Rufus’s.
'You’re not a believer are you, Andrew?'
I slid under and came up again, brushed my gray hair out of my face.
'No.'
'I could help you. I’d like to help you.'
'I’ll pass.'
One of the twins ran up and leaned over the edge beside his father.
'When are you coming, Dad? You promised.'
Luther kissed Jason’s cheek.
'Give me a minute, son.'
Jason sprinted back and yelled as he canonballed again into the pool.
I rose up out of the water, my skin steaming.
'What if it runs in the family, Luther?'
'Runs in everybody’s family.'
I climbed out of the Jacuzzi and wrapped myself in a towel.
'Grace, Andrew. It’s free, and it’s the only shot at a happy ending you’ve got.'
'Goodbye, Reverend Kite.'
I unlatched the gate and started toward the stairwell. By the time I’d reached my door on the second level, Luther was back in the pool, chasing his boys and terrorizing them with the soundtrack to
I leaned against the railing, shivering now, observing the family at play. After awhile, my eyes moved beyond them to the black sweep of grassland all around. Felt that tightness in my throat again, but it wasn’t Vi this time. Amid all that darkness and the stars falling through it on their absurd and fleeting vectors, the lighted pool area below and the ruckus of Luther’s family seemed all that was left of the world.
# # #
I took a shower to wash the chlorine out of my hair. As the water beat down on my face, I sensed a sleepy headache coming from the wine. Didn’t matter. My suitcase was packed. I would push on to Denver tonight.
I turned off the water and threw back the curtain.
Luther stood dripping in his swimming trunks, skin glistening with beads of water.
'It was Orson’s,' he said, turning the ivory-hilted knife in his right hand, the blade shimmering as if newly- forged.
'Haven’t lost the taste, I see.'
A tremor in my voice. Sound of fear. I tasted it, too—rust in the back of my throat.
'Never, Andrew. But afterwards, I’ll ask forgiveness, and I’ll mean it, and come tomorrow I’ll bathe in the light of grace.'
His swiped at me.
Sheets of blood flooded warmly and fast down by chest. Luther set the knife on the sink. He put his hands on my shoulders, made me sit down in the tub.
'I’ll pray for your soul tonight,' he said, then took a seat on the toilet to watch me flop.
# # #
Reverend Crider’s church stands beside a cemetery on the edge of a small Midwestern town. Though a predominately black church, the congregation is wild about its white preacher. Reverend Crider is charismatic. He insists on a lively band and choir. Sometimes he shouts. He has been known to cry and sweat profusely, which is to say that he is full of passion and love in the eyes of his flock.
The white chapel is packed this Sunday despite the belligerent rain that has ruined the weekend, the potpourri of perfume not quite as strong this morning, muted by the odor of must and wet wool.
Now the children are sent downstairs for Kiddy Church. The collection plates are passed forward, overflowing with dirty crumpled bills. The announcements have concluded, and as the praise band abandons their instruments, the reverend rises from the front pew and walks deliberately onto the stage, where he stands at last behind his pulpit.
He glances at the sermon notes he scrawled yesterday in the minivan while passing through east Kansas. The silence is total save for creaking pews and the tinkling of rain on stained glass windows.
Reverend Crider gazes out upon his congregation for a full minute.
Brethren.
His voice emerges low, brimming with gravitas and sadness.
He tells them he has returned from summer vacation with a burdened heart and that he stands before them today cloaked in great sorrow and shame. He alludes to things he has seen, transgressions committed that will render him quaking before the Almighty come Judgment Day. He says he’s a great sinner, unworthy to touch this pulpit.
A solitary tear wanders down the reverend’s cheek.
Are there any sinners in the house? His whisper fills the nave.
Yes, Brotha Crida.
Will the sinners join me on their knees?
Pews squeak as the congregation kneels.
There passes a moment of awesome silence.
The reverend makes a prayer. He admits to being a man of great selfishness and evil. He begs forgiveness for his sins. He asks the Lord to abolish his shame.
Then Reverend Crider stands. He accuses his flock of being creatures of vanity, lust, and murder. He assures them they’re capable of every kind of wickedness. He says they deserve hell, every last miserable one of them.
They are still kneeling when the musicians retake the stage.
A pipe organ warms the sanctuary and the choir begins to sway.
The reverend says he has one question. Have you been redeemed?
Yes, Brotha Crida.
Then get on your feet and praise your God.
And the choir sings. Hands clapping. Hands lifting. Here come the drums, the congregation on their feet now, electric, sweat trilling out of Reverend Crider’s thinning white hair, down the length of his bloodless face.
Saved a wretch like me.
As they sing, he paces the stage screaming blood and redemption.
He’s been saved, he says. He says he basks in grace.
Once was lost now am found.
And the church windows rattle and the crack of high heels on floorboards and the orgasms of the spiritfilled can be heard from four blocks away.
Was blind but now I see.
The instruments drop out, the choir now in full voice,
And they are still singing and he is still shouting.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years.
Screaming blood and grace.
Bright shining as the sun.
His black-haired children dancing maniacally on the pew.
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise.
Luther says he’s been redeemed, says he’ll live forever.
Than when we first begun.
EXCERPT FROM SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT
