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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Less than a mile away, Joh
Next came a dark leather thong strung with rattlesnake rattles and the skull of a copperhead. The rattles he’d bought from a kid at school. The copperhead he’d killed himself. He’d spent four days in the woods looking for it, then found it su
A second leather thong held five more eagle feathers. They were twice the size of the one on his bike: three golden-brown wing feathers, two that were perfect and white, their hard, pointed ends as thick as his second finger. They still smelled of the bird, and three of them were edged with a rime of dried blood: eagle’s blood, his blood.
He closed his eyes and slipped the thongs over his head. Feathers rustled. Rattles clicked against his skin.
Then he took out the Bible.
It was black and heavily fingered. Joh
A gift, young man.
Say it with me.
The same preacher came after Alyssa was taken. His voice did not waver when he promised Joh
Sworn it.
Everything.
Joh
Pray with me Joh
The desperate, hungry faith.
Pray for your sister.
Next time the preacher came, fingernails buffed and fat face shining, he’d told Joh
Joh
The image of a child carved from birch bark.
A red ribbon that belonged to Alyssa.
He tied the ribbon around his wrist, then looked from the dried vegetation to the Bible, still in his hand. He hefted it, then laid it on the ground, and pages lifted in the heat as if knowing that they, too, were destined to burn.
The sight gave Joh
He needed older gods.
The need started months ago, and it started with a prayer. It was winter, furnace broken, no heat in the house, and cold burned his words to smoke as he prayed for his sister to come home. He woke at four, blades of air on his naked back, and prayed for his mom. He prayed for an end of pills, for his father to come back to her. He prayed for the slow, painful death of Ken Holloway. That’s what sustained him, thoughts of salvation and the past, sweet, hot pleas for revenge.
An hour later, as the sun stretched some far horizon, Ken beat Joh
None of it gave Joh
None of it gave him power.
He laid cedar on the fire, then pine, spruce, and laurel. He stood close to the fire and let the smoke roll over him. His eyes watered and his lungs burned, but he sucked the smoke in and then pushed it out, first to the sky and to the earth, then to the four unseen horizons. He cupped smoke in his hands and wafted it across his face. He said words he’d learned in a book, then crushed juniper berries into his palms and smeared the juice on his chest. He shoved snakeroot into his pockets, lifted the child-image carved from birch bark and laid that, too, on the fire. It caught in a starburst of flame and pale, white smoke, and he did not look away until that, too, flew skyward. Then he tossed the remainder of his childhood Bible on the flames.
He recognized the split second when he could have taken it all back, snatched the book from hungry fingers, and made his way home, still his mother’s child, still weak; but he let the moment pass. Pages curled, a black rose spread, and it was done.
He was ready.
The car still sat in the dark yard of the old couple who lived down the street. Joh
Joh
They never saw him.
Few ever did.
The car smelled old and stale. Pushing against the stiff leather of the seat, Joh
Six men. Six addresses. Registered sex offenders. Bad men. They scared him, but less than a day had passed since Tiffany Shore was taken, and Joh