Gospel of the Preacher’s Son

Gospel of the Preacher’s Son

Hogs Bane Road melted into a soft gospel hum beneath the rumbling wheels of my ‘72 Buick Riviera. I was still a quarter mile from the old slaughterhouse when the stench hit. Should’ve been impossible. The plant had closed twenty years ago. But even with the windows up, a wintergreen air freshener swinging on the rearview, and the AC screaming, the god-awful reek of rot still found its way inside. My stomach clenched.

That bastard better be the real deal. Because his so-called gift, sounded like a grift to me. But Madean believed, and that was enough.

The crumbling gray bricks of the ancient plant loomed up ahead. A busted RV sat in the lot. The preacher’s son stood beside it, working a rusted blue grill. Smoke coiled from whatever sizzled on his spatula. It smelled like scorched rat. He tipped his faded red ball cap as I parked.

With a Glock 43 at my ankle and a fifth of Virginia Gentleman under my arm, I joined him by the grill. His bloodshot eyes lit up when he saw the bottle. The meat on his spatula hissed. His trembling hand gave him away: DTs. He was spoiling for a drink.

“Afternoon,” I said. “Mister Boone?”

He flashed a ruined grin, teeth like busted gravestones sinking in bad soil. “Ain’t nobody’s Mister. Call me Caleb.” His tongue dragged across cracked lips, his gaze stuck to the bottle. “How’d you hear about me?”

I shrugged. “Word gets around.” Everybody knew about Reverend Boone’s shame. His son, the child molester and ex-con.

Piles of garbage stood high beside a sunken porta potty that leaned like the tower of Pisa.

“What happened to you, man?” I asked.

His eyes glinted, a little spark of crazy. “You got a family, Mister?”

“Looking to start one. You?”

His laughter split the humid air. “Hell is family. My father’s a preacher. Called me an abomination when he learned about my gift. Tried to beat the devil outta me. Years later, when that girl lied and sicced the law on me? Nobody helped. Not my mama, not my brothers. Haven’t spoken to any of ‘em since.”

“Maybe it’s time to change that—”

He barked, sharp as a junkyard dog, his breath worse than the slaughterhouse. “Wouldn’t piss on ‘em if they were on fire.”

I’d met the Reverend once or twice. He was a monumental asshole. But Caleb’s siblings? They deserved better.

“Shame,” I said. “Sounds like a tragedy.”

He waved it off. “Suppose you came for a prayer.”

“The special kind.”

He spit in his palms, rubbed them together, then on his pants. “Only kind I do.”

He lowered the flame on the grill. His eyes reached for the bottle. His filthy hand followed.

“Not so fast, Caleb.” I snuck a pack of Lucky Devils from my pocket. “Prayer first.”

He rocked on his heels. “What’re we praying for, Mister…?”

“John Gospel.”

He rolled his eyes. “God can’t find you without your real name.”

I clanked open my Zippo and lit the smoke. “John Gospel.”

“What do you want from Him, John?”

“Heal someone.”

“Who?”

“You start. I’ll tell you when you get to the good part.”

“That’s not how it works.”

I tipped the bottle. “You sure?”

He folded his hands and closed his eyes. “Dear God, your humble servant Caleb calls to you…”

His body stiffened. He rose off the ground. Sparks danced off his skin. I stumbled back, breath caught in my throat.

“…I beseech you, God, on behalf of this wretched soul, John Gospel, to bring healing into the world…” His eyes snapped open, all white. His voice gave way to something old, like the sky tearing open. “On whose behalf do you seek divine healing?”

I dragged on my cigarette. “You, Caleb Boone. I name you.”

He hovered there, jaws working, a tear sliding down his cheek.

“Madean sent me,” I said. “Your sister. The one you haven’t spoken to in years—”

His face twisted. “No. I hate them. All of them.”

“Be that as it may, your sister wants you healed.”

“I won’t… I refuse…” His body convulsed like it was fighting itself. That voice came back. “It is done, John Gospel. Your miracle is granted.”

He sagged to the ground, color flooding his skin. Flesh filled out his gaunt face. He looked ten years younger.

I called Madean. “Bring the truck.”

“We’re on our way,” she rasped.

Caleb climbed to his feet, blinking in disbelief.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Twenty years younger.”

“Good.”

His face hardened. “I still don’t want nothing to do with those backstabbers.”

“Too bad.” I slipped the Glock from my ankle holster. “Madean’s liver’s failing. She could really use a gift like yours.”

“She ain’t getting it.” He sneered, teeth now sharp and gleaming. “Let her rot.”

“Figured you’d say that.”

The little Glock snapped three times.

Caleb hit the pavement, as dead as yesterday.

I grabbed his legs and dragged him toward the sound of the refrigerated truck pulling up behind me. It skidded to a stop. The back doors flew open. Madean and her brothers, jumped out and froze.

“He looks so healthy,” one said.

“Like before he went to prison,” the other added as they loaded him into the truck bed.

I kissed Madean’s hand. “Somebody order a fresh liver?”

She hugged me, ribs poking through thin skin. The disease was eating her alive. “I knew you’d come through.”

I slammed the Buick door behind her. A back-alley surgeon waited for us in the city. “Of course, you did,” I said, firing up the engine. “My word is gospel.”