The Influence(82)

Outside, he finally saw Cameron Holt. Naked and filthy, the rancher was running around the corral behind the smokehouse, as though chasing a horse that wasn’t there. He wasn’t saying anything but was breathing loud enough that they could hear him from this far away. On his face was an expression of mindless determination. He stopped, pissed, then continued running.

Father Ramos crossed himself.

When he returned to the church, it was full. Everyone who had come for the early mass had remained, waiting, and he was glad, because the angel had given him a voice, and he strode up the aisle to the dais and raised his hands high. “Brothers and Sisters!”

He sounded more like an evangelical tent revivalist than a Catholic priest, but the angel of the Lord was guiding him, and he continued on, telling his congregation that they needed to be ever vigilant, that there were those who would try to take this miracle from them, that it was their responsibility to make sure the angel remained safe from harm. He met the gazes of those the angel had touched—for better or worse—and knew that they understood.

“It is God’s will,” he concluded.

And, as one, the flock before him chanted, “Amen!”





TWENTY SEVEN




Ross had just gone over some reports that National Floor Mats had had him analyze, firing off an email to his fellow team members suggesting they get a few more estimates before committing to any new equipment, when Jill showed up on his doorstep. Once again, she’d walked all the way from her house, and she arrived unannounced, opening the screen door and coming in without knocking. “Hello,” she said.

“Hey!’ he greeted her, surprised.

“Busy?”

“I was. But I just finished.”

“Good.” Jill smiled, wandering over to the window. “Nice weather for a walk,” she hinted.

It was a nice day, around 75 degrees, the blue sky dotted with occasional Simpsons clouds. “Apparently so,” he said, watching as she took a drink from the water bottle she was carrying.

“I thought you might want to join me.”

“So we’re going to pretend nothing’s going on, huh? That’s the tack we’re taking?”

“No,” she said. “But you can’t obsess about it twenty-four seven. Everyone needs a little breathing room. Besides…” She tapped three pencils that were in her shirt pocket. “I figure we can start the sketch when we get back.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s walk.”

He was surprised at how much he’d grown to enjoy these little excursions. “You’re a good influence on me,” he told her as they hiked up the drive out to the road. “I’ve exercised more since I’ve met you than I have in…I don’t know how long.”

She patted his stomach. “I can tell.”

Laughing, she ran away as he tried to catch her.

They walked west for about ten minutes, until they encountered something that looked like a skinned seal by the side of the road. Ants were crawling all over the dead animal, and the sobering sight caused them to turn around. Neither of them knew what the creature was—or had been—and they speculated on its identity as they headed back to the L-Bar D, though they were both utterly certain of its ultimate origin.

The creature in Cameron Holt’s smokehouse.

Ross started describing the monster while they were still walking, and his description was specific and vivid enough that she was able to quickly sketch out a rough draft the moment they returned. It was unnervingly close, and he suggested a few minor changes to the face and the body’s position, watching as she erased and redrew.

She held it up for him to see, and Ross nodded, feeling cold. “That’s it.”

Jill looked at the sketch, saying nothing. There was an odd look on her face, an unreadable expression that prompted him to ask, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said, but the answer was tentative and not at all sure.

“Jill?”

“Let me try something else,” she said, and took another sheet of paper, this time drawing the monster with upright body and outstretched wings, the way it would have appeared before being shot. She drew quickly, the image obviously clear in her mind, and while he had never seen the creature alive, he was certain that this is what it had looked like. Even though she had changed the expression on that terrible face, closing the mouth and focusing the eyes straight ahead, he knew that the depiction was accurate. He thought of the black flying thing that had passed overhead on Christmas night, and imagined it looking exactly like this.

“Oh my God,” he said. “That’s amazing.”