The Last Harvest Page 8

  With a soft sigh, she rolls onto her side, turning away from me.

  I’m reaching out to brush her hair back from her cheek when Miss Granger comes back in the room carrying a tray. Quickly, I sit down in one of the chairs, pulling a throw pillow across my lap.

  She glances down at me … at the pillow. God, this is humiliating.

  I clear my throat. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’ll need her rest.” Miss Granger pours the tea. “Being marked for the Devil takes a lot out of you.”

  I let out a burst of nervous laughter, but Miss Granger stares at me, unflinching.

  “You’re being serious?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She reaches out to hand me a cup.

  I want to storm out, tell her she’s fucking crazy, but when I look over at Ali and think about what’s happened over the past couple of days, I take the tea. Whatever Miss Granger’s wacko theories are, it’s a hell of a lot better than me just being a total nut job.

  I take a sip, letting it scald my mouth, hoping it’ll burn away the desire I feel twisting up inside of me. But I can’t stop staring at Ali’s legs, her tan skin peeking through the holes in the quilt.

  Emma pulls an old Polaroid camera from the drawer of the side table. “Can you hold her hair back for me?”

  A prickling heat rushes to my face.

  “I just need to document the mark.”

  I set the pillow aside. But as soon as I gather Ali’s long silky hair in my hands, the feelings stir up in me again—stronger than ever.

  The flash goes off.

  I twist her hair in my hands.

  I have to force myself to let go. I take a deep breath. Whatever this is, whatever’s going on with me, it’s carnal … like a bomb has been detonated inside of me.

  Miss Granger shakes the photo a few times. I settle back in the chair, watching it develop from a dark-gray mass into the soft muted colors of Ali’s skin.

  Miss Granger pins the photo under the Miller column.

  “What is all this?” My voice hitches in my throat.

  “Research.” She looks back at me with a weary smile. “I’ve been watching all of you for some time now.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Emily Granger, but people call me Emma. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m from Milton, Mass—”

  “No … I mean who are you, really? What’s your deal, because I know you’re not just some guidance counselor.”

  She purses her lips. “I work for the church.”

  “What? All Saints?”

  “No. The Vatican.”

  “Wait…” I lean forward, my elbows digging into my knees. “That photo on your dresser … is that … is that the pope?”

  A tiny smile lights her gray eyes. “We’ve known something was coming for a long time, we just didn’t know how he would present himself.”

  “Who?”

  “The Devil.”

  I choke on the tea and set my cup back down. I want to laugh it off, but deep down I know she really believes it. “And you think this has something to do with the marks, the symbol you were telling me about … the invitation?”

  “Yes, but the invitation is only the beginning.” She twists the cross around her neck. “According to the prophecy, six will be chosen.”

  “What prophecy? From the Bible?”

  “From something much older than the Bible.”

  “Is that what you had in your room?”

  She looks at me sharply. She knows I’ve been digging around in her things. “We’ve pieced it together over time. The original prophecy was torn into six sections.” She takes down a photocopy from the wall and hands it to me.

  I trace the shape of the tear marks with my finger.

  “It’s a pentagram. We’re missing the middle section. Six have been chosen as potential vessels for the Devil, from the sixth generation of this community. But only one will be chosen above the rest, leaving five to fall … to usher in a new age. The question is, which one will it be?” I watch her eyes skim the photographs.

  “You think the six are the Preservation Society council members?”

  There’s a photo pinned off to the side. A school photo of a kid with crooked teeth, crooked smile, and pale blue eyes.

  “Is that—”

  “Lee Wiggins, before the explosion.”

  “Why is his photo up here?”

  “It’s nothing,” she says as she takes the photo down. “Just a theory I was working on. He’s very disturbed.”

  I stand next to her to study the documents. “So the others have the mark, too?”

  “I believe so.”

  I swallow hard. “Then why’s my photo up there? I don’t have it.”

  “You’re special, Clay. You’re one of the eldest sons and daughters of the founding families, yet somehow, you’ve been able to resist.”

  “The sixth generation,” I whisper, the words feel like they’re being scraped out of my throat with a dull knife.

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  “My father, before he died, he said it was the sixth generation and something about the seed. He also said, ‘I plead the blood.’”

  “Do you know what that means?” she asks.

  “I think it’s from the Bible.”

  “It’s usually said when praying over someone tormented by demons,” she says as she studies me. “Did he say anything else before he passed? Anything at all.”

  The memory of his final moments slip under my skin like cold liquid steel.

  She knows I’m holding something back. But some things are best left buried.

  Like Noodle said—we choose what we want to remember and I choose good.

  Desperate to change the subject, I glance back at Ali. “Is the Devil inside of her? Is that what made her eat the cat?”

  Miss Granger lets out a careful breath. “The things you see … the way you see them … aren’t always what they appear to be. The calf … the ritual with Ali climbing out of a dead cow … the cat—”

  “But there was blood all over her mouth. You saw it.” I start pacing.

