The Town (47 page)

She had focused before on the word “uninvited,” but it was “guests” that grabbed her attention now. For that was what they were. Not indigenous spirits or beings that lived here, but
neh chizni doohc
that had arrived from elsewhere. Visitors.

Why had they come, though? What did they want? Agafia traveled quickly, working on instinct or being led by God, she was not sure which. She could not really see the path, but she was following it, and just as she emerged from the boulders, the moon appeared above the high cliffs to the east, bathing the scene in front of her with light.

And she saw Jedushka Di Muvedushka.

Laughing, the small figure sped out of the
banya,
took off up the hillside, clambering over rocks, cavorting playfully in the moonlight. Did he see her? She didn’t think so, and that made his exuberant little dance all the more eerie.

There was a rustle off to her left, and Agafia whirled so fast in that direction that her candle went out. Her heart was pounding and she was prepared to see shadows with teeth or snake-skinned demons, but instead she saw a line of people, several of them carrying flashlights.

Molokans.

One of them moved forward, toward her. It was Vera, and Agafia had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. She could tell by the expression on the other woman’s face that Vera no longer believed her to be corrupted, and her relief was so great that she wanted to cry. Semyon had obviously gotten through to them. She scanned the row of faces looking for him, but he was not among the Molokans gathered before her.

Why were they at the
banya
instead of the house? She’d told Semyon to make sure they went to the house.

She looked at Vera and understood. The old woman had had another dream. And it had pointed her here.

“I am sorry,” Vera said, moving closer, throwing her arms around her, and hugging her close. Agafia remained holding onto her Bible, but she tossed the unlit candle aside and hugged her old friend back with one arm.

There was a lot to be said but no time to say it, and Vera’s apology covered all of it for now.

“Did you see him?” Agafia asked, nodding toward the hillside.

Vera nodded grimly.

“Whose house is he from?”

“No one knows.”

“You have been watching him?”

Vera nodded, looked at the others. “We did not know what to do.”

It was a tacit acknowledgment that
she
was now the leader, that she was the one who would decide how they would act, and Agafia had never felt prouder in her life. She scanned the faces, looking for Nikolai, but the minister was nowhere to be found.

“Where is Nikolai?” she asked. “Where is Semyon?”

“Nikolai went with Peter to bring back the prophet, as you said.” Vera met her eyes. “Semyon has disappeared.”

There was no time to waste, no time to dwell on what they should have done or could have done, and Agafia nodded. She pointed toward the
banya
. “I’m going to look.”

Even as she said it, a shiver ran down her spine, but the others trained their flashlights on the bathhouse and followed along with her, and she was grateful for both their presence and their courage. Although she had no light of her own, the moonlight was bright enough to see by, and she did not stop until she was directly in front of the
banya
’s open door. Vera shone her flashlight into the darkness.

The inside of the
banya
was filled with bodies.

Bodies of Jedushka Di Muvedushka.

Agafia took an involuntary step back, nearly stepping on Onya’s toes. The bodies were barely there, shimmering like spirits, the flashlight beams granting them even less substance than the refracted moonlight, but she could see them piled one on top of the other, like logs, and in a sudden flash of insight, she understood what had happened.

Jedushka Di Muvedushka had followed them from California.

And he was killing off all of the other Owners in McGuane.

It explained the increase in supernatural activity, the reason why these supernatural forces had been allowed to spread outward from their home. There had been no protection. Anywhere.

Agafia stared at the stacked ephemeral bodies, stunned. A flashlight beam played across the back wall of the bathhouse, and she saw that the figure on the wall had changed. Its head had grown, its body had shrunk, and it no longer looked like a typical Molokan man. It looked like what it was.

Jedushka Di Muvedushka.

Slowly, tentatively, she walked inside. The power here was incredible. She could feel it. It was stronger than it should have been, it had obviously been fed. She recalled Father telling her when she’d asked that the Owner of the House ate mice and rats and possums, kept vermin away from the house and fed himself at the same time.

She could not recall seeing any rodents or pests on their property since they’d arrived in McGuane.

She could not even remember the last time she’d seen a bird on their land.

Vera had already started chanting. A prayer of forgiveness, a prayer of healing. It did not seem entirely appropriate, but like the others, she fell in behind Vera, repeating the words, holding tight to her Bible, and there actually did seem to be a slight lessening in the oppressiveness of the air. When they finished and she opened up her eyes, she could no longer see the small stacked bodies.

Why had she not been killed?

Why had no one in her family been killed?

That was what puzzled her. Jim was gone. People she didn’t even know, who had no connection to the family, had been murdered. But so far she and all her family were still alive.

Perhaps Jedushka Di Muvedushka could not actually harm them. Perhaps he merely wanted to shut down the defenses to show them what they were missing, how he could have protected them had they not abandoned him. More likely, he was out for revenge and wanted to destroy them, but wanted to do so in as subtle a way as possible, to drag it out, to prolong their suffering. Nearly the entire town had been turned against them now; it made her think of how things had been in Russia before the Molokans had left. The persecution. The public beatings.

She thought of Russiantown.

Was that the point of all of this? Spite and revenge? She had learned from Father—and had always believed—that the devil, like God, had a grand scheme, a master plan, and that he would use whatever means were at his disposal to convert the good and recruit the wicked and sow the seeds of death and destruction wherever and whenever possible. But was that really the case? It seemed to her that this had all been brought to bear not as part of some cosmic design but to satisfy the petty desires of a minor spirit.

Was evil really that small?

Perhaps it was. That thought gave her hope.

