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<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\nPrologue<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
T<\/strong>om\nPritchard had ten minutes to live. At\nhalf past six, the Missouri farmer had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with his\nwife of thirty-three years \u2013 fried bacon with her special egg casserole and\ntoast. He\u2019d skipped the shower; choosing\ninstead to pull on last night\u2019s overalls and flannel shirt, clean socks and\nboots from the mud porch. Gotta milk Sassy and fix the gate on that\nfence first. I\u2019ll take a long bath after\nI finish up in the field.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/em>Thirty-six degrees of wind chill slapped the farmer\u2019s unshaved\ncheeks, causing his eyes to water a bit. \nPritchard pulled the stained, quilted coat collar up tightly around his\nearlobes. His right glove had a large\ntear in the little finger, so he kept that tucked warmly into his jacket\npocket, while using his left to shield his eyes against the bright morning sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMorning, Dad!\u201d a lean teenager\ncalled from the south side of a brightly painted barn. \u201cI already milked Sass for ya\u2019. I figured I\u2019d\nhave breakfast myself, and then I\u2019d head on out to the fields and check the\ncorn. Abe Nelson is coming out this\nafternoon. I think it\u2019s just about dry\nenough to start harvest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n By now, father had caught up to son,\nand Tom clapped his only child\u2019s broad shoulder with his left hand. A ghostly chill ran along Pritchard\u2019s\nfifty-one year-old spine, and he nearly stumbled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou okay, Dad?\u201d the\nnineteen-year-old asked. \u201cYou look sort\nof flushed. Maybe you got that flu, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Pritchard glanced up at the clear\nblue skies and shook his head. \u201cHelluva\nday,\u201d he whispered to the glaring sun above them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ken Pritchard, named for his\nmother\u2019s grandfather, looked long into his father\u2019s aging gray eyes. Thomas and April Pritchard had married on a\nrainy day in May, ten months before their first child was born and mercifully\ndied. Born with neither arms nor legs\nand with an underdeveloped brain, the boy would have spent his entire life in\ninstitutions. Thomas had blamed April,\nfor the young mother had smoked the entire pregnancy. April had blamed her beer-guzzling husband. Both had blamed God.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Only the shame of facing small town\ngossips had kept the couple together. \nThe death of Tom\u2019s father a year later, had left them with a farm to\ntend, and April soon conceived again. \nCareful monitoring found a flaw with this child as well \u2013 a genetic\ndeletion that would have repeated the horror of that nightmarish first\nbirth. April chose to abort rather than\ngaze upon another limbless victim with her eyes and Tom\u2019s chin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Then, twenty years ago, April had\nadmitted herself into Boone County Hospital for a tubal ligation \u2013 Tom had\nrefused to even consider a vasectomy \u2013 April learned that once again, she had\nconceived. Coincidentally, or perhaps by\ndesign, a new pastor had moved into their small farming community, and he had\nconvinced the couple to leave it to God. \nAfter much prayer, she and Tom canceled the amniocentesis, took to their\nknees, and left it to their faith to bring them through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And now \u2013 Tom Pritchard stood in the\nbright sun with his miracle boy on a clear autumn day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m fine, son. Helluva day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ken\u2019s gray eyes, mirrors of his\nfather\u2019s own, widened. \u201cWhat do you\nmean, Dad?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wish it didn\u2019t have to be like\nthis,\u201d the older man muttered, withdrawing the blood-stained right hand from\nthe warm pocket. \u201cBut I have to, you\nsee? We\u2019re all gonna die sometime,\u201d he\ncontinued, wiping his forehead with the bloody glove. \u201cIt takes sacrifice to make a farm work. That\u2019s what we gotta give it. Our sweat, our tears, and most of all \u2013 our\nblood.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a split second, Ken Pritchard\nassumed the blood staining his father\u2019s right came from a wound \u2013 but then the\nyoung man saw the nine-inch switchblade, winking at him in the sun\u2019s warming\nrays. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It happened so fast \u2013 his father\u2019s\narm swung up rather than inside \u2013 and Ken reacted in pure preservation mode.