The Omission Index, Ch 7 - Cold Gospel Pt. 1

Hale and Kwan investigate a preacher's fiery miracles, uncovering an abused boy with dangerous, uncontrolled powers in rural Appalachia.

Daniel swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the dusty floor. "Show them, child," Silas urged, his voice a low, insistent hum. "Show them the Light within."

The boy raised his hands, copying Silas's earlier move, but his hands were shaking. For a moment, nothing happened. A restless sound went through the crowd. Silas's smile tightened just a tiny bit. "Focus, Daniel. Feel His presence. Let it out."

A tiny, hesitant flicker of orange appeared above Daniel's right palm. It sputtered, died, then flared up again, this time with a sudden, angry pop. The flame was a sickly, spitting yellow. It danced wildly, then leaped, not up, but out, towards the front bench.

A woman shrieked, hitting at her dress as a corner of the cheap cotton began to smoke. The man next to her yelled, slapping at the flame with his bare hand. Daniel gasped. His own small flame disappeared as he stared in horror, his face even paler than before.

Silas reacted instantly. His voice boomed over the sudden noise. "Rejoice, sister! For the Lord has tested your faith, and you have been found worthy of His purifying touch! A small test, a quick pain, to remind us of the endless fire that waits for those who don't believe!" He stepped forward, his presence strong, easily drawing all attention back to himself. He made a small, almost casual gesture, and an unseen force smothered the smoking cloth. "The Spirit is strong in this boy, so strong it can barely be held back! He is a container overflowing, and we are lucky to see its first, wild movements!"

The injured woman, though still shaking and holding a red patch on her arm, looked up at Silas with a mix of fear and fresh wonder. The man beside her nodded slowly, his earlier alarm already changing into a kind of dazed acceptance. The crowd, while an uneasy feeling now moved beneath their devotion, seemed mostly calmed by Silas's confident way of handling it.

Daniel, however, was staring at his own hands as if they were poisonous snakes. A thin, angry red line was starting to appear on the back of his left hand, where one of his own wild sparks had clearly hit him. He quickly hid it behind his back, but not before Silas's sharp eyes had seen it. A quick, unreadable look—a flicker of annoyance, perhaps disappointment—crossed the preacher's face before his saintly expression smoothly returned.

Silas put an arm around the boy, his long, thin fingers gripping too tight. It could have looked protective, except for the subtle movement of his other hand. There was a sharp, hot burst, a crackling sound, and Daniel suddenly jerked like he had been shocked. He stumbled, blinking hard, as if trying to stay conscious.

A few members of the crowd looked alarmed, but Silas simply laughed, his deep, comforting voice rising above any possible doubt. He pulled the boy up against his side, giving him a pat that looked a little too heavy. Daniel flinched. His head was bowed, and his skinny shoulders trembled, but Silas smiled brightly, a holy light in his eyes.

The sermon went on for another half hour, ending with an impassioned plea for donations and a song, with Silas leading a surprisingly rich baritone. After the meeting was dismissed, many stayed, gathering around the preacher. A few, more nervous or skeptical ones lingered near the door, talking in low voices, but the rest seemed completely satisfied. Silas accepted their praise and thanks with a humble, saintly smile.

As they talked, Daniel stood beside him, his eyes wide, his face carefully blank.

The telex machine clattered, a familiar and unwelcome sound. It spat out the SHEPARD dispatch summary onto Hale's desk in the Oregon field office. It read: Unusual Fire Events, Clay County, West Virginia. Suspected Level Two Kinetickinesis (fire-starting power), possibly Level Three if reports of a "child miracle worker" were confirmed. Local police were overwhelmed. There was a high chance of many injuries and public exposure. Hale quickly read the short, emotionless sentences. West Virginia. Another forgotten place where something strange had started to happen. The "child miracle worker" detail caught his attention. A cold, familiar worry. He remembered the girl in London, the smell of ozone and burnt sugar, the way her small hands had trembled.

Kwan was already packing a go-bag when Hale found him in the small armory. Kwan moved efficiently, even though his shoulder was still stiff from the London job. "Appalachia," Kwan said, without needing to look up. "A fire-starter and his kid apprentice, it sounds like."

"Sounds like it could easily become a disaster," Hale agreed, grabbing his own worn leather bag. "Let's hope we get there before the whole county goes up in smoke."

