Dandelion

1

Brenda Holscombe wondered how they could afford to keep the TLC-Mart so cold.

She only ran her air conditioner part of the time to take the edge off the worst of the Mississippi summer heat; even then, her electric bill was astronomical. But the TLC-Mart, even during the height of July and August, was always cold enough to keep meat fresh. Her mother liked to joke that when she shopped there, she didn’t age.

At twenty, Brenda was already a divorcee and a single mother. All she’d been taught was eternal had turned out to be transitory, and the bedrock of everything—her belief in the Pentecostal Church—was on shaky ground. She kept that to herself, of course, as no one, certainly not her family or her church friends, could be trusted with it. To admit doubt was to admit apostasy.

You always find Tender Loving Care

And the best prices anywhere

at TLC-Mart!

The jingle preceded every in-store announcement, and Brenda paused to see if the Surprise Special Deal was something she could use. But she had no need for 12-gauge shotgun shells, at least not since Donnie moved out; he’d taken all his guns with him.

Mama? Brenda’s five-year-old daughter Jurnee said from her seat in the shopping cart.

What, honey?

I want a stuffy! They’d just passed a six-foot-high cage enclosing an immense pile of stuffed animals.

No, honey, we can’t afford it this week.

Jurnee slapped the metal cart frame. I want a stuffy! she repeated more insistently.

"No, Jurnee. Now, behave."

Brenda didn’t see her daughter’s face scrunch up in a hateful scowl all wrong for such a small child. She didn’t see the way her little fists clenched, not in petulance, but as if they were about to beat someone to a pulp.

But she sure heard it when her beautiful baby girl snarled, Listen, you motherfucking bitch, I said I want a goddamn stuffy, so don’t give me any bullshit about it!

The words didn’t register at first, they were so out of character. But when they did, Brenda froze, and coupons fell in a slow-motion shower from her hand. Jurnee! she gasped.

Other shoppers nearby had overheard and stopped to stare.

Jurnee leaned forward as much as the little red safety belt allowed. Don’t fuck with me, Mama! I’m the only one who loves you, and you’re on thin ice with me!

In the silence, the store’s jingle rang out again.

You always find Tender Loving Care

And the best prices anywhere

at TLC-Mart!

Brother Culligan, Brenda’s minister, listened seriously as she described the changes in her daughter’s behavior over the past week. Not just the cursing and tantrums, but the adult-sounding snideness and the sexual innuendo far too mature for a girl about to start kindergarten. There was something wrong, something evil about it all, and Brenda was at her wit’s end.

The pastor’s office was small and stuffy, despite the box fan that tried to move the air around. By the time she finished, tears and sweat ran down Brenda’s skin in equal rivulets.

Brother Culligan nodded. He was not yet thirty, shaved bald, and with a tattoo of a cross on the back of his head. He dropped out of high school at sixteen to follow the Lord’s calling and had read no book but the Bible in the decade since. He distrusted psychiatry, traditional medicine, and public education. So, when Brenda said, And Brother Culligan, I’m afraid she’s possessed by the devil, Culligan could only nod in agreement.

He took Brenda’s hands in his own. Let’s pray together, he said, and led her in a moment of prayer. It comforted her to the point that she settled into a sniffly liminal state between hysterics and rationality.

When they were done, he said, I know just the person to help us.

Jurnee wore a demure dress and well-worn Frozen tennis shoes, Anna on one foot and Elsa on the other. Red nylon ropes bound her to the chair; the man in charge insisted they were necessary, even for such a little girl. The other tables and chairs had been pushed back against the walls to leave the child alone in the open center of the room. She idly kicked her feet as much as her bonds allowed, to all appearances unconcerned with what was happening around her.

No air conditioners battled the Mississippi humidity in the little church’s fellowship hall. Located on the outskirts of Corinth, the nondenominational charismatic congregation consisted of two dozen families, most with more children than they could possibly supervise, all dependent on the government services they publicly denounced as the work of the devil disguised as Socialism. Brother Culligan stood patiently beside Brenda, murmuring prayers and stroking his Bible like a Bond villain petting a cat.

Brenda held her own Bible against her chest, her eyes red from crying, her skin gleaming with sweat. She caught Culligan’s eye and asked softly, Is he all right in there?

Like it says in Ephesians, he’s putting on the armor of God so that he can take a stand against the devil’s schemes.

Brenda nodded. If it came from the Bible, it had to be true. And you swear he’ll be able to help her?

Brenda, I’ve seen him at work. The Lord flows through him, and the devil runs from him. If there’s a man alive who can help your daughter, it’s him.

