Satan’s Lambs Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jeffrey Hayes would have been about fifteen years old.
    Hail Satan was the opening salutation. The writing was spiky and slanted, the t crossed so hard the pen had scarred the paper. A goat’s head had been sketched in the margin.
    In only three days it will be Lammas Day. I can’t sleep now because I think about it a lot. When I was little I did not like the altar. I did not like taking my clothes off, and that M saw everthing I had because I was naked. I liked seeing her though.
    When we were little it was just watch and learn this and KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT. We were lambs then. But then they saw I was special.
    That altar is heavy, it takes four fat men to get it out of the pickup. And the side by the fire is warm. Almost HOT. But that first time, boy did it feel cold on my back. And I didn’t like drinking all that stuff. I love it now!!! Give me more!!!!
    I close my eyes and think what it will be like. The smoke and all. That sweet stuff we burn up in bowls. It used to kind of make me sick. But I like it now.
    Use to be HE would chant and put that oily stuff on me. And EVERWHERE on me. Thats what I do now to M. I like that so much, no wonder I can’t sleep. The other kids are always scared of me because HE says I’m special. I never get cut. I DO the cut. In thee days I will pore oil on M. And then talk about kissing cousinas! And then the cuts. They give her lots of stuff so she won’t scream. I wonder if they didn’t give it??? We could hold her down.
    666666
    666
    Lena closed the book. Maybe later she would read the rest of it. Maybe never.

6
    The gloom of early morning had thickened, and the skies were muddy. The smell of rain wafted in through the open car window, and the wind blew Lena’s hair in her eyes. Maynard huddled in the cat carrier, emitting a full throaty cry at regular intervals.
    Lena poked a finger through the mesh of the carrier, feeling the downlike softness of the cat’s fur.
    Burial space in the Paris Road Cemetery had been expensive. The grounds were circled by an eight-foot wall of gray fieldstone, every inch in excellent condition. The black wrought-iron gate, spiked at the top, was freshly painted and hung open across the blacktop drive. Lena parked in front of the office next to a hunter green Volvo. She glanced back at the two cars. Hers was green too, around the rust spots.
    The woman behind the desk huddled over a typewriter as if she were cold and the typewriter might warm her.
    â€œIs Elwin Newcomb in?” Lena asked.
    The woman frowned and looked up. Black cat glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She wore thick Pan-Cake makeup over her fragile wrinkled skin, red rouge on her cheekbones. Her hair was white, teased and sprayed in place, and it sat like meringue, on the top of her head.
    â€œAre you Lena Padget?”
    Lena nodded.
    â€œGo on in, honey.” The woman buzzed the intercom. “Elwin, it’s Miz Padget.”
    The office door opened before Lena got to it. Newcomb was a big man, tall and broad, with gray-flecked brown hair that was clipped short, and a complexion ravaged by acne scars. He was frowning, his movements jerky and restless, unlike the smooth calm Lena remembered from their past associations.
    â€œPlease.” He pointed to a chair upholstered in blue plaid. “Have a seat.”
    Lena sat. She crossed her legs. “What’s up, Mr. Newcomb?”
    He rubbed a finger across the blotter on his desk. “As I mentioned when you called, we, uh, had some trouble last night.”
    Lena pulled her left earring. It was loose, and she tightened it.
    â€œWhat kind of trouble?” she said finally.
    â€œWell. Vandalism, I guess.”
    â€œMy sister’s grave?”
    He nodded.
    Lena bit her lip.
    â€œYour nephew, too. I’m sorry.”
    â€œA child’s grave? What kind of vandalism we talking about?”
    â€œSpray paint, that kind of thing.”
    â€œAre the graves …