The Influence(71)
He held the knife aloft, offering a prayer. “Dear Lord, we are sorry for what we have done. Forgive us our sins, forgive us our pride, and let this sacrifice pay our debt to You so that we may once again bask in the glory of Your goodness. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
Vern brought the knife down, feeling an odd satisfaction as the blade overcame a quick spongy resistance and pierced the skin, sinking easily into the flesh. Pain made the baby find its strength, and it cried out as the knife sliced into its midsection, but the cry was cut off almost before it could start as the child started to choke. Blood was everywhere, not spurting but flowing, running over the sides of the small body onto the table and streaming onto the rug. He pushed down harder, through organ, through bone, and within seconds the infant was dead, pinned to the table like a lab specimen.
Blood continued to pour out of the body. Rose was trying to move the Dixie cups out of the way, but Vern stopped her. Improvising, he picked up one of the cups and put it under the red waterfall cascading over the side of the table. “Drink!” he ordered, and took a small sip before passing it to Rose next to him. She did the same, then passed it on, until everyone had partaken and the cup was back in his hands. He felt like vomiting—he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to wash that putrid taste out of his mouth—but he remained stoic, and said, “We will now give this child a proper Christian burial and hope the Lord hears our pleas.”
Rose ran off to the kitchen to get something to clean up the mess, and Vern withdrew the knife, putting it down on the table before picking up the small body and placing it back in the cage. He’d take the cage outside and bury the baby in the yard. They would all help him.
And, if they were lucky, the Lord would take back His angel and all would be forgiven.
****
Jeri Noblit delivered the mail in town, and, after lunch, went out as she usually did to deliver to the scattered homes on the ranch route. For Christmas, Don had gotten a satellite radio installed it in her car, and she was beyond grateful. Reception had always been hit and miss out here—mostly miss—and it was nice to be able to hear continuous music as she drove. She was especially partial to the Outlaw Country station, and it definitely made the long drives between the various ranches more palatable. Not to mention the initial trip out to the highway to collect the mail from the postal delivery truck.
She actually enjoyed her job now.
The red flag was up on Dave and Lita’s mailbox—bills to be sent out, most likely—and she pulled next to the box, pushed the flag down, removed outgoing mail and replaced it with incoming: a couple of ads and what looked like an official envelope with a Las Vegas postmark (something to do with Dave’s parents, no doubt). The next stop was Mose Holiman’s trailer, and it was so far out that she considered skipping it today. But though there was only one piece of mail for Mose, it was from the government, so it was probably important, and as inconvenient as it was, Jeri drove the ten miles out to his place. After all, it was her job.
On the way back, she intended to swing by Cameron Holt’s ranch and drop off his mail. The past few times she’d been by, there’d been no problem, but last week Cameron had been standing by his mailbox with a shotgun, waiting for her, and when she’d rolled down the window to hand him his mail, he’d pointed the shotgun at her and told her to get the hell off his land. She’d been tempted to just throw his mail on the ground and take off, but she was honestly afraid that he might shoot at her as she was driving away. There was something off about him, something crazed, and she’d reacted instinctively, pretending she didn’t hear him, putting his mail in the box and driving calmly off as though nothing was amiss.
She hadn’t told Don what had happened—he just would’ve gotten himself worked up and that wouldn’t have done anybody any good—but now every time she came by, she worried that Cameron was going to be out there again.
She’d always hated that man, and now she was afraid of him, too.
As impossible as it might seem today, she knew that at one time Cameron Holt had been someone’s baby, someone’s cute little boy. He’d probably watched cartoons and played with toys, and maybe when he’d had a nightmare, his mommy had gone into his bedroom to reassure him. “I started out as a child,” Bill Cosby had said on one of her mom’s old records that Jeri had listened to as a kid, and that was the truth of it. Everyone started out as a child, and it was only on the way to adulthood that paths diverged, that some turned out to be saints, some turned out to be assholes and the vast majority of people ended up somewhere in-between.