Bootleg Freight

Thank-you so much. I see you went on a marathon session today. I still have quite a ways to go on this one and with a full time OTR job and home projects I don't always get to write as much as I would like. But keep checking in, as I'm not quitting on this story.

Here is a link to my Amazon page. Thanks again.
http://www.amazon.com/Richard-Reese/e/B00AV9UBWW/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

 

“May I offer you folks a ride home?” Isaac asked, directing the question at the silent husband, allowing him his role as family leader. The last thing he wanted to do was to alienate the man. He may be the weak link but in the end his vote was still needed, or at least added a convenience Isaac preferred to the alternative.

Wendell took a moment to study his feet before answering. “Well, we usually ride with our neighbor but they didn’t come tonight on account of their little girl’s sick.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Of course it is, Mr. Isaac. It’s very kind of you to offer,” Tammy answered for her husband

Wendell seemed to sulk as they walked to the car, bringing up the rear as young Timmy walked between Isaac and his mother, giving casual observer a skewed version of the family dynamic. Isaac suspected the man suffered from a case of low self-esteem, possibly due to being underemployed, or maybe experiencing regret for marrying a woman smarter and more willful than himself.

Tammy diplomatically insisted her husband ride in the front seat while she and Timmy climbed into the back of the late model Malibu.

Being a basic rental car it was nothing fancy, but the fact that it was less than a year old, a rarity in these parts, was impressive enough to the Burtons. Timmy was fascinated with the electronic window and door lock controls in the arm rest and was mildly scolded more than once for his inability to keep himself from pressing them.

Isaac employed rental cars exclusively for these business trips for several reasons. He always rented the vehicle with an assumed name and a matching credit card, neither of which would ever be used again. If a situation arose where the tag number was traced back to the renter it would lead to a dead end. If a situation became critical, he could simply abandon it. He also liked the fact that rental cars generally had tags from almost any random state, which was helpful in misleading people when asked about where he was from.

“I noticed the Louisiana tag on your car, Mr. Isaac. Is that where you’re from? I only ask because you don’t talk like I imagined somebody from down there would sound like,” Tammy asked from the back seat.

“And you would be correct to think that since I’ve never been to Louisiana in my life until six months ago. I’m a Kentucky boy born and raised; the mountains were all I ever knew. Then I lost my wife just over a year ago and I nearly went crazy. We never had any children and it was just me in that old house and all those memories.
“After days and nights of prayer and meditation I decided I needed a geographical change. I knew I couldn’t adapt to somewhere like New York or California so I started looking south, somewhere warm and not overly populated.

“So I sold my land and my house and away I went. That’s the only reason I could afford this car. It’s nicer than what I’m used to but I didn’t trust my old pickup on such a long trip. Then I got the news about my uncle doing poorly and I got up there quick as I could, but it wasn’t quick enough. I keep thinking if I had stayed in Kentucky where I belonged I would have made it in time to see him.”

“But you had no way of knowing that; you made that decision based on the knowledge at hand,” Tammy said.

“You are right, of course. I’m only speaking from grief and it will run its course in due time.”

Isaac spun that yarn as easily as an old mare reflexively swatting flies with her tail. He took care to never tell the same story twice. Once, while using a Ford Taurus with New York plates, he was a Bible salesman from Brooklyn. Another time he presented himself as a shrimp boat operator from Beaufort, South Carolina, searching for his runaway son. Theodds were nearly nil that any two parties would compare notes concerning their dealings with the enigmatic stranger but clouding the water never hurt.

“Bear off to the right at this fork coming up,” Wendell instructed. “Careful now, the pavement gives up right quick.”

It did. Within a hundred feet the silver Malibu made the transition from relatively smooth asphalt to a hard packed gray surface composed of an ancient bed of shale pulverized intopale silica particles on its surface by the passing of vehicles. On warm dry days such as this one the ensuing dust was so fine and white as to resemble talcum powder; although not as benign as such for the abrasiveness took its toll on vehicles and homes alike along the rural roadway.

