looking.'
The preacher knelt beside the marker and studied the faded symbol and writing. 'Why, it's an old powwow charm. I didn' t even realize we had anything like it here on the grounds. You don 't see many of these anymore.'
'Powwow?' Timmy had visions of Indians dancing in a circle to the beat of drums.
'I suppose they don' t teach you about that in school,' Reverend Moore said.
'Powwow is something our ancestors believed in. I guess some of the older folks in the county still believe in it today, too. This part of Pennsylvania was mostly settled by the Germans, English, and Irish. When they came here, they brought their own customs and folklore and beliefs.
They were all good Christians, of course. But in many cases, they had no place of worship, and no minister to see to their faith. Some towns had a preacher like myself travel through once a month, but he had many other towns to see too, and so the settlers were pretty much left to their own devices.
Sometimes they strayed from the Lord's teachings. That' s how powwow came about. It was a mix of Christianity and their own folklore. Some folks call it white magic, but you know what the Bible says about that.'
Timmy, who spent most sermons writing stories in the margins of the church bulletin, didn' t know what the Bible said about white magic, but he nodded as if he understood because he wanted Katie ' s father to like him. It had never mattered to him before, but now that they were officially going together, it seemed very important.
'Thou shall not suffer a witch to live. Of course, powwow isn't really witchcraft, at least not by my definition. It' s more superstition than anything. I only know of one person in the area who supposedly still practices it, and that 's Nelson LeHorn over in Seven Valleys. And he seems like a nice gentleman. Doesn' t attend our church, of course, but we can hardly cast doubt on him just for that.
My interactions with him have always been pleasant. He seems to know God 's love.' Timmy shifted uncomfortably, and the preacher seemed to realize he'd gotten off subject.
'Anyway, there's an old wives' tale about our churchyard. The old gate over there, the one you boys play on, is all that remains of the original Golgotha Church. Ours was built after the first one burned to the ground.' He chuckled to himself. 'I haven 't thought of this story in years. Supposedly, our ancestors Golgotha' s first congregation were bedeviled by a demon that had followed them here from the Old World. They' d called upon the Lord to help them defeat the beast, and buried it in a chamber somewhere behind the church, which, of course, would be somewhere in this portion of the cemetery. A tombstone was erected on the site, so that no one would disturb the earth, and it had powwow symbols carved on it to keep the ghoul trapped. Like I said, it's just a story. There's no such thing as monsters. They' re makebelieve, unlike the very real evils in this world.'
Timmy stared at the cracked marker with renewed interest. He thought the story was just about the coolest thing he' d ever heard from Reverend Moore, and wondered why he didn 't talk about things like that during his Sunday morning sermons. If he had, Timmy would have paid more attention.
'Well, Katie, we'd better be going. Your mother is still waiting. She's very tired. We all are, I guess.'
'Okay, Daddy.' She cast one more glance at Timmy, and her expression was a mixture of sadness and excitement. 'Bye, Timmy. See you on Sunday?'
'You bet. Wouldn't miss it for the world.'
Her father gave them both an odd, puzzled look. His stare lingered on Timmy a moment longer. He seemed perplexed. Then, without a word, he led Katie back up the hill.
The shadows grew longer as the sun moved toward the horizon. Timmy walked home, and though the day had been long and unsettling, his step was lighter. He was heartsick about Barry and worried about Doug and furious with Mr. Smeltzer and shocked over Pat Kemp 's fate, and the possible fates of the other missing people but he was also exuberant. Katie liked him. Katie had said they were going together.
Katie had held his hand. Somehow, the other things paled in comparison. Life was not endless. He knew that now. But summers were. Or, at least it seemed that way.
Fear was a strong emotion, but so was love.
He looked at his open hand, and marveled over how, just a short time ago, it had been holding Katie Moore's.
Chapter Eleven
When Doug got home and went inside, his mother was sprawled out in her recliner, watching a syndicated rerun of Three's Company.
The volume was turned up loud and the sound of a canned laugh track filled the house. She barely acknowledged him as he walked into the living room. Carol Keiser wore the same nightgown she ' d had on two days before, and her hair was tangled and unwashed. An empty bag of Utz potato chips lay beside her, and crumbs dotted her lap. A bottle of vodka sat on the floor, snug against the chair.
'I'm home,' Doug said.
Her eyes flicked toward him. 'Where you been? I hollered for you earlier. I wanted you to ride your bike down to Spring Grove and pick me up some things.' Her speech was slurred, her movements jerky. Doug glanced down at the bottle and saw that it was almost empty. He knew from experience that it would join the other empty bottles tossed about all over the house, and then she'd start a new one.
'I wasn't here, Mom. I spent the night over at Timmy's.'
'You were gone last night?'
'Yeah.' Then he thought to himself, Did you miss me?
Grunting, she turned her attention back to the television. Doug cleared his throat. 'Have you watched the news?'
'No,' she said. 'Why? Are you on it?'
He sighed. 'Maybe. I'm not sure, really. Some bad stuff happened.'
'What did you do? You steal something?'
'No. Some kids from my school are missing. A few other people, too. The police might call here. They might need to talk to me some more.'
Now he had her attention. She picked up the massive remote control and turned the volume down. Then she studied him with drooping, bloodshot eyes.
'Why do they need to talk to you? Are you involved, Dougie?'
'No. I didn't do anything. But Timmy and I found something today. Pat Kemp's car. Out past the graveyard, in that little stretch of woods next to Mr. Jones' s cornfield. It was… pretty gross. The police think '
'Are you in trouble? Are the police coming here?'
'No, Mom. I told you'
'Then don't worry about it. You don't tell the police anything.'
'But'
'No arguments. I don't want yoo talking to policemen. They might trick you. Make you tell them things that aren't true or say things you don't mean. And I especially don't want them coming here. You understand me?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Good boy. You know I love you, Dougie. I only want what's best for my little boy.' He nodded.
She smiled. 'You hungry?'
Doug paused. He wanted to talk about his day, about what they'd found. Seeing Pat' s remains had disturbed him deeply. Mrs. Graco had listened to him on the way home, and talked to him in soft, reassuring tones. She 'd cared. He wanted the same thing from his own mother.
He opened his mouth, intent on telling her that, but instead, he said, 'I'm a little hungry, I guess.'
'There's chicken in the fridge. Stay out of trouble with the police. Remember, I don't want them coming here, and I don't want you talking to them.' She turned her attention back to the television and fumbled for the remote. Doug' s shoulders slumped; he walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The aroma of cold chicken wafted out of the door. His stomach churned. He thought again of Pat what he'd looked like, how he' d smelled. Deciding he had no appetite after all, Doug closed the door and walked back down the hall to his room.
'Maybe you and your friends should play here for a few days,' his mother called after him. 'I'll keep the three of you out of trouble.'
