Hunting Season (12 page)

Simms shrugged. "I never healed any such person."

Out of the corner of my left eye, I catch sight of another person moving toward me. This guy is tall and lanky and has the look of a starving, vicious dog. And he's all focused on yours truly.

"She had cancer but you said it was a demon," I say. I shift my eyes from the tall guy to Simms and back again. "You cast it out of her. Remember? But you know what, you piece of shit? You doped her and it killed her. Explain that to these people. Explain how you killed a dying girl."

Simms shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't remember any such woman. And I'm sorry for your loss, as are all of these good, hard working people."

The crowd affirms his words. I lock eyes with Simms. Behind the front of righteous authority, I see darkness and contempt.

A small grin spreads across Simms' lips. "But I would never pretend to heal those God wants dead."

I don't think. I just react. I surge toward Simms but the tall guy grabs me and wraps me up in his long arms.

"Hold that demon strong!" Simms yells.

I struggle to free myself but the tall guy's embrace locks me in place like a vise. The crowd grows excited around me. A few even shout their support for Simms.  "Get him reverend!" and "Teach that demon a lesson!" a couple of sheep scream.

"Help me," I say.

Fat chance. The crowd does nothing but watch, eagerness to see what will happen written on their faces.

"Stay away from me," I say to Simms.

But Simms smiles and slips his hand into his pocket. "This poor boy has a demon controlling his mind. Would you like to see me set it free?"

The crowd erupts in cheers. The fucking idiots. Were they that blind? Or was I that stupid?

Simms places his hand on my forehead. He doesn't just touch it; he squeezes it, making sure every bit of whatever he has on his hand makes firm contact with my skin.

"Be
GONE!
" Simms yells and throws my head back like his putting a shot.

"Time to go," the tall guy says as he drags me out of the theater.

I wish I can fight. I wish I can speak. But I'm completely numb. I see stars. I see cartoon birdies. I see a Roman centurion scourging Christ.

Everything around continues to happen at normal speed but I'm just a witness. Just a bystander. And there isn't a damn thing I can do about it but go along for the ride.

*  *  *  *  *

The tall guy lands kick after kick to my stomach. He rains punches to my face as well. I'm actually thankful I can't feel anything. Not one single blow. My body is completely numb.  The cartoon birdies swoop around the stars above his head.

After a while, my vision fails. All I see is black, like my head is draped in a hood. All I hear is the centurion whipping God and laughing. Then darkness overwhelms me and I'm dreaming about Laura and my parents and the farm.

Then the farm fades. The earth rises and forms a hill. Three crosses tower above me. On them, three men, crucified.  Two criminals and God. And I stand at their feet, holding a spear, the stench of death and shit atop Golgotha swirling around.

I stand and gaze up at Christ and wonder what it's like to kill a God. Then I stab him in the side and water gushes out and hits me in the eyes and I can see. I see what I've done and know I am so fucked.

*  *  *  *  *

My eyes flutter. I see objects but they look like blurry blobs. Far away and beyond recognition.

I rock my head to the side. It feels heavy. As it moves, the objects I'm looking at seem to leave vapor trails in their wake.

I blink harder. The picture clears some. I can make out a chair. A television. A stuffed duck on the wall.

Looking around, I realize I'm in a trailer. Not the mobile kind but the permanent kind. The up on concrete blocks kind. Someone has made this place a home with pictures of family on the walls and old
Good Housekeeping
magazines stacked on the coffee table nearby.

A door opens and a stranger walks in. He's an average height with short gray hair. He wears khaki pants and a flannel shirt. Looks like the kind of guy who works a loading dock at a grocery store.

I try to ask where I am and what's going on but have trouble moving my mouth. Only vowels come out. And drool.

"The drug is still wearing off," the stranger says. "You might have trouble talking for a little longer."

I try again with the same results.

"Like I said, it'll take a little longer before it's out of your system." The guy takes a napkin from his pocket and dabs the drool from my chin. "You're probably wondering who I am and why you're here?"

I nod sloppily.
No shit, right?

