do. I'll treat you right, gobble you up slowly with a glass of lemonade. You'll taste so good, man. I need you."

Scottie's chest convulsed as he snorted like a bull. He stamped his leg against the hardwood floor and his eyes raged wildfire. He reached for the bag of coke one more time. He had hardly snorted any last time, he was laughing too hard, but now Scottie was ready for one good hit before dinner. Burying his face inside the bag again, he took four deep breaths, sucking down as much coke as possible. When he'd had his fill, he tossed the bag aside, scattering a few grams, and stepped closer to James with his arms outstretched like a buzzard. His breathing became erratic, the coke was taking its effect, and the gleam in his eyes abruptly changed.

Scottie fell to his knees, the razor rattling as it hit the floor, and groped at his nostrils. "It burns!" he screamed louder than the Robert Plant wailing. He stuck his thumb up his nose, deluging James with cackles of pain, and shoved it far enough to touch his nasal cavity. "It's burning!" Scottie sprawled onto his back, pushing at his sinuses and eyes. He was trying to dig through his face to get at something, but it was too late. His legs flailed like a fish out of water and he screamed two more blood curdling moans before his head hit the floor with a dull thud.

Scottie's pupils dilated and his lips hung open. Swarthy foam gathered at the corners of his mouth and streaked down the sides of his cheeks as a rivulet of blood emerged at his left nostril. It spewed forth slowly, giving Scottie a coagulating mustache, and then the other nostril leaked more blood. He was dead.

Cletus had tainted the coke with cleaning powders--mostly Comet sink and tub cleaner. It was a cheap and easy way to increase the size of his shipment and make a few extra bucks. That's why Cletus sold to Scottie. If Scottie distributed the dope, he was in the clear. If Scottie came back to him, complaining the product was tainted, Cletus could intimidate him. He never knew that Scottie bought most of the drugs for his personal stash. Then again, Cletus wouldn't have cared.

The door to Scottie's apartment suddenly burst open. All the chains and bolts tumbled to the ground as a massive man stepped past the threshold, dropping a crowbar on the floor. The light from the hallway illuminated his six feet six inch frame and James breathed a sigh of relief. Only for a moment.

He spread his lips, ready to explain how Scottie was about to make him the main course, when he saw the gun in the large man's hands. Both his palms wrapped around the butt of a magnum. Its barrel pointed directly at James' head. Then he saw the clothes. They were the same design and color as the suits worn by the two men in the park. The two men James had left unconscious.

"Oh f-fuck," he mumbled and lost all his strength. Whatever hope he maintained had dissipated.

I'm dead.

A fatuous saying bolted into James' head. He felt silly for thinking it as a moment like this, but it was appropriate: Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The tall man shut the door to the hallway and blackness filled the void between him and James.

Chapter Nineteen: The Arrival

9:35 P.M.

Yellow streaks of paint flashed by, one after the other as the Firebird's engine purred like a contented lion that swallowed a baby zebra. It zipped around one curve and then another with reckless abandon. They were getting close. Close enough for Goth. "Pull over here," he commanded.

Rubber squealed as Curt stood up on the brakes. His Firebird screeched to a halt along a meandering hillside curve. A small overlook area abutted the left side of the road with a gravel clearing that approached the brink of a steep cliff. A narrow wooden parapet, almost rotted through by grubs and termites, was all that separated onlookers from the precarious valley wall. Goth leaned forward from the back seat. Lines faded away as his face assumed a more youthful appearance.

Benny peered over his shoulder, swearing to himself that Goth looked exuberant. The acid's screwing up my eyes, he thought.

"Let me out," Goth said and Benny hopped out of the passenger side door. The bucket seat folded forward and Goth's long legs emerged, first the right and then the left. He stood tall, straightening his scruffy leather jacket, as he licked his lips. He couldn't recall the last time he felt this good. It was the moment of anticipation, the sweet smell before penetration, and the last day of school before summer all rolled into an exhilaration he felt in his chest. It was starting to come back to him; his mind was refreshing. Yes, Ithica. This was the place he had waited for, the stew he had let simmer.

Goth felt like a song.

He whistled his favorite tune as he walked past Benny without taking any notice. His eyes fixated on the twinkling lights beyond the parapet and Benny scratched his head.

I know that song, he thought. Goth had whistled or hummed it off and on during the road trip. He had told jokes about nigras or stories about yesteryear, parables the Journeyman called them, but he had filled the void between quips with a few bars of that tune. Benny had heard it somewhere before, he was certain of it. Then it dawned on him. It was a kiddie tune and he suddenly remembered the words. They echoed through his head: He's got the whole world in his hands, he's got the whole wide world in his hands.

Gravel crunched underneath Goth's boots and chalky remnants floated into the air. They cast a fine dust, almost a mist, around the Journeyman. Approaching the overlook, he reached into one of his many pockets. His hand caressed the bottle of cyanide pills he always carried and his palm slid past a silver vibrator--one of his favorite toys for long journeys. He was digging deep. At the bottom of the pocket, he felt them. His lungs inflated with the clean night air and he wondered how many times he had breathed these same particles that now filled his chest? How many times had the same atoms of oxygen circled the globe and filled him up? Too many times to count, he supposed. Or maybe he outlived physical matter. Such a thing wasn't possible, Goth reminded himself, but he wondered. How long have I existed?

Energy flowed from the pocket into his hand and up his arm. Tiny hairs stood on end and as Goth's quadriceps pressed against the wooden barrier. He stood at the edge of the cliff, tapping pebbles over the edge, and looked down on Ithica. It was nestled in the valley below him and Goth oversaw his domain. It was starting to come back to him with savage force, all the memories and the roads he had traveled. He cupped his hand and removed it from his pocket. Two perfect blue spheres emerged with it. They began to rotate.

He'd forgotten so much through the years. Fragments of memories flashed in and out of his mind like snapshots in a photo album. Goth recalled the details of the moment, but rarely the context. How did I start on this road? he now wondered as the spheres rotated more quickly. They crackled with energy and a white radiance shimmered in his palm.

Where was I before now? Last week? Was I in a hospital? No, I think it was clinic, but why was I at a clinic. Tennessee I believe, but now I'm in Georgia. It's too much, always too much to recall.

For Goth, searching his memory was like looking for a piece of coral in a deep ocean. The immensity of the gulf inundated him, overwhelming his senses. He always found the coral, but not before struggling through a few riptides. His memory was too vast and often the brain didn't know what we the feet were doing. Goth was enormous and therein lied his weakness. It was a miniscule flaw in comparison to his innate talents and he ignored it as the memories now rushed back to him.

The spheres rotated faster and faster in his palm until he no longer moved his fingers. He simply held his hand open and inertia took over. The spheres moved on their own, speed melting the blue hue into a blur of energy and radiance. A storm of lightning crackled between his digits and Goth's muscles contracted. There was so much to remember, so much to do, but it had all come back to him. For the moment, the head knew exactly what the feet were doing.

The lights of Ithica twinkled in the valley below him and Goth knew that tonight was the night. The moment of reckoning had arrived. The spheres exploded with energy, a bow of invisible wake stretched across the valley and Goth knew Ithica. It was his town. He'd done much to prepare it for this moment, this night.

Eight years ago, when the local postmaster, John Gilley, walked into work one morning with a loaded shotgun, the people of Ithica said he was nuts. He shot two women dead before he turned the barrel toward his own mouth and yanked a string he had tied to the trigger. It was one of the worst disasters in Ithica's history, but people forgot it. John Gilley was crazy. They said he had heard voices the day before he showed up at the post office with that gun. They were right. He had heard voices or more accurately, one voice.

In 1994, Clayton Holmes ran for sheriff on a platform of racial separation. He was careful not to say anything overt, but everyone in Ithica knew he was a Klan wizard and understood his racially motivated viewpoints. He lost, as the voice in his head told him he would, but Clayton had stirred the shit. People talked about him and his demagoguery. Older white women started crossing the street when young black men ambled toward them on the sidewalk. When the sheriff found Clayton stabbed four times in the neck and tossed in a ditch, everyone in Ithica knew what had happened. Some people were pissed while others said good riddance.

The Journeyman's memories stretched even further back. He recalled the old days, when General Sherman's scouts passed near the town. The residents were reluctant to fight back and the Union soldiers began to pillage. The annals of history declared that the brusque acts of the soldiers eventually motivated the locals to rise up, but historians didn't know the truth. They weren't there. They didn't hear the voice that bore into the residents' heads like beetles chewing through skin and bone. The voice told them to kill. It didn't matter if it was a Union soldier or a friend down the street.

