“Putting it off ain’t going to make no difference,” Ben said.

SOMETIMES I THINK THAT I MIGHT’VE LET BEN STAY THE NIGHT with us not because I was afraid of what his daddy would do to him if Ben came home drunk just like his old man did every night but because I was afraid of what Ben might finally do to his daddy with that license that alcohol can give a man. I wasn’t ever afraid of Ben Hall, but I think I might’ve been a little afraid of what he was capable of doing to other people, including his daddy.

It was the memory of that night, especially the look of what I took to be fear or maybe anger in Ben’s face, that put me ill at ease as I drove out to Adelaide Lyle’s house. The thought of Ben confronting some of those folks from his wife’s church with the knowledge that they might be in some way responsible for his son’s death made me worry that all those years’ worth of beatings would come to a head in a violence that Ben couldn’t predict, a violence he’d have no interest in controlling. My fear wasn’t founded just on the fact that he was a big boy who’d had to develop a tough streak or because his drunk-ass daddy had come back to Madison County and was likely headed over to Adelaide Lyle’s house with him. I was afraid because I knew that church, and I knew the man who ran it as if he thought he was Jesus Christ himself, and some of those people who went to that church believed in Carson Chambliss like he might just be.

People out in these parts can take hold of religion like it’s a drug, and they don’t want to give it up once they’ve got hold of it. It’s like it feeds them, and when they’re on it they’re likely to do anything these little backwoods churches tell them to do. Then they’ll turn right around and kill each other over that faith, throw out their kids, cheat on husbands and wives, break up families just as quick. I don’t know exactly how long Carson Chambliss had been living in Madison County the first time I ever ran up against him. And I’m not saying this fanaticism started with him, because I know it didn’t. That kind of belief has been up here a long time before I arrived on this earth, and it’s my guess it’ll still be around for a long time after I’m gone. But I’ve seen his work firsthand, and I still can’t put my finger on what it is and why it affects folks like it does. Ten years ago I saw a man set his own barn on fire while his family just stood out in the yard and watched it go, just because he thought it was the right thing to do.

In my mind that barn’s still a burned-out spectacle set against a darkening sky. The neighbors had all left their houses in the cove and followed the gravel road down to Gillum’s land, where they were facing the grassy rise atop which that barn sat with the bright orange light flickering inside. I’d followed the smoke down from the highway, and I was driving slowly past the fence when some of them turned to look at me like they hadn’t ever seen the law before. But most of them kept their eyes on the barn where it was swollen with smoke from a season’s worth of crop burning. What looked like fog rolled the length of the pasture and picked its way through the barbed wire fence. The cruiser’s windows were down, and the air was tobacco-sweet.

Gillum and his two daughters were standing in the yard watching the barn. His wife had gone into the house to save herself from watching it burn and to put off the accounting of loss that would follow. I still picture her inside a too-warm room with closed windows and doors, where she busies her hands and pays no mind to the smoke drifting through the yard and the sound of the boards burning and popping loose from the barn’s frame. If she’d have pulled back the curtain, she’d have seen me walking through the yard toward the smoke where Gillum was standing with their daughters and waiting for it to be done.

“What’s happened here, Gillum?” I asked him. He didn’t take his eyes from the barn, but his right hand left his pocket and touched the shoulder of his oldest daughter. She was maybe thirteen, and she jumped like electricity had suddenly passed between the two of them. Her face looked sad and scared, and she moved closer to her father. Gillum looked at me, and then he looked back at the barn.

“I’m just taking care of something, Sheriff,” he said.

“I noticed the smoke from the highway and thought I’d better come down,” I said.

“Everything’s fine.” He was quiet, and I listened to the fire spreading itself inside the barn. Whispered voices rose below us where the people had gathered to watch down by the fence.

“Gillum, you’ve got a season’s worth of tobacco drying in that barn. I know better than to think it’s fine.” Before I could say anything else, his youngest girl looked up at me.

“I seen him run in there,” she said. She looked at her daddy, and he reached down and took her hand. She leaned her head against his leg.

“What’s she talking about?” I asked. Gillum didn’t say nothing, and the girl just looked at me. Then she tilted her head back and looked at her daddy again.

“Who’d you see in there?”

“She says she saw the Devil come running down the road,” the oldest girl said. “She says she saw him run into the barn.”

“Is somebody in there?” I asked. Gillum’s gaze left the barn and turned toward the ground. Up the hill in front of him, the flames had dispatched with the low beams and moved upward along the crossbeams toward the pitch. The eaves were beginning to burn. The roof would catch next.

“Libby Clovis took sick awhile back,” Gillum said. “Bob tried to wait it out, but her fever just wouldn’t break. He rode her over to the county hospital, and they looked her over and couldn’t find nothing to do for her. He was close to riding her into Asheville when she got worse, but her mama wanted him to send for the preacher. He told me he figured it couldn’t hurt.

“Libby’s mama brought out a preacher from Marshall named Chambliss, and Bob said that preacher closed himself up in the bedroom with Libby. He said he could hear all kinds of carrying on behind that door. Sounded like the furniture was getting smashed to bits, like the bed was being lifted up and down off the floor.”

I turned and looked down toward the people gathered in front of the fence. In the back I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Robert Clovis bringing an unlit cigarette to his lips. Our eyes locked, and he looked away quickly. He struck a light, and his washed-out face was framed briefly against the darkening road that fell away behind him. I turned back toward the fire.

“Who’s in that barn?”

“It’s not for me to say just what it is,” Gillum said. “But Bob told me Chambliss called the family into the bedroom late this afternoon and asked them to all join hands and pray. Bob said they stood there and held hands and prayed, but he kept his eyes open and looked around. He told me it left her body suddenly. He said everybody in the room saw it: the preacher, Libby’s mama, him. They saw it leave her body and run out of the house like a shadow. Whatever was in her is in my barn now, and I mean to be rid of it tonight.”

“You think the Devil’s in your barn?”

“Like I said, it ain’t for me to say just what it is. I just know it’s there.”

“I don’t know what your daughter thinks she saw, but I hope that barn’s empty when this fire burns out.”

“You ain’t going to find a man’s body in there,” he said. “I can promise you that.”

Most of the folks in the group by the fence had gone home, and it was full dark when the north side of the barn collapsed and took part of the roof with it. The sound of splitting wood was followed by a shower of glowing embers that fell like snow onto the lawn. Flakes of warm ash floated toward us, and I felt them blow across my face and I brushed them from my shirt. The noise of the collapsing roof startled Gillum’s youngest daughter, and she started to cry.