The Farm

Chapter Thirty

Jett tucked a stone-washed denim jacket, a pair of black stock ings, and a sweat suit into her backpack. She looked around the room. She'd never really settled into this place. Maybe it was Gordon's dreariness hanging over the entire house, or the faceless generations of Smiths who had lived in this room before her. A Brandon Lee poster and a diaphanous black scarf over the lamp shade didn't make a place any more inviting to a Gothling.

Mom had said to hurry, so Jett flipped through the CD stack. She passed over the Bella Morte, Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, the music that had once seemed to match her mood. Now it all seemed so childish. Nihilism was great when it was part of a stage character, like makeup and black-leather props and facial piercings. But when you had stared nothingness in the face, and it stared right back and grinned, then the romanticism was lost. Jett nudged the CDs aside and plucked up some of her mother's fa vorites. Robyn Hitchcock's Queen Elvis, Tommy Keene's Songs from the Film, the Replacements' All Shook Down, XTC's The Big Express. Seemed like music to escape by, stuff that let you be your self with no questions asked. Songs that made you feel stoned without drugs.

She crammed a couple of changes of day clothes in the bag. She didn't know if she'd ever see this room again, or the rest of her stuff. It depended on how well Gordon handled Mom's leaving. He might go postal and come after them with both guns blazing, or he might just as easily sit by the fire with a glass of wine, intellectual izing the reality of abandonment. That was the problem with Gordon. He didn't seem human, so you couldn't expect a human reaction.

After packing, Jett slid open her desk drawer and reached to the underside of the desk where she'd taped her bag of pot. She was a veteran of room searches, and though Mom had sworn to trust her, Gordon had no doubt rummaged a few times. She pulled the Bag gie free and checked its contents. Enough to get her through the week. And then what?

Reality.

A reality far from a creepy stranger in a black hat, a gooned-out living scarecrow, a goat that sniffed your skin as if you were an apple pie, a ghost that haunted your mom.

Fuck it. Those would all be memories one day, and the more time that passed, the less she'd be able to see them. In a year, she probably would be able to tell herself it was all just a stoned night mare. She tossed the pot back in the drawer. Let Gordon find it. Maybe he'd cram some into his pipe and see what all the fuss was about. Might loosen him up a little.

Textbooks lay scattered across the desk. No need to worry about that geography test next week. The sun was touching the moun tains, and the first long shadows reached between the curtains. She wanted to be out of Solom before dark, and would bet her leather bracelet that Mom felt the same way.

Jett snatched Captain Boo off the bed, flung the backpack over her shoulder, and ran down to meet Mom at the car.

"There's just one thing about this," Sarah said.

"Whatever," Sue said, still clutching the climber's pickax. "I'm already nuts to believe any of this, so just lay it all out."

"The Circuit Rider only takes one. He had his shot at me, and I didn't cut the mustard with him for whatever reason. Not that I'm complaining. but I don't know if I want to double my odds. And it may be that he's ready to take on outsiders like you. After all, a soul's a soul, no matter where it comes from."

"I'll take my chances. I worked too hard to get established here. I'm not going to run off without a fight."

"That's a lot of gumption for a little thing like you. But that pickax might not do any good against a dead guy."

Sue swung the pickax handle against her other palm and caught it with a smack. "It feels right, somehow. Like you're supposed to use something that's part of who you are."

"In that case," Sarah said. She rummaged under the counter and brought out the twenty-gauge shotgun. She broke down the barrel and checked the shell. The gun hadn't been fired in five years but the powder had been kept dry. She reached up on the shelves be hind her where she displayed ammunition for sale. Pulling down a box of bird-shot shells, she opened it and slipped three of them in her pants pocket.

"If I need more than three shots, the last one is for me," she said, pointing her thumb to her chin to show she'd blow her own head off before she let the Circuit Rider gallop her soul off to hell. Except part of her wondered if, by committing such an act, she would be volunteering to play the part of victim.

They stood looking at each other for a moment, sheepish ex pressions on their faces. "What now?" Sue asked.

"You got your Jeep?"

"It's by the shop."

"Let's take a ride, then."

"Where?"

"If you want to catch a mouse, you have to think like a mouse. If you want to catch a contrary preacher that's two hundred years dead and won't accept it, then you have to think like one of those, too. And if I was the Circuit Rider, I'd head for high ground."

"High ground? You mean Lost Ridge?"

"Can't think of any better place for a soul to get lost, can you?"

