Tremble by Tobsha Learner Page B

armpits of his blue shirt, climbed out from behind the wheel. Bill Williams, the preacher, whose pale body never seemed to sweat, even in this scorching heat, tagged behind. The crowd parted as Chad strode through, his showmanship at its peak. The preacher scuttled crablike beside him. Jeremiah Running Dog, sheriff, second-largest landowner and head of the local Lions club, followed them. A bulky man in his late sixties and weighing over three hundred pounds, he was feared for his unpredictable temper. Jeremiah moved at a leisurely pace, but if one looked closer the coiled muscles at his neck betrayed his apprehension.

    There were three sharp taps on the aluminum door. Jacob finished his whiskey. This was how it always started: the men of the town would make the first approach. Drought reduces people to the most basic of emotions, he mused. Dignity dissolves after the seventh month. There is something about a dearth of rain that flattens the hope out of all men, yellow, white, green, or black. He knew he could predict the reception he’d get from any small town official just by plucking a withered blade of the local grass and rubbing it between his fingers.
    He stood up and stared into the mirror by the door. He slicked back his hair, adjusted his silk shirt, and practiced a smile. He still had trouble relating to the handsome man who looked back at him, always incredulous that all the heartbreak he caused had left no mark on his face. The pristine features suggested the morality of an angel. “If only they knew,” he whispered and stepped out of the trailer.
    The three town representatives stood waiting. A gasp of expectancy rippled through the crowd as Jacob paused in front of them. The sunlight transformed the rainmaker’s hair into a blazing dark red halo. From the neck up he looked like Jesus; from the neck down like the devil, with his loose scarlet shirt and silver pendant of a satyr visible against his oiled chest. Smiling at the crowd he bowed elegantly, sending a quiver through the women.
    The mayor decided to take charge. He cleared his throat and announced loudly, “We don’t like hawkers here, or strangers for that matter.”
    Jacob leaned down and caressed his coyote with his tapered hands, his ring, its sapphire the blue of water, glinting in the sun. Eventually he spoke: “I heard there was a drought.” He lifted his face and the searing indigo of his eyes pierced Chad Winchester with a terrible longing for the sea. For a moment the mayor wondered if he wasn’t affected with the same drought madness that had caused Jeremiah’s thirty-five-year-old son to leap to his death into the town’s empty dam the summer before.
    “A drought,” Jacob continued, “that is breaking the backs of animals and the hearts of men.” His resonant voice boomed around the field and caused the body hair of the crowd to collectively stand on end.
    Sensing the disturbance the sheriff moved forward. “What can you do?” Jeremiah demanded, rolls of fat clinging to his sweat-soaked shirt. He tried not to stare too hard at the glinting pendant, which only added to the obvious sexuality of the man.
    As Jacob walked toward them the immensity of his presence made the men involuntarily step back. The rainmaker was at least six foot five and the Cuban heels gave him another three inches.
    “I can make it rain, for weeks if I choose. I can make this ground bear grass. I can turn all your crops green again.”
    “Spoken like a real con artist,” the preacher muttered. He scanned the mesmerized crowd then turned back to Jacob. “What are you after, mister? Money?” Mockery tinged his voice.
    “I have my conditions. Money ain’t one of them,” Jacob replied, his perfect teeth gleaming. He noted the glint of hatred in the preacher’s eye and remembered the Aryan Fellowship sign.
    “So if you’re not after money, what are you after?” Jeremiah stepped between the two men.
    Jacob twisted his sapphire ring. This was the