The flight in the small plane SHEPARD had hired was bumpy. The air over the rolling, heavily forested mountains was surprisingly rough. Below, the land was a mix of deep green and dark valleys. Houses clung to hillsides like stubborn weeds. It felt like a different world from the neat grids of the Midwest or the sprawling concrete of big cities. This was older country, more closed-off, a place where secrets could grow hidden for generations.

They landed at a small, dusty airfield about an hour's drive from Clay County. A beat-up Ford pickup, driven by a young, nervous-looking deputy named Cletus, was waiting for them. Deputy Cletus seemed more scared by their plain clothes and quiet way of speaking than he would have been by full federal uniforms. He didn't give much information on the drive, mostly just one-word answers and worried looks in the rearview mirror.

Sheriff Brody Eakins's face was a roadmap of cracked lines, his skin the color of dried tobacco leaf. His office, connected to the county's tiny, two-cell jail, smelled of stale coffee and desperation. He looked at Hale and Kwan with a tired suspicion. It was common for local police when "outside help" they hadn't asked for and didn't understand suddenly showed up.

"So, you fellas are from… where'd you say again?" Sheriff Eakins asked. He leaned back in his creaking chair, thumbs hooked in his belt.

"A federal agency, Sheriff," Hale said smoothly. He gave the usual, vague explanation. "We investigate unusual things that cross state lines or involve… special situations."

"Special," Eakins grunted, looking at Kwan's still-healing arm. "Like folks suddenly catching fire in revival tents, I suppose."

"Something like that," Kwan said, his voice mild. "We heard reports about a preacher, Silas Blackwood, and some… unusual displays. And a boy involved?"

The Sheriff sighed, running a hand over his thinning hair. "Brother Silas. Yeah. He draws a crowd, mostly people from out of the county, traveling workers, people down on their luck. Preaches fire and brimstone, and lately, it seems he's actually been delivering the fire. As for the boy, Daniel… sad case. An orphan. Silas took him in about a year ago. People say the boy's special. I saw him myself, once. Looked like a scared rabbit."

"Has anyone been seriously hurt?" Hale asked, getting straight to the point.

"A few minor burns, from people getting too close to the 'holy fire'," Eakins admitted. "Doc Adams down at the clinic fixed up a woman last week. Said it looked like a direct flame burn, not just heat spreading out. She wouldn't say much, just kept talking about being 'tested by the Spirit'." He shook his head. "The talk is getting bolder. And now this kid… it just doesn't feel right."

Their next stop was Clara Jenkins, a county social worker. Her small, cluttered office was filled with more caring than money. She was younger than the Sheriff, and her eyes showed a mix of frustration and worry.

"Brother Silas has a powerful hold on these people, Agent Hale," she said, her voice sincere. "They're desperate. They have nothing. He offers them hope, a feeling of belonging, miracles… It's hard to fight that with common sense, especially when strange things do seem to happen around him."

"You've seen the boy, Daniel?" Kwan asked gently.

Clara nodded, and her face clouded over. "Several times. He's… quiet. Always by Silas's side. I've tried to speak with him, but Silas is very protective, or maybe controlling. Daniel looks… like he's not getting enough to eat, and there's a fear in his eyes that's more than just shyness. Last time I saw him, at the market with Silas, he had what looked like a fresh burn on his hand. He hid it quickly. Silas said he'd been clumsy with a cook stove." She didn't sound like she believed it.

"We need to watch one of these services," Hale stated. "Quietly, if possible."

Clara looked doubtful. "Being quiet is hard in these valleys, Agent. Strangers stand out. And Silas's people are very loyal. But his next big revival is tonight, down by Miller's Creek, in the old Calloway tobacco barn. It'll be packed."

Hale nodded. The tobacco barn. Miller's Creek. That's where they'd start. He felt the familiar static-hum of a coming crisis in his awareness. Near the barn, it sharpened into something like a dentist's drill, a high, painful note that centered on the boy, Daniel.

Tonight was still ten hours away. Kwan hit the bar eight hours before that.

It was the only time Hale ever saw him really drink.

The place was a dive, the kind that was popular with locals. They knew the regulars and didn't ask too many questions. They also had cheap liquor, a pool table, and a jukebox. The atmosphere was tense, with a low, restless energy. People were talking, but it was quieter than usual.