Isaac assumed, rightfully so, the cookie cutter designed houses were from a previous era when coal was King. Or rather when the mine owners were royalty and the knaves and serfs who sacrificed their very lives in the sulfurous abyss lived in the now mostly decrepit, undersized structures.

The mining company unceremoniously closed shop and left town, practically in the middle of the night, and as a consolation prize offered the houses at no cost to the former employees who had currently resided in them.

This seeming act of generosity was of little use to newly unemployed folks with no savings and no ability to pay the overdue property taxes. At the very least they had temporary shelter until they were eventually evicted.

When it seemed their situation couldn’t possibly become more dire than it had already gotten, the shocking news spread like wildfire through town minutes after Bernard Kelpie was ejected from the county employment office. He was almost arrested for threatening the office workers when he was told there was no unemployment insurance available but the sheriff felt that would only inflame what he saw as a potential volatile situation with hundreds of others in Bernard’s boat.

It seemed the mining company had failed to contribute to the fund; a fact that was incomprehensible to anyone even mildly knowledgeable of such matters. How could a large, high profile company get away with that? The consensus was that a pocket or pockets on the state level; maybe even the governor himself some speculated.
The union representative said there were good paying jobs for those willing to relocate. The job openings were in faraway places like Detroit, Cleveland, or Jersey City; jobs building automobiles or making steel or unloading ships.

Most of the displaced workers were intimidated at the thought of moving anywhere, more so to a place they had never heard of. A few left, some found jobs amongst the meager pickings locally, and a few committed suicide.

Wendell was a newborn at the time. His father found a job with the lumber yard and died under a pile of logs that tumbled from an incoming truck when a restraining chain broke.

Wendell was fourteen by then. He quit school that day upon his teacher’s advice to fill a rare job opening. The owner gave him first choice since he was the survivor of the man who created the opening but did so out of duty to tradition rather than sympathy for the family.

“It’s the next place on the right, where the yellow mailbox is. That’s our car right there,” Wendell said with some pride. “I’m just waitin’ on parts right now, otherwise we wouldn’t have to be bummin’ rides.”

Isaac wasn’t a skilled mechanic but he knew when the phrase “waitin’ on parts” was being thrown around loosely.

The car was covered with a layer of powdered shale that was more than a few days in the making, more like weeks, or perhaps months. The hood was raised, revealing a blue plastic tarp covering the engine. This indicated to Isaac that some major parts had been removed, expensive ones most likely, and the tarp was needed to protect the exposed internal workings from water and debris. The front tires rested upon large wooden blocks and Isaac thought he spied the oil pan on the ground.

Glancing upward he saw a similar blue tarp draped over a corner of the home’s roof. Judging from the jagged remains of a large tree nearby, it appeared the housed suffered a big hit during a windstorm and a more permanent repair was to be done at a future date, if ever. The shingles not covered by the tarp were in dire need of replacement.

Isaac doubted if a paint brush had ever touched the house of an indeterminate shade of yellow since its original construction. At least a third of the fiberboard siding was moisture damaged; buckled and separating itself from the studs, exposing the insulation beneath.

If there was ever a lawn there was no evidence of it now. Another disabled vehicle sat on blocks behind the house. This one was a seventies era Ford pickup truck, mostly likely once owned by the elder Burton. Not only were the rims gone, but so was the engine, seat, and all of the window glass. It was literally a rusty shell of its former self.
Near the old truck was a clothesline suspended by mismatched poles upon which was hung an assortment of faded clothing, a sign that a clothes dryer would be a luxury in this household.

Though not entirely surprised, Isaac was pleased with what he was seeing for it was precisely what he had hoped for: desperation.

“It ain’t much, but it’s home,” Wendell announced with a light heartedness he didn’t feel.

“That’s all that counts, my friend,” Isaac answered.

“Yeah, I reckon so,” Wendell said, not sounding so sure of himself. “Well, thanks for the ride home.”

“Yes, thank-you so much,” Tammy said.

Her eyes lit with anticipation as her lips seemed poised to say something else. An invitation inside perhaps? But before she could speak, a look, brief but unmistakable, passed between her and her husband. A look that might have said no.

