“The conclusion I came to was that Blanchard Hospital was running the same sort of operation, except the one thing I could never figure out was who they were handing their pills off to. I did everything by the book—gathered evidence, was meticulous in my research. I even got a doctor from Blanchard to agree to go on the record with his suspicions. Do you know how hard that was? I was going to publish the story and take down Augustus. And then, right before my big interview, Augustus swooped in and bought theBugleand shut it down. After that, for somemysteriousreason, the doctor wouldn’t talk.”
“Augustus found out what you were planning? How?”
“I have no idea. But I was furious. Behind his old Southern aristocrat veneer, Augustus Blanchard was a rat bastard who deserved to be exposed. I was going to take my story somewhere else, try to get it published in theTimes-Picayuneas a freelancer, but then one morning I walked outside to collect my mail and found these strange symbols carved above my door.”
Here they were—symbols again. “What kind?”
“They looked almost like your daddy’s tattoo, except the ones on my door had only a single set of horns.”
I remembered what Nissa had said about apotropaic marks: the two-horned symbol in the woods and tattooed on the men was a protective mark because it inverted something dangerous, and thus warded it off. So, without the inversion… “Someone put the mark of the beast on your door.”
“I figured it wasn’t good,” Mr. Abraham said dryly. “I knew about your daddy’s history, running off people he didn’t like by accusing them of being Devil-worshippers. So I knew the symbols were a warning, and I knew who from. I decided it might be best to leave town and lie low for a little while. Sadly, a little while turned into years. Until this phone call.”
I straighten my back against the wall. “Thank you so much for telling me, Mr. Abraham. I know you took a risk. And I’m…well, I’m sorry for what my father and Augustus did to you.”
“It’s what powerful people do. Don’t get me wrong—that’s not an excuse. I’m not excusing them. But I’ve had a lifetime to think, and what I’ve observed is that power is a parasite. It wriggles inside you and takes over so all you can think about is how to get more of it and cut down anyone in your way. For that reason you can’t trust anyone with a lick of it.” Before I can think too long about this, he adds, “But something tells me if the reverend’s own daughter wants to know the truth, my work might finally go to good use. So maybe all isn’t lost.”
“It’s not,” I promise. “The work you did won’t be in vain.”
John Abraham whistles, low and short. “If you would’ve told me that one day James Cornier would be felled by his own damn kid, I never would’ve believed you. Sometimes the world really is a strange and wonderful place.”
“I have to go,” I tell him. Because finally, all the disparate threads I’ve uncovered since the trapper first pulled Fred’s skull out of the swamp have woven together, and now I can see the God’s-eye view. And there’s only one place to go. “Thank you so much, Mr. Abraham.”
“All right, kid,” he says. “You go raise some hell.”
44
NOW
Instead of the rioters Barry promised, Main Street is a ghost town. Not a soul on the sidewalks, shops locked and dark, even the Piggly Wiggly. I find the emptiness unsettling, stronger proof that something big and terrible is underway. Or maybe it’s that I’m on my way to do something big and terrible, a confrontation twenty-three years in the making.
By the time I make it to my parents’ house, my hands are shaking. I stop at the edge of their lawn and study the place like Ever must have done all those mornings he waited for me. From this angle, you can see straight into my old room, pink curtains hanging slightly askew from getting caught so many times on Ever’s shoes when he climbed in. I remember when the house was just a two-story clapboard. Like Holy Fire Born Again, it’s swollen over the years, new wings added, columns and windows, metamorphosing into the hulking manor it is now, sprawled triumphantly across the lawn. With the added cupola on top, it mirrors Holy Fire’s steeple, two buildings competing in their reach for God.
But it’s not God my father has been reaching for all these years. At the thought, my composure breaks, and I bend over to clutch a stone flowerpot, trying to catch my breath. My adrenaline is sending my heart rate through the roof, my instincts begging me to turn and flee insteadof going in. This grand house is where I learned to be afraid, learned to be a wisp. The mere sight of it slumps my spine.
But I’m armed with the truth, and I will no longer be afraid. I force myself upright and make it to the door. It creaks open to a foyer full of people buzzing around, carrying things like posterboard, water bottles, and wooden stakes. As I push my way inside, they eye me warily, as if they know something I don’t; as if this is their house, not mine.
There’s no one in town, but a small army here. What is my father planning?
“Ruth.” His unmistakable baritone reverberates through the house. I turn to find him descending the staircase, a smile on his face. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
I crane my head. The great Reverend Cornier is always on high, like the sun. Even here at home in August, he wears his stiff button-down, slacks, and shiny loafers. The only hint of disorder is the chest hair that curls from the top of his collar, as if he is too virile to be contained. His mane of dark hair gleams with oil.
A feeling of disassociation seeps through me. How could any part of me have come from him?
My father’s smile widens, revealing large, square teeth. Perhaps he thinks I’ve come to beg forgiveness, pledge myself to his side in whatever war he’s preparing for.
“We need to talk,” I say. I don’t lower my eyes like I would’ve when I was a girl and afraid to hold his gaze.
He studies me for a moment. Whatever he sees makes him clear his throat. “Friends and neighbors, will you look at this? The prodigal daughter has returned.”
Everyone around us—his faithful flock—laughs.
“Go on now,” he grins, waving them away. “Head on down to the church. Our work can continue there.”
I don’t budge as people I’ve known all my life file past me, staring like I’m some sort of salacious curiosity. When the door finally shuts, the sound echoes. My father and I stare at each other.
“Well.” He grips both sides of the staircase. “Talk.”
