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of
finding it."
"But it don't make no sense."
"Some things weren't meant to make no sense."
"But how'd he get up there, Mother?"
"The Lord works in strange and mysterious ways," she said. "Now let's get him
down. I want him off of there before that sheriff comes nosing around again.
It's only a matter of time 'fore he hooks up with the DA."
Bob complied. It took the better part of the morning, and it required ladder
work and a clever placement of ropes and pulleys, and it strained Bob's back
something fierce, but by lunchtime, he had the man down. Using a wheelbarrow,
he
finally got him inside and into the room Phyliss had so carefully prepared, a
room that had been empty and locked going on three decades.
"Now what?" Bob asked her when they'd arranged the body, surprisingly limp
and
soft and not nearly as bad smelling as he'd expected, in the middle of the
white-sheeted bed. Over the bed a
309
hand-crafted animal mobile had been hung.
"We must seek His forgiveness."
"Meantime, we got ourselves a rotting body. 'Fore long, it's gonna stink
something awful."
Phyliss struck him then, the back of her hand across his mouth. A pencil of
blood trickled down his chin. He turned away.
"Shame," she said. "Sinner. Does He not promise us Resurrection? Let us pray."
Bob and Phyliss were not seen the fifth and sixth days, a Friday and a
Saturday.
The shades to their house were drawn, and a handlettered sign the words
CLOSED
TODAY appeared on the gas pumps next to the one that proclaimed CASH ONLY.
Sheriff Thompson noticed that the body was gone, of course, and he came
knocking
on their door, and when there was no answer, and when he could not peek
through
the shades, he got back in his cruiser and drove away. First thing Monday
morning, he was going to get a search warrant. He was going to go through
that
place with a fine-toothed comb. He was going to make some arrests. He was
going
to raise holy hell. He was the sheriff. Things had gone far enough.
At dawn the seventh day, Sunday, a new body was observed on the pole. It was
Bob's, and the coroner who eventually examined it concluded that he had died
up
there, although how that could be was a mystery he reckoned would never be
solved.
Before the sun had climbed over the Berkshire Hills, the house and gas
station
went up in flames. The flagpole, and Bob, were not touched. There were no
bodies
found in the ashes of the house. No sign of Phyliss. Only a report that she
had
been seen leaving town in Bob's Chevy wagon, a dark-haired young man behind
the
wheel.
310
BY BIZARRE HANDS
Joe R. Lansdale
For Scott Cupp
About three years ago, I wrote a column in which I mentioned Joe Lansdale as
one
of the most underrated writers in the business. In 1988, Joe won the Horror
Writers of America Bram Stoker Award for best short story, so all that's
changing. He writes with a pure, clear, wholly original voice that yanks you
to
attention from the first sentence and never lets up. Reading his prose is
like
watching Jose Canseco in the batting cage-- seemingly effortless, deceptive
natural power. This guy is one of our best, friends. Have no doubts about
that.
In addition to crafting some of the most memorable stories of the past five
years, Lansdale has given us novels such as The Drive-In, The Night Runners,
and
Cold in July. He is also working on some film scripts, plus novels and
anthologies in the genres of suspense and westerns.
Joe Lansdaie lives in Nacogdoches, Texas, with his two kids and his wife,
Karen.
Of the following story, I can only tell you I think Joe has created one of
the
most wholly loathsome characters you'll meet in a long, long time.
311
When the traveling preacher heard about the Widow Case and her retarded girl,
he
set out in his black Dodge to get over there before Halloween night.
Preacher Judd, as he called himself--though his name was really Billy Fred
Williams--had this thing for retarded girls, due to the fact that his sister
had
been simple-headed, and his mama always said it was a shame she was probably
going to burn in hell like a pan of biscuits forgot in the oven, just on
account
of not have a full set of brains.
This was a thing he had thought on considerable, and this considerable
thinking
made it so he couldn't pass up the idea of baptising and giving some
God-training to female retards. It was something he wanted to do in the worst
way, though he had to admit these wasn't any burning desire in him to do the
same for boys or men or women that were half-wits, but due to his sister
having
been one, he certainly had this thing for girl simples.
And he had this thing for Halloween, because that was the night the Lord took
his sister to hell, and he might have taken her to glory had she had any
bible-learning or God-sense. But she didn't have a drop, and it was partly
his
own fault, because he knew about God and could sing some hymns pretty good.
But
he'd never turned a word of benediction or gospel music in her direction. Not
one word. Nor had his mama, and his papa wasn't around to do squat.
The old man ran off with a bucktoothed laundry woman that used to go house to
house taking in wash and bringing it back the next day, but when she took in
their wash, she took in Papa too, and she never brought either of them back.
And
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