As willful and cunning as Isaac perceived Tammy to be, he felt she was making a small concession, no doubt one of many, some not so small, she made throughout the course of their relationship.

Isaac plowed right through the oozing tension in the car before it had a chance to solidify.

“I’m taking you folks to dinner tomorrow night and I refuse to take no for an answer. I don’t plan on keeping us out late, but even so, there is no school Saturday so I think we are covered. Besides, I have a feeling services will be ending early tomorrow night.”

“What makes you think that?” Wendell asked.

“A fierce storm is liable to come cuttin’ through the gap and that old revival tent won’t hold up against it. I’ve been studying them old poles and ropes and I don’t believe they will hold up to much more’n a stiff breeze, never mind an all out door slammer,” Isaac explained.

“I wouldn’t doubt what you’re saying but I ain’t heard nothin’ about no bad weather coming through here anytime soon.”

“Well, I could be wrong; it wouldn’t be the first time,” Isaac said with a self-deprecating smile. “I just have a feeling is all. My grandmother said I had the ‘sight’, whatever that means. Anyway, I will pick y’all up right here tomorrow.”

*

 

Isaac was staying at the Blue Ridge Inn, a bed & breakfast establishment twenty miles from the fairgrounds where the revival was being held. The old antebellum mansion was situated on the edge of one of the most scenic national parks in the eastern half of the country and close enough to a major highway that visitors wouldn’t feel too inconvenienced to pay a visit.

With no amusement parks or other man made attractions that would occupy the attention of families with children, the Blue Ridge clientele tended to be older and for the most part seemed to mind their own affairs. This suited Isaac perfectly, a man suited to anonymity.

After refreshing himself in his room Isaac informed the clerk, who also happened to be the owner, that this would be his last night at the inn, and no, there weren’t any problems, and yes, everything was wonderful.

He then asked if cash would be a problem. He was told it most definitely would not be. Isaac handed the man a plain white business envelope with the expected amount for his five night stay. To the owner’s delight he included several additional hundred dollar bills as a gratuity.

It was a five minute walk to the surprisingly upscale restaurant located on the same side of the street as the inn; the same restaurant to which he would be bringing the Burtons tomorrow night.

Isaac was by now a familiar face to the maître d who greeted him warmly, then escorted him to a discreetly located table.

Isaac ordered the same meal he ordered every other night he dined here; a small ribeye steak, extremely rare, a baked potato, and a large glass of cold milk.

Tonight he ate slowly, his thoughts on the forthcoming events. Tomorrow would be closing day, as he thought of it, and the Burton’s lives would be changed forever. The ensuing upheaval would be solely precipitated by Isaac and the people whose lives would be affected for eternity would have no distinct memory of him and only a vague recollection of the events that led to these irrevocable changes.
*

 

Isaac and the Burtons arrived at the big revival tent forty minutes before the service was scheduled to commence, but a sizeable crowd was already forming with a steady flow of cars and pickup trucks filling up the old fairground lot. Soon they would be parking along each side of the county road from both directions.

The crowd hadn’t grown to the point that folks couldn’t be somewhat choosy about where they sat, for there were scattered pockets of empty chairs under the canvas chapel at this point. That was of no concern to Isaac, for he always preferred being in or near the outer periphery ofany gathering of people. He preferred being a watcher over being watched any day. Being in near constant survival mode he understood the tactical advantage of keeping one’s back to the proverbial wall.

The Burtons deferred to Isaac as if he were a senior family member as he led them to an empty group of seats in the third row from the rear, with Isaac claiming the seat on the end of the row on the side of the tent nearest Goode’s tour bus.

With the side flap of the tent rolled up to allow a mild breeze to circulate through the congregation Isaac had a clear view of the ancient pink bus to which an addition had been recently attached.

A vinyl canopy supported by a metal tubular frame, similar to the type sometimes used at theaters or even funeral parlors, was situated at a ninety degree angle to the vehicle and provided a shaded tunnel to the entrance door of the bus. Isaac found the canopy to be gaudy if not downright distasteful. The purple material with tattered gold fringe would look more at home on a Mardi Gras float than at a place of worship.