"My name is Tony. I'll keep my last name to myself, if you don't mind. This is a mobile home. Not my home. Just renting it for the week."

I do my best to shrug. Tony seems insistent on making sure I know he doesn't live in a mobile home full time. Like I give a shit. He sits down on a couch across from me.

"You were drugged with zombie powder by Reverend Simms. Then his thug beat the shit out of you and left you in the parking lot. I found you and brought you back here. That was two days ago."

Two days? Good God, had I been out that long? No way.

I remember the tall guy kicking the shit out of me and trying to turn my face into roast beef. And the stars and birdies. And stabbing God. But I don't remember feeling anything. Now, though, I can feel an ache under my right eye and down my jaw. I took a hell of an ass whipping, but not one that could knock me out for two days.

"It was the powder that knocked you out, not the beating, by the way."

This guy a mind reader?

"And Simms gave you a mighty big dose. You're lucky to be alive."

Lucky to be alive
. My thoughts drift to Laura.

"I didn't just come across you by accident. You see, I've been following Simms for a while. You see, my daughter was poisoned with the same powder you were. That your sister was."

The words sting and resurrect the anger within. I think about Simms and try to say, "killer." It comes out "giller".

Tony nods. "That powder is used in voodoo, you know. Stronger doses cause the whole body to shut down. Breathing almost stops completely. People think they're dead. But they come back and then everyone thinks the person's a zombie."

My chin drops to damn near my chest as I remember the joy the reverend's touch had created in Laura. Guilt quickly follows the memory. It was my fault, after all. I let her go to the revival, let her follow her dreams of a miracle. And what had the reverend given her? Not the touch of God. Just a lethal dose of zombie powder.

And Simms has killed others. I'm not surprised. In fact, I'm a bit relieved knowing I'm not the only one who's lost someone to the prick. I don't hear the lash as much now. God's screams fade a little.

"My daughter was five when the reverend touched her. She had severe asthma. I thought, maybe Simms could heal her. But that powder sent her into respiratory arrest. She suffocated to death."

I watch Tony wipe away tears.

"She's been dead a year now. You're the only other person I've found that wants to get Simms for killing his kin."

What? I'm the only one? He must not be looking too hard.

"I know there's more he's killed but most people think the guy's a saint. Think he's some kind of angel for taking their loved one's pain away. Hell, some probably think he's the Second Coming, divine and righteous for helping their kin die peacefully. Well, my daughter wasn't dying. She could have lived a full life with the asthma. But Simms took that life."

Tony rocks forward, jutting his chin toward me. "Do you think he's a saint?"

Thinking of Simms as a saint only pisses me off more. I don't hear God screaming anymore. All I hear are the criminals crucified next to Him pleading for their lives.

"Liar." My words come out clearer than before. "He killed my sister."

Tony nods. "I was going to confront Simms the other night. I was in the audience. I was going to get my revenge in front of his flock. Then you walked in. I heard the same hate for Simms in your voice that I have. Then I heard about your sister. I realized I couldn't get Simms without you getting your piece, too. You see, I knew once you recovered from the powder, you'd help me."

"Help you what?"

"Nail Simms."

I hear nails being hammered through flesh and shake my head, wishing the powder would wear off already. I don't want to wield the hammer, lash, or spear. Let someone else do it. I want to get Simms pretty bad but I'm in no rush for another ass beating and powder overdose. The direct confrontation didn't work too well the first time.

"What do you mean by revenge?" I say.

"What?"

"You said you were going to get your revenge in front of his flock. What does that mean?"

Tony leans back and shrugs. "I want to put Simms out of business for good."

"So do I."

"Well that's what I meant to do before you walked in and called the man out."

Something doesn't feel right, like Tony isn't telling me everything. And then I realize he probably meant to kill Simms, right there in front of everyone. Just a desperate father who wants to avenge his little girl.

But that's not my cup of tea, so to speak. I want to see Simms behind bars, not dead. Well, maybe dead. But not by me. And I don't want blood on my hands. The last thing Laura would have wanted me to do was kill someone. Turn the other cheek, she would say. Not my style but neither is killing.

