9
The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers strode up Harrington Street from the Baptist Church in the pouring rain with Don Hemphill, Nan Roberts, Norman Harper, and William Rose in the forefront. Their eyes were reddened, furious orbs peeling from puffy, irritated sockets.
Most of the Christian Soldiers had vomit on their pants, their shirts, their shoes, or all three. The rotten-egg smell of the stink-bomb clung to them in spite of the sheeting rain, refusing to be washed away.
A State Police car stopped at the intersection of Harrington and Castle Avenue, which, half a mile farther up, became Castle View.
A Trooper got out and gaped at them. “Hey!” he shouted. “Where do you folks think you’re going?”
“We’re gonna kick us some Pope-sucker butt, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the hell out of our way!” Nan Roberts shouted back at him.
Suddenly Don Hemphill opened his mouth and began to sing in a full, rich baritone voice.
“Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war-” Others joined in. Soon the entire congregation had taken it up and they began to move faster, not just walking now but marching to the beat. Their faces were pallid and angry and empty of all thought as they began not just to sing but to roar out the words.
Rev. Rose sang along with them, although he lisped quite badly with his upper plate gone.
“Christ, the royal master, leads against the foe, Forward into battle, see His banners go!”
Now they were almost running.
10
Trooper Morris stood beside the door of his car with his microphone in his hand, staring after them. Water ran from the waterproof over the brim of his Smokey Bear hat in little streamlets'Come back, Unit Sixteen,” Henry Payton’s voice crackled.
“You better get some men up here right away!” Morris cried.
His voice was both scared and excited. He had been a State Trooper for less than a year. “Something’s going down! Something bad!
A crowd of about seventy people just walked past me! Ten-four!”
“Well, what were they doing?” Payton asked. “Ten-four.”
“They were singing’Onward Christian Soldiers’! Ten-four!”
“Is that you, Morris? Ten-four.”
“Yessir! Ten-four!”
“Well, so far as I know, Trooper Morris, there is still no law against singing hymns, even in the pouring rain. I believe it to be id activity but not an illegal one. Now I only want to say this a stup once: I’ve got about four different messes on my hands, I don’t know where the Sheriff or any of his goddam deputies are, and I don’t want to be bothered with trivialities! Do you copy this? Ten-four!”
Trooper Morris swallowed hard. “Uh, yessir, I copy, I sure do, but someone in the crowd-it was a woman, I think-said they were going to, uh, ’kick us some Pope-sucker butt’ is how I believe she put it. I know that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I didn’t much like the sound of it.” Then Morris added timidly: “Tenfour?”
The silence was so long Morris was about to try Payton againthe electricity in the air had made long-range radio communication impossible and even in- town chatter difficult-and then Payton said in a weary, frightened voice, “Aw. Aw, Jesus. Aw, Jesus Tiddlywinks Christ. What’s going on here?”
“Well, the lady said they were going to-”
“I heard you the first time!” Payton yelled it so loudly that his voice distorted and broke up. “Get over to the Catholic Church!
If something’s happening, try to break it up but don’t get hurt.
I repeat, don’t get hurt. I’ll send backup as soon as I can-if I have any backup left. Do it now! Ten-four!”
“Uh, Lieutenant Payton? Where is the Catholic Church in this town?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Payton screamed. “I don’t worship there! Just follow the crowd! Ten-forty out!”
11
Morris hung up the mike. He could no longer see the crowd, but he could still hear them between the thunderclaps. He put the cruiser in gear and followed the singing.
The path which led up to the kitchen door of Myra Evans’s house was lined with rocks painted in various pastel colors.
Cora Rusk picked up a blue one and bounced it in the hand which was not holding her gun, testing its weight. She tried the door. It was locked, as she had expected. She tossed the rock through the glass and used the barrel of her pistol to clear away the shards and splinters still clinging to the frame. Then she reached through, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Her hair clung to her cheeks in wet snaggles and commas. Her dress still gaped open, and droplets of rainwater ran down the pimple-studded swells of her breasts.
Chuck Evans wasn’t home, but Garfield, Chuck and Myra’s Angora cat, was. He came trotting into the kitchen, miaowing, hoping for food, and Cora let him have it. The cat flew backward in a cloud of blood and fur. “Eat that, Garfield,” Cora remarked. She strode through the puff of gunsmoke and into the hall. She started up the stairs. She knew where she would find the slut. She would find her in bed. Cora knew that as well as she knew her own name.
“It’s bedtime, all right,” she said. “You just want to believe it, Myra my dear.”
Cora was smiling.
12
Father Brigham and Albert Gendron led a platoon of pissed-off Catholics down Castle Avenue toward Harrington Street. Halfway there, they heard singing. The two men exchanged a glance.
“Do you think we might be able to teach em a different tune, Albert?” Father Brigham asked softly.
“I think so, Father,” Albert replied.
“Shall we teach them to sing ’I Ran All the Way Home’?”
“A very good tune, Father. I think maybe even muck like them might be able to learn that one.”
Lightning flew across the sky. It illuminated Castle Avenue with momentary brilliance, and showed the two men a small crowd advancing up the hill toward them. Their eyes gleamed white and empty, like the eyes of statues, in the lightning-flash.
“There they are!” someone shouted, and a woman cried: “Get the dirty Mickey Finn sons of bitches!”
“Let’s bag some trash,” Father John Brigham breathed happily, and charged the Baptists.
“Amen, Father,” Albert said, running at his side.
They all began to run then.
As Trooper Morris rounded the corner, a fresh bolt of lightning jigged across the sky, felling one of the old elms by Castle Stream.
In the glare, he saw two mobs of people running toward each other.
One mob was running up the hill, the other mob was running down, and both mobs were screaming for blood. Trooper Morris suddenly found himself wishing he had called in sick that afternoon.
13
Cora opened the door of Chuck and Myra’s bedroom and saw exactly what she had expected: the bitch lying naked in a rumpled double bed which looked as if it had seen a hard tour of duty lately.
One of her hands was behind her, tucked under the pillows. The other held a framed picture. The picture was between Myra’s meaty thighs. She appeared to be humping it. Her eyes were half-closed in ecstasy.
“Oooh, E!” she moaned. “Ooooh, E! OOOOOOOOHHH,
EEEE-EEEEEEE!”
Horrified jealousy flared in Cora’s heart and rose up her throat until she could taste its bitter ’nice in her mouth.
“Oh you shithouse mouse,” she breathed, and brought up the automatic.
