The Vanishing Gary Brown (booksvooks TXT) 📖

replaying Prophet’s words in his mind. If I hadn’t been watching your back all these years, you’d be a fucking dog all right, he thought. More like somebody’s bitch. Probably fetching slippers right now in the state penitentiary for some nasty piece of work named Butch and getting your ass popped every other day for a pack of smokes and a Coke.

He picked up the rifles, returned them to the gun rack inside the closet, and emptied his pockets of the shells. Uncomfortable to be unarmed with an intruder lurking on the grounds, he removed a semi-automatic handgun from its hiding place in an old cigar box beside the rifles. He inspected the clip, slipped it back into the weapon, chambered a round, shoved the gun into his waistband, covered it with his shirttail, and closed the closet door.

As he walked across the room, he stopped once more at the table, kneeled down, and re-examined the sawdust covered area where he had found the droplets of blood. He cupped his hands, scooped up a generous amount of the powdered wood, let it sift through his fingers, then inspected it in the flickering lamplight. A sudden draft blew in through the open door, sending the sawdust swirling about the room in violent wisps like a scirocco racing across a miniature Sahara. He opened his hands and shook the last of the fine particles from his fingers. Several small, dark clumps stuck to his skin. He smoothed his hands together, then exposed them to the light of the lantern. Erratic streaks smeared his palms in a coagulated mosaic and confirmed his suspicions. He pressed his palms together, tested them for the familiar tacky sensation. There it was. In that instant, he decided. After dinner was underway, he would slip out of Communion Hall and search the grounds alone. He knew they would not miss his absence. He preferred it that way. Relationships, other than those born of immediate convenience, only complicated matters. Attachments were for those who needed such crutches, like a blind man’s reliance on his seeing-eye dog.

Fallon picked up the lantern, walked out of the room, and closed the door behind him. The sooner he joined the others, the faster he could resume the hunt. Perhaps in the interim his quarry would assume he had given up the chase, grow bolder, and inadvertently expose himself. Throughout his life, he enjoyed an unequaled reputation as an excellent tracker of men. It was his God-given gift and one he had learned to use well. His gut was telling him the intruder was an amateur. He would simply give him time to expose himself. In the long run, patience had always proven to be his ally. This thought raised his spirits.

As he passed the fallen woodpile which had initially piqued his curiosity and rounded the corner of Communion Hall, he thought about the emotional rush he had felt seconds ago and the masterful way in which he had harnessed the energy coursing through his body as he steeled himself for the kill shot.

He could wait another thirty minutes.

39

VIRGIL LISTENED AS Fallon’s footsteps faded away, each creak on the landing at the back of the building more distant than the last. He rolled one of the tall linen bolts aside and slipped out of his hiding place. He was safe once more, yet he could not help but feel strangely exposed, as though his every move was being watched. Had Fallon really given up the search? Perhaps he was waiting around the corner, anticipating the opening of the door, his outstretched arm steadying the handgun he had taken from the closet pressed against the building wall, lining up the kill shot. Am I going to walk into a bullet the minute I step outside? Virgil thought. He dried his damp palms against his shirt and recalled the anger in Prophet’s words before he left and ordered Fallon to meet up with the others for dinner. It was obvious now that Fallon was much more of a concern than he had originally thought him to be. He was willing to challenge Prophet, and that made him dangerous. He had to warn Sky and the others. If he was losing control, he could be capable of anything, including killing Prophet, and anyone else for that matter.

Virgil cracked open the back door. If Fallon was waiting for him to show himself, there was also the possibility that he might not take the shot at all. The gunfire would draw attention. The others would come running. Fallon knew the consequences that would befall him from such an act if he were to bring violence to them, especially shooting and killing one of their own. He would be ex-communicated. There would be no police investigation, no formal charges. They were a family and took care of their own. Fallon would be dead to them. Not that that mattered much. Most already viewed him as an outcast, an unapproachable personality steeped in mystery, shrouded in secrecy. Every prophet has his Judas, Virgil thought, some deadlier than others. Perhaps the real danger was not in their relationship, but in what might come from the breaking of it.

A cool mist had swept down from the mountain, bringing with it a moon-silvered fog which swirled at Virgil’s feet as he eased open the door and looked out at the wooden landing. A rusty hinge creaked, startled him. He froze, waited for a bullet to find him. Nothing. To his relief, his body remained intact, the night quiet. Perhaps Fallon had given up the search after all. Still, he needed to know if Fallon was out there, waiting for him, and if he would draw fire the second he stepped outside. He needed a diversion. He could ready himself, time his escape, and dash out into the night, cloaked in a blanket of fog. But that would require two able legs to carry him a safe distance away from the building until he