  “I’m not saying she wasn’t bleeding, Clay.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “Ali has a slight contusion on the inside of her lip, lining up with her bottom teeth, as if she’s been struck. She and Tyler were seen arguing at half-time. She grabbed his arm and he pulled away from her, accidentally striking her lip. And then she ran off.”

  “So, wait … you’re telling me there was no cat?”

  “You’ve been under a lot of strain.”

  I exhale a shaky breath as I sink back into the chair. On the one hand, I’m relieved, but the thought of Tyler laying a finger on her makes my blood boil. “I’m gonna kill him.” I clench my hands into fists.

  “Clay, listen to me.” She kneels in front of me. “I need you to focus. Keep your cool. We have more pressing matters right now.”

  “I know it.” I bob my head. “I’m crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy. Your father wasn’t crazy. I think he was a prophet, just like you.”

  I look up at her, letting out a strangled laugh. “Sure. Lock up your livestock, Midland, we’ve got a prophet on the loose!”

  “I won’t let that happen to you. Your father had his own demons.”

  Demons. Did she know about him? His extracurricular activities?

  “I can help you through this. It’s a gift.”

  “Whatever this is, it’s no gift.” I lean my pounding head in my hands. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. And what does that even mean … being a prophet?”

  “It means you may have the foreknowledge of future events, though it may sometimes apply to past events of which there’s no memory and to present hidden things that cannot be known by the light of reason.”

  “So, you’re telling me I’m seeing the future?” I dig my fingers into my skull, desperately trying to understand. “That someday Ali’s going to eat a
live cat?”

  “No.” She gently shakes her head. “I think it’s your subconscious telling you that something’s happening to Ali. Maybe you see a darkness lurking around her … a hunger. I’ve seen it come to people in different ways. She’s in danger, but she’s not lost yet. You can save her.”

  “You’re going to have to slow down a little.” I lean back in the chair, feeling dizzy again.

  “I believe you’re one of the many prophets throughout history,” Miss Granger says. “It’s an honor. You join a noble tribe. Jesus had a vision of the dove when baptized in the book of Mark. Visions of afterlife in the martyr’s account of Perpetua and Felicity. Constantine’s vision of Christ’s sign. Even René Descartes had a series of dreams that set the course of his life in science.”

  “No. You don’t understand.” I grit my jaw. “I’m not seeing God, or light, or things for the good of mankind. I’m seeing death and destruction and blood and … filth.”

  “You can fight it. We can deal with it, if we know what’s happening. We can find the things that trigger the visions—maybe it’s a feeling that comes over you when you have them. Some people see a halo of light, some get shaky, some hear a hum. I can help you. Together, we can end this.”

  “How do you even know about all this?” I glance up at the wall. “The six chosen ones. The marks.”

  She scratches the side of her head and then fixes her bun. “Because it’s happened before.” She pulls out an old photo album.

  “Beirut. Philippines. Prague. Belize. And most recently, Mexico City in 1999.”

  She turns to a news clipping: TWO MISSIONARIES AND FIVE CHILDREN ARE FOUND DEAD AFTER A BRUTAL ATTACK AT THE CHURCH OF GRACE.

  “But how did you know it was coming to Midland?”

  She turns the page to a set of disturbing autopsy photos. “Each child had the mark, the upside-down U with two dots above and below, on a different part of their body. The surviving child had it on their scalp. But these were the marks that were left on the missionaries. They weren’t burns or scrapes; the lettering was raised from the inside, like someone carved the numbers from inside their bellies. A reverse etching … like Braille.” She runs her fingertips across the photo. “There was a distinct marking—35.0264 on the man’s torso, 99.0908 on the woman’s.”

  “What do the numbers mean?”

  “At first, I thought they were Bible verses. I checked every scripture—New Testament, Old … nothing fit. It wasn’t until we were sailing from Haiti to Miami to investigate a case last year that I realized they were coordinates.”

  “To where?”

  “Midland, Oklahoma. More specifically, the breeding barn at the Neely ranch. And when I saw the story in the news—”

  “‘Mooder in Midland.’” I sigh.

  “I knew we’d found the place of his next attack.”

  “So, you’re telling me Midland’s the gateway to hell?” I drag my hands through my hair.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I do. I mean, I want to, but this is a lot to take in. You’re going to have to give me some time.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s something we don’t have. Whether you believe it or not, if we don’t act swiftly, they’ll die. One by one, the Devil will pick off the weak, until only one remains.” She takes the album away from me.

  “There must be a way to stop this.”

  “Only an exorcism will cleanse them, stop the cycle. And in order to do that, we need information. We need proof to get this sanctioned.”

  “Sanctioned? What, by a priest?”

  “By the Church. This isn’t something we take lightly.” Her gaze turns to the photos on the wall. “The demons are putting Ali and the others through their paces as we speak … trying to decide the best route. They’re all vulnerable right now.”

  “How long do they have?”

  “A month, a week, a few days … it varies, but once the cycle starts, the Devil’s influence will spread like poison.”

  Ali stirs. We both glance back at her.

  Miss Granger whispers, “She doesn’t realize what’s happening to her.”

  “We have to tell her. We have to tell everyone.”

