Page 7 of Mystery Walk


  But she had to find out, before John returned. “What did you see?” she asked.

  “No! Can’t…can’t tell. Please don’t make me!”

  “Something in the basement?”

  Billy shuddered; the illusion he’d been building in his mind, that it had all been just a particularly nasty nightmare, was falling apart at the seams like wet and rotten cloth. “I didn’t see anything!”

  Ramona gripped his shoulders and looked deeply into his swollen eyes. “Your daddy’s going to be back in a few minutes. He’s a good man in his heart, Billy, and I love his heart, but I want you to remember this: your daddy is afraid, and he strikes out at what he fears because he doesn’t understand it. He loves us; he loves you more than anything in the world, and I love you too, more than you’ll ever know. But now you have to trust me, son. Did…whatever you see speak to you?”

  Billy’s gaze had gone glassy. He nodded his head with an effort, a strand of saliva breaking from his half-open mouth and trailing downward.

  “I thought so,” Ramona said gently. Her eyes were shining, but there was a deep sadness in her face too, and a certainty of the trouble to come. He’s only a little boy! she thought. He’s not strong enough yet! She bit her lower lip to keep her face from collapsing in a sob. “I love you,” she told him. “I’ll always be there when you need me…”

  The sounds of the sawmill’s steam whistle and the screen door slamming came at almost the same time, making them both jump.

  “Supper on yet?” John called from the front room.

  Ramona kissed her son’s cheek and eased his head back down on the pillow: Billy curled up again, staring sightlessly. Shock, she thought. I was like that too, the first time it happened to me. He would bear watching for the next few days.

  John was standing in the doorway when Ramona looked up. He was holding two Butterfinger candy bars in his right hand, and with his left seemed to be supporting himself in the doorframe; Ramona knew it was her imagination, and perhaps a trick of the dusky afternoon light that cloaked his shoulders from behind, but he seemed to have aged ten years since he’d left the house. There appeared to be a sickness behind his eyes. A weary smile worked across his lips, and he came forward to offer the candy bars to Billy. “Here you go, son. Feelin’ better?”

  Billy took them gratefully, though he wasn’t hungry and couldn’t figure out why his father had brought them.

  “Your face looks like a puffball,” John said. “Guess you took a wrong turn in the woods and saw a snake, huh?” He gently ruffed the boy’s hair before Billy could reply, and said, “Well, you’ve got to watch your step. You don’t want to scare some poor timber rattler half to death, do you?”

  For the first time that afternoon, Billy managed a tentative smile; Ramona thought, He’s going to be all right.

  “I’ll put supper on the table now,” she said, touching her son’s cheek softly, and then walked past John—who stepped suddenly away from her, as if fearful of being contaminated—and into the hallway. She saw that John had left the front door open, and closed it against the evening chill.

  And as she turned to go to the kitchen she saw the dusty set of schoolbooks lying on a chair.

  10

  AS THE PEARLY-WHITE ’58 Cadillac limousine, sparkling from its showroom wax job, its sharp rear fins jutting up like the tail of a Martian spacecraft, pulled up to the entranceway of the Tutwiler Hotel in downtown Birmingham, an elderly black doorman in a dark red uniform and cap was already coming down the marbled steps, eager to find out just who was riding in the rear seat of that spiffy automobile. Having worked for over twenty years at the Tutwiler—the finest hotel in Alabama—he was accustomed to celebrities, but he knew from a quick appraisal of that Caddy that behind those tinted rear windows was American sugar. He noticed the shining chrome hood ornament in the shape of clasped, praying hands. He reached the sidewalk and thrust out his frail hand to let the passenger out.

  But the door fairly burst open before he could get a grip on it, and from the Caddy uncoiled a giant of a man in a bright yellow suit, spotless white shirt, and white silk tie; the man rose to a height well over six feet, his chest expanding like a yellow wall.

  “Fine afternoon, isn’t it?” the man boomed. At the crest of his high forehead was a curly mass of gray-flecked blond hair; he had the kind of handsome, square face that made him look like a human nutcracker ready to burst walnuts between perfect white teeth.