The Journeyman's memories didn't end there. He remembered father back, to the beginning, when a young man named Charles Cavendish walked into Ithica along a dirt road. He passed many other travelers riding horseback, but Charles shunned those ways. He preferred to walk, even on days like this when the mud reached his ankles. He was new to America and its vast countryside intrigued him. There was much to explore.

Ithica was just a turn of the century village then, a few shacks and farms hidden inside a lush cove. He didn't know what to expect as he strolled through the town square. His gait was spry and young, but his steps lightened more as he watched a woman spill out of a cabin. She fell on her back and her white bonnet became soiled in the clumped mud of the street. Tears streamed down her reddened face and Charles watched with more interest. Suffering had always appealed to him.

A plump man stalked out of the cabin and spat on the woman. She cried and shielded her face from his wrathful expression. Pure fear, the type of exhilarating sensation rarely felt, vibrated through her body. Charles sensed it too.

He closed his eyes and reached out with his life-force. It was a talent he'd picked up many years ago from an Indian in the Himalayas and he used it to peer into their minds. He had expected to see some grievous sin the woman had committed. Maybe she had taken bed with their neighbor or perhaps she had stolen from her husband. As Charles reached out and unfurled the layers of their minds, he sensed unabashed rage, a truculence so fierce that it was primal. It went beyond reason or cause. His hatred simply existed in a vacuum, a random urge.

Charles opened his eyes and smiled as the future spread out before him. It became evident and he sensed the potential of this little village called Ithica. One day, he decided, it might serve a greater purpose. So it began, with that mercurial decision by young Charles Cavendish, a traveler, a wanderer who stumbled into Ithica on foot. He would keep a watchful eye on Ithica. He foresaw great possibilities for this town.

Goth reveled in the magnificence of his burgeoning memories. He recalled where it had begun, this long journey. As Charles Cavendish, the Journeyman recognized the potential of Ithica. Charles had thought that perhaps it was something in the soil or the water that gave birth to the truculence that permeated all of Ithica. Perhaps some elemental force gave rise to their savagery, but Austin Goth had learned the lessons Charles had ignored. Charles lived in a different era and held different beliefs. There weren't any mystical forces at work on the people of Ithica. They were filled with acrimony because they were people. That was the lesson Goth had learned. People hate. People destroy. People kill. What a glorious age he lived in!

Memories of the past invigorated Goth even as they slipped away like the lingering images from a garish dream. He remembered enough to know what he had to do. He'd let Ithica simmer for almost two hundred years and it had grown ripe. The bow of energy bounced back to him, returning from the valley with a gauge of the growing tension in the town. He felt it everywhere. He'd tweaked these residents to the brink of destruction. They were edgy and yearned to unleash their innate malevolence. The Journeyman's time had come. Ithica was his spark for a grander plan, one that would eventually stretch across the globe.

And to think, someday they'll all forget that it started here.

He wouldn't forget. The events of the next few hours would remain with Goth forever.

All the pieces were in place, but as his spheres spun to a halt, a enduring aftertaste coated his tongue. It was coppery and acrid. Something unexpected had happened. A memory struck him like a hammer to the sternum. Goth was winded for a moment and staggered to the side. Catching his breath, his baleful eyes narrowed.

They're down there! The stuttering idiot and the rueful musician. It doesn't matter. They don't yet realize what road they're on, but I do. Even if they somehow discern what is happening, they don't have the power to stop me. And if they try, oh please do try, they'll suffer the same fate as all who have opposed me. I'll sever their heads and fill their eyesockets with worms. That would impress the masses. CNN would air that image twenty-four hours a day.

A smirk crossed Goth's lips. Perhaps he would tell them his plan, taunt the two fools that might dare to oppose him. He could crush their spirit with one show of power or by granting one glimpse of his true nature that squirmed behind this fleshy carapace. They wouldn't stop him. He'd worked too long to bring this plan to fruition and an introverted boy and a washed out addict without an ounce of resolve couldn't impede the rising tide. Goth was confident. They were specks on the side of the road, hardly something to take notice of.

Then why am I aware of them? he suddenly wondered. If they aren't a threat, why did I remember them?

Goth didn't have an answer or the inclination to care. He refused to allow doubt to ruin his moment of triumph. Sauntering back to the Firebird, he exchanged a wry smile with Benny. The poor fool. He doesn't realize he'll be dead in a few hours.

Chapter Twenty: The Cell

9:51 P.M.

It's your fault Todd. Did you see her brains mashed into the cushion behind her head? Wasn't much left of her, eh? She's freezing inside a mortician's fridge right now. And it's your fault. You put her there. If only you'd stayed on the interstate. You'd be in Tennessee right now listening to shitty country music and eating chitlins. Maybe if you hadn't gotten out of the car, she wouldn't have died. You could have driven away on a flat.

We never would have made it, Todd disputed the advocate in his head, but it was fruitless. The mocking voice was right. It reminded him of Ronald Reagan and he cringed. The soft, grand-fatherly timbre that seemed pleasant, but was balefully admonishing. Todd loathed that voice, but its accusation was correct. He'd killed Linda. Jumpy may have pulled the trigger, but he had killed her. He was certain of it.

Time had passed more slowly for Todd Bundy since the police cars arrived on the scene beside the dry creekbed. Words sounded mushy, cotton-mouthed or muted entirely as a deep bass resonance hummed in both his ears. His arms and legs hung like lead weights and he didn't want to move. He passively allowed the police to shove him and the other guy, some of the cops called him Baron and others called him Big Paws, into the back of one of their patrol cars. Todd only felt like fighting two men, Jumpy and Billy, and they had become worm food.

At the brownstone station house, one officer had tried to take his statement. A large man with a trimmed black mustache--Todd guessed correctly that he was the sheriff--had watched the interrogation with keen interest, but Todd barely said a word. They told him his wife was dead. The news didn't faze him. He'd known she was gone, had wallowed on the fact, but couldn't muster the strength to talk about it. Instead, he sat motionless, his chest barely moving with each breath.

"We found them by accident," he had finally uttered, but the sheriff wasn't satisfied. He didn't believe in 'accidents'.

"Lock him up with Baron and let him think about it for a day or two," the sheriff had angrily commanded at the end of the futile interview. "Look here, boy. You ain't leaving my jail until this matter is cleared up. I don't know how you got involved, but I'm holding you on suspicion of murder, so I suggest you start talking."

Todd didn't say another word. He nodded listlessly and stumbled back to his cell in the basement. All the other cells were empty, but the guard put him and Baron in the same cage. He surmised the reason. The sheriff hoped that coexisting with Big Paws for a night might entice Todd to talk, but he was wrong. Todd barely took notice of the oversized man sitting next to him. They rested atop a wooden bench constructed from three rotten planks and a handful of rusted screws. Todd sat there, his head hanging forward limply, and listened to the Ronald Reagan voice in his head. He couldn't escape his conscious and wasn't sure that he should. It tormented him, but justly so.

I deserve worse.

And the only one feeling could squelch the guilt Todd experienced. He lusted for revenge.

A fat roach scurried across the sordid floor of the cell as Baron tapped it with his foot, careful not to squash it. He didn't want to hurt the defenseless bug, merely play with it. It crept along the dirt filled crevices of the floor and maneuvered between flecks of dull yellow paint that had fallen off the walls, but Baron redirected the insect every time. He smiled happily as the roach spread its rarely used wings and threatened to take flight. Baron knew it wasn't going anywhere. The roach was like him: stuck in a cell, but content with his situation.

As the voice in his head faded to silence, Todd glanced at Baron and smiled perfunctorily. He couldn't believe he'd done it, but he had actually smiled. He realized, Life is so easy for him. I still don't know why he helped me, a stranger, but it's hard to imagine he's the same person I saw with that rock. He's a big kid, but something happened to him out there. Maybe he got mad, but at what? What can make a man so savage?

Todd knew the answer. It slowly filled his throat like bile foaming out of his stomach. It was putrid and as primal as Neanderthal man. Todd turned his gaze to the gruesome floor, the memory of the accusatory voice still fresh at the front of his mind, and he breathed deep. The cells were silent, lonely. Far off, he heard water dripping from a leaky faucet. Every few seconds, a fresh drop. Nothing more.