  “No.” She looks at me with pity. “This is bigger than you and me. He could have disciples all around us. And no one would believe you. They’ll only put you away, send you to Oakmoor. You won’t be able to help anyone in there. She’s going to need you.”

  “It’s hard to explain, but when I’m near her … when I touch her, I feel a darkness.”

  “We all have darkness, Clay. She’s still Ali. The girl you love.”

  I feel an embarrassed flush creep up my neck. How did Miss Granger know about that? Was I that obvious?

  “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?” I ask. All those hours we spent together … every day for the past year … you think you could’ve mentioned something?”

  “I kept waiting for you to change … to join the others. I tried to tell you today, but, well, that didn’t go exactly as planned.”

  “I’m sorry about that … about the way I acted.”

  “We all have a purpose, Clay. It’s time you fulfill yours.”

  “Why us?” I ask, looking up at the photographs.

  “That I don’t know. But I intend to find out, and you can help me.”

  “How? What can I possibly do?”

  “You said Mr. Neely invited you to the Harvest Festival, to take your place on the council, the team. You need to do that.”

  “Are you crazy?” I bolt out of my seat. “Hell, no. Especially not after all this. I’m not getting near that place.”

  “They think you’re one of them. They’ve been waiting for you all this time. We need information and you’re the only person who can get close enough. This town needs you. Ali needs you. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  I glance at Ali, sleeping so peacefully, and it’s hard to believe any of this is possible, but I can feel a kernel of truth buzzing under my skin. The artifacts in the Preservation Society … the family Bibles, everything my dad said to me about the sixth generation … the seed. There’s something to this. Maybe my dad discovered the truth. Sure, he went crazy at the end, but maybe he was just desperately trying to stop this from happening.

  I swallow hard. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Tomorrow, meet me at All Saints in Murpheyville at 11:00 A.M. Bring Noodle for a tour. It will give you an excuse to be there. While they’re showing her around, we’ll present our case to the priests.”

  “Noodle … I almost forgot … the note.” Frantically, I dig through my pockets. “I had this terrible nightmare the other night … and then I found this.” I pull it out and hand it to her.

  She unfolds it. “I don’t understand.”

  “Look what it says.”

  She glances up at me with a puzzled expression. “It’s a gas receipt.”

  I snatch it back from her. “No, this wasn’t it. There was a note from Noodle that said, ‘he’s coming.’”

  She reaches out for my hands to steady them. “Clay, whatever you saw … whatever you think you saw, it’s your subconscious mind. The nightmares … the visions … it’s just your fear taking over. You’re afraid for Noodle, for Ali, for your entire family, which is perfectly normal.”

  Ali murmurs something.

  “You should go.” Miss Granger crosses the room to check on her.

  “But shouldn’t I be the one to take her home? If she wakes up and she’s alone with you in some weird nightgown and—”

  “I’ve been Ali’s counselor for a year now. She won’t be afraid. It makes sense that she would come to me after what happened at the game.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

  “Why is she in counseling?”

  “She mostly talks about you. The Preservation Society forbade her from speaking to you until you were ready, but she misses y
ou. She’s worried about you. You have to remember, in her eyes, you’re the one who’s changed. You’re the one who abandoned her.”

  It feels like someone just kicked me in the gut.

  All this time I could’ve been with her, watching out for her.

  I take a step closer, but Miss Granger stops me. “Don’t worry,” she says as she leads me to the door. “We have God on our side.”

  16

  THE HOUSE is dark and quiet—same as any other night, but everything’s different now.

  More sinister.

  My body’s exhausted from all the adrenaline pumping through me, but my mind’s wired. I go into the kitchen to dig around in the fridge. I’m suddenly starving. I grab an apple, rub it against my shirt, and take a giant bite out of it as I check out my options, but all I see is that bloody leftover steak. And just like that, my appetite’s gone.

  I scrape the plate into the dog bowl. As I’m washing up, Hammy miraculously appears through the dog door just long enough to grab the steak and take it back outside.

  “Traitor,” I say, shaking my head.

  I’ll never understand that dog. He’s got a nice warm place to sleep. Hell, Noodle’d probably let him sleep in her bed if he wanted to. Instead, he stalks the perimeter of the wheat all night long like he’s looking for something … waiting.

  I write a note for Jess on the back of an envelope from some college in Texas that’s still trying to recruit me.

  We’re all going to the Harvest Festival tomorrow, 6pm—look normal. You owe me.

  As I swing around the banister to head upstairs, a fly buzzes past me into the living room. I stuff the note in my back pocket and grab the flyswatter hanging from the nail in the kitchen. The fly lands on the stark white wall where the crucifix used to hang.

  There’s a dozen of them buzzing around, big and slow, like they’ve been trapped in here for weeks. I haul back the swatter.

  “Don’t.” Mom’s voice startles me.

  I let out a jittery breath and turn to see her sitting on the couch in the dark, staring at the wall.

  “They’ll die soon enough … all on their own,” she whispers.

  I can tell the pendulum has swung in the other direction. She remembers everything now. I can feel the pain seeping out of her.