  “Yessir, sure is,” the doorman said, nodding his gray-wooled head, aware that pedestrians on the Twentieth Street sidewalk were turning to gawk, caught by the sound of power in the man’s voice.

  Realizing he was the center of attention, the man beamed like sunlight on a July Sunday; he said, “Just take it around the corner and park it,” addressing the Caddy’s driver, a young man in a seersucker suit, and the long sleek car pulled away from the curb like a stretching lion.

  “Yessir, nice afternoon,” the doorman said, his eyes still jangling from that glowing suit.

  The man grinned and thrust a hand into his inside coat pocket; the doorman grinned too—American sugar!—and reached out with the obligatory “Thankee, sir!” already on his lips. Paper was put into his palm, and then the giant man had taken two long steps and was moving up the marbled stairs like a golden locomotive. The doorman stepped back a pace, as if scorched by energy. When he looked at what he held gripped in his hand, he saw a small pamphlet titled Sin Destroyed the Roman Empire; across the title page was a signature in red ink: J.J. Falconer.

  In the dimly lit, luxurious leather-and-wood interior of the Tutwiler, Jimmy Jed Falconer was met by a young gray-suited lawyer named Henry Bragg. They stood at the center of the large lobby, shaking hands and talking about general things—the state of the weather, farm economics, and what the Crimson Tide was likely to do next season.

  “Everything ready up there, Henry?” Falconer asked.

  “Yes sir. We’re expecting Forrest any minute now.”

  “Lemonade?” Falconer lifted his thick blond brows.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Falconer,” Henry said. “I’ve already ordered it.”

  They entered the elevator and the coffee-colored woman sitting on a stool inside smiled politely and turned a brass lever to take them to the fifth floor.

  “Didn’t bring the wife and son with you this time?” Henry asked, pushing his black horn-rimmed glasses back onto his nose. He had graduated from the University of Alabama Law School only last year, and still wore the brutal white-walled haircut of his Delta Kappa Epsilon days; but he was a smart young man with alert blue eyes that rarely missed a trick, and he was pleased that J.J. Falconer remembered him from the work his firm had done last spring.

  “Nope. Camille and Wayne stayed home, mindin’ the store. I’ll tell you, keepin’ up with that Wayne is a full-time job in itself.” He laughed, a bark of muted trumpets. “Boy can run a bloodhound ragged.”

  The fifth-floor suite, with windows overlooking Twentieth Street, was decked out like an office, containing a few desks, telephones, and filing cabinets. There was a reception area set apart from the workspace, containing comfortable easy chairs, a coffee table, and a long beige sofa framed by brass lamps. An easel had been set up facing the sofa, and on the wall hung a large framed Confederate flag.

  A stocky man with thinning brown hair, wearing a pale blue short-sleeved shirt with G.H. monogrammed on the breast pocket, looked up from the paperwork strewn across one of the desks, smiled, and rose to his feet as the other two men entered.

  Falconer gripped his hand and shook it. “Good to see you, George. How’s the family?”

  “Doing just fine. Camille and Wayne?”

  “One’s prettier than ever, the other’s growin’ like a wild weed. Now I see who the hard worker is in this organization.” He slapped George Hodges on the back and slid a sidelong glance at Henry, whose smile slipped a fraction. “What do you have for me?”

  Hodges offered him a couple of manila folders.
“Tentative budget. Contribution records as of March thirty-first. Also a list of contributors through the last three years. Cash flow’s thirty percent ahead of where we were this time last April.”

  Falconer shrugged out of his coat and sat down heavily on the sofa, then began reading the organizational reports. “I see we had a sizable donation from Peterson Construction by last April, and the April before that too; but they’re not on the sheet this year. What happened?” He looked up squarely at his business manager.

  “We’ve contacted them twice, took old man Peterson to lunch last week,” Hodges explained while he sharpened a pencil. “Seems his son is in a stronger position this year, and the kid thinks tent revivals are…well, old-fashioned. The company needs a tax writeoff, but…”

  “Uh-huh. Well, it appears to me that we’ve been barking up the wrong tree then, doesn’t it? The Lord loves a cheerful giver, but He’ll take it any way He can get it if it helps spread the Word.” He smiled, and the others did too. “Seems we should’ve been talking to Peterson Junior. I’ll remember to give him a personal call. George, you get his home phone number for me, will you?”

