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.She wanted to see this reverend.He took the stage in a black suit that must have been dreadful in the sun (but oh yes, the sun was sinking—the sun would be sunk in another hour, or less than two).Reverend Aarons was a tall man, lanky inside the death-black suit, with bird-black eyes and a shock of astonishing white hair that framed his head with the shape of a halo.He hushed the crowd when he opened his hands; he opened his mouth, and the tones that poured forth were as dark and thick as tar.“I thank you for gathering here with me today.I thank you all for being here.”He lifted a Bible, black like his suit, and he held it aloft as though it were an empty envelope—though it must have weighed more than a sack of flour.“We are here for this—for the Word.We are here for the sound of salvation, as comes through Jesus Christ and no one else—no where else.There is no store that sells it.There is no thief who steals it.There is no bank that loans it.There is only Jesus Christ.”For the first time in weeks, Eileen shivered.She didn’t even have to listen hard to hear it in his mouth.She was close enough to smell it, sliding off his body like water off a well-pitched roof.The stink of the wolf was there—rank, reeking of old butter, wet dog, and meat that has turned.The predator glimmered in his eyes…but it was not alone there.Eileen made herself look.She forced her face up and pried her hands away from it.Gazing out beside the beast was a very human defiance—a very mortal resolve that stood beside the wolf and wrapped its fingers around the wolf’s throat.It was a determination like nothing she’d ever seen before.It awed her, and thrilled her.It terrified her.The longer Reverend Aarons spoke, the more frightened she became because he was doing so well.He was so powerful, so magnetic, and so persuasive—even though night was coming, and the tent was packed with easy victims.His control was unlike anything Eileen had seen anywhere, in anyone.But it would not be enough.Just when she’d begun to wonder if yes—faith could hold the thing in check—she began to see the cracks around the edges.The wrinkles around his eyes flexed, unflexed, stretched.The hand that held the Bible began to tremble, steadied, quivered.“No,” she said.“No,” she urged.“Hold it.Hold it in.Hold it back.”I want so badly to believe that you can.If you can, maybe I can.His arm folded, and his hand dropped the Bible.It fell to the stage floor with a resounding thump, sending a shockwave back through the crowd.The reverend’s face was white, almost as white as his hair.“Is he all right?” someone asked, off to Eileen’s left.“He looks sick, is he all right?”The reverend began to speak again.His words came slower, as if to create them cost him dearly; but they were clear, and commanding.“I want to ask you,” he began.“I want to know who here among us would come forward and make a fresh commitment to the Lord.I want all of you who are willing to come down here to rise up—and join me in front of this stage.Will you join me for a word of prayer?”A traveling murmur worked its way through the audience, sweeping back and forth across the room, punctuated by the occasional outburst of, “Yes!” “Yes, I will!”Behind the stage, Leonard and the young woman stood—eyes closed, hands raised—with the piano and fiddle players.“No,” Eileen said.No one heard her, and no one heeded her, and she expected that much.The audience surged, and people came tearfully forward—hands outstretched, prayers dribbling down their chins.“No, don’t go near him.Don’t….” She gave her plea more volume, but it still was swallowed by the ambient hums, hymns, and petitions.He was cracking, top to bottom—it had happened so gradually, and then all at once.His head went back and a coughed groan came up out of his throat.It was followed by a muttering, mumbling, gurgling torrent of incoherent syllables that rattled out through the tent.“Oh God,” Eileen said, and the cry was taken up by others.Then, much to her astonishment, more babbling broke out in imitation.A woman here, a man there—another woman over in the corner dropped to their knees, and to the ground, and began an echo of the reverend’s rambled litany.Circles opened around them, spaces cleared, and shouts of, “Praise Jesus!” rang out.“You don’t understand,” Eileen declared with a touch of desperation.She reached out to force her way forward, to the reverend’s side.She broke through the ring of people and was pushed back by a rough but determined arm.“Let him be,” said the pretty singer.“He’s on fire with the Spirit of the Lord.”“He needs help,” Eileen argued.Leonard stepped through the crush of people and joined the women.“No, Eileen.You don’t understand.He’s fine, he’s—”“He’s not fine!”The man on the ground was curling and uncurling his body in and out of a fetal position, groaning, and twisting.Eileen cast a desperate glance towards the pried-open tent flaps and felt a sharp stab of terror.The desert air was creeping down to blackness, bleeding dark auburn from the sunset and promising stars before long.The wolf inside was calling her, too.It was lunging, lurching, throwing itself against her ribcage as if it could break itself out that way.She clutched her own chest and buckled, moaned, reached for her skirt.She tugged at the hem and threw aside the hands that wanted to help her.“Away,” she gasped.“Get away!”But the hands petted harder, soothing, encouraging.And on the stage the reverend’s eyes were changing color—losing that pit-deep black and taking on a cast of gold around the edges.Nearly delirious herself, Eileen fell to one knee and collapsed against the singing girl’s legs.The commotion of the gesture gave her a second to reach under the skirt and the first thing she touched was the Colt.It was snug in its holster, warm against her body.No, maybe not.Maybe? Please.She ran her fingers around the garter and grabbed the green bottle instead, tearing it out from under her dress and thumbing the cork loose.She heaved it to her face and threw a few drops into her mouth, wanting comfort and control—or at least a little bit of blackness
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