"Closer to heaven."

"Turn over the sign on the door and I'll close out the register. If there's a chance I'm dying tonight, I don't want some Yankee lawyer claiming the petty cash as part of my estate."

"You're a woman after my own heart," Sue said. "Except I ain't got one."

Ray was changing the plugs on his Massey Ferguson when he saw a goat moving across his meadow, hobbling as if it had blown a knee joint or gotten a thorn up in between its cloven hoofs. The animal moved between the giant rolls of hay that were still green and moist. Ray recalled the headless goats he'd found in the field. He'd buried the goats behind his blackberry patch, using his tractor to gouge a hole in the ground. The heads had never turned up.

Ray figured the Circuit Rider would be afoot tonight. After Harmon Smith's appearance at the general store last night, Ray thought the preacher was toying with them, letting them know he could take one of them at any time. Ray wasn't particularly afraid of dying. He'd given up on religion, and the Primitives didn't really believe you could do anything about the fate of your soul, anyway. His younger brother David hadn't reached out to try to bring Ray back into the church. David had always been the smooth talker of the family, the one who'd learned to read before grade school. Ray had studied shop and auto mechanics before dropping out in the eleventh grade, while David had gotten a degree at the community college. Never mind that David was practically nothing but a glori fied lawn mower man these days, while Ray worked for himself running a backhoe. David was the one the church members had se lected to be elder.

The church had a hand in Harmon Smith's death. It wasn't something the Rush Branch Primitive Baptists were either proud of or ashamed of, it just was. Like that lame goat that made its way between the rolls of hay, making a drunken beeline for the fence. Ray put down his ratchet and wiped his hands on a rag. As he watched the goat eased against the wire, its left foreleg twisted as if the bone had snapped. Goats were known for breaking out of any kind of pen, and this one must have pulled a Houdini act once al ready. But there was no way it would make it over four feet of hog wire topped with two strands of barbed wire.

Yet the goat reared up, put its broken limb on top of the hog wire, and dragged itself up. Then its other leg hooked on a strand of wire, and the rear hooves fought for purchase. The damned goat (a billy, judging by the sac that swung between its rear legs) was climbing the fence like a brain-damaged monkey. It put its chin over the top strand of wire, puncturing its flesh and sending a dribble of blood down the dirty white fur of its neck. Then it repositioned its legs and shoved forward until its chest, and then belly, were suspended on the top wire. The barbs must have been shredding its stomach, but the goat didn't mutter a grunt of complaint. Instead, it worked like it had a mission, wriggling until the bulk of its weight caused it to flop onto the other side of the fence. It stood on shaky legs and stared at Ray, eyes red and mucusy. Could goats get rabies?

Ray looked in his toolbox. He pulled a rusty plumber's wrench from the depths. It was two feet long and weighed at least eight pounds. Ray swung it before him, testing its heft.

The goat didn't charge. Instead, it planted its broken leg and took an awkward step, then another, blood seeping from its scored belly. It was heading past the potato patch and up into the woods. Toward the rocky slopes of Lost Ridge.

Ray waited until it was past the spot where he had buried the goat corpses, then followed keeping a distance of about forty feet. He could track the thing easily from the red splashes that pocked the ground to the cloven hooves in the mud and the dragging little rut made by the crippled leg. It was headed for the top of Lost Ridge and the twists of Snakeberry Trail, where the Circuit Rider had once paid the final price for his sins.

The Bible said if you wished hard enough, you could move mountains. But this mountain belonged here, huddled over Solom like God's black watchdog. The Circuit Rider belonged to the mountain as surely as did the rocks and springs and laurels. Up there, Ray could spit in Harmon Smith's eye and show God that he, and not David, should be the chosen one.

The job would serve even better with a witness to his faith. Brother Davey would probably be holed up in the church, on his knees in fear, begging for the Lord to deliver him from an evil that God had sent for just that purpose: to test the weak.

Ray didn't realize he carried the plumber's wrench with him as he walked to his truck, or that dusk was reaching its fingers across the valley.

Odus reached the ridgeline and dismounted letting Sister Mary nibble some dried-up rabbit tobacco as he scanned the granite boulders and stunted cedars that had been swept by the wind for ages. The path had narrowed and grown rougher, used mostly by foxes, the occasional black bear, and deer. Yet this would have been the way Harmon Smith would have crossed to head down the other side to Virginia or eastern Tennessee. The valley cut through gaps at each end of Lost Ridge that would have resulted in less of a climb, but they were each nearly ten miles out of the way. A car had no trouble with the extra distance, and the state highway depart ment had stuck as close to the lower elevations as possible. But Harmon Smith had ridden in the days before highways, and still marched to the echo of that long-dead era.

