Black Magic (17 page)

He brought out the gold plate that had held the crystal ball in place. He made a bed of wheat chaff and dusted it with ground human bone. He arranged the hairs of Vicente and Shane Hudson into a pile. He chanted an incantation over the plate.

He struck a match and touched the plate’s edge. Yellow fire licked across the wheat chaff. He uttered a second incantation and the flames turned blue. The hair in the center caught fire.

Lyle began his third, more lengthy spell. The coins he had given the Outsiders were antennae that attracted magic and redirected it to the boys’ talismans. The boys would be caught in the slipstream, but without access to Lyle’s incantations, could not direct the power they felt. Those whose hair he had collected and set afire would have so much more. The black
whapnas
of these individuals were ready to absorb the dark power the magic created and make them apprentices the likes of which the four boys could never become.

So Lyle commanded that some of the malevolent power he drew from the magic stream divert to those whose hair burned bright before him. The flames flashed cobalt blue and winked out.
 

His minions did not know it, but now they awaited his call.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Inspired by miracles, the Congregation of God’s revival preparations went full-speed ahead.

Carlina Arroyo activated the call list and recruited a dozen of the most faithful to spend the day in the service of the Lord. Given the heat and the expected overflow crowd that night, using the sanctuary was out of the question. In the tradition of revivals that stretched back to the 1800s, this event would be outdoors. First things first, the canvas tent had to go up in the Congregation of God’s backyard.

It was more of an undertaking than anyone remembered. The great white tent rivaled ones from the glory days of the circus and raising it took a lot of muscle and some trial and error. But by midday, it stood tall and proud, a snowy beacon announcing the arrival of the Word of God. Reverend Wright’s chest swelled with pride at the sight of it and then he chastised himself, quietly, for the sin.

The worker bees assembled the stage and set the podium at the center. Uncomfortable metal folding chairs faced the platform, ready to direct the attention of the congregation on the preacher’s words. The sound system and other pilferable items could wait until tomorrow evening to be set out. The Reverend had tremendous faith in human spirit, but little in the weaker human flesh.

Spouses of the participants organized a potluck dinner in support. By dusk the setup was complete and the volunteers had full bellies.

“We are so blessed,” Carlina said to Reverend Wright as she tied down the last corner of the revival banner. It hung across the face of the church and the red arrow underneath pointed to the tent in the back. “My orchard, the church fountain, the memorial. Tomorrow night we will give thanks for the miracle.”

“Indeed,” Reverend Wright said. “We will offer much up to the Lord.”

But the Reverend had plans to offer up more than thanks. He would offer up a revelation, a public exposé to show the Lord that the people of Citrus Glade were worthy of this great miracle he wrought among them. Until now, the town had done little to warrant God’s favor. For redemption, he would unmask Lyle Miller.

Carlina followed the last few volunteers home and left the Reverend alone at the church around nine-thirty p.m. He could wait until later to undertake his clandestine mission, but now was more than late enough. Downtown Citrus Glade rolled up the sidewalks after five p.m. By this hour, it would be still as a morgue. Besides, at his age, midnight excursions were something left long in the past.

Reverend Wright pulled a flashlight and a crowbar out of the shed. He tucked the flashlight into his pants and tried to hold the crowbar along the length of his arm to keep it unobtrusive, just in case he did cross someone’s path. He walked a jagged route behind businesses and along the edges of empty lots. He paused across the street from his target.

The corner traffic signal had reverted to its nighttime pattern, abandoning the three-color sequence for a four-way flashing red. Each flash bathed the building below it in a bloody spotlight and illuminated the words in the window:
MAGIC SHOP
.

The shop was dark, the sign on the door read
CLOSED
.
 

It was now or never.

The crowbar slipped against the Reverend’s suddenly sweaty palm. His pulse pounded in his ears. His plan had seemed simpler in the daylight. Break into the shop, find the evidence of evil that he was certain was there, and expose it to the town once the revival reached fever pitch.

He swiveled his head and scanned both sides of Main Street. Deserted. As it would be at this hour. Still, he suffered a touch of paranoia, a certainty that as soon as he stepped out to cross the street, the road would be filled with members of his congregation wondering why their shepherd was running through town with a crowbar in his hands.

He took a deep breath and broke for the other side of the street in a gangly, arthritic shuffle of a jog. He crossed over and tucked into the alley along the side of the Magic Shop. He gave the street one last look.
 

Still empty.

But he did not want to press his luck and get caught trying to open the front door. Every store had at least one rear entrance. The Magic Shop’s would be here in the dark somewhere.

He took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He pulled the flashlight from his pants and snapped it on. He played the beam along the building’s side. No door. He killed the light.

He inched down the alley. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of urine and dog feces. He worried what he might step in, but kept his flashlight extinguished, more worried more about attracting attention. At the rear corner of the building he paused again. The Magic Shop backed up to the solid brick wall of the former Citrus Glade Fine Furniture, the perfect shield from prying eyes. He flicked on his light for a moment and lit the shop’s back door.

He ducked into the doorway. The old wooden door felt a bit spongy. There was no deadbolt. This was going to be easier than he thought. He wedged the crowbar between the door and the frame just above the knob.

He froze. He was about to trespass into a building, and he had the intention of stealing something once inside. That was one broken commandment and two steps on the wrong side of morality. He was a man of the cloth. What devil’s temptation got him out here in the dark of the night?

He shook his head. His was no devil’s work. The evil in the town brewed within that building, not within him. Sure he was using some questionable tactics, but in the pursuit of a righteous goal. The ends always justified the means when working in the name of the Lord. He braced his shoulder against the door and gripped the crowbar.

