Page 106 of A Boy Called Lovesong

“What do you think, you stupid boy? I’ve come to deliver you from evil.” She raised the pistol and aimed it straight at my chest. “Turn your back on temptation, Lafayette. Let your mother guide you back to the light. It’s time to take your rightful place at the pulpit of the Lord. Now that your father is dead, you and I shall lead the way.”

“You know that my father is dead?” Lovesong asked.

“Why of course. I stopped at the manor on my way here. All that fury and frantic shouting in his effort to prevent Mr. Van Owen from stealing you away from us, it was bound to lead to his downfall.”

“Maybelle,” I gasped. “You didn’t hurt—”

“Relax, Mr. Van Owen. If you knew anything about antique pistols, you’d know that they only carry one bullet at a time. This bullet was never meant for Maybelle. It was meant for you. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. Just like I knew what I was doing when I killed that slut who gave birth to my son all those years ago… the same cunt shameless enough to let my husband rape her.”

“What the fuck?” I could feel the heat of rage that Lovesong instantly gave off. “What the fuck did you just say?”

The reverend’s wife laughed, genuinely amused. “Oh, my poor, deluded, imperfect child. What did you think happened to the little bitch? Did you honestly believe she sold her soul to the Devil, that he dragged her into the cotton fields, never to be seen again? How ridiculous of you. Mind you, you should be grateful we spun such a tale. As a little boy you worked so hard on your musical talents, just so you could make your eternally damned mother proud, just so her death was never in vain. Your musical prowess became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. For that you have me to thank. Yes, it was your father who wrote the note that we pretended to find in your basket. But the story of her contract with the Devil, that was all my making. Of course,the simple truth is much less sensational. Harper and Hettie tried to flee, to take you away from us. I caught them here at the crossroads. I shot Harper, your mother, through the heart. Hettie fled into the fields. And you, my dear son, became mine forever, just as Jesus intended you to be. My only regret that day was losing the pistol I’d used to kill her. I must have dropped it somewhere in the bayou. It was part of a pair, as you know. The same pistols used in the duel over Clara Calloway at this very same crossroads, all those years ago. Such a shame to break up a set of antiques like that.”

Lovesong was panting with anger. “You… you’re a fucking monster.”

“Now, now. Language, dear.”

“You killed my mother! You killed my mother?”

“Yes, my darling,” she said matter-of-factly. “After which I dumped her body in the bayou for the alligators to feed on. And now I’m going to do the same to your irritating, interfering friend. It’s time to say goodbye, Mr. Van Owen.”

Before I could move, she cocked the hammer on the pistol.

She pulled the trigger.

Suddenly Lovesong shoved me out of the way…

And stepped directly into the path of the bullet.

It struck him straight in the chest.

I hit the ground, then turned to see Lovesong fall, landing flat on his back, limp and lifeless.

“No,” I gasped.

“Noooooo!” the reverend’s wife screamed.

She raced toward Lovesong’s motionless body, but I beat her to him, wrapping my arms around him as the tears of shock spilled from my eyes. “Lovesong! Lovesong!”

The boot of the reverend’s wife hit me hard, slamming into my broken ribs and sending me rolling across the dirt. I clutched at my side, groaning in pain, and when I looked up, thereverend’s wife was standing over me, her pistol pointed straight at me as tears of horror and hate streamed down her trembling face.

That’s when I saw something—someone—emerge from the cotton fields.

“What have you done?” the reverend’s wife shrieked at me. “You’ve killed my son! You’ve killed my only son! What in the Lord’s name have you done?”

I couldn’t run.

I couldn’t hide.

All I could do was glare at her and say, “The other pistol. You may have lost it in the bayou… but someone else found it.”

“Who?” she demanded in a guttural scream. “Who!”

“Me!” announced a voice as angry as thunder.

The reverend’s wife spun about, her gun raised, to see Hoodoo Hettie standing twenty paces behind her… the other pistol in her hand.

Caked in mud, her hair twisted in swamp moss and her clothes nothing but rags, Hettie was unrecognizable to the reverend’s wife who eyed her up and down then said, “Who in the Lord’s name are you?”

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