The Preacher: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 3) Read online

  Because the Horseback Preacher was definitely riding again, and David wasn’t sure faith alone would protect him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Odus Hampton pulled his truck off the side of the dirt road and reached under his seat for the Old Crow.

  The sun was just touching the far ridges, capping them with red fire and casting the clouds with orange and purple ripples. Below the road, the river twisted dark and green through the trees, frothing here and there where the water pushed past stones. It was a perfect time of evening for tossing a hook, cool and damp, but Odus was in no mood to haul the rod-and-reel out of the truck bed. No, he had more serious business.

  He didn’t know if Katy or Jett was aware of it, but he’d taken on more of a caretaker role than Katy paid him for. After Gordon Smith’s breakdown and last year’s return of the Horseback Preacher, he’d vowed to keep an eye on the two women. Although he was only a few years older than Katy and she was pretty as a picture, he never gave any sign of attraction because that would’ve scared her off. He couldn’t afford to lose the work, and they couldn’t afford to have nobody looking after them.

  Because they were in danger.

  All of Solom was in danger, but everybody acted like the Horseback Preacher was gone for good. Even old Mose Eldreth didn’t seem all that shook up about it. But Harmon Smith’s work wasn’t done. Sure, he’d fetched Arvel Ward a year ago, but one soul would never ease Harmon Smith’s bottomless thirst for revenge.

  Thirst. I’ll drink to that.

  He toasted the dusk and climbed out of the truck, sliding the nearly empty bottle of bourbon under the seat. If he made it back alive, he’d need it.

  Odus took his .30-.30 Winchester from the rack in the rear window, locked up the truck, and crossed the road toward the forest. It was deer-hunting season, so nobody would question his wandering around with a rifle. The weapon wouldn’t do any good against the preacher. But it gave Odus a sense of comfort that the liquor couldn’t.

  The trail up Lost Ridge was nearly pitch black under the brittle canopy of oak and poplar, but enough of the leaves had fallen to allow him to navigate. He carried a flashlight in one pocket of his Carhartt work pants, but he didn’t want to use it unless absolutely necessary. He had the element of surprise on his side, and if he harbored any chance of sneaking up on a supernatural creature with decades of experience, then he needed every edge he could get. If you wanted to catch a fish, you had to think like a fish.

  Except a fish wasn’t likely to climb off the hook and haul you to hell at the end of a hemp rope.

  Even though a year had passed since last year’s big fire had blackened a thousand acres, the odor of scorched wood still clung to the mountain. When Odus reached the burn line, the sky opened up and boulders glinted among the scrub vegetation that sprung up in the wake of the fire. The trail mostly vanished, but the walking was easy now that he could see better. He suppressed a cough with the back of his hand, wishing he’d quit cigarettes twenty years ago instead of four.

  He reached the top twenty minutes later, and night pushed at the last of the day, eager to takes its shift. The crickets and toads put out their music in the trees below, and a small herd of deer dashed across the ridge in black silhouette as if knowing Odus wouldn’t shoot. The terrain leveled out and became rockier. He sat on a granite boulder to rest for the last leg up to the flat rock where Harmon Smith and the Scarecrow Man squared off with Solom residents a year ago.

  From here, the Smith farm was visible in the valley below. Little rectangles of yellow light marked off the windows of the house, and the driveway was a winding gray line amid the sloping pastures. The barn was a black hulk near the garden, its roof slumping like the spine of a great old beast. The lights of other houses were scattered far and wide across the valley. If trouble came, the neighbors wouldn’t be able to help even if they wanted. And they likely wouldn’t want to. When the Horseback Preacher made the rounds, most sensible folk pulled their curtains tight, went to bed early, and said whatever prayers they could manage.

  Odus’s senses were amplified, the night settling in with its chuckling and clicking and scurrying noises, the faint touch of breeze carrying river mud and leaf rot, pine pollen and dust tickling his tongue. The first threads of mist knitted themselves together in the valley, cloaking the river with gray wool. The moon was a thick wedge of lard, the first stars poking holes in the black bowl of sky.

