Mystery Walk

'I want it rebuilt,' Wayne Falconer was saying to O'Brien, the architect from Birmingham, 'in the shape of a Cross. I want the church there.' He pointed to the concessions building. 'I want it to be the biggest church this state has ever seen. And I want a fountain in the middle of the pool. One with colored lights. Can you do that?'

O'Brien chewed on a toothpick and nodded thoughtfully. 'I think so. Have to be careful with wiring. Don't want to electrocute anybody. It would be some visual effect though, wouldn't it?' He grinned. 'Not electrocution ... I mean the colors.'

Henry Bragg and George Hodges laughed. Bragg was still lean and boyish-looking, only a touch of gray in his stylishly cut sandy-brown hair; as a rule he wore blue blazers and gray slacks with razor-sharp creases. He'd moved his growing family to Fayette four years ago and had taken over the job of chief attorney for the Falconer Crusade, Inc.

George Hodges, by contrast, had not aged so gracefully. He was bald except for a fringe of brown hair, and his face had slowly collapsed into folds under the pull of gravity. He wore a rumpled brown suit, his breast pocket lined with pens.

'I want this to be the biggest baptismal pool in the world,' Wayne said. The Crusade had recently purchased the pool for a million and a half. 'People will come here from everywhere, wanting to be baptized. Of course, there'll be regular swimming here too—for Christian youth only—but the baptisms will be the big thing. It'll be . . . like a Christian swim club, but there won't be membership fees. There'll be donations to the Falconer Memorial. . . .' His voice trailed off. He was staring at the high-diving platform, the Tower. He remembered when he was almost ten, and he'd finally gotten the nerve to climb up there and try to jump. Poised on the edge, he felt his knees shaking— and then the older kids down in the pool had started yelling for him to jump, jump, Wayne, jump. It was just too high, and from way up there it looked like a sheet of blue glass that would cut him to pieces. Coming carefully down, he'd tripped and fallen and busted his lip and, crying, had run out to where the church bus was parked to get away from the laughter.

'I want that down,' Wayne said quietly. 'The Tower. I want it down, first thing.'

'That's been here for over twenty-five years, Wayne,' George Hodges said. 'It's sort of a symbol for the whole—'

'Down,' Wayne told him, and Hodges was silent.

At the far end of the pool, Wayne suddenly dismissed Bragg and O'Brien. As the two men walked away, Hodges waited uneasily for Wayne to speak. The young man stared at the pool, took a small bottle from his coat, and popped a pill into his mouth. His eyes were almost the same shade as the pool's faded paint. 'I know I can trust you, George. You've always been there when I needed you.' Hodges had done such a good job in his years as the Crusade's business manager that he could now afford a colonial-style house a few miles from the Falconer estate.

'That's right, Wayne,' Hodges replied.

Wayne looked at him. 'My daddy came again last night. He sat on the foot of my bed, and we had a long talk.'

Hodges's face pulled tight. Oh God! he thought. Not again!

'He told me that the Creekmore witch and her boy want me now, George. They want to destroy me, like they destroyed my daddy.'

'Wayne,' Hodges said quietly, 'please don't do this. That woman lives in Hawthorne. She's no threat to you. Why don't you just forget about her, and let's go on like—'

'I can feel her wanting me to come to her!' Wayne said. 'I can feel her eyes on me, and I can hear her filthy voice, calling to me at night! And that boy's just as bad as she is! He puts himself in my head sometimes, and I can't get him out!'

Hodges nodded. Cammy was calling him at all hours of the night now, and driving him crazy with her complaints about Wayne's fits of black temper. One night last week Wayne had left the house and gone to the airport, flying up in the company Beechcraft and doing loops and circles like a maniac. Wayne wasn't yet eighteen, yet already he was faced with decisions that would stagger a seasoned business executive. Maybe it was understandable, Hodges thought, that Wayne should pretend to be counseled by his father's ghost as a way of shouldering the burden.

'My daddy says the Creekmores should burn in Hell,' Wayne was saying. 'He says, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.''

'Wayne, we sent some people over to Hawthorne to ask around about her, just as you wanted. She stays to herself and never goes out, her son went and joined the circus or something, and her husband died not too long ago. She's strange, but so what? She's nothing but a faker. If she could really see ghosts and all that junk, then why isn't she out doing seances or stuff like that for rich people? And your daddy is dead, Wayne. He doesn't come to you at night. He doesn't advise you about business deals. Please, Wayne. Let him go.'

Wayne blinked and touched his forehead gingerly. 'I'm tired,' he said. 'All these meetings make me so tired. I wish I could sleep at night. I need more sleeping pills. The ones you got me before aren't strong enough.'

'They'd knock out a horse!' Hodges grasped Wayne's arm. 'Now listen to me. You've got to stop taking so many pills! I swear to God I could cut my throat for getting you that damned Percodan! Now you take stuff to put you to sleep and stuff to get you up in the morning.'

'Daddy says for me to,' Wayne said, his face expressionless.

'No. No more pills.' Hodges shook his head and started to walk away.

'George?' Wayne's voice was soft and silken. Hodges stopped in his tracks and clenched his fists at his sides. 'George, you forget. If I can't sleep, I can't address all those civic groups I'm supposed to meet with. I can't do the radio and the television shows. I can't go over the magazine material. I can't plan for next year's revival circuit. Can I?'

Hodges turned, his face reddening. 'You don't need any more damned pills, Wayne!'

'Get them. Or I'll find someone who will.'

Oh, that would be just dandy! Hodges thought. If someone outside the organization found out that Little Wayne Falconer was turning into a junkie, and having strange delusions as well, the press would tear the Crusade to pieces! 'You need help. And not the kind you get from pills.'

Wayne's eyes flashed. 'I said get them for me, George! I want to be able to sleep without hearing that witch and her boy calling my name!'

Hodges knew he should say no. He knew he should tell Henry about the delusions. Wayne was coming apart at the seams. The entire Crusade was in danger. But his mouth opened and he said in a harsh rasp, 'This is the last time, damn it! Do you hear me? If you ask me again, I walk. I swear it!'

Wayne smiled. 'Fine. Now, I want this done too: I want an electric fence put up around the house by the time I get back from Nashville. And I want a new watchman hired. A younger man. I don't feel safe in the house anymore.'

Hodges nodded grimly.

Wayne patted his back. 'I know I can depend on you. Daddy says so.' And then Wayne walked away to rejoin Bragg and O'Brien, new confidence in his stride.

George Hodges was in agony. The boy was killing himself with those pills! He'd promised J.J. he'd do his best to help Wayne with the business, but very often now he thought that they were all in danger of being consumed by a monstrous machine that had very little to do with personal worship. The Christian rock bands, the prayer cloths and the Clowns for Jesus at those revival meetings were just too much!

'George?' Bragg called to him. 'What're you dreamin' about?'

I could walk away from it, he told himself. Yes. Anytime I want to. But he switched a ragged smile on his face and said, 'Nothing. You boys want to get some lunch? I know a place that serves fine barbecue.'

TEN

Krepsin