Boo Who (39 page)

She zipped up her dress, pulled on a pair of pantyhose that hadn’t fit in four years, and whisked herself off to church where she hoped the sermon wasn’t going to be about lying.

Wolfe saw Ainsley as he walked in, sitting in her favorite pew, looking through the bulletin. His heart skipped a beat, for several reasons. Her beauty always did something to him. He never grew tired of it. But also, the conflict that had arisen between them. They hadn’t talked since Indianapolis.

“Throw down your pride, you mutt,” he growled to himself. She was truly the woman of his dreams. Was he really ready to throw all that away? But she seemed so different these days.

“Hi,” he said, approaching her.

She looked up at him. Her eyes cast a defensive look. She scooted over in the pew and let him sit.

Wolfe was just about to try to explain how he was feeling when a finger tapping on the back of his shoulder interrupted his thoughts.

They both turned to find Melb sitting behind them.

“Have you seen Oliver?”

“No, sorry,” he said. Ainsley shook her head.

“Well, it’s just that usually he’s here very early. He likes to get his
favorite seat, you know, and it’s almost time to start, and well, as you can see, I’m here alone.”

“Don’t worry, Melb,” Ainsley said, “I’m sure he’s just running late. Maybe making some last-minute wedding plans or something.”

“No, he wouldn’t be doing that. He was in charge of the honeymoon, and as you know from experience in working for him, Wolfe, he had that done weeks ago and under budget.”

Wolfe nodded, detecting a tinge of bitterness. “Could he have overslept?” he asked.

“Ha!” Melb blurted. “Oliver? Oversleep? The last time that man overslept was at four months old.”

Ainsley and Wolfe looked at each other, trying to decide how to make Melb feel better. But before they could say much more, Reverend Peck took the pulpit.

Bespeckled Douglas Brewer, at five foot seven, barely had enough meat on him to hold a T-shirt on. He’d gotten his thin frame from his mother, Agnes, and his poor eyesight from his father, Truman. What nobody ever could figure out, though, is from where Douglas Brewer got his temper. The shock that would come when it was even casually displayed was priceless, and over the years, Douglas had grown somewhat amused by this.

He didn’t like it about himself, and could truly identify with the Hulk. A bad temper was nothing to brag about. But occasionally, it did come in handy. He’d not yet had a chance to save the world, but apparently he’d just saved his own life.

The balding man who called himself Oliver looked remarkably like a fish out of water, wide eyes, gasping for breath. Douglas knew the man was shocked. Douglas supposed he’d been picked because of his appearance and size. He’d noticed this man a few times over the past couple of days. And of course, everybody had now heard the rumors about Leroy.

“Don’t have a heart attack. Sheesh.” Douglas pushed his glasses up
his nose and shook his head. The rope Oliver had brought to tie him up now tied Oliver to an old water pump that stuck out of the ground. Without much trouble, Douglas had managed to pull the guy behind the local dump (though he was sure Oliver weighed twice as much as he did), careful not to drag him through the poison ivy he’d encountered a week ago. The misery of fighting fear
and
flesh was nearly indescribable.

Oliver, shiny from sweat, shaking like a hairless Chihuahua in winter, could do nothing but suck tiny drafts of air in rapid succession.

“What did you plan on doing here, mister?” Douglas said. He was normally not this bold. He had a conscience, after all. And really preferred computers over people. “What’d you bring that rope for?”

“A-a-are you from Kentucky?” was all Oliver said.

He was actually from Arkansas but had moved around so much that it was too complicated a question to get into right now.

“I’ve seen you following me,” Douglas said. “And you come after me with this rope. I can’t imagine what you’d planned to do with it.”

Oliver’s skin tone faded to putty. “D-don’t kill me.”

Douglas crossed his arms. Don’t kill him? What kind of freak was this man? Had he planned on killing Douglas?

Douglas sighed, stepping back a few paces to think. Was it all worth it? Really? Couldn’t he just live with his problems and deal with them? His mother had convinced him it was time to address the situation, especially with what happened several months ago at the zoo, which managed to embarrass his entire family, but in the end, did it really have to be this difficult? He glanced at Oliver, wondering what in the world this man was thinking.

He’d been told by Dr. Hass to integrate himself into this town’s society and try to live normally among the things he feared, but the things he feared, which he could scarcely mention, didn’t hold a candle to its citizens. Leroy knew that firsthand.

Douglas looked at his watch. He was late. Since getting the instructions to enter into society, Douglas decided why not try church? A few others had mentioned it too. There didn’t seem to be too much else to do around here. He glanced at Oliver, who seemed to be holding his breath.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Douglas said. Thankfully, the man was wearing a wool coat and a stocking cap. He’d be okay for a little while. Maybe it would be good for him to sit here and think about what he’d done … or had attempted, anyway. Douglas tied a bandanna he had in his car around Oliver’s mouth.