Kwan pointed Hale towards a group of women playing darts. The three were tall, wiry, and wore jeans and work shirts. Their smiles were easy, but their eyes were sharp.

"You up for some friendly competition?" Kwan asked, with a grin. "Winner buys the next round."

"Sure," one of the women, a blonde, laughed. "You know how to play darts, city boy?"

Kwan shrugged, his expression amused and challenging. He held up a bill. "How about a bet, ladies? Twenty bucks says I beat the pants off all three of you."

They were good, and he was better. It was an easy thing for Kwan, an act of casual control. The first game ended with a final shot, a dart hitting the triple ring, and the woman who had challenged him letting out a frustrated growl. Kwan grinned. "I'll take a beer, please."

"Show-off," the blonde said, her eyes narrowing, but her tone was teasing. She had a nice smile.

Kwan winked. "I've never claimed to be a modest man."

They played several rounds, the women drinking freely. Their dart games got looser, and their smiles got wider.

Hale indulged. The women were pretty, the music was loud, and the drinks were strong. He let himself forget about work.

He learned their names, and what they did, and how they knew each other.

Lynn worked at the lumber mill. She was tough, and she was the leader.

Mary Lou was quiet, but had a quick, dry humor. She worked in the mine.

Molly was the youngest, barely out of her teens. She was still finishing her GED. She waited tables and dreamed about getting out of town.

"Where would you go, Molly?" Hale asked.

"Oh, I dunno." She had a soft, husky voice. "I'd like to see New York. Or California."

"Ever been on a plane?"

"Nah." Molly grinned, leaning forward a little. "I think the big city would scare the crap outta me, though."

"Yeah," Lynn said, smirking. "But maybe you could find a rich boyfriend and get him to take care of you."

"Fuck you, Lynn."

"Hey, it's an option. I'm not saying it's the best, but it's an option."

They started on their third round of darts. Kwan was playing the winner. Hale sat with Molly, watching as she tried not to show that she was tipsy. She was sweet, and a little bit sad, and Hale didn't want her to get too drunk. He'd been there before, in a place where your life was hard and empty and you were looking for something, anything, to make it a little easier.

"You don't have to wait for him," Molly whispered, her blue eyes wide and knowing. "I'll be here. We can have some fun."

Hale didn't know if it was the drink or the fact that she was right, but he smiled, and the look in her eyes changed to eager excitement.

His equation with his wife had changed in the last two years. He was gone most of the time, and when he was home, his focus was on his sons.

And he had it on good authority that she was sleeping with one of her coworkers.

So, yes, Molly was attractive, and Hale had a feeling they could both use the comfort.

"Hey, city boy," Lynn called, her voice rough and loud. "You gonna keep talking or you gonna come play me?"

Kwan, leaning against the bar, grinned at her. "Maybe we can make this interesting, Lynn."

"Oh yeah? How's that?"

"How about if I win, you buy me dinner. And if you win, I buy you dinner."

"Hmmm. Sounds fair." She smiled at him, her eyes flashing. "You got yourself a bet, city boy."

"You wanna watch the game, or what?" Mary Lou, Lynn's best friend and partner in crime, said to Molly.

"I'm fine," Molly said, and she gave Hale a sly smile.

They watched. Kwan won, and Lynn bought him dinner. Mary Lou didn't seem too upset.

Kwan came by to confer with Hale, who was still sitting with Molly.

"You think we can squeeze in a nap and a shower before the service?" he asked.

Hale raised his eyebrows, trying not to smirk.

Kwan looked amused. "Don't judge me, man. I've seen you in action."

"All right, fine," Hale said. "You'll need to pick us up, though. You're the one with the truck."

"Done. Just call me."

Hale glanced at Molly. "What about our friend here?"

Kwan shrugged, his eyes sliding sideways, towards Lynn, who was sitting at the bar. "Seems like she's already taken care of."

"Right," Hale said, and his lips twitched. "We'll see you later."

"Don't be late."

"No promises."

Twenty minutes later, Kwan went off with Lynn. Hale had no idea what he was going to tell her, but she seemed like a pretty level-headed lady, and she was an adult.