It reminded Isaac of an entrance to a strip joint he saw on Times Square in its seedier days and the two large necked goons smoking cigarettes in the shade of the canopy would have blended in nicely with the Manhattan doormen of that era.

“Excuse me folks, I’ll just be a few minutes,” Isaac said as he leaned forward in his chair to face the Burtons.

After ducking under the tent flap, he strode with a casual air toward the faded pink bus with the purple canopy showing no concern for the large men placed there to discourage visitors. And while his casual stride might have suggested a man without a mission, his eyes said otherwise, for they spoke of grim determination.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, addressing the two men who each looked uncomfortable in their cheap suits with straining buttons and stretched shirt collars. He kept his voice cordial but stopped short of a smile.

They looked at their unwelcome visitor as if he were a minor irritant, a fly to be swatted away. The one on the left looked as if he might have been constipated.
Knowing it was useless to wait for a reply, or any form of polite conversation, Isaac continued speaking. “I need to speak to Reverend Goode. You can tell him I’m an old acquaintance of his father, Sheriff Goodlett of Knoxville. He’ll see me.”

“Get a load of this guy,” said the one on the right in a vaguely Brooklyn accent. “‘He’ll see me’ he says, a regular comedian. No, pal, it don’t work that way. Benny, tell him how it works.”

“Yes, tell me how it works, Benny,” Isaac said quietly as he locked eyes with Benny, his own eyes taking on a dim amber glow unseen by the thug on the right.
Benny’s grimace contorted into something other than irritation; pain, or perhaps fear. He seemed unable to speak, confusion sweeping over his features.

“Benny! What da ####? Tell this mook what’s what,” his partner Leo yelled, frustrated at the man’s inaction.

Another moment passed as Isaac held Benny under a mild hypnotic spell, followed by a deep rumbling that at first seemed to be emanating from afar. There was a liquid quality to the sound, but it wasn’t quite a gurgle.

The odor came next. Isaac thought of the swine of his rural childhood, but the smells those pigs produced would be a pleasant upgrade to what was occurring here.

“Jesus, what the hell is going on here, you crazy freak?” Leo demanded, casting his wrath on Isaac, though unsure exactly who or what was producing the intrusive sounds and smells.

As if on cue, the rumbling escalated to a roar followed by the sound of a wet towel being ripped in half. Benny’s eyes clamped shut, his mouth twisted as if he had just bitten into a green persimmon.

Then the flood gates opened. Suddenly and unmercifully. Benny’s pant seat bulged as if a tortoise had taken residence there, followed by a swollen semi-liquid snake of a boa constrictor’s diameter hurtling downward, seeking an exit from the cheap polyester suit.

Leo was awestruck at what had just occurred in the span of the mere seconds that had elapsed since the arrival of this unwelcome stranger, unable to find his voice as he stood aghast at the sight of the putrid brew oozing over Benny’s tasseled loafer, forming a foul puddle in the gravel surface.

Isaac all but forgotten now, Leo swore at the hapless Benny. “What da #### is this, you moron? Get your ### over to the porta potty and then find some rags or something to clean this #### up. The boss will have a fit if he sees this right outside the door.”

But the boss had seen it by now, alerted by the commotion this close to his bus. The mess on the ground was of little concern to him. He even found it mildly amusing that the big buffoon would stand there and foul himself with no apparent effort to seek privacy.

What did concern him, however, was the presence of the stranger with the oddly calm demeanor. He didn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated by his hired goons, whose principal job was to keep unwanted eyes and ears at bay. He was certain he didn’t know the man, but felt he should know him for some inexplicable reason.

“Get yourself dressed and brush your hair and whatnot,” the reverend told the girl as he pulled his own pants on. “I’ve got some business to attend to before the evening service. And remember what I told you; don’t leave this room for any reason whatsoever. Don’t even peek out the curtain and do not unlock that door for anybody but me.”

Goode had forgotten the girl’s name. And her age for that matter; did it really matter if she was fifteen or eighteen? Her mother most likely lied to him about the girl’s age anyway, her only concern being her daughter was “consecrated” by a highly placed man of God.

