“He couldn’t get nothing out of Chambliss that would explain why they were carrying on like that, but one of his followers told him that it was in the Bible, that Jesus told the disciples that after he was gone they’d be able to do all kinds of dangerous things without getting hurt, he said it would be a sign of their righteousness. I didn’t believe him until I got home and opened up my own Bible and did a little searching, and there it was, right there in Mark. Just like they said it would be.” I heard his desk chair squeak, and I imagined Sheriff Nicks leaning all the way back, his boots up on the desk, crossed at the ankle, his hat resting in his lap.

When he mentioned the book of Mark, my mind suddenly recalled the new sign out by the front of Chambliss’s church. I recalled the exact verses on it: Mark 16:17–18. I hung up with Nicks, and when I got home that night I took Sheila’s Bible out of her nightstand and flipped through the pages until I found the verses and whispered as I read them out loud: “And these signs will follow those who believe: In my name they will cast out demons, they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them; they will place their hands on the sick, and they will get well.”

Things became clearer to me once I read that. A bad burn from a meth house explosion in north Georgia becomes a sign of holiness and power in western North Carolina. It was all in who told the story, even if that story involved a dead young girl from Mississippi. I suddenly understood the kind of mind that could convince Gillum to set his barn on fire, and I suddenly understood why a group of folks would hide behind newspaper-covered windows while they worshipped, and I finally realized what was in those little crates they carried in and out of that church on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. But other than suspicion, what did I have? What could I do? Arrest a man for exercising his religious freedom? None of it was a reason to knock on church doors, interrupt meetings and services. But now, this time, it wasn’t a sixteen-year-old runaway but a thirteen-year-old mute boy who was dead, a boy who couldn’t have told Chambliss “yes” or “no” or “stop” even if he’d wanted to. This time, I knew it was different.

NOTHING I SAW AT ADELAIDE LYLE’S SURPRISED ME WHEN I STOPPED at the top of her yard and turned off my engine and then my lights. I reached into the dash and found my badge and pinned it to my shirt, and then I opened the door and stepped out and looked into the yard where the front porch light lit up the whole scene. It was just what I thought I’d find.

A couple of beat-up and bloodied men still wearing their church clothes, Adelaide Lyle and two other old women out there seeing to their wounds. Out by the road Ben Hall had his head down on the hood of what must’ve been his daddy’s old truck, and there was Jimmy Hall himself, who’d somehow become an old man since the last time I’d seen him, sitting on the porch steps and smoking a cigarette like nothing had happened. Above him, at the window by the front door that looked out into the yard, stood Ben Hall’s youngest son, his mother, Julie, right beside him. When she saw me, she turned and walked away.

Like I said, none of what I saw that night surprised me, but what did concern me was what I didn’t see. I didn’t see Carson Chambliss, and I knew there had to be a reason why.

Jess Hall

S

EVEN

MISS LYLE HAD MET ME AND MR. STUCKEY AT HER DOOR, and then she took my hand and led me through the living room, where Mama was lying on the sofa with her eyes closed. Miss Lyle told me to sit as quiet as I could right there at the dining room table and wait for my daddy. It felt like an oven inside her house with no breeze coming in, even though she went around opening all the windows after I’d gotten in there and sat down. After she’d done that she went back into the living room and sat down in a chair beside the sofa. It was dark in her house, and there wasn’t hardly any lights on except for a lamp in the front room and the bulb hanging over the table where I was sitting and waiting. Mr. Stuckey stayed out on the porch after I came inside, and a few minutes later I heard a car come driving down the road and stop, and then I heard a door open and shut and the car drove off. I knew that whoever was driving that car had come by to pick him up.

I leaned back in my seat and looked into the living room, where I saw a little bit of light coming from under the door to the kitchen. There were people in there, but I hadn’t seen them yet. I could hear the voices of a couple of old women whispering. I could smell the coffee they’d started brewing in there too, and I figured they didn’t even know I was here, and even if they did they had probably forgotten all about me with Mama lying on the sofa over there in the front room crying like she was and Miss Lyle sitting next to her in that chair whispering, “Now, now,” and rubbing Mama’s back.

Outside, another car was coming slow down the road in front of the house, and I heard the tires crunch on the gravel when it pulled into Miss Lyle’s driveway. I heard the car doors open and slam, and then I heard footsteps in the gravel. I prayed it was Daddy coming to get me, and I sat there and listened hard. Whoever was out there shuffled their feet slowly through the gravel like they’d never make it inside. I couldn’t hear them in the driveway anymore, and I knew they must’ve been coming up the porch steps one step at a time.

The door creaked open in the front room and a man’s voice said, “Addie.” It was quiet for just a second after that, and then Mama started crying again even louder than she was before. I knew that whatever made her cry had just been brought into the house because I heard somebody walking across the wood floor in the front room like they were struggling to do it, and I turned around in my chair and looked toward the front room and waited to see what it was. Two old men from the church shuffled into the dining room, and they stopped walking and looked at me where I sat at the table. They were carrying Stump. He had his head leaned forward and his eyes closed like he was asleep, but I knew he wasn’t sleeping, and I knew without knowing for sure that I’d seen these same two men carrying him out of the church as me and Mr. Stuckey drove off in Daddy’s truck. I wanted to say something to them, but my jaws were shaking and I couldn’t get my mouth to open. I could feel tears running down my cheeks.

“Alton,” one of the old men said. He held Stump under his arms and looked at the other man.

“What happened?” I finally asked, but I was crying so hard they probably didn’t even understand what I’d said. I couldn’t hardly see them with all the tears in my eyes. “What happened to him?” I asked, but it came out worse than it had before.

“Alton,” the man said again. The one named Alton held Stump’s legs and just stared at me. When he heard his name, he looked at the man calling him. They shuffled across the floor to the bedroom on the other side of the table. It was so quiet that I could barely hear Mama crying in the next room, and I knew she had her face buried in one of the sofa cushions. I knew those old men had laid Stump down on the bed because I heard the springs creak. I could hear them in there whispering too, and then I heard the door shut. A second later I felt somebody’s hand on my shoulder.

“Son,” a voice said. I looked up and saw the old man named Alton standing over me. His eyes were bright blue and sad-looking, and his face was tan and wrinkled. “I’m sorry, son,” he said. He squeezed my shoulder just hard enough for me to barely feel it.

“Alton,” the other man said. Alton gave my shoulder another squeeze.