Chapter 11 #3
“Well, I’ve saved you the trouble of having to root out the unpleasant smell that would’ve cropped up a week or so from now.”
“Aha. And what are you doing down here?”
He stepped closer, his stony eyes glinting in the faint light of the basement’s leaded glass window.
There were no tears in those eyes, no tremble of rage, and there was a concrete wall at my back instead of the pond, but for a moment I was back on the banks in the fading light, my blouse being ripped from my hands.
“Just wanted to make sure there was no further rodent damage,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Your wife let me down.”
“Yes, well, my wife doesn’t run this house.”
We stared at each other coldly. My hands had unconsciously clenched into fists, and the bite wound was throbbing beneath my makeshift bandage.
“I was just leaving anyway,” I said. “I’ll grab my carrier and get out of your way.”
He wheeled around with surprising swiftness and picked up the carrier, and my heart rose in my throat. I lurched toward him, hand outstretched, but he ignored me, lifting it to eye level.
“I don’t see any squirrels in here—only garbage.”
He let it fall.
I leaped forward. The carrier rattled into my arms; I nearly lost the back end and had to catch it again on the top of my thigh. When I finally had it securely in my grasp, my held breath exuded in a thin, tremulous stream.
“Sorry about that,” Zeke said. “Slipped out of my grasp.”
I raised my head and met his gaze squarely. “That’s all right. I’m sure, being a pastor, you don’t get the opportunity to work with your hands too much. Dexterity is one of those things that starts to go quick when you’re not practicing it.”
His brow gathered like a thundercloud. “Is that so?”
“That’s what they tell me. At any rate, I don’t see any other rodent damage down here, so I’ll be on my way.”
There was a long, uncomfortable moment when he didn’t move, and instinctively I reached for the magic and found nothing.
I found myself wishing for something real at hand—a knife, or a pipe, or even a stone.
When he finally moved, it was so little that I had to turn sideways to get past him to the stairs.
“Wait, Miss Wynne—you forgot something.”
I swallowed hard as he bent down and retrieved the empty satchel; from where I was standing, the loose bolt on the water heater looked so obvious it might as well have been rendered in neon.
But if he noticed, he didn’t show it, instead picking up the bag by the bottom corner so that anything inside would’ve fallen out.
When nothing did, he looked vaguely disappointed.
“Your—empty bag?”
“Yes, that’s mine.”
When he handed it over, he glanced at his fingers and rubbed them together, as if they’d come away grimy.
I snatched it from him and bolted up the stairs without another word, my pulse spiking as I heard his heavy footfall behind me.
I went back out to the kitchen, where Rachel was scrubbing the kitchen table furiously with a stained dishcloth.
She gave me a vicious glare as I passed, her small teeth sunk into her lower lip.
I rushed out to the truck, tucked the carrier into the passenger seat, and drove away.
Zeke came out onto the porch as I did, and before the box hedge blocked my view, I swore he was going to his own truck—unnecessarily large, with dual tires—to drive after me.
Breathing hard, I headed north on Main instead of south, toward the edge of town, then whipped the truck up the hill toward Paul’s house.
It was a long, straight shot, and if the pastor was coming after me, I’d see him.
After a minute, no vehicle appeared in my rearview mirror, and I loosened my death grip on the steering wheel.
The road curved around toward Paul’s house, a route so familiar it was a comfort in and of itself.
I took a long, deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering effect of the hex bag.
The house came into view, windows blank and a real estate agent’s sign in the front yard.
I screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, stunned.
The apple tree was cut down. I hadn’t even felt it go, but here it lay, destroyed for no apparent reason. It hadn’t been harvested for campfire wood or even apples; I saw fruit hanging amidst the dry and browning leaves.
When we’d planted it, Paul had said, “My kids will play in this tree someday. Maybe my grandkids too. It’ll stand as long as I’m on the farm.” I’d thought it was a hopeful declaration, but now I heard the promise of destruction in the words. I hadn’t realized he was so bitter.
My hand throbbed in its bandage—the same hand I cut open on the reeds when I’d pulled the fawn from the pond, the same hand that left a bloody print on the devil’s shirt, the same hand the fawn had bitten.
I gunned the truck down the road again, wishing I could leave my thoughts behind along with the downed apple tree.
I didn’t breathe easy until I was back in the sanctuary with the gate locked securely behind me.