A disturbing feeling welled up inside Todd's body and his skin darkened to a deep shade of crimson. It was his fault, but he struggled to blame someone else. The man in the field, Billy, had a hand in this ghastly mess. It was his fault too and the recurring impulse echoed through Todd's mind: revenge. He wanted to throttle Billy and take out all his frustration. Bite off his fingers one at a time and gnaw on the knuckles. He wanted Billy to experience the suffering he endured. Todd wanted blood.

***

Sheriff Blaine locked his thumbs under his black belt as he glowered at James Hall. He shook his head languidly and sighed. The doc was applying the final bandage to the boy's chest and Blaine hoped it adhered real tight so it might tear some skin when James pulled it off. He was sick of seeing this stuttering boy's face in his station.

"Will he live?" Blaine asked.

"He'll pull through," the doc muttered.

"Too bad," Blaine replied.

"You're lucky, son. You only lost a little piece off the chest and it will scab over. Not really that bad actually."

"Wh-What about the l-leg?" James asked.

"Cut ain't deep. It'll close and the tetanus shot will keep it from turning green. If it opens again, get it stitched. Otherwise, take it easy on that leg.

"He will," Blaine added sharply. "Boy, I told you to get out of town. Now I can't let you leave. I swear, trouble follows you like ticks on a dog's ass."

Or I follow it, James replied in silence. He winced as the doctor puffed away on an ashy Lucky Stripe and tightened the gauze and bandages on his chest. The doc said he'd be fine, but James winced and tried to disguise his pain.

"Quit squirming," the doc griped. "Sit still and you'll be fine." After James' experience, he wasn't sure he could ever sit still in a wooden chair again.

"He may not have a chance," the sheriff answered cryptically.

"Wh-What does that m-mean?" James asked, his head perking up.

Blaine leaned over the chair, fat hanging from his turkey neck, and spoke so fervently that he showered James with saliva. "Boy, you assaulted two of my deputies. They were undercover, following Scottie Nelson because we had a tip."

"D-Did you t-tell them to b-b-beat him up!" James shouted. He wasn't defending Scottie, but rather defying the sheriff. He genuinely disliked him. Blaine didn't seem to care about anyone or anything unless it screwed up his operation.

"Shut up, boy! You keep your mouth shut or the doc will turn around while you accidentally slip and hurt your head." James bit his tongue and recoiled. "Better. You got no idea what you done, do you? My men had followed that boy around town for two weeks looking for his source. We both know who it is, but I need proof. Scottie Nelson eluded my men all over town and finally when they caught up with him, you decide to lay them out cold. What the hell were you thinking?"

James opened his mouth, but Blaine held up his palm, shaking his head. "Don't say nothing, you stuttering idiot. Hell, you'll want a lawyer."

"W-What f-for?" James asked. He hadn't done anything wrong, at least not with any intentional malice. Actually, he was fortunate that the police had trailed Scottie. James hadn't known what to think when the armed man broke into Scottie's apartment, but when he presented his golden shield and claimed he was a deputy, James had gasped. Following a short bout of hyperventilation, he cried in relief for a few seconds and then explained what had transpired. The cop untied him, but slapped steel cuffs on his wrists just as quickly.

The officer didn't know how Scottie had died or what James was doing there--the tips the police had received never mentioned Scottie's cannibalism; he'd always remained careful to lure strangers and drifters into his apartment to feed his cravings. James had fit the bill.

Sheriff Blaine snorted through his nose and stood up straight. "Boy, you're gonna need a lawyer because I'm holding you for forty-eight hours under suspicion. If I find out you were helping Scottie, then I'm going to charge you."

"H-Help wh-what?" James asked incredulously. He'd almost become the centerpiece of a Fourth of July barbecue and now they wanted to imprison him!

"Assaulting those officers and conspiracy to sell drugs. Besides, I might find evidence of murder. I don't know how Scottie Nelson died and regardless, I don't want you screwin' up my operations any longer. Like I explained, boy, there's things goin' on in this town you know nothing about."

"You c-can't j-just lock m-me up bec-cause you w-want to. I h-have r-rights."

Blaine smirked confidently, holding back a tide of insolent laughter. "Not in Ithica you don't. My town, boy. I make the rules and we do it my way."

"Screw y-you!"

"Verbally abusing an officer of the law. I can hold you on that, too. It's a town ordinance."

"Can y-you h-hold me on th-this!" James shouted, spitting on Blaine's boots. A warm loogie slipped across the polished, synthetic leather in all directions. By the time the saliva and mucus touched the floor, a shiny film coated Blaine's toes.

The Sheriff's neck craned toward his feet, but the overconfident smile remained on his face. "Indecent display toward a city official. Violates county ordinance fourteen. Would you like to try for another charge? At this rate, you'll be my guest 'til Christmas."

This time, James mashed his lips together.

The doc slapped James' bandage and he yelped like a dog that had caught his tail under a rocking chair. A flash of pain pierced his ribs and lungs as James stared at the doctor with eyes as wide as saucers. The doctor grinned and sucked deep drags off his Lucky. Blaine motioned to one of his men. "Good work, doc. Take him downstairs and put him in with the other two. Boy, you'll stay in that hole 'til you straighten up. Think about it. Sleep on it."

***

The gangly officer pushed James into a dank hallway lined with cells. A lattice of deep cracks covered the slab floor and hunks of plaster had dropped from the high corners of the ceiling. Yellow paint, worn by smoke and age, flecked off the walls, but their drab hue was preferable to the grimy steel of the cell bars. James wondered if anyone had ever cleaned them and, strangely, he pondered what the steel might taste like if he licked it. Small, sordid chunks of crust breaking off and landing on his pallet. His stomach knotted with that thought and he felt ill.

Following a tacit nod, the piebald faced guard sitting behind a desk in front of the cells turned a silver key and James heard a mechanical clicking. The door to cell three slid open. James remained wary. If people like Cletus and Scottie ran the streets in Ithica, he hated to imagine who they keHTML> "In there," the deputy ordered and he shoved the much smaller James past the threshold.

He spun around to confront the abusive officer, but with a turn of the same key, the door was already sliding shut. "I d-don't h-have to t-t-take this!" James shouted at the deputy's back as he walked back down the hallway.

"Yes, you do," he answered without breaking stride. He reached the end of the poorly lit corridor and nodded at the guard behind the desk. "Billy Ray, you gone on break yet?"

"No."

"Come on. Let's get some coffee."

Billy Ray jumped off the desk chair and covered his mouth with both palms to shout. "If you boys need anything while I'm gone, yell real loud." They both laughed and James listened apprehensively as their boot heels clicked on the hard staircase rising toward the lobby.

Don't leave me with them, James prayed as he rested his forehead against the bars. Crusty residue of rust and dirt spread across his forehead. He hadn't turned to look, but he'd caught a glimpse of two men as the deputy shoved him into the cell. One of them was big and the other was downtrodden. James didn't want to turn around, but then he considered what they might be doing behind his back. Perhaps greasing up an arm all the way to the elbow so they could play proctologist or maybe they were engaged in rock, paper, scissors to see who got the first crack at the new kid with a flathead screwdriver. Suddenly, Scottie didn't seem all that bad, but turning his back on his cellmates did.

James spun around cautiously, trying to appear passive as his gaudy eyes studied the cellmates. The man on the bench nearest him was huge. James had never seen someone so large in his life. His hefty stomach weighed as much as James by itself and the man's forearms were as thick as tractor tires. Baron looked at James and a sophomoric grin spread across his face. It wasn't at all threatening and James returned the gesture. Then his lips curled back, wiping the smile away, and he admonished himself, what the hell am I doing? I don't know what kind of person he is?

Looking around the giant, James peered at the other man. Breathing was the only movement he noticed. The other guy, thankfully closer to his stature, was in a daze. Sweat glistened in his jet-black hair and had also soaked the front of his white T-shirt. It had become transparent, sticking to his flabby gut. He looked like he'd been shell-shocked and was waiting for a General Patton to wake him up.

James' gaze returned to the giant--Baron was still smiling--and his frantic mind waded through the murky situation. Something has happened to these men and if they are inclined to hurt me, it won't be anytime soon. At least not until the smaller guy wakes up from wonderland. That gives me a chance. Maybe if I ingratiate myself, they won't hurt me.

James searched his mind, but couldn't think of how to do it. This situation was new to him and he reverted to the memories of bad movies and cop shows like NYPD Blue. There was only one question universally asked by cellmates. "S-s-so wh-what are you in f-f-for?"

