that morning, none of them under the age of fifty. David had even paused in his sermon, a rambling dis course on the enemy within and a human's inability to personally remove the burden of sin. Clayton nodded and blinked and David had offered a public welcome. The Primitives didn't mind an occa sional guest; Gordon Smith popped in every three months or so, and relatives sometimes sat in, especially during foot-washing ceremonies. But if Clayton thought he was going to join the fold, he'd have to rid himself of a lot of self-serving ideas of getting saved. Clayton would have to get humble, an idea that far too many Christians of every stripe resisted.
After the sermon, while the members of the congregation were shaking hands, David took Clayton to the side and found out about Mose's dereliction of duty. Word of the Circuit Rider had gotten around, at least among the locals, and Clayton confessed that he figured any port in a storm, because evil wouldn't befall him while he was in a church, no matter what kind of sign was posted out front.
'Damnedest thing, though, Preacher,' Clayton had said. 'The grass in the graveyard was tore to hell and gone, like somebody stampeded a herd of cattle through. And there was a scorched patch around Harmon Smith's grave.'
David waited until the congregation left, then changed clothes in the little room that was more of a broom closet than a vestry. By the time he emerged, the sun was nearly straight up in the sky. As surely as the dawn was a symbol of rising and renewal, dusk was a time of despair and destruction. Whatever Harmon Smith had planned for this go-round of the circuit, it would happen tonight. That gave David less than seven hours to come up with a way to preserve his church and his community. Even though God had already predes tined the outcome, David felt a need to act.
He went to his pickup truck and took a shovel from the bed. The oaken handle was strong and sure in his hands, a sacred staff if there ever was one. He navigated the scattered markers that sur rounded Rush Branch Primitive Baptist Church and proceeded to the worn and nameless slab of limestone that was cracked down the middle as if lightning had been buried there.
The holes that had pocked Harmon Smith's grave were larger, the dirt fresh, as though some creature had burrowed its way in. Or maybe
Only one way to know for sure. David drove the shovel blade into the moist soil with a sound like a hatchet into meat. He drove the metal deeper with his boot and turned. He was a grounds keeper, and this was his turf. Here, at least, he had a chance. If he could beat the sinking sun, that was.
Chapter Twenty-seven
'What's wrong, Mom?' Jett asked
'I fell.' Katy stood at the sink, rinsing her hands. She had a cut on her chin and one eye was bruised and puffy.
'Good Lord, Katy, how could you get hurt cleaning house?' Gordon said.
'I was in the attic.'
Gordon glared at her, almost owlish with his beard and glasses, with sinister, prey-hunting eyes. 'I didn't give you permission. We h ave valuable antiques and family heirlooms up there.'
'I'm part of the family now.'
'You're not a Smith yet. You're a Logan.'
'Where's Mark?' Katy asked Jett. Her head throbbed. The image of the headless Rebecca at the mirror still haunted her, as if the image had seared itself against the plate of her forehead.
'Gone back to minding his own business,' Gordon said. 'We don't need any outsiders. We can solve our problems by ourselves.'
'I saw the clothes. And the sickle.'
'What are you talking about?'
'From the scarecrow in the barn.'
'The scarecrow is out there hanging on the wall. Where it al ways is.'
'No, it's not,' Jett said. 'I told Dad about it. You guys don't be lieve me, but he does.'
'That's enough of this foolishness,' Gordon said. He grabbed Jett's wrist and pulled her toward the front door. 'Come on, you two. I'll show you the scarecrow is just a sack of rags and straw, not some evil creature.'
'Let her go, Gordon,' Katy said.
Jett tried to struggle free, but Gordon was too strong and heavy. He tugged her outside, Katy right behind them. The fence gate was open. Katy wondered where the goats were. The barn door was open, too, afternoon sunlight boring through the gap and painting the dirt floor in patches of amber. The rich smell of manure and hay filled the air. The chickens clucked uneasily in their nests.
Jett gave up resisting and allowed herself to be guided into the barn. Katy wondered what she had told Mark. She couldn't believe Mark would just drive away after hearing such strange tales. But he'd always believed what he wanted to believe, despite pleas or evidence.
'The scarecrow's right there,' Gordon said, pointing to the spot on me wall above the loft stairs. The figure wasn't dressed in the bib overalls and flannel shirt that Katy had seen in the attic, inside the locked bureau. This figure wore a dark suit of a heavy material like wool. Straw spilled from the sleeves and ankles of the suit, and th e yellowed collar of the white shirt stuck up around the collar. The scarecrow had no head.
'That's not me one,' Katy said.
'Yes, it is,' Jett said excited. 'That's the man I saw. The one in the black hat.'
'I don't see a hat,' Gordon said. 'Odus must have taken me other scarecrow for some reason. Those clothes look old-fash ioned, maybe even antique.'
'What's going on, Gordon?' Katy asked.
'The scarecrow hungers,' Gordon said.
'Where are the goats?' Jett asked.
Gordon looked around as if noticing their absence for the first time. 'He's taken them.'
'Who?' Katy touched the welt over her eye. The upper and lower eyelids were swelling together and she could barely see. The side of her face felt as if a pint of hot water had been pumped under her skin.
Katy squinted at the shape on the wall. Hadn't the original scarecrow been shorter? No. That was the kind of thing that crazy people thought. Crazy people who believed they were being haunted by their husband's dead ex- wife.
The sickle was absent from its wooden peg.
'It moved' Jett said grabbing Katy's arm. Katy looked at the gangly, splayed form. A few pieces of straw fell from its cuffs as if an animal were moving inside it. Katy recalled the toenails skitter ing on the attic floor.
'It's the wind,' Gordon said. 'Odus left the barn door open.'
'Let's get out of here,' Jett said.
'Go on back to the house,' Gordon said. 'I'll close up the barn.'
Katy nodded and put an arm around Jett's shoulder. The two of them went into the barnyard. Katy stopped by the chicken roost. 'What did your dad say when you told him about this place?'
Jett shrugged and stared at the ground. 'Nothing much. He thought I was weird. But he didn't laugh at me.' She looked up, her blue eyes vibrant and imploring. 'I wish—'
Katy reached out and hugged her daughter, pulling her close. The girl was getting tall. The hair on the top of her head brushed Katy's wounded chin. 'Shh. Wishing for lost things isn't a good idea. We have to work with what we've got.'
'Yeah, yeah, yeah. 'We'll get through it together,' right?'
'Exactly.' Katy brushed away Jett's bangs and planted a kiss on her forehead.
'I just wish Daddy were here.'
Katy had no response for that. She had failed her daughter and her marriage. Maybe if she had tried harder, been less self-ab sorbed ...
