“I don’t know. For Chrissakes I don’t
“Why not? It’s what you’ve been doin’ your whole life.”
“I don’t need to listen to this.”
“Then why did you turn on the stereo?”
I scowl and reach for the keys. “To get rid of the kid.”
“You’re lyin’.”
“You think so? Take a look around. The kid’s out there on the road, not here with a goddamn Rambo knife to my throat.
I feel her smile and the urge to share it is almost overwhelming, but I kill the compulsion by reminding myself that for whatever reason, she’s trying to keep me here.
“I’m going, and I’m switching this thing off.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have time to talk anymore, that’s why.”
A sad sigh. “Nothin’ ever changes in your world, does it Tom? The whole town could wake up buried under a hundred feet of ice and you’d still plod along with that badge pinned to your chest, swearin’ to protect while watchin’ them all freeze. And an hour later, it’d be forgotten, locked away for good in that holdin’ pen in your skull.”
I start the ignition. The truck rumbles to life. Wintry’s shadow eclipses the light through the passenger side window, where he stands, and waits, aware that the business in here is not something he wants, or has any right, to be a part of.
Finally, I look at her face, into her eyes. Death has made her one of her own sketches, a pale imprint on blue paper. Only the eyes look alive, miniature galaxies swirling in pockets of deep space.
“I don’t know any other way,” I confess, and quickly look away.
“There’s always another way, Tom, but you’ve never been interested or tuned in enough to seek it out. Your way suits you fine, and that’s why you’re here now, waitin’, maybe secretly hopin’ it is too late when you reach Kyle so you won’t have to shoulder the burden of what follows. You’re your own puppet, Tom, even if today, someone else is pullin’ your strings.”
“The hells’ that supposed to mean? No one’s pullin’ my strings but me.”
“There are two pennies in your pocket that say different. Sometimes, givin’ selfish people what they want is enough to bring a town to its knees, as it will bring you to your knees.”
“Wintry, come on,” I yell out at him, disgusted by the quaver in my voice. I lunge forward, through the smoke, through
“You should have told him you didn’t kill me,” she says sadly.
“I know. There’s a lot I should have done.”
“That you didn’t know how isn’t good enough. Apathy is sometimes worse than murder.” She starts to fade, dissipating like the Cheshire cat, only it isn’t her smile that remains clear while she dissolves, but her eyes. “You should have told him the truth.”
“Wintry…”
He half-raises a hand in acknowledgment, and opens the door, then slowly, painfully, eases himself into the seat. “We goan leave the kid?”
“Yeah.”
Wisps of smoke curl from the broken stereo. I sense him looking at it, then at me, and I put the car into gear to get us moving. I roll down my window. The fresh air cures the nausea.
“They ain’t always right, you know,” Wintry says.
“I know. But she was.”
We head for Hill’s house, Brody a dark dwindling shape in the rearview.
Part Three: The Illusion of Free Will
Chapter Fifteen
Reverend Hill’s house sits by itself on a grassy slope, segregated from the rest of the community by a short stretch of woodland on one side, and the river on the other. Hill’s predecessor, the benevolent and much lamented Reverend Lewis, was never comfortable being so far from his flock, and was busy finalizing plans for the purchase of a smaller, more modest place in the town center when for reasons known only to him, he decided to string himself up. When Hill came to Milestone, he sneered at the idea of what he called an “odious hovel”, and quickly made his home out here, in the tall narrow house he deemed just big enough to contain a man of his importance. “You’ll know where I am if you need me,” he advised his parishioners, “But know too that I have little time to waste on trivial matters that you yourselves have the power to cure.”
The only time he would take an interest in the people was when one of them came to him with a blemished soul, but even those misguided few quickly realized that whatever god it was that Hill claimed to worship, it wasn’t one they recognized, or wanted to have their lives governed by. But fear kept them—kept us—within his power.
From the get-go he was an asshole, and everyone knew it. A fire-and-brimstone man they didn’t need, or want, but they were stuck with him, and as Cobb once said, “In troubled times, you can’t be choosy about which preacher’s voice you end up listenin’ to.”
Gracie’s right. We should have killed him three years ago, as soon as it became clear what we’d been saddled with, but despite everything we’d seen and heard, and despite instinct telling us what the wise thing to do was, we did nothing. For three years we kept going back to that tavern, kept drinking ourselves numb and waiting for the keys to be jingled, waiting for Hill to tell us which sinners we were going to erase from the world as repentance for our own transgressions.
And every Saturday night, one of us would. Take the keys, get in the car, drive, and kill. Pretend the screams and the horrible thud against our hoods were deer, then come back, drink some more and wonder when that spiritual cleansing would kick in.
Never did of course, and never will.
He never wanted to save us from Hell. He brought Hell to us. But even he can’t be blamed, not entirely, for what’s happening in Milestone, tempting as it is to pin this nightmare on him.
No.
This town is dying because we’re killing it.
“You want to wait here?” I ask Wintry, and watch his eyes slide slowly past me, to the house with its stained and buckled siding, leaf-choked gutters, unpainted frames.
He licks his lips, grunts with pain, and closes his eyes. “You might need my help.”
“What is it you think you’re going to be able to help me with in your condition?”
His shrug is slight. “Never know.”
“Wintry, look. I appreciate the backup, but I’m not sure I have the time to wait for you. My boy’s in trouble. I got to get to him, so do me a favor, all right? Wait here. If the ground cracks open and imps come flying out, or if the house takes off and starts spinning, then you come help me. I’m sure I’ll be glad of it. All right?”
He smiles weakly, but I know he’s not happy.
“See you soon,” I tell him, and shut the door.
A long gravel path twists its way around a large granite boulder that bears the names of all the clergymen