"I hit Jumpy with a rock, shoo yeah," Baron answered and he beamed with what James assumed was pride. He observed the saggy pouches of skin below Baron's eyes and the dopey inflection of his voice.

He's retarded, possibly suffering from Down's Syndrome. Not CP or he'd be worse off.

James wasn't positive, but Baron appeared unthreatening. A tenderness intoned his voice and he reminded James of the oversized Teddy Bears he'd always failed to win at carnival games. A sense of security flooded his mind and he reconsidered his assumption concerning the inhabitants of Ithica's jail: perhaps men like Cletus and Scottie ran free because the sheriff was too busy locking up innocent people like himself and this giant.

"What did you do?" Baron asked politely, as his father had taught him.

James pressed his lips together until they turned white. He couldn't answer because he didn't know what he'd done. 'I sat there while a psycho bit off my tit' didn't seem like an appropriate response. Instead, he settled on telling Baron what he had tried to do, "I'm l-looking f-for a m-m-m-man named Cl-Cletus Watt-tts. He h-h-hurt my fr-friend C-Carrie."

"Carrie Mason," Baron said.

"Yes," James answered, suddenly interested. He moved closer and leaned over as though he had a secret to share. If the sheriff had any eavesdroppers, James didn't want to make their work easy. "Wh-what do y-you know about C-Carrie?"

"Carrie was nice to me, shoo yeah. Whenever she saw me on the street, she'd take me to the drugstore and buy me a bomb pop. I always try to eat the blue part first and then the white. The red part tastes best and I try to save it for last, but in the summer it melts before I get to it."

"Do you kn-know anything el-el-else about h-h-her?" James begged. He doubted it, but he was fishing for any clues at this point. Following Cletus and Scottie had gotten him nowhere, but perhaps, he considered, he'd searched the wrong places.

"Some people said Carrie did bad things."

"Wh-what things?"

"I don't believe it, shoo no. Carrie was always good to me. She bought me bomb pops."

"Y-Yes, b-but wh-what b-bad things di-di-did Carrie d-d-do?"

"Bad things," Baron said ashamedly. "I can't repeat it. They're bad, but I don't believe them."

"Di-Did it in-in-involve a m-m-man named Cl-Cletus?"

"Shoo yeah, everyone knows Cletus does bad things."

"So you kn-know h-him?" James surmised.

"Shoo yeah, I heard of Cletus. I ain't ever met him, but everyone knows who Cletus is. He runs the Lodge."

Todd's neck snapped erect like the flag on a mailbox. His vacuous eyes blinked twice as three words resounded in his head: Lodge for life. Billy's dying words had haunted him. Even when he tried to forget that bloody smile and cryptic warning, he couldn't. His mind kept coming back to those three words. What did they mean?

"What lodge?" Todd asked. James leered at him, stunned by his sudden return to reality.

"The Rebel Lodge," Baron explained. "He founded it a few years back. Whole bunch of guys joined, but not me. They never asked and that's fine, shoo yeah. Cletus scares me. A lot more than Mike Taylor scared me."

"Cletus," Todd muttered under his breath. His hands curled into fists, the skin around his lips receded to expose his teeth. Hope rejuvenated his spirit. Maybe it wasn't too late for revenge. Guilt by association; if he couldn't strangle Billy, maybe he could strangle Billy's leader.

"You kn-know h-him?" James asked and Todd finally took notice of the newcomer. Their faces met and James sensed something truculent in Todd. Something had driven him over the edge, the way the officers assaulting Scottie had struck a primal chord in his soul, only Todd seemed much more intense. A vindictive glint sparkled in his eyes.

"He killed my wife," Todd replied. In his mind, it wasn't a lie. Whatever Billy had done, he belonged to this Rebel Lodge and the final message he delivered had grated on Todd's soul. He knew it was the Lodge's fault. If their leader hadn't sent Billy to kill that little black girl--a substantial assumption on James' part--then certainly Cletus had transformed Billy into a murderer. The logic made perfect sense in Todd's strained mind and he grinned salaciously. He could take his vengeance, quell the burning regret in his heart, by taking a life for a life. He wanted to kill Cletus so bad he could taste the blood on the tip of his tongue.

"I'm s-sorry," James replied.

"Don't be," Todd intoned and he jumped off the bench. "I have to get out of here. I have to find Cletus or this Lodge."

"I'm w-with you, t-too. S-Someone has to st-st-stop Cl-Cletus. I-I'm g-going to b-bring him to j-justice."

"Yeah, justice," Todd grumbled. He and James had diverging ideas on the meaning of the word. "Forget it, kid. I'm a solo act."

"N-Not tonight. I've f-followed Cl-Cletus across h-half this t-town and I'm n-not giving up n-now. I've s-seen too m-much to w-walk away."

"Fine! Whatever!" Todd shouted and James knew the anger wasn't directed at him. The back of Todd's neck glowed red and he rubbed it harshly, scraping away layers of sweaty skin. "Dammit, I gotta get out of here now!"

"Don't c-c-count on the sh-sheriff for h-help."

"I won't."

"C-Count on m-me," James declared and Todd looked at him skeptically. It wasn't the stutter, but rather his stature--or lack of it as the case may be--that soured him. James was a kid he had just met and the sap didn't have any idea why he wanted Cletus. Todd was ready to stop at nothing. His life lost all meaning without Linda and if he had to die to achieve his revenge, so be it. Actually, that's how he wanted it. A final blaze of glory.

"I don't know you," Todd tried to misdirect.

Todd made him feel uneasy, but no more so than Scottie had. At heart, James sensed he was a decent guy that had endured too much. When a woman he cared for but had only known for a few days died, James descended into a pit of hatred and disillusionment. He assumed it was worse for Todd. He'd lost his wife and James refused to fault him for being angry. Todd was human; James respected and empathized with him for caring.

James stuck out his hand. "I d-don't of-offer this l-l-lightly. Name's J-James H-Hall."

A sympathetic scowl covered James' face and Todd took a relenting breath. He couldn't find Cletus alone. He didn't know Ithica and would need help. He grasped James' hand and shook it blithely. "I'm Todd Bundy."

"I'm Baron!" Baron declared.

"I know, Baron," Todd said sedately. "He's all right. He saved me from a few of Cletus' cronies."

"I want to help," Baron declared.

Todd shook his head. "You can't. It'll be dangerous and I can't be responsible for you. You've done too much already," Todd explained and he remembered the dark lambency in Baron's eyes when he plunged the rock into Jumpy's skull. It was methodical, devious. Todd didn't want that hanging over his head. He didn't want Baron to go to prison for his vengeful crusade. He already carried as much guilt as he could bear.

"I want to help."

"I know," Todd replied and he patted Baron's shoulder, "but you don't understand what we're doing."

"You're gonna break out of here. I watched an Animaniacs once where Yacco broke out of jail."

"You should go home," Todd urged. Baron was a grown man, at least physically, and Todd couldn't bring himself to say no outright. All he could do was discourage him.

"I want to help," Baron whimpered. His whole life, he'd wanted to be included. In his mind, this was another kickball game at school. He always went home crying when the other kids told him he couldn't play.

You can't play sports Big Paws. You're a dummy, a shit brains idiot!

"Is he w-with us?" James asked Todd directly.

He relented. Todd hated making decision for himself, let alone others. "That's his decision. I'm not his keeper. I can't be responsible for him."

James looked at Baron and spoke softly, "Do you w-want to help us, B-Baron? W-We could u-use you. I don't kn-know where to f-f-find Cletus or his Lodge. I'm g-g-guessing that you know y-y-your way around b-better than I do. All w-we need is for y-you to p-p-p-point us in the right direc-rec-rection. That w-would b-be a b-big help. Th-Then y-you can g-g-go h-home."

"It's past my bedtime and I'm tired, but if you say Cletus hurt Carrie, I want to help. I don't have to go to work tomorrow."

"G-good," James replied. "We-We're making p-p-p-progress."

Todd paced across the cell and slammed his fists into the bars. "Shit on that! We can sit here and sing campfire songs until we're blue in the cheeks, but that's not going to help us. I appreciate your offer to help, but we're not going to find Cletus while we're stuck here."

James walked next to him and put a firm hand on Todd's tense arm. He looked down at the kid and wondered what he was smirking at. "L-leave that t-t-to m-me. I think I kn-know a w-w-way out of h-here. I h-have a p-p-p-plan. And wh-when we f-find Cl-Cletus' l-lodge, we'll h-have him."

