Walk the Sky by Robert Swartwood, David B. Silva

 
    “What about ... the demons?”  
    “There will be a sacrifice. One of your acquaintances, in fact.”  
    “What happens in two nights? Who”—he swallowed—“who will be the sacrifice then?”  
    “Do not fret,” the Reverend said. “You will not be the only choice. I have made sure since this began that all the men in town stopped smoking and drinking so their bodies and souls would be as pure as they can be. There will be a lottery. Every man will have his name put in the hat.”  
    This news didn’t quite relax Bolton. Still, it was better to know he had at least two more days.  
    Two more days to try to figure things out.  
    Two more days to try to survive.  
    The Reverend asked, “Was he telling the truth?”  
    “Who?”  
    “The man you claim killed your son.”  
    Bolton stared back into the Reverend’s eyes, remembering that night a week ago. How he had been called to Clay’s property and how he had seen his boy dead. How he had heard what his boy had tried to do. He wasn’t at all surprised, but that didn’t mean it was right that his son was dead. And so yes, he had decided to act like it had never happened. He had killed Clay’s daughter who was unconscious but still alive with his own hands because his lifelong friend Sheriff Jeremiah Logan refused to do it for him and then placed all the blame on Clay.  
    After all, Fred Bolton was no fool.  
    “Absolutely not. That man killed my son. He’s as guilty as the day is long.”  
    The Reverend said, “Then why don’t we make him tonight’s sacrifice?”

 
     
     
     
    12.

    The nights got cold in the desert, and even though the sun was still up George could feel the temperature beginning to cool down as he leaned back on his bunk and supported his spine against the brick wall of the cell.  
    Clay hadn’t said a word since the Reverend and Bolton left. Not a word. He sat on his own bunk in his own cell, his shoulders slouched forward, his eyes downcast.  
    George watched the young jailer who had stayed to keep an eye on them. He was lounging on the chair by the door, his boots up on the desk. His hat was tipped low, his eyes closed.  
    “You think he’ll believe him?” George whispered.  
    Clay said nothing.  
    “Bolton’s no fool. He’ll go whatever direction the Reverend leads him.”  
    Still Clay gave no response.  
    George went to say something else when the jailhouse door opened and the Reverend’s wife—Marilyn, he reminded himself, her name was Marilyn—slipped through.  
    “Ma’am?” the jailer asked, startled. He dropped his feet off the desk, quickly stood up. “Can I help you?”  
    “The Reverend wants you to check the livery.”  
    “He said that?”  
    “Yes, and he said you better not question him.”  
    “What about them?” the jailer asked, hooking a thumb in George and Clay’s direction.  
    “I’ll keep an eye on them for a few minutes. You best hurry.”  
    The jailer nodded and hurried through the door. Marilyn waited a few seconds, watching him through the window, before she turned and marched straight to Clay’s cell.  
    “Were you telling the truth?” Marilyn asked. “About what happened to your daughter?”  
    Clay nodded distantly.  
    “That man killed her just to get even?”  
    “To save his career. The election was coming up. He didn’t want what his son did to sway the voters. So he”—Clay swallowed—“he strangled her to death.”  
    “How old was she?”  
    “Sixteen.”  
    “The mayor’s son?”  
    “Eighteen, I believe. He was always stopping by the house, but my Ellie didn’t care for him. That night I was reading in the parlor when I heard noises in the backyard. Ellie sometimes lay on a blanket and watched the stars when the sky was clear. She liked watching the stars. She was always hoping to catch one falling. That was where he found her. By the time I went outside, he had torn her dress half off. She was fighting him, and he