He took another peek around the edge of the curtain as he snugged up his tie to find the stranger staring at the curtain, no, through the curtain, oblivious to whatever curses Leo was hurling at him.

That son of a ##### knows what I’m doing in here! No, that’s impossible. Or is it?

“Did you ask me something, Reverend?” the girl asked, meekly.

Goode was embarrassed, unaware until then that he had been mumbling to himself. “No, Darlene, just thinking out loud.”

“It’s Charlene,” she said, correcting him.

“What was that?” he asked, still distracted by his thoughts.

“My name, it’s Charlene. You called me Darlene.”

Goode hid his annoyance as he kissed her forehead. “Sorry, sweetheart. Just sit tight until I get back.”

*

 

The Knox county sheriff back in Chapter 6 was Ben Tobler, but due to an on the fly plot change I have changed his name to Ben Goodlett. It's too late to edit here, of course, but will appear that way in the finished product. The name comes up in the following section and I wanted to avoid confusion for anybody that remembers back that far.
Thanks for reading.

 

The Reverend Johnathan Goode had his politician’s smile firmly in place as he stepped from his bus into the light of day. He felt there was rarely a situation that couldn’t be confronted with a big smile and a firm handshake. Kissing babies and hugging grandmas were also useful tactics to employ but those situations generally didn’t pose a potential threat.

“Hey, Boss, I don’t know what the hell is going on here but I told this…” Leo began telling his employer when he was abruptly cut off.

“Shut up, Leo,” Goode said through gritted teeth, smile still in place. “Just shut up and listen. Take your brain dead sidekick here somewhere and hose him off and get him into some dry clothes. And I’m making it your personal responsibility to have this…####…eradicated from this walkway by the next time I lay eyes on it or you two clowns will be hitchhiking back to Texas.”

“But Boss, what about…” Leo began again as he motioned toward Isaac and was just as quickly cut off as he was before.

“Whatever business this gentleman has with me is between me and him. Leo, do as you were told, now. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Leo, clearly humiliated in the presence of the very man he intended to intimidate, issued forth a contrite “yes, sir” as he turned to escort Benny to the fairground’s public restroom facility, a cinder block structure located fifty yards away. Benny had the look of someone who just stepped from a battlefield; perhaps having witnessed a buddy being torn in half by a grenade.

Goode outwardly treated the situation as a mere annoyance, but Benny’s condition was not lost on him. Something happened here. He felt it before he even left the bus.

“Hard to find good help nowadays,” Goode said in an attempt at levity as he led Isaac away from now foul smelling gravel walkway. There was a large elm tree a hundred feet away whose limbs formed an umbrella over a pair of wooden picnic tables he figured would be perfect for their impromptu meeting.

Goode halted halfway to the picnic table, turning to face Isaac. “So, what brings us together? I know you are not some guilt ridden sinner seeking a personal prayer or a disillusioned soul who just lost a spouse or parent wanting to know why God failed him. I have bodyguards, and I use the term loosely after what I just witnessed, to keep those people from disturbing me. So, who are you?”

“I am Isaac Hill,” Isaac said, extending his hand.

Johnathan Goode casually accepted the handshake, as was his habit. The electric tingle originating in his palm traveled tentatively along his forearm. It paused at his elbow as if considering if it wished to continue its journey.

Isaac increased his grip slightly sending the subatomic specter toward the shoulder as an amber light flickered in his eyes. He squeezed harder, shooting the tingle across the shoulder to the spinal cord.

Isaac’s eyes went from amber to red as the signal split to embark on its dual mission with an immobilizing current occupying the spinal cord and its inquisitive cousin snaking its way into Goode’s brain.

The handshake was unnecessary but Isaac enjoyed the personal contact and it accelerated the process. Isaac released his grip, taking on the posture of a man just having a casual conversation with a friend. They stood under the bright sunshine in the open field, picnic table forgotten, although dark clouds loomed in the western horizon, a fact not unnoticed by Wendell Burton.

“You call yourself Johnathan Goode but I remember you as Jeremy Goodlett, son of the late Ben Goodlett, sheriff of Knox County, Tennessee.”

