Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli - Emily Kincaid 03 - Dead Sleeping Shaman by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

Author:Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli [Buzzelli, Elizabeth Kane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery: Thriller - Writer - Michigan
ISBN: 0738718777
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Published: 2010-04-30T22:00:00+00:00

Still 9 days to go

The campground, which had intimidated me with shadows in the dark, looked shabby and ordinary in daylight. Tents, cars, and beat-up campers were pulled in at odd angles, nosed under trees, lined around the perimeter of the meeting space, or drawn up beside one of the blackened fire pits dotting the brown grass. The pits looked greasy and cold despite all the people who must have cooked a meal or two over them. Clotheslines hung listlessly from tree to tree, drooping under scallops of pinned shirts and yellowed underwear. The whole place had a crazy Steinbeck feel to it. Like the Joads and other Depression-era families had taken up residence, waiting for a dust storm to clear.

Around the edges of the campground, people sat huddled at crooked picnic tables, leaning forward in their heavy jackets though the day wasn’t cold, only chilly. Some looked up as we passed, staring with lifeless eyes. Many were bald clones of one another—men and women in their heavy robes. They looked like Martians, with their knobby, misshapen heads. Others, maybe new to the group, wore nondescript sweatpants and sweatshirts with football logos on the chest, or stained black-and-white sweatshirts with THE END IS COMING emblazoned across the back. The strain of what they waited for was showing. I guess seriously contemplating one’s own demise can bring up some pretty dire thoughts. Even the children, leaning into parents for warmth, were unnaturally quiet.

Crystalline asked one man, who stood and nodded as she greeted him, where we could find the Reverend Fritch. He pointed to the back of the campground, behind the stage where a circle of tall pines formed a separate clearing.

At the edge of this clearing, just before the place where the forest began again, a huge RV was parked, taking up all of the space between two tall oak trees. In front of the RV, a circle of picnic tables surrounded a deep fire pit; the pit smoldering with large, stacked logs giving off ribbons of smoke. Men in robes covered by heavy jackets sat at picnic tables or in low folding chairs, reading Bibles. A few, I noticed, read that morning’s Northern Statesman. One by one, the men looked up as we drew close, then stood, their faces taking on wary smiles. Two ambled toward us.

“Good day to you, sisters.” A tall, middle-aged man got to us first and put out his hands, taking one of mine and then one of Crystalline’s in his. He moved to Felicia and Sonia, taking their hands but dropping them quickly, looking down at his palms in surprise, as if he’d received a shock.

“Welcome! Welcome!” He turned, indicating the RV, their clearing, and the other men. His voice resonated around the open space. “I’m Brother Samuel. May I be of service?”

“We’re here to see Reverend Fritch.” My voice cracked halfway through the reverend’s name. I was feeling confined, or maybe trapped was a better word, by these men. Crystalline’s face had gone an odd shade of puce, that strange color between red and brown.

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