  “Mr. Falconer,” Bragg said as he sat down in one of the chairs, “it seems to me that—just maybe—Peterson has a point.”

  Hodges tensed and turned to stare; Falconer’s head slowly rose from the file he was reading, his blue-green eyes glittering.

  Bragg shrugged uneasily, realizing from the sudden chill that he’d stepped through the ice. “I just…meant to point out that in my research I’ve found most of the successful evangelists have made the transition from radio and tent revivals to television. I think television will prove itself to be a great social force in the next ten years, and I think you’d be wise to—”

  Falconer laughed abruptly. “Listen to the young scholar, George!” he whooped. “Well, I can tell I don’t have to worry about how slick your brain gears are, do I?” He leaned forward on the sofa, his face suddenly losing its grin, his eyes fixing in a hard stare. “Henry, I want to tell you something. My daddy was a dirt-poor Baptist preacher. Do you know what dirt-poor means, Henry?” His mouth crooked in a savage grin for a few seconds. “You come from a fine old Montgomery family, and I don’t think you understand what it means to be hungry. My momma worried herself into an old woman at twenty-five. We were on the road most of the time, just like tramps. They were hard days, Henry. The Depression, nobody could get a job ’cause everything was closed down, all across the South.” He stared up at the Confederate flag for a few seconds, his eyes dark.

  “Anyway, somebody saw us on the road and gave us a beat-up old tent to live in. For us it was a mansion, Henry. We pitched camp on the roadside, and my daddy made a cross out of boards and nailed up a sign on a tree that said: REV. FALCONER’S TENT REVIVALS NIGHTLY! EVERYBODY WELCOME! He preached for the tramps who came along that road, heading for Birmingham to find work. He was a good minister too, but something about being under that tent put brimstone and fire in his soul; he scared Satan out of more men and women than Hell could hold. People praised God and talked in tongues, and demons came spilling out right there like black bile. By the time my daddy died, the Lord’s work was more than he could handle; hundreds of people were seeking him out day and night. So I stepped in to help, and I’ve been there ever since.”

  Falconer leveled his gaze at Bragg. “I used to do a radio show, about ten years or so back. Well, those were fine, but what about the people who don’t have radios? What about those who don’t own television sets? Don’t they deserve to be touched, too? You know how many people lifted their hands to Jesus last summer, Henry? At least fifty a night, five nights a week May through August! Isn’t that right, George?”

  “Sure is, J.J.”

  “You’re a bright young man,” Falconer said to the lawyer. “I think what’s in the back of your mind is the idea of expansion. Is that so? Breaking out of the regional circuit and going nationwide? That’s fine; ideas like that are what I pay you for. Oh, it’ll happen all right, praise the Lord, but I’ve got sawdust in my blood!” He grinned. “With Jesus in your heart and your blood full of sawdust, boy, you can lick Satan with one hand tied behind your back!”

  There was a knock at the door, and a porter came in wheeling a cart with Dixie cups and a pitcher of cold lemonade, compliments of the management. The porter poured them all a drink and left the room clutching a religious pamphlet.

  Falconer took a cooling sip. “Now that hits the spot dead-center,” he said. “Seems Mr. Forrest forgot about us, didn’t he?”

  “I spoke to him this morning, J.J.,” Hodges said. “He told me there was an afternoon meeting he might get hung up in, but he’d be here as soon as he could.”

  Falconer grunted and picked up an Alabama Baptist newspaper.

  Hodges opened a folder and sorted through a stack of letters and petitions—“fan letters to God,” J.J. called them—sent from people all over the state, asking for the Falconer Crusade to visit their particular towns this summer. “Petition from Grove Hill’s signed by over a hundred people,” he told Falconer. “Most of them sent in contributions, too.”

  “The Lord’s at work,” Falconer commented, paging through the paper.

  “An interesting letter here, too.” Hodges spread it out on the blotter before him; there were a couple of stains on the lined paper that looked like tobacco juice. “Sent from a town called Hawthorne…”

  Falconer looked up. “It’s not but fifteen miles or so away from Fayette, probably less than ten from my front door, as the crow flies. What about it?”