"What do you mean?" Todd wondered aloud.

"The n-nature of p-p-power. If Cl-Cletus r-runs this l-lodge, eh's s-sure to h-have rivals. All w-we n-need is one amb-b-bitious rival to t-testify against Cl-Cletus. One g-guy who kn-knows h-his d-dirty s-s-secrets." James shook his head. "I sh-should h-have th-thought of th-this sooner! C-Control of p-p-power creates comp-comp-competition. S-Somebody will t-turn on Cletus."

"Then what?" Todd questioned. James' plan wasn't the one he had in mind. He wanted to find the Lodge so he could wrap his hands around that killer's throat.

"He'll t-tell the p-p-police what he kn-knows."

"And you trust Sheriff Blaine?"

"C-Course not. St-State p-p-police."

"I don't know," Todd said doubtfully.

"Wh-Why?"

His eyes widened and he covered his mouth before anything else could slip out. He'd already revealed too much of his true intentions. "Never mind. It's a better plan than anything I can think of. But how the hell are going to get out of here?"

James grinned furtively and thought about the Internet.

Chapter Twenty-One: Control

10:18 P.M.

The door to the murky back room opened wide and Amy's senses sprung to life. Her resurrected sense of smell urged her to recoil, but the numbing bonds on her hands and legs held tight. A cloying effluvium of orange rinds, pinewood, and tealeaves jumbled together in a motley concoction that curled her nostrils. Amy looked up and found the source of the fetor. A huge man stood in the doorway, blocking out all the light glowing from the antechamber. A smaller shadow scurried around the large man and the door shut solemnly.

Cletus and the three guards jumped to their feet, rifles crackling as they took aim at the intruder. The room was dark except for the few candles Cletus was burning, but through the shadowy aura, Amy saw something. A glistening white sheen radiated form the stranger, outlining his chiseled body. A wicked simper spread across his face.

A chill, it felt like an invisible hand of ice, reached out to Amy and the tiny hairs on her exposed aureoles stood on end. Something had charged the air with this stranger's arrival, but she couldn't discern exactly what.

***

"Just who the hell to do you think you are?" Cletus asked with the territorial growl of a junkyard dog. He'd never seen this man and the Lodge didn't take guests.

A smaller man, the shadow Amy had watched bolt into the room, stepped between Cletus and the stranger, waving his hands defensively. "Wait, Cletus, wait," Benny urged. His eyes widened in horror as he suddenly realized he had interfered with Cletus Watts. He'd watched Cletus rip out a man's eyebrows with his teeth for not laughing at his joke on one occasion. He didn't want to imagine what Cletus would do to him for stepping in between them.

"Move it, Benny," Cletus seethed.

"No, no, really, he's all right," Benny couldn't believe he was saying it, but there was something about Goth that made him want to stand up for him--even when the sacrifice wasn't necessary. He felt a kinship with the man he'd met earlier this evening. Goth had a way about him, an appealing gait and a trustworthy inflection in his voice that turned Benny to his side. The Journeyman had a way of gaining loyal followers. Benny couldn't quite explain it, but he felt stronger with Goth, as though the Journeyman's strength bolstered his own. "Curt and I picked him up and he knows all about the Lodge and the rally. Isn't that far flung out?"

The stinging pain of four knuckles across the lips shut Benny up. Cletus called it his bitch slap, a welt in the maw from the back of his hand. He'd heard just about enough from this bumbling idiot. Benny should have known who was in charge--and he did, only Cletus didn't fully realize it yet--and he should have heeded the rules of the Lodge. Cletus forced every member to memorize them. For some of the men, the requirement was more consecutive words than they'd ever learned since the pledge of allegiance they recited in grade school.

The first rule of the Lodge was simple: Cletus is the boss. The second rule was more of a motto and the men enjoyed learning it: Lodge for life. The third rule, the one Benny had broken, clearly stated: all unwelcome or uninvited intruders upon the Lodge will be put to death. Maybe tonight, Cletus thought. They had the girl ready for the rally. He liked the prospect of dealing with this intruder then as well. He could kill him in front of everybody. It could serve as a reminder to the men. The Lodge was nothing without its rules.

"There won't be any need for that," Goth said, still smiling, as Benny cowered and wiped the blood off his front teeth. Cletus' brow furrowed in consternation. "Don't act so surprised, Cletus. I know all about the Lodge, the rally, and the plans for tonight. I will be a part of it, but not the way you're planning."

"How do you know my name?"

Goth strolled across the room, conspicuously avoiding eye contact with Amy, and he lowered the rifles in the guards' hands. They let him. All three men remained passive, almost hypnotized, as Goth lackadaisically pushed the end of each barrel toward the floor. "I know everything about you, Cletus Watts, age 31, spend most of your free time thinking about the quickest way to get drunk, never moved away from home--but the house is yours now, isn't it Cletus?--thrown out of school for making a freshman eat feces, and you've always insisted that life dealt you a bad hand. I'm here to reshuffle the deck."

Cletus turned bright red as his stringy muscles twitched with embarrassed rage. He felt like a parishioner who'd had his sins revealed to the entire congregation. Latent heat emanated from every orifice of his body and he wanted to destroy this stranger. But first, he had to know, "Who are you? How'd you know all that?"

Goth approached him and leaned forward until their foreheads almost touched. Invisible energy flowed between their skin. He whispered, "Did you know that Laurie Needham thought you looked like a goat? It's true. That's why she refused to go out with you. Your nasty hair reminded her of an ugly billygoat."

Cletus shoved Goth on both shoulders, pushing him away a few feet. He raised his fists, ready to brawl, but Goth chuckled and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Cletus. Sometimes my humor gets the better of me. There's nothing I appreciate more than a ribald joke."

"A what?"

"Never mind, Cletus," Goth intoned as he rolled his eyes. He didn't make a single motion to fight. Instead, he backed away and smiled at Cletus wryly. "Actually, I like you and I'm going to keep you around. You're going to be my right hand man. I want you at my side all the time."

"What are you talking about?" Cletus grumbled. The embarrassment of having his deepest regrets exposed had waned and acrimony returned to his thoughts. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"You know, Cletus. You've always known. Call me Austin Goth for it is the moniker I'm using for now. Listen closely, Cletus, because I only intend to say this once. You have done well, served as an excellent vessel, but I have arrived and I'm taking over."

"The Lodge?" Cletus shouted incredulously. Besides his drug running, the Lodge was his only possession worth stealing.

"Of course the Lodge."

***

The guards and Benny watched in stunned silence. They all remembered what happened last October when Gene Wood threatened to take control of the Lodge. Gene was a popular guy among the men, he knew more dirty jokes than any man in the state, and Cletus insulted him one day. He called Gene a scrawny circle jerker who couldn't get a girl to suck it if he dipped it in honey. After that, the men laughed at Gene instead of with him. The joke was on him for once and he couldn't stand it.

The men thought he was still telling a joke when he informed Cletus he was taking over. Cletus recognized the fuming veracity in Gene's eyes and handled the explosive situation appropriately. He kicked Gene between the legs, directly below the zipper of his Wrangler jeans. The laughter stopped as Gene fell to the floor in agony. "Pick him up!" Cletus had shouted and the men did so without hesitation. Unrelenting rage intoned his voice and the men dared not defy him. "Put him in the back of my truck. Four of you get in there with him. We're going for a ride."

The four men--a carpenter named Alvin Haltman, Bart Jordan the local barber, Marc Ray who worked at Johnson's funeral parlor, and Jimmy Moore who had to spend a few days in the state mental hospital after that night--never forgot what Cletus made them do. None of them wanted to do it to Gene, he was their friend, but the baleful glow surrounding Cletus forced them to. That and the voice in each of their heads that told them what Cletus would do if they defied him. Fear pumped through their carotid arteries faster than blood and they prayed that God would someday forgive them for what they did that night.

Every member of the Lodge learned what those four men had done despite their tacit agreement to never discuss it. All four of them pretended the incident was a dream, nothing more.

The next day, during a routine patrol, sheriff Blaine found Gene Wood crucified against the bug screen that surrounded his porch. Fishing wire cut his wrists to the bone, but held his limp body in place. That wasn't the worst of it. The sight that caused Blaine to throw up his bacon and poached eggs breakfast was the appendage dangling from Gene's rictus mouth. Cletus had cut it off, dipped it in a bottle of honey he bought at a Kwik Sack, and dangled it between Gene's teeth.

