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Authors: Scott Nicholson
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brushed the clinging loam from his body. A kingfisher swooped and lit on a branch nearby, then either smelled or sensed him and dis-appeared with a frantic snap of wings. Archer smiled and studied the gray mountain slopes.
Home.
The Promised Land.
Creeks as old as lies, dirt as dark as hopelessness. Stones as cold as the heart of a father who had only enough love for one son. Mountains thrust like angry fists up to the sky, defying the heaven that so many people believed in, including his dear, deranged mother.
The worst part of this incarnation was the emo-tional turmoil. No wonder these creatures sinned. No wonder they sought refuge in lust and depravity and excess. They were God's mistakes. But God's big-gest mistake was jealousy , the craving to build things in His image, the demand for sacrifice. God demanded love, but had no love of His own to spare. At least not for the second-born. Not for the one destined for dust, while the first earned a high place above. The second son was fit only to rule what he could see, left to find corrupted pleasure here on Earth.
Archer began walking down the rugged incline to-ward the river. Brambles and branches pricked at his skin, but he soaked up the pain and buried it inside the hollowness of his rage. Sharp outcrops of granite tore at the soles of his feet, and he relished the flow of blood from his wounds.
Jesus had walked in wilderness. So would Archer.
The blood would leave tracks. Others could find his trail, if they were clever. Let them follow. He was born to lead, after all.
And even if they found him, what were they going to do? Kill him?
His laughter echoed through the trees, as deep as the glacier-cut and time-eroded valleys, the human vocal cords vibrating strangely as he threw back his head and chilled the spine of the forest. Sheriff Littlefield leaned back in his oak swivel chair. Not a whisper of a squeak came from the well-oiled springs. Detective Sergeant Storie shifted uneasily in the chair across the desk from him, her suit jacket rumpled. The morning light on her face showed that she had slept little and poorly. Her eyes were puffy and narrowed from the headache caused by disrupted dreams. Her hair was still wet from a morning shower, and the smell of her conditioner filled the room.
Steam billowed from Littlefield's cup of black cof-fee. He looked through it, and the steam parted and swirled as he spoke. "I talked to the folks out in Whis-pering Pines."
"Any eyewitnesses?"
"Nobody saw anything." He put a little too much emphasis on the word saw.
"What about knowing? This isn't the big city, where people don't want to get involved. The old woman in the apartment next to mine knows it when my cat breaks wind. And the rest of the neighbors are clued in before the fumes disperse."
Littlefield winced. But he let the wince slip into what he hoped looked like a frown of concern. Storie was always calling him "old school" as it was.
"Well, two people said they heard the bells ringing at the church," he said.
"So the killer celebrated by letting everybody know what he'd done?" Storie asked incredulously.
"Must have been their imaginations. There's no bell rope."
Storie leaned forward, tapping the report that lay on Littlefield's desk. The pages were wrinkled, prob-ably from where she had worried over them in bed while trying to fall asleep. "Nobody heard the screams, either, I suppose."
"All we have is what we had yesterday. I've got Charlie and Wade searching the hills up around the church. Wade brought his dogs. If there's anything to be found, they'll turn it up." Storie stood. "I guess I'd better get to work. Any word from Chapel Hill yet?"
"Hoyle says they should get around to the autopsy Monday. Ought to have preliminary results by Wednesday or so."
"What if it is a psycho?"
Littlefield looked past her to the glass case that lined one wall of his office. He had a collection of confiscated drug paraphernalia that would make a doper weep with
Home.
The Promised Land.
Creeks as old as lies, dirt as dark as hopelessness. Stones as cold as the heart of a father who had only enough love for one son. Mountains thrust like angry fists up to the sky, defying the heaven that so many people believed in, including his dear, deranged mother.
The worst part of this incarnation was the emo-tional turmoil. No wonder these creatures sinned. No wonder they sought refuge in lust and depravity and excess. They were God's mistakes. But God's big-gest mistake was jealousy , the craving to build things in His image, the demand for sacrifice. God demanded love, but had no love of His own to spare. At least not for the second-born. Not for the one destined for dust, while the first earned a high place above. The second son was fit only to rule what he could see, left to find corrupted pleasure here on Earth.
Archer began walking down the rugged incline to-ward the river. Brambles and branches pricked at his skin, but he soaked up the pain and buried it inside the hollowness of his rage. Sharp outcrops of granite tore at the soles of his feet, and he relished the flow of blood from his wounds.
Jesus had walked in wilderness. So would Archer.
The blood would leave tracks. Others could find his trail, if they were clever. Let them follow. He was born to lead, after all.
And even if they found him, what were they going to do? Kill him?
His laughter echoed through the trees, as deep as the glacier-cut and time-eroded valleys, the human vocal cords vibrating strangely as he threw back his head and chilled the spine of the forest. Sheriff Littlefield leaned back in his oak swivel chair. Not a whisper of a squeak came from the well-oiled springs. Detective Sergeant Storie shifted uneasily in the chair across the desk from him, her suit jacket rumpled. The morning light on her face showed that she had slept little and poorly. Her eyes were puffy and narrowed from the headache caused by disrupted dreams. Her hair was still wet from a morning shower, and the smell of her conditioner filled the room.
Steam billowed from Littlefield's cup of black cof-fee. He looked through it, and the steam parted and swirled as he spoke. "I talked to the folks out in Whis-pering Pines."
"Any eyewitnesses?"
"Nobody saw anything." He put a little too much emphasis on the word saw.
"What about knowing? This isn't the big city, where people don't want to get involved. The old woman in the apartment next to mine knows it when my cat breaks wind. And the rest of the neighbors are clued in before the fumes disperse."
Littlefield winced. But he let the wince slip into what he hoped looked like a frown of concern. Storie was always calling him "old school" as it was.
"Well, two people said they heard the bells ringing at the church," he said.
"So the killer celebrated by letting everybody know what he'd done?" Storie asked incredulously.
"Must have been their imaginations. There's no bell rope."
Storie leaned forward, tapping the report that lay on Littlefield's desk. The pages were wrinkled, prob-ably from where she had worried over them in bed while trying to fall asleep. "Nobody heard the screams, either, I suppose."
"All we have is what we had yesterday. I've got Charlie and Wade searching the hills up around the church. Wade brought his dogs. If there's anything to be found, they'll turn it up." Storie stood. "I guess I'd better get to work. Any word from Chapel Hill yet?"
"Hoyle says they should get around to the autopsy Monday. Ought to have preliminary results by Wednesday or so."
"What if it is a psycho?"
Littlefield looked past her to the glass case that lined one wall of his office. He had a collection of confiscated drug paraphernalia that would make a doper weep with
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