The Molokans all crowded into the tiny building. There were seven of them, and they could barely fit, but they stood close to each other, holding hands, and without speaking, without planning, began to perform the Cleansing. After all of their previous efforts, they knew the words by heart, and as they chanted, Agafia wondered what would happen if the Owner of the House returned. Would he be repelled by the force of their prayers?

Flashlights had been switched off, and before they were even halfway through, the darkness around them was moving, sliding sinuously between their legs, wrapping itself around their heads. They remained focused, kept praying, and the movement within the bathhouse became more agitated.

After this, they would walk back to the house, get her daughter-in-law and her grandchildren. The Molokans had obviously come in cars, and even Gregory could not hope to combat so many allies. She and the children would escape and go to one of the others’ houses and decide on a further plan from there.

Agafia felt good, invested with power by the Holy Spirit, and though she knew it was inappropriate in this place and under these circumstances, she wanted to jump, wanted to give herself over to the Lord and let the Spirit overtake her.

It was then that the sandstorm hit.

T
he wind began blowing, sand scraping loudly against the windows and the sides of the house. Visibility was worse than in fog, and through the small attic window Gregory could see only blackness: no moon, no stars, no lights.

He thought to himself,
It’s time.

He stood up slowly. He’d been sitting here for hours, in the same position, revolver loaded, waiting, and the muscles in his legs were sore. His father had stopped talking to him some time ago, but he’d stopped listening long before that. He didn’t really need his father to tell him what needed to be done.

He knew.

Oh, he definitely knew.

Gregory opened the trapdoor, carefully lowered the ladder, and climbed out of the attic as quietly as possible. The hallway was dark, but he didn’t need light to see. Something had happened to him after all those hours in the attic. His eyes had not merely adjusted to the dark, his vision had been enhanced. It was like a cat’s, and though the world was in black and white, it was clear, clearer than it had ever been before. He saw the empty corridor before him, saw the metal ladder that someone had brought in from outside and that for some reason had been laid along the side wall.

He started walking.

He understood how Bill Megan had felt, why he had had to do what he did. It was the only possible response, the only way to make sure that mistakes were paid for and that they would not happen again. It was just, it was justice, and there was something both invigorating and fulfilling about knowing that he was about to put things right.

The gun felt good in his grip, like a part of him. He walked slowly, silently, careful not to put too much of his weight on the creaky boards. Outside, the wind increased in volume, the susurrous sand growing in intensity. It sounded to him like music.

Sasha’s door was the first one he came to, and he pushed it open, gun extended. He walked into his daughter’s room. She’d pulled her blanket up, bunching it around her midsection, and the bottom of her body was exposed to the open air. She was lying on her side, and her legs were scissored so that he could see her crotch. Her panties were pulled tight, and he saw the slight bulge of her pubic mound, the crease of her vulva. There was what looked like dried blood on the material, but he ignored that, saw only the outline beneath the stained underpants.

She stirred in her sleep, her legs spreading wider, and he understood what was going on here.

The slut wanted him to fuck her.

The anger began building within him, the rage he’d been conserving all day blossoming into a white-hot, righteous wrath. Here she was, beaten and bruised, and all she could think about was getting that little hole filled up again as quickly as possible. She was just like her mother, hungry for dick, any dick, wanting only to be filled up with man meat, and he was sickened thinking that she wanted to have intercourse with him, her own father.

The beating she’d received from whatever guy had banged her had obviously not been enough to teach her a lesson, and now it was up to him to point out the error of her ways, to make sure she never did anything like this again.

He walked over. She was only pretending to be asleep, and he kicked the bed hard, forcing her to give up the ruse. She sat up, acting as though she was startled, her eyes opening wide with what could have been terror but was obviously lust.

She saw the gun in his hand, looked into his eyes, knew what he intended to do.

“No!” Sasha screamed.

He shot her in the crotch, giggled as a wash of blood spread over her nightgown. “You’re not going to be able to put anything else in there, bitch.”

She was thrashing around, making a funny gurgling sound, and he could not help laughing. The blood was everywhere, and an intoxicating charge surged through him as he looked at what he’d done. He thought of the Molokans’ wimpy little prohibitions against violence, their stupid outmoded adherence to the letter of the Bible, and he knew he was more alive in this moment than they would ever be.

Why hadn’t he done this before?

Sasha was still jerking spasmodically, arms outstretched, back arched, and he lifted the revolver, pointed it at her midsection and fired again.

More spasms, more blood. Then she finally stopped moving, and he smiled to himself as he opened the door, walked out into the hall.

“Next,” he said.

Adam heard everything through the walls between their rooms, and even as the agonizing emptiness of loss ripped through his guts, even as that was replaced by terror and fear, he was thinking, moving, and he looked quickly around his bedroom for, first, someplace to hide, and, second, a weapon.

There was no place to hide, and if he jumped out the window from this high up he’d probably break his leg and be caught, so he concentrated on finding something to fight with, but for a brief, panicked second it looked as though he was going to be screwed. There was nothing here he could use.

Then he remembered, and he grabbed the flashlight from underneath his bed. It was a big one, an old one made out of metal, and he and Roberto had often made contingency plans to use it as a weapon should anyone attempt to break into their tent while they were camping in the backyard. It was no match for a gun, but he had no choice. It would have to do.

He ran over to the door, stood next to it, flashlight held high. He hadn’t even known that his dad had a gun, and the revelation shocked him to the core. Even after all that had happened, even after they’d tried to trap his dad in the attic, he hadn’t really believed that his father would snap like this, would go this far. He might get angry, yeah. Might threaten them and throw things around. But murder them? Kill his own children? That he never would have believed.