conversation with Mrs. Chilton. While they waited for the cab, he cautioned Mitch about the afternoon’s adventures, more for his own protection than the boy’s.
“Remember, this is our secret. Your sister doesn’t strike me as someone who’d understand about the pecking order of teenage boys.”
Mitch looked up at him, his eyes wise behind thick lenses. “Or about potions that cure people like magic?”
“That, either.”
“No problem. She’d probably think I made the whole thing up anyway.”
That’s what I’m hoping, John thought as the cab pulled up. Otherwise, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.
* * *
Marge Chilton leaned over the counter and watched the yellow cab pull away. Something tickled her brain, bothering her like a fly that wouldn’t stay away no matter how often you shooed it.
That Root fella seemed decent enough, but what was a grown man—and a stranger in town at that—doing bringing a young boy to his room in the middle of the day? And there’d been no mistaking the mark’s on the boy’s face; he’d been through one hell of a beating.
She wanted to think their being together was innocent enough, but God knew that all sorts of depravities went on every day, all over the country. All you had to do was turn on the news and you’d hear about perverts hunting for young children on the Internet and at the mall.
That’s when it came to her, something Reverend Christian had said during Wednesday Mass.
“Many forms taketh the Stranger; he likes nothing better than to corrupt the innocent, foul the chaste, despoil the righteous. The hand that strikes the wife or touches the child the wrong way does the Devil’s work. And we cannot count on our leaders, our politicians and our police, to stop it. For they, too, are corrupted—by power and greed. It is up to us—you and I and our neighbors—to right the wrongs, to fulfill our Gods’ plan, to act as our Gods’ fists.”
“The hand that touches the child in the wrong way,” Marge whispered to the empty lobby. She scowled at the cloud of dust left in the cab’s wake.
“Not in my town, Mister Root.”
Chapter 10
Harry Showalter jerked the wheel of the police cruiser, sending the car to the right so hard Wade Cullen’s container of iced tea splashed cold liquid across his chin and down his shirt front.
“Jesus, Harry, what’s the matter?” the deputy asked as the car pulled up to the curb.
“That’s the matter,” Showalter replied, staring out his driver side window. Across the street, a skinny man with a long ponytail was just coming out of McDonald’s, a bag of food and a soda in his hands. “Didn’t you say that bartender friend of yours said Capshaw was in McNally’s earlier today, with some other scumbag?”
“Yeah, big fellow with tattoos all over and a pony tail. Randy said he looked Mexican, or maybe even part Indian.”
“I think we need to have a talk with Mr. Capshaw.” After checking for other cars, Harry flipped the siren on and cut across the road, stopping just ahead of Billy Ray, whose face had gone as white as the paper bag he carried.
“Where you headed, Billy?” Showalter asked as he hefted himself from the car. He heard the other door slam shut, indicating Cullen had also gotten out.
“Nowhere.” Capshaw’s voice struggled between nervous and angry defiance.
“Sounds like loitering to me, Chief,” Cullen said. He tapped his fingers against the baton hanging from his belt. At six-five, he was the biggest man on the force, one of the reasons Harry liked him as a ride-along partner.
“I don’t mean nowhere like nowhere.” Billy Ray glanced from Showalter to the deputy and back. “I mean, I’m heading back to the church.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want you to be late for work, would we, Wade?”
Cullen smiled and shook his head. “Sure wouldn’t.”
“Hop in, Billy.” Harry opened the cruiser’s back door. “We’ll give you a lift.”
Capshaw
“Remember, this is our secret. Your sister doesn’t strike me as someone who’d understand about the pecking order of teenage boys.”
Mitch looked up at him, his eyes wise behind thick lenses. “Or about potions that cure people like magic?”
“That, either.”
“No problem. She’d probably think I made the whole thing up anyway.”
That’s what I’m hoping, John thought as the cab pulled up. Otherwise, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.
* * *
Marge Chilton leaned over the counter and watched the yellow cab pull away. Something tickled her brain, bothering her like a fly that wouldn’t stay away no matter how often you shooed it.
That Root fella seemed decent enough, but what was a grown man—and a stranger in town at that—doing bringing a young boy to his room in the middle of the day? And there’d been no mistaking the mark’s on the boy’s face; he’d been through one hell of a beating.
She wanted to think their being together was innocent enough, but God knew that all sorts of depravities went on every day, all over the country. All you had to do was turn on the news and you’d hear about perverts hunting for young children on the Internet and at the mall.
That’s when it came to her, something Reverend Christian had said during Wednesday Mass.
“Many forms taketh the Stranger; he likes nothing better than to corrupt the innocent, foul the chaste, despoil the righteous. The hand that strikes the wife or touches the child the wrong way does the Devil’s work. And we cannot count on our leaders, our politicians and our police, to stop it. For they, too, are corrupted—by power and greed. It is up to us—you and I and our neighbors—to right the wrongs, to fulfill our Gods’ plan, to act as our Gods’ fists.”
“The hand that touches the child in the wrong way,” Marge whispered to the empty lobby. She scowled at the cloud of dust left in the cab’s wake.
“Not in my town, Mister Root.”
Chapter 10
Harry Showalter jerked the wheel of the police cruiser, sending the car to the right so hard Wade Cullen’s container of iced tea splashed cold liquid across his chin and down his shirt front.
“Jesus, Harry, what’s the matter?” the deputy asked as the car pulled up to the curb.
“That’s the matter,” Showalter replied, staring out his driver side window. Across the street, a skinny man with a long ponytail was just coming out of McDonald’s, a bag of food and a soda in his hands. “Didn’t you say that bartender friend of yours said Capshaw was in McNally’s earlier today, with some other scumbag?”
“Yeah, big fellow with tattoos all over and a pony tail. Randy said he looked Mexican, or maybe even part Indian.”
“I think we need to have a talk with Mr. Capshaw.” After checking for other cars, Harry flipped the siren on and cut across the road, stopping just ahead of Billy Ray, whose face had gone as white as the paper bag he carried.
“Where you headed, Billy?” Showalter asked as he hefted himself from the car. He heard the other door slam shut, indicating Cullen had also gotten out.
“Nowhere.” Capshaw’s voice struggled between nervous and angry defiance.
“Sounds like loitering to me, Chief,” Cullen said. He tapped his fingers against the baton hanging from his belt. At six-five, he was the biggest man on the force, one of the reasons Harry liked him as a ride-along partner.
“I don’t mean nowhere like nowhere.” Billy Ray glanced from Showalter to the deputy and back. “I mean, I’m heading back to the church.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want you to be late for work, would we, Wade?”
Cullen smiled and shook his head. “Sure wouldn’t.”
“Hop in, Billy.” Harry opened the cruiser’s back door. “We’ll give you a lift.”
Capshaw
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