As if on cue, the door to the men’s room opened, and out strode the Reverend Deacon Elder. He was a tall, handsome man in a snakeskin suit jacket that shimmered when he moved. Elderly women always gushed that he reminded them of Rock Hudson. Not quite forty, he towered over everyone and radiated the kind of confidence Brenda, at least, needed so desperately.

Miz Holscomb, he said to her, his voice a low, comforting rumble. I’m about ready to begin.

Brenda sniffled. Please save my baby, Reverend.

Now, Mrs. Holscomb, Elder said with a patient smile. As I explained during our consultation earlier, you have to be strong for her sake. Don’t let her see you be afraid.

At the word consultation, Brenda blushed. When Elder came by her house to speak to her privately earlier that day, she’d been unprepared for his sheer masculinity and had given in to his gentle entreaties that the Lord meant for them to be together, to give him strength for the great battle to come. And he’d been gentle and patient with her, totally unlike her brutal alleycat of an ex-husband. Afterward, he’d told her, Now I feel prepared to battle the infestation that’s taken hold of your daughter.

In addition to Elder, Brenda, and Culligan, three large, mullet-sporting, thick-bellied men in dress shirts were there to help if needed. Two of them watched skeptically, doubting the little girl could be any sort of danger; the third had witnessed a deliverance before and knew that three men might not be enough to control her if things went awry.

May the Lord bless you for coming, Reverend, Culligan said as he shook Elder’s hand. We’ve prayed deliverance over her for two weeks now, waiting for you, to no avail. The demon just laughs at us.

That’s all right, Elder said. The devil is a liar and a cheat, so your good hearts just couldn’t stand up to him. He has to be met by someone who knows his wily ways. He turned to Jurnee, still blithely tied to the chair. The devil and I are in this room tonight, and only one of us is walking out under his own power.

He knelt before Jurnee, closed his eyes, and leaned forward as if he might kiss her on the cheek. Instead, he inhaled deeply. Then his brow knit in revulsion.

Oh, you monstrous presence, he whispered. I assure you, good people, what lurks in this girl is unholy. The smell of brimstone is upon her.

Oh, please, Jesus, save my little girl, Brenda said, tears filling her eyes.

Elder held his own battered personal Bible in both hands. Jurnee Holscomb, I know what afflicts you. I understand there’s something inside you that’s turning you against your mama and God. Come forth, you vile contemption, and tell me your name.

Elder’s voice rose during the speech so that by the end, he was bellowing in the girl’s face.

Then, in a voice that sounded like an old woman, Jurnee said, Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are you?

Brenda screamed, making them all jump, and flung herself on the floor in despair. Oh, Lord, my baby! My baby! Two of the big men helped her into a folding chair. She’s got the devil in her!

That’s not the devil, Elder said knowingly. That’s a demon, all right, but he’s just a vassal. An errand boy. He isn’t strong enough to indwell in a full-grown person; he has to take a little child. Isn’t that right, demon? Now tell me your name.

You think to send me from this child? the girl said in the horrible voice and leaned forward; the ropes creaked as they stretched taut. "You, you fraud? You adulterer? You liar, cheat, fornicator?"

Elder wasn’t fazed. The Lord knows my sins and forgives me. Now tell me your name, you vomitous weasel.

You want a name? I’ll give you a name. Grove Prosser.

The name meant nothing to the others, but Elder turned bone white. It took a moment for his voice to return. "Grove Prosser defeated your kind more than once, you pit-spawn. Tell me your name."

Hey, I can see my breath, one of the bulky men said, his voice high in growing fear. The room had grown noticeably colder.

Tell me your name! Elder roared and pressed his Bible against the top of the girl’s head, bending her neck and making her grimace in pain.

Deacon? the girl said, but not in the demonic voice; this one was male, weak, and sounded like it came through great effort. Deacon, listen to me, please.

Elder didn’t reply, but he recognized the voice at once. Stop this mockery, he ordered.

I need your help, the voice said. He’s still there, still attached to the girl.

Over the eerie voice, Elder began shakily, Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. He put his Bible against the girl’s cheek. The others joined in the familiar prayer.

Jurnee Holscomb, though, spoke louder in Grove Prosser’s voice. "He’s just the vanguard, Deacon! Dandelion is coming! Dandelion! Dandelion!" The last was a high-pitched girlish shriek, the girl’s own natural voice. Then she fell silent, her expression neutral.

The others continued the prayer, and one of the men began to babble in tongues. But Elder’s voice trailed off, and he stared at the girl, overwhelmed by what she’d just revealed.