“Yes, sir, all that is true, but I fail to see how any of that has anything to do with us.”

“Your father had one of my men killed. Then he lost two of his own while trying to have me killed on Jellico Mountain.”

The light of recollection flashed in Goode’s eyes. “Ah, but you’re supposed to be dead.”

Goode’s statement caused Isaac to laugh out loud. “Very good. You are referring to my old Ford coupe that was found in that Louisiana bayou, occupied only by bits and pieces of a human body that the gators missed. Remains they declared to be mine. I’m sure your father was thrilled to close the books on that one. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. It was a stroke of luck, actually. I sold the Ford to a man who planned to drive it to Phoenix where he planned to triple his money. Apparently he suffered some misfortune along the way.

“Your father showed quite an interest in that coupe. After looking it over he practically accused me of being a moonshiner. Imagine that. I know he was thrilled to imagine me being eaten alive by giant reptiles in that very same car.”

“While I find these stories of your criminal past to be somewhat interesting, I fail to see how I play into any of this ancient history. I was just a kid back then,” Goode said.

“You obviously have a vendetta against my father and want to punish me. The book of Ezekiel tells us ‘The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father.’”

“Indeed it does. But the Wrathful God shows himself in the book of Numbers, where it tells us ‘but he will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquities of the fathers on the children, to the third and fourth generation.’ But I find that to be so unfair, so how about we go with Deuteronomy, which is pretty cut and dried; ‘Fathers shall not be put to death because of their children, nor shall children be put to death because of their fathers. Each one shall be put to death for his own sin.’”

“And just what are my sins, Mr. Hill?” Goode demanded.

“You let an innocent man take your fall in Knoxville. He died in his cell before he had a chance to testify about your activities to whomever would listen to him.”

“That’s crazy talk!” Goode had turned crimson with fury.

“I had an informative chat with one of the men your father dispatched to kill me. It seems he wanted to bare his souls before going down the mountainside in an exploding automobile. He told me about the network of whiskey, cigarettes, and prostitutes. None of these things concerned me much, for they are adult activities for the most part.

“But then he told me about the children. Mostly runaways that get picked up like stray dogs while others are products of irresponsible adults. A man leaves his woman without the means to care for the offspring he bore. Perhaps she is forced into hard decisions dealing with survival. Maybe she is as thoughtless as he was.

“None of that matters. What matters is Sheriff Goodlett found another way to profit from others’ misery. I bet you knew the system before you were out of school. You certainly knew how to plan your trips working the southern circuit, making regular stops in Knoxville, but even a sly fox can raid the same hen house one too many times.”

Goode didn’t bother to argue this time. By now he felt the cold tentacles probing his mind the way they surely extracted the information Isaac sought from that doomed man on Jellico all those years ago. And the eyes, glowing like the embers of hell, fixated on his deepest thoughts, to the depths of his corrupted soul.

“And the sad part is, you haven’t learned your lesson.” Isaac paused to raise a finger, halting Goode from raising the useless objection. “If the local lawmen find the twelve year old Charlene in your bus, don’t expect the protection of your Daddy’s old network in Knoxville. Your broken body will end up in one of the hundred abandoned mine shafts around here and you won’t be emerging three days later like Jesus did. It’s more likely that you will be feasted upon by the wolves that still inhabit this area. Don’t tempt fate, Johnathan. These folks around here don’t play games. Not one bit.”

The glow had subsided from Isaac’s eyes and he looked more or less human again. He gave Johnathan a friendly pat on the back like they were old buds just catching up on old times.

“Now you go up to that pulpit and knock ‘em dead this evening. I’ll be in the audience cheering you on.”

*

 

As Isaac slid back into his seat, thunder rumbled in the distance and the far off dark clouds weren’t so far off anymore. “I apologize for doubting you, Isaac. Lookin’ like there might be a big old thunder boomer after all,” Wendell said.

“No apologies necessary, friend. I just had a hunch. Sometimes they come true and sometimes they don’t.”

“Are you friends with the Reverend Goode?” Tammy asked. “We couldn’t help but notice you two talking out there.”