"Will you help me?" Tony says.

"I'll go to the cops," I say. "But I'm not doing anything violent."

"Cops won't do anything. I've tried. Simms greases the right people. Plus, he's got hundreds of character witnesses ready to line up and profess his gift. It won't work."

"What about a journalist? Someone looking to break a big story?"

"I've tried that, too. They never get close enough. Simms refuses to do interviews. Says his reputation is more powerful than any media coverage could be."

I shrug.  "Well, there's got to be some way."

"No, there's only this way. It's the only way to stop him."

"I can't help you then."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I can't help you. What you want to do, that isn't for me. I'm sorry."

"I thought you were different than the others." Tony rises. "I thought you understood what it would take."

"I'm not killing anyone." I manage to push myself up to my feet. My legs feel like Jell-O. It takes a lot of work not to fall over. "If you think of another way, let me know. In the meantime, I need to bury my sister."

*  *  *  *  *

Only a few people show up for Laura's funeral. Some family. Some friends. No one really worth mentioning by name. It's a cold day. Cloudy. Smells like rain but not one drop falls thankfully.

Once the Pastor finishes and we lower her into the grave and everyone else leaves, I stand by myself and watch the diggers fill the hole with earth. It's not easy saying goodbye. I think she's in a better place now and it's a relief to know she no longer has to deal with the pain. But I miss the hell out of her.

I try not to but fail to avoid thinking about Simms. Maybe if he was an upfront guy, the kind that could come out and say, "I can't work miracles but I can take away the pain" or "I can make the suffering bearable" or "I can make you happy for a few days" then I could let it all go. But he's not. He's a liar. And for better or worse, he's a killer.

My thoughts drift to Tony, alone in his rented trailer, planning ways to murder Simms. I never consider calling the cops and warning them Simms is in danger. Why? Because although I don't want to kill the man, I wouldn't mind seeing him dead.

Does that make me evil? Or just hungry for justice?

Probably a little bit of both, I hate to admit.

I look at Laura's grave. She believed a lie and it killed her. It's hard to swallow and knowing the man who did it, the one who continues to make money off the fiction, is running around out there with a gold-plated microphone and taking the poor and weak and sick's money while convincing them he's an agent of God disgusts me.

He killed Laura. He killed Tony's daughter. How many more will he put in a grave before someone stops him? And just because Laura was happy when she died doesn't make what he does right. Doesn't make him a saint. Doesn't make him God.

"Hey, Matt."

I turn and see Tony standing behind me. He wears a black button-down tucked into blue jeans.

"I hope you don't mind me coming by to pay my respects."

"It's a free country."

Tony moves to my side. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." I slip my hands in my pockets. "Have you done it yet?"

"What? Simms? No."

"But you're still planning to?"

"Yes. I have to." Tony looks at me. "You're not going to call the cops or anything, are you?"

I shake my head. "It's your business."

"Thank you for understanding. Blood for blood."

Blood for blood. I look at Laura's grave and can feel the demand for retribution swelling inside me. I don't know where it's coming from or what set it off. Maybe it's Tony's point. Blood for blood. After all, Simms didn't just kill Laura, he killed my
sister
. My blood. The last thing I had of my family. Now they're all gone. Mom, Dad, and Laura.

I only wanted to expose Simms before; to ruin him, but now other thoughts take over. And they don't feel wrong or foreign anymore. I want the hammer and the lash and the spear.

"How?" I say.

Tony leans in like he has trouble hearing. "What was that?"

"How are you going to do it?"

Tony shakes his head. "Better if you don't know."

I swallow a mouthful of saliva. "I need to know if I'm going to help."

Tony stares at me for a few seconds, not saying a word. Hell, not making a sound. He stares and his mouth moves a little bit. Then, finally, he manages to nod and say, "Blood for blood."

Something inside me snaps. The anger takes over. Blood for blood. Dark intentions fill me. And I'm not afraid anymore. I want to kill the false God.