  Despite his heightened state of awareness, he nearly jumped out of his boots when the figure stepped from behind a gnarled oak. The electric fuel of shock had him bringing the rifle to bear before he even realized he’d moved. The figure spoke before his finger found the trigger, though.

  “Working the late shift, Brother Hampton?”

  Odus kept the rifle to bear. It looked like a man, but you couldn’t trust looks in Solom. “Who’s there?”

  The figure stepped from the concealment of forest and tipped his straw hat. “Just a humble servant of the Lord.”

  Odus recognized the Rev. William Edmisten, although Odus knew him more from the Titusville flea market than from his religious duties. Edmisten ran an open stall there, at least in warm weather, where he sold tools, fishing gear, collectibles, and a few antiques. Edmisten was what was known locally as a “horse trader,” meaning he liked to swap things around with people, as long as he always came out ahead in the long run. Of course, nobody traded horses anymore, but Odus had once swapped him three laying hens for a Zebco spincaster rod-and-reel.

  But the middle of the night seemed like a strange time to be looking for a deal.

  “Reverend Edmisten,” Odus said lowering his rifle a little, trying not to look too sheepish. The preacher likely couldn’t see his face anyway. “You’re a long way from Raccoon Holler.”

  “The sun never sets on the Lord’s business.”

  That made no sense, but Odus let it pass. Edmisten was the kind to blurb out any old thing, and cap it off by tossing “Lord” or “Savior” or “God” in there as if he’d plucked it straight out of the bible and thus considering it beyond challenge. Odus could only imagine what his sermons were like. Twistier than Eden’s snake, most likely.

  Edmisten nodded at the rifle. “You wouldn’t be out poaching, would you? Spotlighting deer?”

  “Ain’t got a light,” Odus said. “It’s not illegal to hunt after sundown, it’s just dangerous. But I’m not hunting deer.”

  “Ah, tracking something else, then?” The reverend took another couple of steps closer, until he was fully in view. Something flashed in his right hand, and Odus realized it was a knife. Dark liquid clung to its tip, a drop swelling and falling to the leaf-covered ground.

  “You know who’s come around,” Odus said. “I suspect that’s why you’re up on Lost Ridge yourself.”

  “You’ll know him by his fruits, yes indeedy.”

  Light flickered in the trees behind Edmisten, and the breeze shifted, carrying a touch of wood smoke and something else—something mildly greasy but appetizing. “You camping out?” Odus asked.

  “There are two ways to meet Harmon Smith.” The reverend wiped the stained blade against the leg of his trousers. His white shirt, tightly buttoned, was spotted here and there, and his unhitched suspenders dangled at each hip. “You can walk the hills all night hoping you bump into him, or you can lure him out with something he can’t resist.”

  “Just like hooking a fat rainbow trout laying back in a cold shelf of rocks,” Odus said. “You might lose or hook or two, but sooner or later, he’ll go for the worm.”

  “For God decreed to submit burnt offerings,” Edmisten said. “Yes indeedy. So that’s what I’ve done.”

  “Smells mighty good. Don’t think Harmon Smith will be able to resist that.”

  “There are many kinds of hunger. Harmon Smith has no need of food, but he knows the power of sacrifice. That’s pretty much what he’s all about.”

  Well, Odus thought, Harmon Smith did sacrifice his life following God’s ca
ll, but ever since then, the sacrifice had been turned completely around—others did the sacrificing, and old Harmon was the instrument.

  “So, what are you going to do when he shows up?” Odus asked. “Pull a horse trade with him?”

  The reverend beckoned him with the knife, tucked his straw hat back on his head, and then turned and walked away. He stopped after half a dozen steps, peering back over his shoulder. “Don’t you want to see?”

  When it came to miracles and holy ghosts and such, Odus only knew what he saw with his eyes. But a man like Edmisten read books, drawing on old knowledge and patching up some of the cracks in the things that made no sense. And prayer could bring insights to a man. Even though Odus wasn’t a church-goer, he knew enough men of the cloth to appreciate their wisdom. He knew two women of the cloth as well, running congregations over in Windshake and Titusville.

