The New Neighbor

Chapter 19

A Voice Crying in the Neighborhood

In the dreary light of the afternoon, a battered white pickup truck with an old silver camper shell on the back moved down Deerfield at a crawl. On the driver's door was written CHRISTIAN FELLOWSHIP NON-DENOMINATIONAL CHURCH, and attached to the top of the pickup was a large, gray, bell-shaped speaker.

In spite of the fact that the pickup was moving suspiciously slowly, no one paid it any attention, not even George and Robby, who were cleaning up the chunks of wood and glass scattered over the front lawn. The mist had grown patchy but still hovered and drifted over the ground in places. Both George and Robby thought it odd, having never seen such a mist in their neighborhood, but both had other things on their mind.

They'd agreed to ignore the reporters as if they weren’t there, and they did. Questions were called, but George and Robby did not respond or even look at the reporters. They’d said little to each other since coming out to put another tarpaulin over the hole on the outside of the house, but they exchanged an occasional smile and moved around one another with much more ease than either of them had felt in the last few days.

Jen came outside wearing jeans and a sweater, hugging herself against the chill. "If you guys're hungry," she said timidly, never quite meeting their eyes, "Mom’s got some stew on the stove. She’s asleep in the guest room now, but if you want some, I’ll get it for you. I know I'm hungry."

"Sure," George said. "That sounds good."

After Jen went back inside, a deep, resonant voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once suddenly called out, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am Pastor Jeremy Quillerman, and I'd like you to listen to me for a moment if you would."

George and Robby noticed the truck then. So did the reporters. They turned to the pickup, watched it a moment, then headed in that direction.

"What I have to say is in your best interest,” Quillerman said.

After exchanging a couple of confused glances, George and Robby removed their heavy work gloves as they headed across the yard toward the pickup.

"You are all in great danger." Quillerman’s voice resonated through the neighborhood. He stopped the pickup and rolled down his window when George and Robby approached.

"What are you doing?" George asked with a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance.

"I'm talking to your neighbors," he said with a smile. "I don't think it would be wise to go door-to-door because, for one thing, it would take too long and, for another, it wouldn't be safe. Think about the emotional climate in your own house, and about what happened just a couple of houses down. These people are on edge. But they need to hear what we know. That's the only way they're going to be able to resist her."

George winced, uncomfortable with the idea, then asked "In front of the reporters?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. "In front of the reporters."

"But… what if somebody calls the police? I mean, you'd be disturbing the peace and -"

"I realize that, and it's a possibility, but the police aren't here now, and this needs to be done."

"Where did you get that?" Robby asked, nodding toward the horn on top of the pickup.

"It belongs to the church. We used to use it at Christmas time. We'd drive around the neighborhoods playing carols while church members went door to door gathering food for the needy. Then the city passed a law prohibiting the horn, so we put it away. Till now."

"Shit, it is illegal," George said.

"Let me worry about that. You worry about your family."

Pastor Quillerman rolled up his window and the pickup began to move again.

"Well," George said softly as he watched the truck, his face long and pale, "that ought to wake your mother.”

The afternoon began its dreary descent into evening as the pickup crept up and down Deerfield. Pastor Quillerman spoke to the neighborhood about Lorelle Dupree without actually mentioning her name.

"You are all in great danger," he said, "and I think you know it. Many of you have recently become involved with a woman who lives on your street.”

The reporters rushed toward the truck with their cameramen behind them, cameras hefted on their shoulders, but Quillerman only increased his speed a bit and drove by them, giving in to a small smirk as he watched them in his side view mirror, staring after him and frowning with frustration. Then he lifted the microphone and continued, his eyes darting all around him as he drove.

He'd noticed the mist when he arrived and he didn't like it. It didn't act like any mist he'd seen in the Redding area before – it moved around in an odd way and, unless he was mistaken, he'd seen it move independent of the breeze. He'd just driven across town and back and had seen no fog or mist anywhere – it did not stretch beyond Deerfield.

"Perhaps you've noticed a few changes in your household since you and perhaps other members of your family became involved with this woman," he went on. "You're beginning to feel hostile. You're quick to anger. Perhaps your entire family has been fighting bitterly, even violently.”

As he continued, pale faces appeared in windows. A front door opened and a little boy appeared, watching the talking pickup with the same intense interest he might bestow upon an ice cream truck, but without the smile.

"These changes," Quillerman said, "these feelings, are all due to your involvement with this woman. She means you great harm and she is not – I repeat, she is not – human. That sounds preposterous, I know, but think about it a moment. I think deep down inside, where you put all the thoughts and desires and suspicions you want to keep from yourself, you know that it's true.”

Quillerman drove back and forth as eyes watched, the sky darkened and the mist crept silently through the neighborhood…