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Kirk
David rode through the town of Walnut Grove, disturbing
the quiet, rain-washed Sunday evening with the rumble of
his Harley-Davidson Super Glide.
The
streets were empty and clean--so much cleaner than he
remembered them ten years ago. The sidewalks gleamed like
polished silver; the shop windows glistened in the late
sunlight. Even the burnt orange leaves on the town
square's oldest oak tree added a lively look to their
death.
Kirk
shivered.
When
he pulled to a stop sign, he dropped his heavy
black-booted feet to the pavement, looked one way, then
the other, and caught a movement on Spring Street.
Fingers,
attached to the shadowy outline of a body, shifted the
blinds and lifted one slat.
"Living
dangerously," he mumbled. No one dared skip church
service on Sunday morning in Reverend Hollis Thackery's
town. Everyone feared the old, white-haired man more than
the Devil. He sucked in enough fire and brimstone to make
Hell feel like oceanfront property in Alaska in
comparison, and then spewed it onto his poor
parishioners. By the time the church doors opened to let
them out, the congregation resembled the charred
inhabitants of a fire-damaged building.
Kirk
revved the motor on his Harley loud enough to vibrate the
plate-glass on Cindy Kate's Beauty Salon across the
intersection, and then took off in a roar down Veterans
Boulevard.
Time
to check in on the old man to see if he's as lively as he
was ten years ago, or if he just coughed out smoke these
days.
The
brick church sprawled across an open field where the
boulevard ended. Its white steeple reached toward Heaven
as if to kiss the face of an angel.
When
he killed the motor on his bike, the first thing he
noticed was the sound of silence, disturbed only by a dry
leaf as it skittered across the blacktop parking lot. The
loudest noise for what could have been miles, for all
Kirk knew. There should have been shouting and singing
coming from the church with Hollis Thackery's voice
booming above those of the members. It used to be one of
those lively churches where the preacher hopped around
the pulpit, shouting, clapping his hands, and waving a
white handkerchief. Surrender to God
or else was the message.
Unease
traveled along his nerves like spiders scurrying across
sand.
Something was wrong with this town. Very
wrong.
Kirk
swung his leg over the seat of the Harley and removed his
helmet. He looked down at his black leather chaps, his
many-zippered jacket, finger-less gloves and the pistol
strapped against one hip. He wasn't exactly dressed for
Sunday-Go-To-Meeting, but compelled to hear Hollis
preach, he strode toward the entrance.
The
white double doors looked smaller and cleaner, as if
someone had added a fresh coat of paint onto the raw wood
yesterday. Shoving them open, he stepped inside and slid
into a pew near the back. Every head in the church
swiveled to cast him a furtive glance, then pivoted back
toward the front in unison as if connected by a huge,
bizarre turntable. The rustle of clothing the only
indication they'd moved at all.
One
thing hadn't changed. The church benches were still as
hard and cold as a slab of rock in winter. Kirk shifted,
attempting to get comfortable without much luck.
When
he looked up at Reverend Thackery, his breath caught in
his throat. Is this the same man?
It couldn't be. The man who stood behind the pulpit
looked as if he'd shrunk a few inches and grew the extra
on his upper back. His hair was no longer white, but more
the color of snow after it had lain around on the ground
for a few days. A voice that used to resonate off the
stainless glass windows, now cracked with age. Holy words
barely pushed through hollow cheeks and thin lips.
The
church was as silent as a lazy afternoon during siesta.
Kirk frowned as trepidation settled in his heart.
Ten
years had done this much damage?
Thackery's
empty gaze focused on Kirk, and for a split second a
glimmer of hope sparked to life in the old preacher's
watery blue eyes. The old man snuffed out the spark, as
if he were afraid someone would see it.
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