CHAPTER NINETEEN1THE FOLLOWING DAY The Rock River Guardian carried a story about the newest plague pit found near town, and how the grisly remains of twenty-four hapless souls had been pulled from the mass grave so far. There was no mention of Henry Putnam’s inexplicable rebirth last night, of course, just a short paragraph regarding the family’s tragic carbon monoxide deaths.Tommy called Franklin’s cell phone and they agreed to get together out at Blessing Acres orchard, after he wrapped up his schedule early for the day. Richard and Katie stopped off at the Nightlight Inn to shower and grab a change of clothes first. Richard hadn’t wanted to do it at Deadmond’s, hadn’t wanted to hang around there for anything other than breakfast and morning coffee with George. So, after pulling on some oversized sweatshirts and clean blue jeans, they reclined on the neatly made beds and watched cartoons awhile, eating microwave popcorn from the motel’s vending machine lounge.He paid the room

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE1SIMON JULIAN RECLINED naked in the arms of Jesus, surveying his chapel’s sanctuary for the last time.He had shed his clothes and folded them neatly, applied some eyedrops, and had ascended into the welcoming outstretched arms above him. The Reverend sprawled corpselike in the large Christ statue’s embrace, blinking until his eyes cleared. His gaze fell upon the stained glass windows over the alcove.Where next? he wondered, feet and hands dangling, head craned to one side. Hop ship for a life abroad, another continent—or remain close by? Explore this doleful heartland a bit longer.Kansas, say: to the small town called Codell perhaps—ravaged by a tornado on May 20th of the year 1916 . . . and then again one year later on the same date: May 20th, 1917 . . . and again precisely one year after that: on May 20th of 1918—all three storms coming on like enraged beasts in the early evening hour.So many places full of hopelessness and human grief. Places of maddeni

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE1“SAY YOUR NAME for me,” the old woman said. “Speak it now.”Hesitation: “Richard Franklin.”She repeated his words, pronouncing them slowly—“Richard” came out as Ricard.“Now say mine.” Her tongue darted over shriveled lips that were barely there. “Say it.”A small red fox with half its tail gone was circling around his shins, he’d noticed, brushing against them. “Witch Beulah. But I’m not sure . . . ” Richard swallowed. “Beulah the Witch.”The puckered mouth curved. “Why have you come this night? What would your pleasure be, eh? And why should I help you?”“His little girl—” Truitt began.“Let him speak it himself, Thomas.” Her eyes glinted obsidian-black in the firelight. “Well?”Richard spoke, going over it all again, telling her about Katie and raking fingers through his hair, telling her that he had nowhere else to go. She listened, allowing him to finish before beckoning them both.They followed her through the dark, followed the swish of her ski

“THEY POISON THE HEART”by Michelle Brooke Deadmond(an excerpt)Soon they tracked the hunted Sauk warrior northward to Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, where finally he surrendered and was taken prisoner at Fort Crawford, thus becoming government property and a ‘trophy’ of war to be put on display.Exhausted, and sick at heart, the 65-year-old Indian chief spoke in chains at the Prairie du Chien fort, standing shackled upon the original ceded lands of his great Sauk ancestors, his long resistance at an end now. The speech he gave that day told of lies and betrayal, of the deliberate, systematic extermination of his people. It would become Black Sparrow Hawk’s~~ Coda ~~“I fought hard,” he professed before his captors. “But your guns were well aimed. The bullets flew like birds in the air . . . my warriors fell around me.” His discourse shifted to admonishment. “You know the cause of our making war. It is known to all white men. They ought to be ashamed of it.” He went on to tell of

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX1THEY SWUNG TO witness Chip Priewe’s demented features, to see him pointing with the pistol and backing away. Soon everyone was looking, gazes upturned. The high wind which buffeted the trees and tore across the shadowed ground had caught Michelle’s cremains up, and up, keeping them aloft. Lifting and throwing them around with leaves and other bits of debris. Denying them respite—Out of this blizzard of swirled grit and ash, uncannily, shapes were forming.“The trees!” Priewe screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. His lunatic eyes shone moon-bright. “Oh, Christ. Hanging . . . in the trees. Can’t you fucking see them?”They did: apparitions in the night-dark limbs of the cottonwood. Something glimmering in the sleety rain. Thunder crashed and everyone jumped, lightning skittering throughout the clouds. The police chief howled.Shadows were coming to life in the tree branches, undulating with an inner light. Changing particle and position, reconfiguring. But