The red church (27 page)

"Yeah, right. Like you're going to be able to beat up the Bell Monster?" Ronnie coughed from the dust. "I'll think of some-thing."

"Anyway, how do you kill a ghost? Dad shot it, but I know it's coming back." Ronnie had been wondering that himself. Why would a ghost want to kill people? It didn't make sense. If a ghost were crazy, maybe, but just a plain old ordinary ghost?

Whatever it was, the red church was to blame. He'd read books about hauntings. Supposedly, "psychic imprints" could be projected into the walls if a per-son suffered great emotional turmoil. That seemed kind of stupid to Ronnie, but the Bell Monster was real. What if the Bell Monster was the spirit of the preacher who had been hanged there? Surely having a rope around your throat would cause some emo-tional turmoil.

But then, everything that had ever died would leave a ghost. What living thing hadn't suffered a little emotional turmoil in its life? A lot of cows had been killed right there in the middle of the barn, shot in the brains with a rifle and cut into pieces and their guts hauled away in a wheelbarrow. But you didn't see ghost cows lurking around everywhere.

Maybe God was trying to take the preacher's soul to heaven, but decided halfway up that the preacher was too evil to enter the kingdom. Maybe the devil didn't want the preacher, either, because the preacher knew too many Bible verses and would tell them to the other people in hell. Maybe the preacher would try to save people who had already been con-demned to the everlasting fire. No way the devil would want something like that going on. So the preacher got stuck in the middle, and killed people because he was lonely and wanted some ghosts for company.

That was dorky. He was thinking like a third grader.

"You don't have to kill a ghost," Ronnie finally said. "It's already dead. The trick is to make it
stay
dead."

"How do you do that?"

"By giving it what it wants."

They looked at each other. "What it wants is to kill us," said Tim.

"Yeah." Ronnie sighed. "A real kick in the rear."

"I don't want to die."

Ronnie didn't either—no matter how many times Preacher Staymore tried to tell him that God had a special place for children. The preacher had also in-troduced him to the idea of committing sins of the heart. It was bad enough back when doing something bad would get you scratched out of the Big Golden Book. Now he'd learned that just
thinking
about bad stuff would damn him to hell. He'd asked Jesus into his heart every few weeks, just like Preacher Staymore wanted. How long did your heart stay clean after Jesus washed away the sins? What if you died while you were thinking a bad thought, and didn't have time to ask forgiveness? The whole business sounded pretty risky to Ronnie. And he was in no hurry to find out for sure.

"You're not going to die, Tim," Ronnie promised, hoping he sounded more reassuring than he felt. He was about to say something else when the shot rang out.

The Holiday Inn was off the only four-lane high-way through Pickett County, just outside the Barkers-ville exit. Sheila Storie pulled into the parking lot. The lot was nearly empty. Tourists were rare between the ski season and summer, when Floridians came to escape the heat and New Yorkers came to escape New York.

Archer McFall's room was on the first floor, just beside the motel's drained pool. McFall's black Mer-cedes was parked in front of 107. Storie parked be-side it and got out, checking her watch and wondering how the sheriff was coming along. She glanced through the driver's side window of the Mer-cedes. The interior was spotless. She knocked on the door of 107.

A tall man answered the knock. He was handsome, but a little slick-looking, like a lawyer on a television show. He had strong cheekbones and a wide face that was freshly shaven. He smiled at her.

"Archer McFall?" she asked.

"Yes, my child. How may I help you?"

The way he called her "child" irritated Storie. He couldn't have been more than ten years older than she was, about Frank's age. He smelled faintly of co-logne and a more pungent odor that she couldn't identify. The room behind him was dark, the shades drawn.

"I'm Det. Sgt. Sheila Storie, Pickett County Sher-iffs Department," she said, not bothering to dig her badge out of her jacket.

McFall blinked, but his smile didn't waver. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Your sheriff and I go way back."

How far back?

Storie looked into his eyes, trying to read them. He gave nothing away. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"Oh, about Mr. Houck." His eyes went colder, darker. "That poor, unfortunate man. I hope you've caught his killer."

"No, sir, but we have a few leads."

"I'm glad. What kind of perverse notion leads someone to commit such an act on holy ground?"

"Well, sir, at the time, the red church was being used as a barn."

McFall laughed, a low sound that started in his abdomen and shook his entire body. "That's true. Without a congregation, a church isn't much of a church, is it? Without people, and what they be-lieve—"

"Did they believe in you in California?" Storie said. She gave him her "sunglasses stare," the kind of cool look that some of her fellow cops gave only when hidden behind the safety of tinted shields.

"The people of Whispering Pines need minis-tering as much as anyone else."

"Badly enough to make you give up an easy life in California?"

"Why, Sergeant," he said, tugging at his tie. "I do believe you are interrogating me."

"Not really. Just dropped by for a chat."

"In that case, please come in." He showed his capped teeth and pushed the door wide. Storie went inside. The bed was neatly made, with no clothes or suitcases in sight. A Bible lay open on the bedside table. McFall shut the door and flipped the shades. Afternoon sunlight striped the room. She sat in the stiff-backed chair by the desk. McFall sat on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable.

"So why did you come back?" she asked.

"I'm of the mountains. My heart has always be-longed here. My mother still lives in Whispering Pines, in a little farmhouse at the base of Buckhorn Mountain."

Storie nodded at him, encouraging him to con-tinue.

"I felt the calling as a child," he said. "As you may know, my family has a long history of serving God and spreading the Holy Word. Even as a child, I al-ways knew I was going to be a preacher."

"Like your great-great-grandfather?"