Odus had expected some sign, a hoofprint or a broken tree branch or maybe even Old Saint's spoor, whatever that might look like. But all he'd found were crackling leaves, hardwoods damaged by acid rain and insects, and the cold September air at forty-five hundred feet of altitude. He'd spooked a few ravens, and a red hawk had cut an arc in the indigo sky before diving for some un lucky rodent, but the forest had been quiet. He went for the whiskey bottle again, letting the Old Crow warm his tongue.

"Looks like I took us on a wild-goose chase," he said to the horse. Sister Mary flicked her mane out of her eyes as if nodding in agreement.

A clatter arose, like the sound of wood against stone. Or the clop of a horse's hoof.

"You've come a long way," came a voice from the thinning trees. "Seek and you shall find knock and the door shall be opened."

"I do want something," Odus said in the general direction of the voice. He could never forget the cold deep tones of the Circuit Rider. Outside, the voice seemed to boom even more than it had done inside the general store. "I want this to be over. I want you to be over."

"Come to me, all that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."

"The folks that are alive today didn't have anything to do with what happened to you. Why don't you just go on and leave us in peace?"

"I desire mercy, not sacrifice."

An unseen horse whinnied. The laurel branches quivered, parted, and the horse stepped out, black with a pure white chest the way the legends described him. He stood a good head taller than Sister Mary, whose ears twitched at the sight of the animal. The Circuit Rider was astride his horse, sitting tall in the saddle, head tilted down. Even looking up at him from below, Odus had a hard time distinguishing his features. The dying sunlight was at the Circuit Rider's back, the sky cast purple with shredded sheets of pink. The shadows of the trees seemed to grow up from the ground and enshroud the mounted figure.

Odus wondered if this was the showdown he'd been seeking. Maybe he was supposed to jump on Sister Mary, ride hell-bent for leather toward the dead preacher, and tangle with him head-on. If he'd brought a firearm, he probably would have faced him down like a tin-star hero. Odus had counted on making up the rules as he went along, forgetting that the Circuit Rider existed under its own set of rules. Odus wasn't that good at reading, but he doubted if there was an instruction manual on taking down a mythical crea ture. Even if that creature showed a jagged arc of grinning teeth be neath the wide brim of its hat.

"We're not the ones who killed you," Odus said.

"You belong to Solom. That's reason enough."

"It ain't the place that sinned. It was just a few preachers who did you in, the way I hear it. And they're dead. They faced their judgment long ago, before him that has power over all of us."

The Circuit Rider's head lifted, and Odus recognized that strong, jowly Smith chin. The hidden eyes suddenly flared like a campfire's embers urged by the wind. "You think I like making these rounds? You think I have a choice? Did you ever consider maybe something's got power over me? For the Bible says, 'If you are forced to go one mile, go also the second.' "

Odus gripped the dangling reins and held Sister Mary's head tight. The pinto tried to back away, but the terrain was too rough and dangerous. A stench drifted off the Circuit Rider, the smell of a dead skunk in the road, but a whisk of wind carried it off, leaving only the strong, green smell of pine and the earthy aroma of fallen and decaying leaves.

"I've come to stop you," Odus said.

"I wish you could," the Circuit Rider said, relaxing his pale hands and patting his horse on the neck. "Narrow is the gate and hard is the road that leads to life, and there are few who find it."

"Why don't you just step down off that saddle and let it go?"

'Told you, I got a mission. I didn't ask for it. It was given to me."

"I don't believe in the devil."

"Neither do I, Mr. Odus Hampton." The Circuit Rider leaned to one side and spat, as if ridding himself of two hundred years of bit ter trail dust. "I knew your daddy. Good man. I could have taken him in the summer of seventy-seven, when he was up on a ladder cleaning out gutters on the Smith house."

"He worked for Gordon's daddy."

"And you work for Gordon. Some things don't change in Solom."

"I reckon one thing's going to have to change."

"Not tonight. Not here and now, between you and me."

"I'm afraid so, mister." Odus's throat was dry, but he wouldn't let his voice weaken or crack.

"Who do you think brought you here? Don't tell me you woke up this morning and it just popped into your head to steal a horse and ride to the top of Lost Ridge."