Cletus was amused. He considered the display to be life imitating art--jocularity being the highest art form.

Nobody dared challenge Cletus for control of the Lodge again.

***

Cletus smirked jauntily. "Nobody walks into my Lodge and says they're taking over. I'm in control here." He nodded at the guards and their rifles snapped to attention. They each took aim at Goth's head as Benny scampered to the corner and cowered. He was as scared as a jackrabbit fenced in a yard with a bulldog and he didn't want any blood splattering on his face. He couldn't stand the vicious feel of fresh blood.

Goth reached into his pocket and removed his blue spheres. They slid against the coarse skin of his palm, never touching even as their velocity increased to a steady pace. A barely audible hum, the idling sound of a truck motor, filled the room. Placid expressions descended on the guards and they let their rifles slip. All three guns landed on the floor with bass clinks and Goth smiled.

***

What happened? Amy asked herself in horror. Her eyes were tired and her body so battered that illusions weren't out of the question, but she'd watched and heard the men drop their weapons. Narrowing her field of vision, she stared at Goth's hand. Hot air inflated her lungs and she coughed, but nobody noticed. Everyone in the room was staring at Goth. Amy stared at something more specific. What are those spheres?

***

"I'm already in control, Cletus. You just don't realize it yet."

"Bullshit!" Cletus' expression became dour and dark. "Get the fuck outta here now! That's your only warning!" The sphere spun faster in Goth's hand.

"Or else what?"

"I'll rip you a new asshole! Get it! In fact, get the fuck out of my town! I'm in control of Ithica!"

Goth abruptly changed, shedding his civility like sordid underwear. He couldn't remember the last time someone threatened him with such sincerity and Cletus' truculence brought forth a deeply buried side of the Journeyman. It brought out the guerilla running down a Cambodian street as he shot young men for the simple reason that they wore glasses. It brought out the SS officer who held down the Jew girl as other men penetrated her between the buttocks. It brought out the merchant who led the charge as his fellow Romans captured and raped the Sabine women. It brought out Goth's true nature; the dark highway stretching toward the blazing infinity of Hades.

"You're in control of nothing!" Goth screamed and he grabbed Cletus by the throat. Before Cletus' hands reached Goth's massive wrist, his feet were dangling a foot off the floor. He gagged and his face reddened as Goth leaned closer. "I control you, Cletus. Everything that is yours is mine. You are my vessel, incapable of an original thought. Did you really believe you came up with the idea for this Lodge? It came from the voice in your head, right? Like every other idea you've ever had. You probably thought it was your conscious or the voice of your nonexistent intelligence."

You were wrong, Cletus.

"You heard Me."

I told you everything. The same voice you're hearing now.

"I put you in control. You're a puppet and now I'm cutting the strings." Goth tossed Cletus to the floor. He slid four feet, his skull bouncing off the rickety wooden door as he came to a stop. His head rolled across his shoulders, his neck bending like a limp noodle, and Cletus staggered to his feet. He was resilient.

Goth's hands rested on his hips as he looked down. His civility had reemerged. "I've always been with you. I'm the one that told you how to deal with dear old mom and dad and I'm the voice that told you how to build this militia. Now, it's mine."

I'm in control, Cletus insisted. He'd lived his life on that narcissistic philosophy and he wasn't ready to abandon it yet. He tried to speak, but his throat squeaked pitifully. After massaging his nearly crushed Adam's apple, he whispered rustily, "The Lodge is mine. I'm still in charge. You haven't changed a thing. These men are loyal to me."

Goth laughed heartily, a cackled reverberating off the walls and running the gamut of pitches. He held his stomach with both hands, gasping to catch his breath. "You still don't get it. They aren't loyal, they're afraid. They respect your power, what little of it you possess, but most of all, the men fear you. I can offer them something more." The spheres began to resonate at a pitch inaudible to the human ear, but four miles away, a German Shepherd howled madly. "I'll tell you what, Cletus. This is still America so we'll resolve this matter the democratic way. If I can't turn the men to my way of thinking, then I'll leave in peace and give you back your precious Lodge. But if the men like what I have to say, you will acquiesce. I still want you by my side, Cletus. You've got spunk and I like that."

Cletus massaged his throat again and croaked, "What if I don't agree?"

"You'll agree," Goth replied, smiling.

You'll agree.

***

Misty smoke filtered throughout the hall as Goth exited the back room that once housed stage props and stepped into the theater. Cletus followed him, but paused at the edge of the dais. He wanted to observe the men's reactions from afar.

They'll follow me, he thought confidently. They're too stupid not to.

Goth's boots clicked against the soft wood as all of the ambient noise of the crowd fell silent. Cletus had selected this old barn theater for the Lodge specifically because of the stage. He liked to stand above the peons as he issued orders and extolled on all the glories their militia would one day achieve--though until this moment they had achieved nothing, amassed no great arsenal of Hummers and black powder explosives, and spent most of their time at the Lodge debating impertinent issues and playing poker. What Cletus didn't remember was that four years ago a voice in the back of his head urged him to convert the run down theater into his headquarters. Cletus believed it was his idea. He was in control.

Did I instruct him to start here in anticipation of this moment? Goth wondered. He couldn't remember. In the infinity of his existence four years was like an eon and Goth couldn't recall. He was having more trouble with his memories. Whenever he delved deep, searching his mind for answers, all he saw were roads: dirt paths, autobahns, mountain trails, bicycle paths, long highways with yellow streaks that stretched to the boundaries of the horizon. Goth had traveled so far, visited too many places. It was too much for him to remember and that worried him. The head didn't know what the feet were doing.

The members of the Rebel Lodge looked to the barren stage and saw a man some of them recognized. The bill of his denim cap cast a triangular shadow across his face, but they recognized the other features about him. The way he walked, his posture, the spheres rotating in his hand. Goth was familiar to them all the way an old song is on the radio. They may not have remembered the band or the lyrics, but everyone knew the chorus.

Goth filled his barrel chest with air and stuck it out for the men to see. He knew they were already his. This moment was merely the coronation, a foregone conclusion. He could have recited a trashy romance novel in German and they would have hung on his every word.

The spheres rotated faster, sparkling with white iridescence.

"Men, I'm here to talk to you about this country," Goth began. It was a favorite subject among all Lodge members. They had reached a general consensus that the decline of their great homeland was in large part due to liberal long hairs teaching pornography in their schools, government intrusion on every aspect of their life--if they wanted to eat meat with E.-coli bacteria, FDA be damned!--and the decay of old values like women keeping their holes shut when a man decided to ask for a kiss at work and nigras knowing their places. Yeah, to them, America was sliding closer to hell with every novel written, law passed, and woman who said no when a man begged for sex.

"We've all lived in this country for a long time, some of us longer than others. We work hard, we raise our kids, and we do the right thing, but still the system holds us down."

"Far flung out! You hit the nail on the head, Goth!" Benny yelled from the side of the stage. An eruption of applause followed and Goth sauntered back and forth.

"The one kind of person I can't stand in this fine country is a policeman." This declaration engendered more strident applause and caterwauls. "You know why policemen eat so many donut holes? Because they're the only holes that ever get near their mouths!" Goth quipped, extending his whipping tongue, simulating oral sex. Wild laughter bounced off every wall--the Lodge appreciated any well placed vagina joke--and Goth raised his arms, mimicking Richard Nixon. "There's a struggle brewing and we all have a part to play! The turtle is asleep and I shall lead us to salvation!" Benny and Curt initiated chants of Goth, Goth, Goth and soon the whole hall joined them.

Feet stomped the floor in unison and Cletus felt the floor bounce underneath him. He couldn't believe what was happening. These were his men. He was in control.

"We won't take it anymore!" Goth shouted and wild rage gleamed in the men's eyes. They wanted more of Goth's energy and that's what it was: energy.

The spheres circled his palm at a blurring speed as coruscating pyrotechnic flares surged throughout the crowd. It jumped from one man to the other like forking lightning and their hearts pumped furiously. It was invigorating, but also captivating. Eyes glassed over as they stared at the Journeyman. Their tenacity yielded to a serene calm and they awaited his voice, yearning to hear more.

Goth stared across the vast sea of standing men and straightened the bill of his cap. He couldn't recall the last time he'd addressed such an enthralled audience, but he remembered one of the first times. He missed ancient Rome. Life was much simpler in those days. Debauchery was commonplace. He was Gaius Caesar and nobody denied him any desire. He ruled the known world--at least what the Romans knew of--and the people loved him.