“Actually we had never met before but I had some dealings with his father years ago. He promised his sermon tonight to be a doozy.”

Johnathan began his sermon as he usually did; the first ten to fifteen minutes were delivered in an even, almost conversational tone and volume, just like old friends chatting on the back porch over a pitcher of sweet tea.

After that period of establishing a faux familiarity with the attentive flock of believers Goode began easing up the volume, and intensity, of his sermon. Jesus became Jeeesuss! Backsliders from the faith became doomed to hellfire and damnation.

Isaac doubted if many others noticed, at this point anyway, but the rhythm was off tonight as Goode’s eyes flickered about, his normally flawless cadence faltered as he would lose his train of thought mid sentence.

Isaac knew exactly why the old pro behind the podium was off his game. He was looking for him; obsessed with the man who sent ice water through his veins at the touch of his hand and caused his oversized bodyguard to #### his pants, a bodyguard who killed a fellow inmate with his bare hands at San Quentin. But what Goode hadn’t figured out is that his night would have gone so much better had he not looked for Isaac; just forget him and move on. Quit while you’re ahead. Charlene is back with her mother. Just deliver your sermon, dump the offering plates and get the hell out of Dodge.

But he couldn’t let it go. He continued to scan the crowd until he found him, third row from the back in the northwest corner. Isaac grinned.

The son of a ##### is playing with me. He knew I’d be looking for him. Now he thinks it’s a joke. Wait a minute, are those fangs? That’s impossible! He’s evil but he is still human… isn’t he? Oh, nooo. The eyes. Those God forsaken red eyes, like Lucifer himself. Quit staring into them, you fool. That’s what he wants. I know, I know, but I can’t help it.

Sweat was rolling from the reverend’s scalp, his face glimmering in the bright lights. Soon his words became incomprehensible for the most part but most assumed he was making the transition into speaking in tongues. Hands were being raised and folks were rolling in the aisle as Goode’s pitch rose to match the frenzy of the crowd.

His left arm had become numb and useless at his side, his chest as tight as a snare drum with angina, pain radiating from his left shoulder into his neck. Still he rallied on, his skin as pallid as the belly of a mud cat, his speech no longer resembled anything human but he continued to scream around his swollen tongue.

His legs were the first thing to give up as the failing heart could no longer deliver an adequate blood supply to the body. His right arm didn’t have the strength to support his body as his knees buckled, his temple striking the corner of the podium as he went down, blood spraying onto his leather bound King James Bible.

Reverend Goode landed in an awkward clump on the stage, at an angle to the rear of the podium, his head thumping audibly as it bounced off the plywood floor.


As if to punctuate the event, lightning cracked and thunder boomed at the precise instant the preacher went down. It couldn’t have been staged more dramatically.

The silence was so intense it could be felt like humidity by the awestruck crowd in the old carnival tent that was suddenly being pelted by fat raindrops and hailstones the size of marbles.

A large woman in a blue dress with yellow flowers embroidered upon it eased tentatively to the edge of the stage as if she were an advance scout on a night mission in Viet Nam. She halted a few feet from the stage as if advancing closer would make it more real.

But the reality before her was stark enough and her proximity to it would not change it. It took a few seconds for her mind to accept the information her eyes were relaying.
The woman’s mouth worked silently as she registered Goode’s head turned at an unnatural angle, blood from his temple pooling beneath it. The swollen tongue lolledto one side of colorless lips and eyes rolled skyward as if anticipating life in some great beyond.

The woman in the blue dress had never seen anyone die before. She found her voice with such volume and clarity the congregation erupted with an intensity the reverend would have been proud to have been a part of.

“OH MY GOD LORD JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY HE IS DEAD! JOHNATHAN GOODE IS DEAD!”

A young man from the front row stepped behind the woman as she fainted, catching her as she dropped toward the floor as clumsily as the reverend had.

She awoke several minutes later with a smile on her face as her teenaged daughter patted her face with a cool damp washcloth. She woke up with the realization that she almost didn’t come tonight due to a severe headache. Had she stayed home, her daughter Charlene would have never been consecrated.