"I did some studying on it first."

'That's the trouble with you folks. You think you're the boss of your arms and legs and mind, you think your soul is separate and free from your flesh. And I'm here to tell you otherwise."

"You're sounding a lot like Elder David and them Primitives."

"Elder David is a good man, but not good enough. His faith is weak."

The chill that had crept over Odus's skin had only a little to do with the day's fading warmth. As the sky grew darker, the shadows around Harmon Smith lessened, as if the man were absorbing the blackness. More of his face was visible, and the meat over his jaws looked to be the texture of crumbling wax. Old Saint had stood stock-still during their conversation, while Sister Mary pawed the ground, shuffled, and snorted in dismay. Odus noted that maybe being dead had its advantages when it came to the equestrian arts. No saddle sores.

"Well, I found you, so that means there's a reason, doesn't it?" Odus ached for a shot of whiskey, but then wondered if the ache was due to his own need or was caused by the whim of some bearded guy behind the clouds. He had little use for religion, but, like most hopeless sinners, he wrapped his hands around it when it was the only rope available for climbing out of a dark pit.

"You're not special, you're just early," the Circuit Rider said.

Confused, Odus figured he'd best keep the creature talking while he came up with a plan. "Did you kill them two tourists on the Switchback Trail? You're only supposed to kill one and then be on your way. That's how it's always been, as far back as they re member to tell it."

"It's not about what you want or what I want. If it was up to me, Old Saint would just haul me off into the mist of a mountain morn ing and that would be that."

"You're evil, though. How can a man of the cloth go around killing like that?" Odus was casting about for a fallen tree branch or a loose jag of granite. He felt foolish now for not bringing a gun. He still wasn't sure what sort of weapon would work, if any. His was a mission of faith, despite the Circuit Rider's mocking.

The Circuit Rider ran a gaunt, crooked finger through a hole in his jacket. "Cloth is like flesh, it goes to worms. The spirit is the thing that doesn't die."

The Circuit Rider lifted his head and glanced above them through a gap in the canopy, his mouth curling up at one corner. A beech leaf spiraled down from the twisted branches and fluttered across his face. The woods were hushed in that moment as the birds and wildlife changed shifts, the daytime animals settling into holes, nests, and protective crooks of tree limbs while the nocturnal creatures roused from their slumber.

The silence was disturbed by a faint buzzing from below, as if a giant nest of hornets had been stirred with a stick. Harmon Smith's cracked lips bent like a snake with a broken spine in something that might have been a smile if seen on a human face.

"I suppose the others got the same idea you did," he said. "Funny how you give them a choice and they make the wrong one every single time. Few find the true way."

The buzz grew louder, changed into a roar. It was a vehicle engine. Somebody was climbing the rough logging roads that crisscrossed the mountain. And those roads led to the top, where Odus stared down his adversary. His brow furrowed in doubt. He was supposed to do this alone, wasn't he?

At that moment, Sister Mary reared, flailing her forelegs in front of her, stripping the leather reins through Odus's palm, cut ting into his flesh. She broke and galloped into the trees, neck stooped low and ears pinned close to her head.

The Circuit Rider stroked Old Saint's mane, and the revenant horse chuckled softly in response. "I guess your friend there just exercised her free will, huh?"

Odus took two steps backward, toward the rocky ledge that led to one of the logging roads. It was a thirty-foot drop. He could try to climb down, but he pictured his fingers gripping the granite ledge and Old Saint bringing a heavy, scarred hoof down on them. He could follow Sister Mary and blaze a trail through the tangles, or he could stand his ground and see what God had in store for him.

None of the options settled the squirming in his chest and gut. The courage that had surged through him since this morning now seemed foolish and silly. He had no special gifts or weapons to bring to bear against a supernatural creature. He'd fallen back onto a sort of crippled faith, believing God would provide in Odus's hour of need. But Odus didn't consider that he'd never been a deeply religious man, and that faith couldn't be turned off and on like tap water.

"You fear me, but only because you don't understand me," the Circuit Rider said, over the increasing roar of the engine. "If the shepherd has one hundred sheep, and one of them goes astray, does he not leave the other ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray?"

The Circuit Rider wheeled his mount and trotted back through the laurel thicket. The branches shook from his passage as if horse and rider were as solid and real as any living creature. But the smell of decay lingered, a smell that hinted of grave dirt and spent fires and blood dried black.