He started to walk off, but then turned and looked at Oliver. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that, even though you were apparently trying to kidnap me. It’s just that I have a temper, and sometimes things trigger it that just make me fly off the handle like a trapeze artist.” Douglas shrugged. “The fact of the matter is that I have a lot of things wrong with me, and I suppose I should crawl off and die somewhere, but there’s just that certain human instinct that makes you say to yourself,
I’m okay”
Oliver’s expression did nothing to make Douglas think he was tracking with him, so he turned, happy to have confessed his anger before going to church, and started walking away.

And for a few moments, he’d forgotten all about why he was in this town, altering his entire life to try to make it whole. Unfortunately, it didn’t last. Walking to church, he found himself holding his breath and praying he wouldn’t scream like a banshee.

At least he was praying.

Reverend Peck had dreaded this morning right up to the time he approached the pulpit. The idea of recycling his sermons was just so preposterous that he nearly felt ill. And of course the first sermon he ever preached was so bad that he could hardly preach it without some revisions, which did help him feel a little more useful.

It did bring back good memories, days filled with hope and faith. He had been young, feeling as though God would use him to conquer the world. It didn’t occur to him until just a few years ago that not only had he not conquered the world, but he’d barely conquered a hillside. And from that point on, he likened his hope to a shriveled raisin. Once a beautiful, plump grape, food of kings. Now a fruit old people eat to
keep their bowels moving. It didn’t have that Camelot-like notion he’d dreamed of years before.

He began his sermon as dryly as possible, with hardly an acknowledgment of a congregation seated out there. He read from his notes without much excitement. He really just wanted to be done with it.

But then he noticed something, as he’d glanced up at the congregation by pure accident and habit. New people.
New people.
Usually new people came only when there was a birth. Once he’d been lucky enough to have a member give birth to triplets. Then, of course, there was Thanksgiving, when the town looked as if it’d had a spark of renewal. But it faded as quickly as the smell of turkey the next day.

He picked out four, sitting there quite attentively. And then, to his surprise, another one walked in, a skinny guy who sat in the back. An unexpected fervor made him stand a little taller. And suddenly the lifeless words on the pages before him became something more than words. They translated themselves into a
message.

Perhaps it was a corny idea for a sermon: loving people different from you. But back in his twenties, when so much hate transcended America because of differences, it made perfect sense. He remembered he’d preached to only a half-dozen people that day, but he thought if he reached them, maybe they’d reach a half a dozen more, and so on. Oh, those were the days, when nothing seemed impossible for God.

That same kind of restless hope now filled his words, and he realized that the congregation had begun to sit a little straighter, pay a little more attention, widen their eyes enough to take in the entire scene before them.

Pretty soon, charisma rang in his voice, and his eyes filled with the light of a dreamer. He looked at each individual, sure his words were meant just for them. He was on quite a roll, making his third point about nothing God created being an accident, when something very unexpected happened.

A woman he did not recognize on the fourth row raised her hand.

At first, Reverend Peck kept going. For not in all of his many years of preaching had anybody raised a hand. And he did not know what to do.

But she kept it high, flickering her fingers as if he had not seen her the first time. She was a mousy woman, with big glasses, stringy, oily hair, and a dress out of the seventies. And though he tried to continue, the distraction was more than his exuberance could ignore. His words trailed off as he stared at her.

Finally, clearing his throat of the rest of the words that were soon to follow, he said, “Um … yes?”

She stood up, an expectant, wide-eyed expression behind the glasses that nearly covered her whole face.

“Does that include cats?”

“What?” the reverend asked, amidst the many whispers that were now circulating the small sanctuary.

“Cats? Did God create cats, or did the devil?”

He could hardly believe his ears. For a moment he tried to concentrate, thinking maybe he was in a nursing home and having senile delusions. Is that what was happening? Was he really in a wheelchair, murmuring incoherently?

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t quite …”

“Cats. Did God make them, or did the devil?”

He focused his attention on this woman, and interestingly, the whole congregation seemed to be waiting on his answer. “Well, ma’am, God did.”

“Huh.” She folded her arms in front of her chest, deep in thought. But she was still standing, and he wondered if he should continue. But before he had any more of a chance to think, she said, “So does that mean we should accept the little critters, even though they’re wicked rodents who deserve to be burned at the stake?”

The reverend made eye contact with Wolfe, trying to send him a signal that if anything bizarre happened—anything more bizarre than what was currently happening—Wolfe should stand up and help him out. Wolfe’s eyes told him he was watching carefully. The reverend looked back at the woman.

“I know, I know,” she said, holding up her hands to ward off the mumbling, “some people don’t share my view. And I guess that’s what
I’m getting here from your speech, is that I should like people who like cats, and I should try to like cats, the disgusting, pitchforked beasts that they are.”