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The knife\u2019s tip entered half an inch\nbelow the farmer\u2019s sternum and punctured the cardiac wall \u2013 stopping Tom\nPritchard\u2019s heart. Ashen-faced, the\nfarmer\u2019s eyes widened, and he smiled. \n\u201cThanks,\u201d he whispered, and his knees collapsed beneath him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Tom Pritchard\u2019s warm blood poured\nout onto the dry, rocky ground. In the\nlast second before his brain stopped functioning, Pritchard caught sight of a\njet airplane, high and distant, crossing the enormous blue sky from east to\nwest \u2013 fair salute to blood well spent. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBird,\u201d he mouthed to his only\nson. \u201cSee the bird?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ken Pritchard, aged to ancient in\nthe space of seconds, glanced upward. \n\u201cI\u2019ll get Mom!\u201d he screamed, his feet pounding hard toward the\nfarmhouse\u2019s back door. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside, the mud porch welcomed the\nboy with streaks of red where a shiny, mopped tile floor should be. The streaks deepened to a blazing red as he\nfollowed their design, shaped like church camp arrows pointing visitors to the\ndining hall or cabins. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom!\u201d the boy called out in a\npanic. In the enormous porcelain sink,\nbreakfast dishes soaked in water \u2013 still warm and sudsy. Ken could still smell the home-cured bacon\nhis mother had been frying when he\u2019d gone out to do his morning chores. \u201cMom!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Into the living room — here and\nthere, blood spattered against a wall, a lamp, a light switch. Ken ran upstairs \u2013 taking the steps three at\na time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom!\u201d he screamed, insisting she\nanswer. Insisting she appear and put an\nend to what he feared he\u2019d find.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Within the small back bedroom,\nshared by his parents since their second year of marriage, Ken found his\nmother\u2019s body. April Pritchard\u2019s white\nform, dressed in a flannel nightgown and a bloody chenille bathrobe, lay\ndaintily posed beneath two of Grandmother Ida\u2019s hand-stitched quilts, her dead\neyes closed by a bloody hand, and a silk rose laid carefully upon her breast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ken stared as grief, disbelief,\nshock overtook him. Numb, the teenager\ncollapsed beside the wrought-iron bed and began to weep uncontrollably.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside, his father\u2019s corpse stared\nup into the October sky. A second jet\nhad joined the first, and both began to crisscross the expanse of robin\u2019s egg\nblue, a fine white trail widening behind each. \nWithin a few minutes, the jets had formed several x-patterns, and the\nplumes fattened into a hideous shape. \nHad he been able to see, Tom Pritchard would have recognized the symbol\nas one his pastor had shown them only two weeks before. A symbol of evil.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A pentagram. Tom Pritchard had ten minutes to live. At half past six, the Missouri farmer had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with his wife of thirty-three years \u2013 fried bacon with her special egg casserole and toast. He\u2019d skipped the shower; choosing instead to pull on last night\u2019s overalls and flannel shirt, clean socks and boots from the mud porch. Gotta milk Sassy and fix the gate on that fence first. I\u2019ll take a long bath after I finish up in the field.
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\n\tThirty-six degrees of wind chill slapped the farmer\u2019s unshaved cheeks, causing his eyes to water a bit. Pritchard pulled the stained, quilted coat collar up tightly around his earlobes. His right glove had a large tear in the little finger, so he kept that tucked warmly into his jacket pocket, while using his left to shield his eyes against the bright morning sun.
\n\u201cMorning, Dad!\u201d a lean teenager called from the south side of a brightly painted barn. \u201cI already milked Sass for ya\u2019. I figured I\u2019d have breakfast myself, and then I\u2019d head on out to the fields and check the corn. Abe Nelson is coming out this afternoon. I think it\u2019s just about dry enough to start harvest.\u201d
\n\tBy now, father had caught up to son, and Tom clapped his only child\u2019s broad shoulder with his left hand. A ghostly chill ran along Pritchard\u2019s fifty-one year-old spine, and he nearly stumbled.
\n\t\u201cYou okay, Dad?\u201d the nineteen-year-old asked. \u201cYou look sort of flushed. Maybe you got that flu, huh?\u201d
\n\tPritchard glanced up at the clear blue skies and shook his head. \u201cHelluva day,\u201d he whispered to the glaring sun above them.
\n\tKen Pritchard, named for his mother\u2019s grandfather, looked long into his father\u2019s aging gray eyes. Thomas and April Pritchard had married on a rainy day in May, ten months before their first child was born and mercifully died. Born with neither arms nor legs and with an underdeveloped brain, the boy would have spent his entire life in institutions. Thomas had blamed April, for the young mother had smoked the entire pregnancy. April had blamed her beer-guzzling husband. Both had blamed God.<\/p>\n