  “Letter’s from a man named Lee Sayre,” Hodges continued. “Seems the town’s been without a minister since the first of February, and the men have been taking turns reading a Bible lesson on Sunday mornings to the congregation. When did we last schedule a revival near your hometown, J.J.?”

  “Four years or more, I suppose.” Falconer frowned. “Without a minister, huh? They must be starving for real leadership by now. Does he say what happened?”

  “Yes, says the man took ill and had to leave town for his health. Anyway, Sayre says he came to the Falconer revival in Tuscaloosa last year, and he’s asking if we might get to Hawthorne this summer.”

  “Hawthorne’s almost at my front door,” he mused. “Folks would come in from Oakman, Patton Junction, Berry, a dozen other little towns. Maybe it’s time for a homecoming, huh? Mark it down, George, and let’s try to find a place in the schedule.”

  The door opened and a thin, middle-aged man in a baggy brown suit entered the room smiling nervously. He carried a bulging briefcase in one hand and an artist’s portfolio clasped beneath the other arm. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Meeting at the office went about an hour—”

  “Close that door and cut the breeze.” Falconer waved him in and rose to his feet. “Let’s see what you ad boys have for us this year.”

  Forrest fumbled his way to the easel, set his briefcase on the floor, and then put the portfolio up on the easel where everyone could see it. There were faint dark circles beneath his arms. “Warm outside this afternoon, isn’t it? Going to be a hot summer, probably. Can I…uh…?” he motioned toward the lemonade cart, and when Falconer nodded he gratefully poured himself a cup. “I think you’ll like what we’ve done this year, J.J.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Forrest laid his half-empty cup on the coffee table, then took a deep breath and opened the portfolio, spreading three poster mockups. Hand-inked letters proclaimed: TONIGHT! ONE NIGHT ONLY! SEE AND HEAR JIMMY JED FALCONER, AND GET CLOSE TO GOD! Beneath the lettering was a glossy photograph of Falconer, standing on a podium with his arms uplifted in a powerful gesture of appeal.

  The second poster showed Falconer standing before a bookcase, framed on one side by an American flag and on the other by the flag of the Confederacy; he was thrusting a Bible toward the camera, a broad smile on his face. The lettering was simply blocked, and said: THE SOUTH’S GREATEST EVANGELIST, JIMMY JED FALCONER! ONE
NIGHT ONLY! COME AND GET CLOSE TO GOD!

  The third was all picture, with Falconer raising his arms and gaze upward in an expression of calm peace. White letters were superimposed at the bottom, and said: ONE NIGHT ONLY! SEE AND HEAR JIMMY JED FALCONER AND GET CLOSE TO GOD! Falconer stepped toward the easel. “That picture is just fine,” he said. “Yes, I like that one. I surely do! Knocks ten years off my age with that lighting, doesn’t it?”

  Forrest smiled and nodded. He brought out a briar pipe and tobacco pouch, fumbling to fill one from the other. He got it lit after two tries and puffed smoke into the room. “Glad you like that one,” he said, relieved.

  “But,” Falconer said quietly, “I like the message and the lettering on the middle poster the best.”

  “Oh, we can put them together any way you want. No problem.”

  Falconer stepped forward until his face was only a few inches from the photographed Falconer face. “That’s what I want. This picture speaks. I want five thousand of these printed up, but with that other message and lettering. I want them by the end of this month.”

  Forrest cleared his throat. “Well…that’s rushing things a bit, I guess. But we’ll handle it, no problem.”

  “Fine.” Beaming, Falconer turned from the poster and took the pipe from between Forrest’s teeth, pulling it away like lollipop from a baby. “I cannot abide lateness, Mr. Forrest. And I have told you again and again how I hate the stink of the Devil’s weed.” Something bright and sharp flashed behind his gaze. Forrest’s struggling smile hung crookedly from the man’s face as Falconer submerged the pipe in the cup of lemonade. There was a tiny hiss as the tobacco was extinguished. “Bad for your health,” Falconer said quietly, as if speaking to a retarded child. “Good for the Devil.” He left the offending pipe in the Dixie cup, clapped Forrest on the shoulder, and stepped back so he could admire the poster again.