I even tolerated that appalling nickname they hoisted on me, Goth fondly recalled. Caligula, little bootsie, how ridiculous! Giving the leader of their empire such a name! No wonder it collapsed. The Romans were so capricious, but they adored my speeches. People lined the streets when I passed. Then what happened? Goth wondered as the memory became fuzzy, like looking through an opaque sheet of glass. What happened to me, to Gaius?

It couldn't have been that important, he decided and turned his attention back to the present. The masses of Ithica were waiting.

The spheres came to a halt in his palm and Goth spoke, "The system has crushed our spirit for too long. Now we will rise up, reclaim that which makes us human, and spread our influence across the world."

"Yes, he's right! Fight the system!" someone yelled and all the men joined in. Their rowdy chants were unintelligible, but Goth smiled nonetheless.

"I have one question. Are you with me? Tonight we will unleash the fury to crush the system and under my guidance we cannot fail. Will you follow me?"

"Yes!" the men cried without hesitation. "Crush the system!"

Goth grinned depravedly.

Their viewpoints are so narrow and not at all far-reaching. They believe I mean the government. Fools! Perhaps the weakness of their resolve, their willingness to bend to my will, begets their idiocy. I speak of a leviathan, a system more immense than any human invention. Order and goodness infect every corner of this reality and if I have learned nothing else through all my journeys, I have discerned only one way to combat those misguided institutions: human nature. Set loose the chaos and evil inherent in man. Then the leviathan, the system, will fall.

Turning his head, Goth leered at Cletus. He barely held his head up. Cletus couldn't believe that this man, a stranger with a few parlor tricks, had stolen his sovereignty. Any semblance of control over his men had evaporated. His eyes met Goth's and he felt the heat pass between them.

They're mine now.

Cletus knew the Journeyman was right and accepted his defeat solemnly, bitterly. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing yet, anyway.

***

When the door opened a second time and Austin Goth stepped beyond the threshold, Amy recognized him immediately. Though he had hardly acknowledged her before, Amy had sensed his presence. He had stared at her with an invisible eye, possibly he wasn't even aware of its gawking, and flames of unseen coals and embers had scorched her flesh. Now, Amy Stewart looked deep into the Journeyman's eyes and she saw something more. The man was a disguise, a cloak concealing something not human. His smiling face and long hair were ruses only she detected.

"I'll be with you in a moment my flower," he said with a wink. Cletus scooted inside the room and Goth closed the door. It creaked stridently and Amy imagined the door on her casket closing. She prayed God would take her quickly.

Goth turned to the three guards that had remained inside the room during his speech and he showed them his spheres. "I'm sorry you had to stay in here, but we all have our parts to play in this plan. Look now and see what you missed."

The men huddled around Goth's hand and the spheres rotated. They sparkled as they had done before and flashes of light reflected off their wide eyes. They were mystified and Amy noticed. Their necks became rigid and they refused to blink for fear that they might miss whatever they saw in those glowing spheres. What are they? Amy asked God. As she expected, he wasn't forthcoming with an answer.

The turtle is sleeping!

She shook her head and drove the cackling voice out of her mind. It laughed at her like a pack of hyenas scavenging the savannas for carrion, trying to distract her, but Amy wouldn't let it. She concentrated on the spheres and even from a distance she perceived their energy. Her numb limbs tingled, invisible needles and pins pricking her skin. Two of her fingers twitched and Amy gasped in pain.

It's evil, she realized. The truth shocked her with its tenacity. Whatever flowed from those spheres was omnipotent and as baleful as the sky is blue.

"Enough for now," Goth declared and he closed his palm. The flickering energy dissipated and the men blinked. They felt refreshed and hungry, but most of all, they wanted more. Their bodies weakened without the white effervescence of the spheres. Goth gazed at them reassuringly and they nodded in silence. They answered the beckoning voice in their minds. Yes, they would follow him, they would crush the system. Their lives had no other meaning beyond that simple task.

Goth turned toward Amy and she shut her eyes, unable to look upon him. When she looked, she didn't see Austin Goth. She saw the Journeyman hiding beneath the skin. "Come now, Ms. Stewart, don't be shy. Precious flower, I know you fancy yourself coy, but you can't hide anything from me." Amy felt his greasy fingertips on the sides of her face, caressing her cheeks delicately. He pulled her up, supporting her neck, and Amy unwillingly opened her eyes. She couldn't stop herself. Her muscles defied her frightened impulses. "That's better. You serve a purpose in my plan as well, Amy my dear. Amy, Amy, Amy. . .I very much enjoyed watching you. You're beautiful, an immaculate dove, but you know that. When you resisted Roger, I knew you were the one I wanted. Like Cletus over there, you've got spunk, but don't go praying to your turtle now. He is hiding deep inside his shell and I walk the earth once again. He will not hear your cries."

"I will fear no evil," Amy muttered.

"I can change that," Goth said enigmatically and he released her face. "Please go outside and bring me a torch from the bonfire I saw burning."

"You don't control me," Cletus grunted.

Goth turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder tenderly. It was a parental, almost fatherly, gesture. "Of course not, Cletus. I want you here. You are my lieutenant. Stay and learn. Send one of my men to fetch it."

For a brief moment, Cletus considered spitting in his face.

Be sensible. What good will that do you?

Cletus lowered his head. The voice was right. If Goth maintained the backing of the Lodge, he had to accept whatever role he gave him. He was a dog waiting for a bone, any scrap the master Journeyman might give him. Cletus waved his hand and the guard who had spent hours drooling at Amy scampered through the doorway.

"Good Cletus. You're learning already." He turned back to Amy as he reached into one of his deeper pockets. Suddenly, she became aware of how stiff the wood felt against her ravaged body. Her spine arched and agonizing relief ripped through her sore muscles. They ached, but yearned to move.

Goth bowed his head and grinned as though he alone was privy to an inside joke. "That's as far as you'll get, dear. What would you do if you escaped this room? Run out there and allow those baboons to rape you? Haven't you learned? I'm protecting you. If it weren't for me, Cletus and his boys would have rubbed your vagina raw by now. They'd be packing you with ice to keep you wet. I'm your savior. You should thank me."

Amy thought she was going to throw up. God was her savior, not this doppelganger.

"I know you're asking yourself, why has my turtle forsaken me? I can show you the answer." His hand emerged from the scarred leather pocket with a shriveled human index finger. It was relatively fresh with dried blood crusted to the stump above the third knuckle. It was almost three inches long, a man's finger, with a few black hairs clinging to the dry, sagging skin above the gnarled middle knuckle. The fingernail had peeled away like a worn out sticker, leaving a stub of mushy, anemic flesh.

Goth slid the finger under his nose and smelled it as a wine taster appreciates the vintage of a cork. "Someone got caught with a hand in the cookie jar," he quipped and the remaining guards joined him in laughter. "I'm going to show you something, Amy," he explained as his long nails clawed at the finger. Flesh peeled away like the skin of a pulpous apple and when Goth finished, a bloody bone was all that remained. Goth couldn't be sure, but he believed he may have been a butcher in another lifetime. "I learned this from a fortune teller in China. It's an old trick."

The drooling guard was out of breath when he returned to the room, but a Dogwood branch wrapped with a flaming oily rag dangled from his hand. "Very good," Goth commented and he seized the torch. Small chips of flaming bark trickled to the floor. He held the base of it in the same hand with his spheres and smirked at Amy. The bunched skin around her eyes quivered at the sight of the bright light and Goth plunged the bone and his hand into the flames. "It's an excellent way to determine the future," Goth said as the bone warped and crackle from the intensity of the flame.

Amy's head fell forward and she would have cried, but she didn't have any tears left. She had run dry. Her head bobbed up and down as Goth whistled 'He's Got the Whole World In His Hands.' Amy knew the song. She sang it to a friend's baby she looked after for two days last summer. She knew every word and suddenly her eyes focussed on Goth's hand, the one with the spheres. Whatever he held in his palm glowed brightly, holding back a reservoir of energy, and then she looked at his other palm, the one immersed in flames. It didn't peel or burn at all. He seemed impervious to fire and again she asked her God, what are those spheres?

Once the bone had sufficiently cracked and popped, Goth removed his hand form the fire and tossed the torch to Cletus. Reluctantly, Cletus caught the stick as he watched more closely. As much as he hated Goth, he was intrigued. Goth blew on the finger like a hot spoonful of soup and examined every side of the scarred remain. Long cracks splintered the bone in a spidery design. Stale odors of burned flesh and boiled blood wafted under their noses. The glands underneath Amy's neck swelled.