McFall looked out the window, his jaw twitching. "Wendell McFall was an unpleasant twig on the family tree. Still, I don't think he deserved hanging, do you?"

"I don't know anything about him but the leg-end."

"Oh, the so-called 'ghost' story. Let me assure you that the only spirit that walks the church is the Holy Spirit. I should know. I spent a lot of time there as a teenager, praying to God for direction." Storie shifted in her chair. "Tell me about Califor-nia."

"I thought I would start a church out there. A few local girls went with me. We were a fine bunch, not a sinful thought among us, our hearts as pure as the sun. We were going to start a commune and live a simple, ascetic life."

"Seven girls went out there, I hear." Storie had traced the seven. Of them, only Linda Gregg, now Linda Day, had ever been heard from again.

"When we got there, most of the girls wandered off to Los Angeles and San Francisco. I guess the big-city life was more enticing than a life spent in the service of God."

"How come your church out there failed?"

McFall smiled at her. "It didn't fail. The Temple of the Two Suns prospered, thanks be to God. I had a television show that ministered to thousands. I opened a music store, a religious bookstore, and some other businesses. Even with the success, even though I was reaching the people, my heart held an emptiness. I prayed for guidance, and God told me to go home. So here I am."

Storie watched his face carefully. "If you don't mind my saying so, the Temple of the Two Suns sounds like an unusual name for a church founded by someone from the Bible Belt."

"There are many paths to God. The true path is to follow your own heart. My heart says that what I do is right."

"What denomination is your religion?"

"Christian, in a manner of speaking. Of course, every sect or order has its unique qualities. 'Two Suns'

comes from the idea of God sending a second light into the world. That's one of God's promises, you know."

"It certainly didn't take you long to get a church up and running here," she said.

"I was fortunate that Lester Matheson let me buy the property and return it to the family. And the people of Whispering Pines opened their hearts and welcomed me into their community."

"You have to admit, it's something of a coinci-dence that murders started occurring as soon as you came back to the area."

"I came because God called." He leaned forward. "He calls all of us. He asked to be invited into our hearts. Is He inside you?"

Storie shifted in her chair. "That's not important."

His mouth twisted. "It's the
only
thing that's im-portant. What's in your heart?"

"Look, Mr. McFall—"

His eyes were bright, feverish.
"What's in your heart?"

Storie stood and headed for the door. A hand fell on her shoulder. She spun, instinctively crouching into the defensive judo stance she had learned in cop school. For a long second, her muscles froze.
His face.

McFall's chin elongated, and his teeth sharpened between his wide black lips. His eyes were feral, so glitteringly yellow that they seemed to float in front of his face. His nose lifted in a snarl. Just as suddenly, the illusion passed. McFall stood before her, his hands up in apology. "I didn't mean to startle you, my child," he said in a calm voice.

Great. As if seeing bloodstains and ropes that don't exist wasn't bad enough, now I'm starting to think . . .
She put her hand to her forehead. Stress, that was what it was. Three murders to solve before more peo-ple died.
Her
people, the ones she had sworn to pro-tect.

"What's troubling you, Sergeant?"

His voice soothed her. She had a sudden urge to break down in front of this man who was unruffled by life's traumas and worries. He was like the sun on the smooth surface of a lake. His serenity radiated in almost palpable waves.

"It's nothing, Reverend. Nothing at all."

"You don't have to keep it inside," he said, taking a step nearer. She backed against the door.

"Just turn your troubles over to a higher power," he continued in his soft, firm voice. "Open your heart and trust in God."

That sounded like a good idea. And as soon as she realized it sounded like a good idea, a warning flare rocketed across her mind.

Wait a second. I don't trust antbody, much less a man who's on a suspect list for three counts of
murder.

But there was something about his tone, the gen-tleness and concern in his dark eyes. He was close enough so that she could smell mint mouthwash on his breath. For a moment, she thought he was going to lean forward and kiss her, and the worst part was that she didn't think she would stop him. Instead he said, "Don't be afraid. Open your heart. Have faith."

She looked into his eyes, and her skin tingled with mild electricity. Such warmth, such promise, such
peace
emanated from his eyes. Such humanity.

Oh, yes.
She had faith. She believed. Her heart felt swollen and warm in her chest, like a balloon on a summer day.

I believe. Just tell me
what
to believe.

This was insane. She should have called for back-up, told Communications what her 10-20 was. The only person who knew what she was doing was Frank. She tried to picture his face, but all she could see was the golden light that emanated from Archer.

He touched her face. His fingers were hot. She couldn't look away from his eyes, though part of her wanted to vomit, to punch him, to claw at the corners of his smile.

"Faith comes with a price," he said. "All you have to do is give me everything. But the rewards are great, too. The kingdom of heaven can be yours, which contains all the world and more." She would give and give and give. No, she wouldn't. She served only the taxpayers and law-abiding citizens. She—

"The congregation must have communion," he said. "One bread, one body. And sacrifice is the cur-rency of God. All I ask of you is that you serve."

She nodded. She could do that. Faith required a little sacrifice, but the rewards were everlasting, weren't they?

"Please," she said, lowering herself to her knees. She gazed up into that beatific face. "Let me serve." He gave a benevolent nod. "You're not one of the old families. But you are working against the purpose of God."

I
have fallen short. I am unworthy. I deserve punish-ment.

What could she offer that would compensate for her sins? What did she have? She could offer her soul, but that was nearly worthless. She did have flesh. She could sacrifice that, and perhaps appease the God she had so callously ignored all the days of her life.

"Take me," she said, her voice hoarse and her eyes moist. So great was the glory of God. And equally great was the glory of Archer McFall. "Use me any way you need."