Hale found himself walking back to the hotel with Molly, a pleasant buzz in his head and a warm, young body tucked against his side.

They didn't bother with the elevator, or with the lights. Molly kicked the door shut behind them and shoved Hale against it, pressing herself up against him. She kissed him, hard and deep.

He responded, pulling her closer, his hands sliding under her shirt.

She moaned softly. "Please," she whispered. "I haven't had a guy touch me in forever."

"Well, I can't have that."

They managed to make it to the bed. They were both naked, and Molly was straddling him, moving slowly, her eyes half-closed.

"Mmmm," she sighed, her voice low and sweet. "This is so much better than drinking."

Hale chuckled, his hands sliding over her soft skin.

"Oh," Molly gasped. "Yes, please. Do that."

"Do what?" he teased, smiling.

"That. That... thing. With your fingers."

He did, and her reaction was a delightful one. She cried out, her whole body arching. "Oh, god," she groaned. "I can't..."

He pulled her down against him, kissing her as his hips moved, and she moaned into his mouth, her body shaking.

After a few more minutes, they rolled apart, panting.

"Damn," Molly murmured, smiling. "You're pretty good at that."

"Thanks."

They lay there, catching their breath, and then she started giggling.

"What?" he asked, smiling.

"I was just thinking about your friend. Your partner. Do you think he's, uh... enjoying his evening?"

"Kwan?" Hale laughed. "Oh, yeah. I'm sure he's having a great time."

"Mmm." Molly snuggled closer. "I'll have to thank him, then."

Hale drifted off. But Molly had other plans. "So, you folks are here in town to check out that crazy preacher and his fire tricks, right?"

Hale's eyes opened. "What? Yeah, I guess we are."

"He's delusional," Molly said, rolling her eyes. "He thinks God talks to him. And the way he acts like he owns everybody... ugh. I've met his kind before."

Hale studied her. "I take it you don't like him?"

"Nope. Never have. Some Supers think they have powers because God gave those to them. Bullshit. God has nothing to do with it. Maybe the devil, more like. To tempt the weak and the stupid."

Hale almost grimaced. As a Super himself, he didn't necessarily like hearing people talk shit about his kind. But it was a valid opinion. There were certainly plenty of Supers who believed that their power was a gift from God, or a punishment. And some of them did use their power to take advantage of others.

"Anyway," Molly went on, "the way he treats that kid... it's creepy."

"Daniel?"

"Yeah. That boy should be in school, not sitting there while Brother Silas talks about 'the Lord's chosen' and how we're all sinful and damned."

"Mmm. Well, hopefully, we can help with that."

"Good. 'Cause it's about time somebody did. The way Silas carries on... it's not right. And Daniel shouldn't have to put up with it."

"Yeah." Hale reached out and pulled her closer.

She settled against him, her body warm and soft.

"So," he said, "I have around three hours left before the service starts. What do you think we should do?"

She giggled. "I'm sure we can come up with something."

***

The service started at nine. The long drive through dark mountain roads had been unsettling, the darkness pressing in from the thick pine and hemlock trees. The old Calloway tobacco barn, when they finally found it, was set back even further than Hale had thought. It was a hunched, dark shape against a sky just beginning to show faint starlight. It felt less like a church and more like a secret hidden by the dark hills. They parked their car under the hiding branches of a large old oak tree. The Appalachian evening was deeply quiet, broken only by the steady, buzzing chorus of cicadas and the occasional, distant hoot of an owl. The air was heavy and humid, thick with the smell of damp earth, rotting leaves, and a faint, almost unnoticeable tang of something sharp and burnt, like old, distant fires.

Kwan was no longer joking like he had been earlier. He moved with the quiet, watchful skill Hale knew so well. The city, the easy talk, the brief connections—all were gone, replaced by the focused intensity of an agent on a mission. Hale, too, felt himself change. The world shrank to the job at hand. The intelligence they'd gathered, the local connections they'd made, all pointed to one conclusion: a child was in danger, and they were running out of time.

They walked towards the barn, their boots sinking a little into the soft, leaf-covered earth. They kept to the deeper shadows where the moonlight didn't reach. The barn looked bigger as they got closer, its old wooden sides like the skin of some ancient, sleeping beast. Through many missing boards and large holes, the warm, flickering glow of many kerosene lamps spilled out, painting changing, twisted patterns on the nearby trees. The sound of a hymn, raw and deeply felt, came from inside—a chorus of voices, not trained but full of a desperate, longing power that seemed to shake the very air around them.