"The fortune teller showed me how to look for the future in burnt pieces of bone. The cracks and fissures that appear on the finger tell me the future." Goth rubbed his chin and shook his head. His lips puckered as he resounded, 'tsk, tsk.'

"It seems that I was right before, but then again, I'm always right." He turned to Cletus and his jaunty expression turned deadly serious. "There are two men, an imbecile names James Hall and a doper named Todd Bundy, who are trying to thwart my plan."

Cletus nodded with a scowl. "Yeah, I know Hall. Fuckin' stuttering idiot tried to get with my woman, but I had my boys keep an eye on him."

"Yes, well now he and this other man are on a road that intersects ours." Goth peered at a craggy fissure along the side of the finger and added, "There is someone else, too. I cannot see him clearly, but he is some kind of giant. No matter. I see what they are planning and we will deal with them accordingly." Again Goth wondered how many worms he could pack into their eyesockets.

"Good," Cletus muttered as he slammed his hands together. If he couldn't vent his anger on Goth, at least he could find that little fagot Hall and help him join his bitch, Carrie. Cletus was a simple man. One murder satisfied him as much as another; Goth or Hall, he didn't care which.

"I see more," Goth said and his eyes turned to Amy. "Yes, much more. Oh, this is quite amusing, an excellent idea. I'm surprised I didn't think of this on my own." He slid the smoldering bone into one of his pockets, the fetor fading with it, and approached the wooden frame that held Amy captive. He gripped a corner of one of the crossbeams and shook it. "Very sturdy. I have another request. Find me a workbench or a desk. Something not too tall, but with a flat surface. I need a surface I can lay Ms. Stewart across on her belly."

Cletus nodded at the guards and two of them left to retrieve Cletus' desk from another room.

Amy's heart palpitated through her chest and Goth noticed. He pressed his fingertips against her sternum, between her pear-shaped breasts, and felt the throb. "Don't be nervous, Amy. I wanted you because you're a virgin and I have no reason to change that. It must be a virgin at the rally later tonight. It's those kind of minor details that really add a dramatic flair." Goth removed his hand and Amy, to her surprise, breathed a little easier. "Being a virgin is a very minor detail, darling. It's a mere technicality, really. The female body has many orifices besides your vagina. I've always preferred other entrances myself," he said as he reached down and caressed the side of her firm right buttock.

"N-n-no," Amy trembled. Her lips barely formed the word. It was a perfunctory response she used whenever a man threatened her. God would save her. He had to. No angels would appear, even though Amy now believed she was staring into Satan's own eyes hidden beneath the veneer that was Austin Goth, but God would give her strength. Enough strength to escape, she prayed.

Shut the fuck up you whore! God's whore! Your fucking turtle won't save you!

"He has forsaken you," Goth declared, barely able to withhold his guffaws, but the dam broke and wretched laughter hissed out of his mouth.

Their eyes met and Amy gasped, inflating the furthest reaches of her lungs that rarely tasted fresh air. The urge to urinate swelled into her abdomen and then succumbed to a more vile sensation--vomit. She wanted to puke all over the beast, but couldn't. Her stomach was empty. It can't be, she thought madly, but it was. As she stared into Goth's eyes she didn't see Goth, nor the Journeyman. She saw Roger; the same fey, listless expression that covered his maw the last night they were together. It was evil.

Amy closed her eyes and repeated over and over, "I will fear no evil, I will fear no evil, I will fear no evil…."

***

Cletus crept to the corner of the room. On any other night, Goth's idea would have appealed to him. He liked using the rear entrance from time to time himself, a special delivery, but not now. He was boiling in his own incompetence. He hadn't even tried to win the men back to his side, but he knew Goth was right. They only followed him out of fear and Goth had charisma flowing out of his ears. That and his parlor tricks.

He fooled 'em somehow, Cletus concluded. He's got the boys all riled up and they'll listen to him and do his will for now. If I try to take back my control, the men will turn on me and aid him, but I can wait. Have your fun now, Austin, because it won't last. The first time you turn your back, I'll be waiting with a shiv you motherfucker! When I take you down, the men will fear me even more and I'll be in control again. When the time comes, I'll take yer ass down hard.

Cletus closed his eyes and imagined a bright flash of destruction. He wanted to destroy Goth with a burst of power so bright people would see it for miles.

***

The next day would bring the brightest Fourth of July in Ithica's history.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Sparks

10:22 P.M.

Fulton Brooks accelerated to an all out sprint, both legs kicking before his feet even touched the ground of the dirt road alley. His mind raced at the sight of the slumped and battered body in the middle of the lane and he repeated to himself: he's not dead, he's not dead, he's not dead. Fulton Brooks was fifty-one years old with a heart condition. He'd survived one minor heart attack and an angioplasty. Neither experience was motivation enough to get him in shape. A portly, middle-aged stomach reverberated off his gut as he picked up speed and curly gray hair caught the wind, stretching it back. Fulton was old, but he surged like an Olympic athlete. Complete panic can do that to you.

"Teshawn!" he screamed out of breath, sliding to his knees in front of his son. A trickle of blood had crept from his lips and dark patches of bruises, the discoloration only another black man can see on dark skin, swelled on his cheeks and forehead. The orange illumination from street lamps cast a wan hue across his body. It was sickly and the unthinkable raced through Fulton's head: My boy is dead!

"Teshawn!" he repeated, shaking him. His son didn't stir and Fulton recoiled timidly. His fingers quivered uncontrollably, upper and lower jaw locking together. He covered his mouth, quelling the urge to cry and vomit, and watched intently. Any sign, dead or alive, would have relieved him, but he dared not touch the boy's neck to feel for a pulse. The thought of palpitating a dead artery made Fulton want to roll into a ball and disappear. Then slowly, but shallowly, Teshawn's chest moved as he breathed. "Oh thank the Lord."

Russell Oldham puttered down the alley behind the wheel of Fulton's old Ford. He had been too nervous to drive as they spent the last thirty minutes searching the back streets of Ithica for Fulton's son. All because of an eerie feeling. Fulton and his wife had been sitting at home, getting ready for bed as soon as the Homicide rerun went off the air, when a cold sensation swept through Fulton's mind.

They're killing your son, the sensation said as it evolved into words. It was more than a feeling of deja vu. It was a premonition, an unseen sibyl sliding into the corner of his thoughts.

Fulton had looked at the clock. It wasn't ten yet and Teshawn's curfew was midnight, but it didn't matter. He had known something was happening. His hands had begun to shake and his teeth chattered. Before his wife, Maris, could discern what was wrong, he had called Russell and told him to come over. They had left to find Teshawn five minutes later.

"Is he all right?" Russell asked as the truck idled behind them.

Fulton sat Indian style on the ground, a few feet from his only son's body, and tears poured down a face wrinkled like old cotton. He wasn't sure if they were tears of joy, relief, or horror. "He's breathing, but we got to get him to a hospital."

Russell hopped out of the cab and helped Fulton pick up his son. They were cautious, trying not to jostle Teshawn, and they moved slowly. Fortunately for Teshawn, he was unconscious and didn't realize the agony of his shattered ribs. "Please God, keep him with us," Fulton moaned. "He's all we go. Please Lord."

Tears dripped off his chin and nose, plummeting to the ground. The salty water coalesced with the orange clay, forming small beads that rolled down the alley like blobs of mercury. A light breeze stirred them forward, the beads turning end over amorphous end until either the bead broke and the water evaporated into the earth or they disappeared into the shadowy darkness beyond the illumination of the street lamps. The tears weren't alone. Two penetrating eyes watched from the darkness as well.

Make the call, Robb.

Robb Adams nodded, answering the voice in his head, and strolled along the periphery of the alley. His eyes never left the old men as they scooped up the nigra boy and put him in the truck. Robb hoped he died. He hoped they all died in a bloody car crash, decapitate all three of them in one swoop. Play some soccer with their heads when it was done. Robb smiled at that thought, but remained focussed. He needed to find a phone and call Curt.

Robb hadn't liked blacks since grade school. Something had happened then. A fight over a little white girl that had refused to hold his hand. He couldn't recall the details anymore, but the hatred lasted. Such was the nature of his racism--it was the same for many men--it existed without justification and refused to wane. It was the Rasputin of malevolent ideas.