  “Can’t hurt none to get a different perspective,” Odus said. But he knew it could hurt. He’d managed to avoid the Horseback Preacher most of his life, but last year he’d practically been called to service himself, taking up a horse and riding into battle against him. But the Horseback Preacher wasn’t even a true enemy—if anything, he was a necessary evil. If Solom didn’t need him, Harmon Smith would be resting in peace with all the treats and rewards a faithful servant deserved.

  He followed the Rev. Edmisten through the blackened skeletons of trees, although he had a good idea where the man was headed. Sure enough, the charred forest opened up onto a clearing where the grass and weeds had pushed through the ashes. The large flat rock glistened under the moonlight, but something was heaped upon it. A fire crackled away in a ring of stones beside it, the flames dancing like ragged red and yellow kites in the breeze. A spit was rigged over the fire, built of crooked branches. The cross piece bowed under the weight of a hunk of sizzling meat, steam skirling up from the gristle and fat.

  The reverend continued to the flat rock, then stooped and wielded the blade against the wet heap lying upon it. He made sawing motions with his arm, and then came away with a dripping hunk of flesh, which he held to the sky. “I offer this unto you, Harmon Smith,” he bellowed in his Sunday best, blood running down his wrist and arm to stain his white shirt.

  At last Odus made out the object in the reverend’s hand. It was the head of a goat, which he held by one curving horn, the shredded neckline dribbling blood. The bulging, glassy eyes reflected the firelight, and its protruding tongue lolled limply between its slack jaws.

  “What did you trade for that goat?” Odus called from twenty yards away, not eager to come any closer. “Or did you just poach it?”

  “I traded my soul,” the Rev. Edmisten said. “Now all I have to do is wait for Harmon Smith to show up and claim it.”

  “Why do you think Harmon would take you? Plenty of other sinners to choose from.”

  “Oh, I don’t want him to take me. No indeedy. I want him to give me the reins.” The reverend still held the goat head aloft, although his muscles must have been aching by now. If he’d ripped through the spinal cord with nothing but that butcher knife, then the soft, pudgy man was way stronger than he looked. Or else he was drawing power from something greater than himself, whether that was insanity or divine faith.

  Odus wasn’t sure what to make of this. Throughout his life, and from what Granny Hampton said, long before that, people laid low whenever the Horseback Preacher made the rounds, hoping they’d repented of enough sins to get passed over. But there were always one or two who actually sought the vengeful spirit out, seeing some kind of honor in martyrdom. As if being found worthy in the eyes of Harmon Smith was more important that pleasing God.

  But this was the first time Odus had heard someone contemplate taking over for Harmon Smith. He supposed replacing the devil was a pretty sweet gig, considering you got your choice of women and top-shelf liquor and the cards always turned up a royal flush. But climbing into Harmon Smith’s saddle meant a long and thankless ride, making a circuit between a hundred mountain towns, picking out those whose time was up.

  “Who said Harmon was stepping down?” Odus said. A little chunk of black meat fell from the spit into the fire. Now the barbecue didn’t smell so good.

  “It’s in the signs.” The reverend sank into a crouch, then spun and hurled the goat head like an Olympic discus thrower. The head landed square in the middle of the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The red outline of them made a connect-the-dots image against the night sky. Odus couldn’t be sure if his eyes were playing tricks—he wasn’t sure of much of anything this night—but it looked for all the world like a giant bird. The shimmering wings flapped, sending little pinpricks of embers out on the breeze, where they winked out like weary fireflies at dawn.

  “He’s ready to be free,” the reverend continued. “His debt’s nearly paid, and so is Solom’s.”

  Odus circled closer, getting a good look at what was left of the goat’s corpse. Blood ran down the creases in the boulder, turning the moss brown under the moonlight. He didn’t recognize the animal, not that goats were all that easy to tell apart even in the best of circumstances, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t part of Katy Logan’s herd. Sacrificing one of their goats might draw Katy and Jett closer into the web of danger. They’d suffered plenty enough at Solom’s hands, and they hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

  The Rev. Edmisten, on the other hand…

  “What makes you think you’re up for the job?” Odus asked, shifting his gaze from the dead goat to the meat on the spit, then over to the reverend.

