Logan didn’t sing; he only listened. There hadn’t been much singing in his childhood and none since he had gone with Michael. Listening now, he realized how much he had missed. Worse, he realized how much he had lost.
Then the Preacher said, “We will do a song now for Brother Logan, one that speaks to the nature of his life and work.” He looked at Logan. “Maybe you will carry something of the words and melody with you when you leave us.
Maybe they will soothe you when you are in need of soothing. Maybe they will help you remember that there are those who still have faith in the Knights of the Word.”
He looked over at the guitar player. “Brother Jackson?”
The guitar player nodded and his fingers began to pick out the notes.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me I once was lost, but now am found Was blind but now I see.
‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear And grace my fears relieved How precious did that grace appear The hour I first believed.
Amazing grace, How sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me I once was lost, but now am found Was blind but now I see.
That was the whole of it, and afterward Logan could remember every word.
It wasn’t his story exactly, but it felt like a close approximation. The music was sweet and haunting and conjured memories that were strong and true. When the song was finished, there was a hushed silence as all eyes turned to Logan to measure his reaction. He looked around at those assembled and found mirrored in their expressions an understanding of what the song had meant to him. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he would never forget it.
“We owe a debt to the writer of that one,” the Preacher said quietly. “The words still speak to us, and the music still works magic.”
They sang several more songs, the night enfolding the building and its occupants, the darkness deep and unbroken. When the evening ended, the assemblage joined hands and murmured thanks for their day and began to shuffle off to the back room to where they would sleep. Most took time to say good night and thank you to Logan, a gesture that touched him deeply.
The Preacher came up when the rest were gone. “Would you like to sleep here tonight, Brother Logan?”
Logan shook his head. “I don’t think so, Preacher. I plan to leave early.
I’ve said my good-byes to your flock. I think I should leave it at that.”
“You brought a little light with you on your visit. I hope we gave you a little light back in return.” The old man smiled. “I wish we could do more.”
Logan wanted to ask him how long he thought they could stay out here like this. He wanted to tell him that it was too dangerous to be alone and unprotected. But he knew what the response would be, and he felt that saying anything would be an insult. Some things you had to accept. Some things you left alone.
“Travel safely,” the Preacher said to him, and extended his hand.
Logan gripped it firmly. “I will remember you every time I think of that song.”
“Then remember, too, that there are still some of us who believe in what you are doing. We will pray for you.”
Logan went out the door into the night and did not look back.
*
BY SUNRISE OF the following day he was driving into the foothills below the Rockies, winding his way slowly upward toward the barren peaks. There had been snow on these mountains once, long ago before the weather changed.
Even in summer, the permafrost had endured and traces of winter had remained.
Winter had capped the peaks in a soft white covering that could be seen for fifty miles. He had been told that it was a beautiful sight.
He had come to the Preacher almost broken by what he had done inside the compound two nights previous, consumed by self-loathing and a growing fear of what he was becoming. It wasn’t that he hadn’t done any of it before; it wasn’t even that it was more horrific this time than any other. His mood was the cumulative result of so many compounds and so many encounters with children transformed into monsters. It was the repetition of the killing, however necessary, however well intentioned. It was the crushing weight of the numbers.
He had been doing these ... he searched for the right word, the least contemptible word . . . these mercy killings for almost fifteen years.
How many children had he killed in that time? Children] He made himself say the word. How many children had he killed?
Of course, they weren’t really children. They weren’t even human by the time he reached them inside the compound walls, not after the demons had altered them. But they had been, and something of that still reflected in their eyes and on their faces, even as he snuffed out their lives. Oh, yes, he had no choice.
He had to put an end to them because he understood what was happening.
Demons were breeding demons from human children.