On a whim, he first reached for the door knob. He twisted it and the tumblers clicked to grant him entrance. Like parting the Red Sea for Moses, the Lord had removed this far smaller obstacle for him. Praise God.
 

He pushed the door halfway open and sidled into the pitch-black back room of the Magic Shop. He closed the door without a sound. He trembled with anticipation.

He clicked on the flashlight. Lyle’s smiling face lit up, just inches from his own.

“Hey, Rusty!”
 

A baseball bat slammed into the side of the Reverend’s head and darkness returned.

Chapter Forty

Rusty Wright awoke to a splash of cold water and a flash of bright light. His arms and legs were bound together. His head pounded like a bass drum and there was a ringing in his left ear, the one the bat crushed.

As his eyes finally focused, he saw he was still in the back of the Magic Shop, surrounded by tricks and props. From his neck to his ankles, he lay in a narrow wooden box on some kind of gurney.

“Wakey, wakey,” Lyle sang. He had an empty plastic cup in his hand. “Sorry to interrupt your slumber, but time is of the essence. My time, that is. Yours has about run out. Sorry about the bat. I could have done something more magical, but, honestly, you had it coming. Breaking into someone’s place of business. You sinner.”

The Reverend struggled against his bonds. “You’re crazy. Let me out of here!”

Lyle gave Rusty a condescending, downward glance, like when an adult hears a child say something utterly clueless.

Rusty looked around the room as well as his limited mobility would allow. The box was in the center of the floor pentagram.

“I was right. This shop is the work of Satan!”

Lyle shook his head in angry exasperation. He yanked Rusty’s head back by the hair and shoved a rag in his mouth.

“Two thousand years and you Christians still get it wrong,” Lyle said. “Sorcery isn’t witchcraft, isn’t Satan worship. Three different animals. This…” He circled his index finger around the room. “…is
sorcery
.”

The cloth absorbed every drop of moisture in Rusty’s mouth. He wanted to scream but it took all his concentration to breathe through his nose and keep from suffocating.

“Now tonight’s trick,” Lyle said, “is a classic. Sawing a woman in half.” He pounded on the box like an auctioneer. “I just need a volunteer from the audience.”

Lyle bent his head next to Rusty’s. “You sir? You’d like to volunteer?”

Rusty mangled a muffled reply of “drop dead” through the gag.

“What’s that?” Lyle said, hand melodramatically cupped to his ear. “You say I promised to saw a woman in half? Well, sir, in some circles, you would qualify.”

Lyle grabbed the end of the long box and pulled. The box began a fast counterclockwise spin around a central axis, staying centered on the pentagram.

“Notice, ladies and gentlemen, no mirrors, no wires, nothing up my sleeve.”

Rusty’s head did some kind of rollercoaster ride. The spinning box and his major concussion vied for the right to make him deathly ill. If he threw up into the gag, he’d choke on his own vomit and die. He closed his eyes and prayed.

Lord though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

Lyle stuck out a foot. The gurney wheel hit it. The box jerked to a stop. Rusty’s head snapped back and forth like it was on a spring. His swelling brain felt like it was going to burst through his skull. He let out a whimper.

Lyle reappeared with a long metal saw in his hand. It looked like a prop from a silent movie about lumberjacks, with a heavy wooden handle and a row of jagged, uneven teeth along the silver blade. Lyle flexed the tip back and forth with his free hand. The saw made an oscillating warble.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, note the saw. Completely real in every way. Sharp enough to slice through steel, so our mushy volunteer here should be no problem.”

Rusty made another wriggling, futile attempt to force open the box.

“Normally such physical trauma would send the subject unconscious with pain,” Lyle said. “But through the wonders of magic…”

He pointed to each tip of the pentagram on the floor. As he did he chanted “
hakeesh alasim”
. The tips glowed. When he completed the fifth, the entire drawing blazed with light. A shudder ran through Rusty and every muscle in his body locked.

“…our volunteer won’t have to miss a thing!”

Lyle slid the saw’s blade into a slot in the center of the box. It dropped down and hit Rusty just above the waist. His stomach muscles flinched under the heavy impact. Sharp metal teeth punctured his shirt and gouged his skin. Warm blood trickled across his belly.

Oh Lord, my savior,
he thought.
Save me from this devil of a man.

Lyle looked into Rusty’s eyes. “Smile. You’re the star!”

He gave the saw a vicious, rearward yank. The blade tore through Rusty’s skin with the finesse of a feeding great white. A wet, ripping noise echoed inside the box. Pain, white and hot as the center of the sun, exploded within him. Tears burst from his eyes and he screamed into the stifling gag, a wailing high-pitched shriek only torture could elicit.

The next forward thrust of the blade dug deeper. Organs caught on the irregular teeth, and when the blade yanked them to the right, the shudder inside him ran all the way up to the back of his throat. A second wave of pain, somehow, unbelievably worse than the first, rolled up into his pounding head. His cry came out in a wailing stutter. At the end of the stroke, the saw blade penetrated far enough that the teeth rested midway down his frozen forearms. His chest deflated as his shredded tissues oozed away.

Two rapid strokes hacked through his arms. He felt his hands disappear as they separated, heard their twin thumps as they fell lifeless into the wooden box. His bones splintered as the blade dragged through them. Daggers of scorching pain pierced the base of his skull. His head rolled back, wide eyed, the sensation too horrible to allow him to scream.

The final stroke tore through his spine. The serrated separation rocked his torso against the sides of the box. Something warm and thick puddled up around his shoulders. Blood filled his throat and he choked.

“And,
voila
,” Lyle announced. “One man is now two!”

Lyle rolled the two boxes apart. Blood and organs hit the floor with a thick splat. Rusty’s hands followed with two dead, wet thuds.