  The reverend held up the bloody knife. “I’m willing to get my hands dirty if that’s what it takes.”

  Odus figured that kind of winning attitude might just draw out the Horseback Preacher after all. He sat down on the flat rock well away from the slaughtered goat, cradled his rifle across his knees, and waited.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’m going to kill her.

  Katy hastened to mentally add: Well, not literally. But she’s grounded until senior year. Of college.

  It was twenty after eleven and Jett hadn’t messaged in two hours. Katy’s frequent calls all bounced to voicemail. She realized she didn’t know Hayley or Kelvin’s last names. She’d only met Hayley once, while picking up Jett after a football game. The girl seemed harmless enough, but most teenagers did when they mustered just enough politeness to offset any visible tattoos and facial piercings. What about this Kelvin? A biology student, huh? He might be conducting a little biological experiment even as Katy paced the lower floor of the farmhouse.

  Katy wasn’t worried about Jett’s fooling around with boys. She’d taught her daughter all the rules of the road and from there, she just had to trust Jett. Her daughter carried condoms in her purse and often made a point of showing Katy she still had the original roll of three, as if that was proof of chastity. Jett could handle Kelvin.

  What she was really worried about was something nameless.

  She’d been uneasy all week, and even Odus commented on it. It was mostly little things, a soft rattling in the kitchen, an owl hooting in the middle of the day, the restless clucking of the hens. Everywhere she turned, she seemed to bump into reminders of Gordon and his dead first wife—papers in a drawer, an odd sock, the silver-handled heirloom hair brush she could’ve sworn she’d thrown out last year. Now Snowball had gone missing.

  And Jett.

  But Jett wasn’t missing, just late. If Katy called the sheriff’s office, she’d probably receive a little extra deference because of their ordeal at Gordon’s murderous hands, but ultimately the police couldn’t waste resources on a teenager who failed to check in on time. Katy checked her phone for the hundredth time. She thought about calling Mark but was reluctant to reveal any parental lapses to him.

  Nothing to do but wait.

  She sat in her lumpy recliner and reached for a paperback. She usually read three books at a time, one in the living room, one in the bath, and whatever bedtime ebook was curren
tly dialed up on her tablet. She browsed a page and half before she realized she had no idea what she was reading. Katy didn’t recognize the dense prose. She flipped the book over and studied the cover. It bore the silhouette of a horse and rider embedded with a stylized yellow cross.

  The book was titled The Man Comes Around. The byline was attributed to Waylon Smith. The corners of the book were worn and the paper yellow with age. Katy bought most of her books online, as new copies, so she had no idea when she might’ve picked up a book like this. It certainly wasn’t her usual fare, as it promised neither suspense nor romance. In fact, it read like well-meaning but unskilled religious fiction, heavy-handed and dull but largely inoffensive.

  Waylon Smith. No, that has to be a coincidence. He can’t be one of Gordon’s relatives.

  She returned to her place and read another paragraph:

  You’ll know him by his fruits, and when the fields go fallow, the time of harvest is upon the land. The sacred will be scared, and the fearful will be blessed. Only those who stand outside the garden will know the signs. Only the sinners will know mercy.

  It sounded to Katy like the same circular bullshit that kept the priests and oracles in power throughout history. Just vague enough that no one could prove it’s wrong, yet laden with enough potential for prophecy that any event could be suggested by the words. She was about to fling the book across the room toward the chimney hearth, where it could serve as kindling in a month or so, when she decided that maybe she should read some more.

  Perhaps it didn’t pay to ignore signs, no matter their form.

  But before she could find her place again, the phone dinged with an incoming message. It was from Jett: You’ll know him by his fruits.

  Katy nearly dropped her phone at the coincidence. But Jett must have read that section of the book, figured Katy would be reading it while waiting, and then decided to play a prank. She was probably laughing with her friends right now. But she’d soon find out how funny she was—especially since she was now half an hour past her curfew.