The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

“I am pastor of a church in Titusville. The Church of Holy Faith, it’s called. Only there’s no church anymore. We had a dry summer in my part of the world. There was a wildfire, probably started by campers. And probably drunk. That’s usually the case. My church is now just a concrete footprint and a few charred beams. I and my parishioners have been worshipping in an abandoned gas station-convenience store on the Jonesboro Pike. It is not satisfactory during the winter months, and there are no homes large enough to accommodate us. We are many but poor.”

Kat listened with interest. As con-man stories went, this was a good one. It had the right sympathy-hooks.

Jensen, who still had the body of a college athlete (he also served as Newsome’s bodyguard) and the mind of a Harvard MBA, asked the obvious question. “Insurance?”

Rideout once more shook his head in that deliberate way: left, right, left, right, back to center. He still stood towering over Newsome’s state-of-the-art bed like some country-ass guardian angel. “We trust in God.”

“In this case, you might have been better off with Allstate,” Melissa said.

Newsome was smiling. Kat could tell from the stiff way he held his body that he was in serious discomfort — his pills were now half an hour overdue — but he was ignoring it because he was interested. That he could ignore it was something she’d known for quite awhile now. He could battle the pain if he chose to. He had resources. She had thought she was merely irritated with this, but now, probably prompted by the appearance of the charlatan from Arkansas, she discovered she was actually infuriated. It was so wasteful.

“I have consulted with a local builder — not a member of my flock, but a man of good repute who has done repairs for me in the past and quotes a fair price — and he tells me that it will cost approximately six hundred and fifty thousand dollars to rebuild. I have taken the liberty of adding one hundred thousand dollars, just to be on the safe side.”

Uh-huh, Kat thought.

“We don’t have such monetary resources, of course. But then, not even a week after speaking with Mr. Kiernan, your letter came, along with the video-disc. Which I watched with great interest, by the way.”

I’ll bet you did, Kat thought. Especially the part where the doctor from San Francisco says the pain associated with his injuries can be greatly alleviated by physical therapy. Stringent physical therapy.

It was true that nearly a dozen other doctors on the DVD had claimed themselves at a loss, but Kat believed Dr. Dilawar was the only one with the guts to talk straight. She had been surprised that Newsome had allowed the disc to go out with that interview on it, but since his accident, the sixth-richest man in the world had slipped a few cogs.

“Will you pay me enough to rebuild my church, sir?”

Newsome studied him. Now there were small beads of sweat just below his receding hairline. Kat would give him his pills soon, whether he asked for them or not. The pain was real enough, it wasn’t as though he were faking or anything, it was just…

“Would you agree not to ask for more? Gentleman’s agreement. We don’t need to sign anything.”

“Yes.” Rideout said it with no hesitation.

“Although if you’re able to remove the pain—expel the pain — I might well make a contribution of some size. Some considerable size. What I believe you people call a love offering.”

“That would be your business, sir. Shall we begin?”

“No time like the present. Do you want everyone to leave?”

Rideout shook his head again: left to right, right to left, back to center. “I will need assistance.”

Magicians always do, Kat thought. It’s part of the show.

Outside, the wind shrieked, rested, then shrieked again. The lights flickered. Behind the house, the generator (also state-of-the-art) burped to life, then stilled.

Rideout sat on the edge of the bed. “Mr. Jensen there, I think. He looks strong and quick.”

“He’s both,” Newsome said. “Played football in college. Running back. Hasn’t lost a step since.”

“Well… a few,” Jensen said modestly.

Rideout leaned toward Newsome. His dark, deeply socketed eyes studied the billionaire’s scarred face solemnly. “Answer a question for me, sir. What color is your pain?”

“Green,” Newsome replied. He was looking back at the preacher with fascination. “My pain is green.”