Hale found a spot to watch near the back of the barn. A large loading door had rotted away long ago, leaving a wide, shadowed opening partly hidden by a tangle of overgrown honeysuckle and discarded farm tools—a rusty plough, the bony remains of a harrow. From here, they had a clear, though slightly angled, view of the inside.

The barn was huge. The exposed rafters high above disappeared into darkness. It was packed full of people. The heat and smell of unwashed bodies, cheap flowery perfume, old tobacco, and something else—an almost touchable feeling of shared hope and underlying fear—pressed outwards. Faces in the lamplight showed lives of hardship, eyes wide and fixed on the figure commanding the simple stage at the far end.

Silas Blackwood.

Even from this distance, his strong personality was a force you could feel. He was a thin, energetic man. His movements were smooth and captivating. His worn black suit seemed to soak up the flickering light, making him a figure of sharp light and shadow. His voice, a rich, rolling deep sound, filled the big space. He wove a spell of punishment and promised salvation, each word carefully chosen, each pause heavy with drama. Hale closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the sights and sounds, letting his own special senses reach into the heart of the crowd.

The mental atmosphere was thick, almost sickening. Silas's pride was the first overwhelming feeling, a huge, suffocating wave of belief in himself. It radiated from him, hot and arrogant, a belief in his own divine importance so complete it was as if nothing else mattered. But as Hale sorted through it, he found other, colder feelings underneath: careful, almost predatory planning, and a possessiveness that grew sharper whenever his attention, or his sermon, focused on the small, hunched figure of Daniel. Daniel was perched on a low, rough-cut stool near the edge of the simple pulpit.

Hale narrowed his mental focus onto the boy. He didn't get thoughts, just a flood of raw sensation. Cold floorboards. The sting of a slap. A stomach that twisted in on itself. The blinding glare of a flame held too close to the face. A child's terror, pure and sharp, spiked whenever Silas gestured his way.

He opened his eyes and shared a brief, knowing glance with Kwan. Kwan's gaze was fixed on Daniel, his brow furrowed. His medical training and natural empathy clearly registered the boy's distress. He noted Daniel's unhealthy paleness in the yellow lamplight, the almost see-through quality of his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. He saw the dark, smudged hollows under the boy's eyes, a sign of constant tiredness or perhaps something worse. He watched the way Daniel's thin shoulders hunched, as if he was always expecting a blow, and the way his fingers picked restlessly at a loose thread on his tattered trousers.

During a long part of Silas's sermon about hellfire, when the preacher's voice dropped to a secretive whisper before rising to a righteous roar, Kwan subtly got Hale's attention with a tiny jerk of his head. "Silas," he breathed, so low it was barely audible above the preacher's loud voice. "When he gestures. His left hand."

Hale watched. Silas was a master of stage performance, his hands constantly moving, emphasizing his words, drawing the eye. But now, Hale noticed it: whenever Silas made a particularly strong point about obedience or the cleansing power of divine fire, his left hand—the one further from the congregation and closer to Daniel—would make a small, almost invisible clenching motion. His knuckles would turn white for a split second. Daniel, in turn, would flinch, a movement so small it would be lost on anyone not specifically looking for it.

Later, as the service built towards its "miraculous" high point, Silas called Daniel to stand beside him. "And now, my children," Silas boomed, his eyes gleaming with intense light, "you shall witness the power of the Lamb, the fire of the innocent, as the Lord moves through our precious Brother Daniel!" From the shadows, Hale and Kwan watched Silas drape an arm around Daniel's shoulders. The preacher's smile was beatific, but his fingers dug into the boy's thin bicep, the knuckles white with pressure.

The air in the barn crackled. Hale could almost taste the ozone, a building pressure that felt like a badly kept, overloaded circuit about to blow. The faint, sharp smell Hale had noticed earlier seemed to get stronger, now mixed with the ozone-like prickle of power about to be released. The forced, jagged quality of Daniel's aura, the mental signature Hale had sensed, was becoming clearer, more unstable.

And the child was standing right in the middle of it.

***