In the midst of this cacophony, the girl’s father and two sheriff’s deputies burst in.

The old officer rattled his nightstick against the bars of the holding cell. Hey, you. Snakeskin. Time to see the judge.

Deacon Elder rolled off the lower bunk and got to his feet. He’d been alone in the cell all night and was sticky with sweat and uncomfortable sleep. When they’d locked him up, one officer had said smugly, Air conditioner’s out, Jimmy Swaggart, and there ain’t no fan. Tough titty, ain’t it?

Elder draped his jacket over his arm and waited for the cell door to open. This way, the old policeman said. In a real city, he’d be long retired, but Corinth, Mississippi had to take what it could get.

They passed the other cells, all empty. The smell of accumulated body odor, urine, and mold overpowered the still air. Elder’s loafers whispered across the faded tile in counterpoint to the officer’s hard-soled clacks. A lone roach ran frantically along one baseboard, looking for an escape route.

They treating you all right here? Elder asked.

Oh, they let me stick around and pretend to be useful. Not many places care about us old folks these days. Unless I want to be a greeter at the TLC-Mart. He shook his head. This was a nice little town until that place came along.

Ain’t that the truth, Elder agreed.

People around here can’t get enough of it. You can watch ’em on Sunday after church, rushing straight out to feed the beast that’s killin’ ’em. Used to be you’d have lunches, family gatherings, and such. Now they just go to the TLC-Mart and walk around like zombies.

Maybe they’ll catch on one of these days.

Naw. They’ll just watch their town shrivel up like my old pecker and then wonder what the hell happened to it. He snorted. Just like I do about my pecker.

When they reached a wooden door marked COURTROOM, Elder asked, Who’s the judge?

Only one judge in Corinth, son. Judge J. Jackson Stewart.

What’s he like?

He don’t like nothing. Especially when the AC’s out.

Elder straightened his shirt, pulled on his jacket, and followed the officer into the courtroom, which was as hot and humid as the Mississippi morning outside. Old-fashioned fans turned slowly on the ceiling, stirring the air but doing nothing to cool it. Flies and bees buzzed in and out through the tall open windows, finding every candy wrapper and spilled drop of Coke in the ill-kept room.

Judge Stewart, one of those part-time small-town justices who usually handled things like parking tickets and stray dogs, took a sip of ice water; the cubes had already shrunken to marble size. He looked down from the bench, hmphed, and said, Tell the clerk your name.

Deacon Elder.

The clerk, an older woman whose face was pinched in permanent disapproval, said, Is that your name or your job title?

Elder gave her his smoothest smile and said in a soft drawl, It’s my name, ma’am. My job title is Reverend. The Reverend Deacon Elder.

"Well, Reverend, Stewart said, it appears you’re charged with custodial interference and harming the welfare of a child. What do you have to say?"

I take exception to that, your honor. I had no idea custody was an issue, and I would never intentionally harm a child.

The father seems to think that’s what you’re doing.

Elder looked around. Is he here?

He’s over in family court, trying to get custody. You’re my problem. Just what were you trying to do to that poor girl?

Free her from the devil’s influence and the presence of an indwelling demon, your honor.

Stewart looked at him for a long moment before saying, Son, are you drunk?

No, sir. I’m like a policeman; I never drink on the job.

You want to tell your smart-ass jokes for six weeks in the county jail? the judge asked impatiently. ’Cause that’s what contempt of court’ll get you in my courtroom.

No, sir. I do not want to do that. And I meant no contempt. I was telling the honest truth. I was invited to pray deliverance over a young girl. Her minister did the inviting, and her mother was present as well. I had no idea that it was against the wishes of her father.

And just how do you tell if there’s a demon in somebody?

I’ve been blessed with the ability of discernment, your honor.

That a fact, the judge said, clearly not buying it. Tell me, anybody here got any demons in ’em?

Elder almost smiled. Sir, you’re making sport of me and my work.

And you’re taking advantage of the good people of this town. How much did you charge for your little performance?

I never charge anything, your honor. At most, I might get my gas paid for. And a substantial love offering, he thought bitterly, which I hadn’t gotten before those damn cops showed up. Sure, he’d received a preview the previous evening, but he’d really been looking forward to seeing what gratitude might inspire in the surprisingly wanton Brenda Holscombe.

"Hmph," the judge said again. Elder wondered how the court reporter wrote down that particular sound. What’s that on your hand?

Elder held up his right hand. A tattoo, your honor.

Approach the bench, so I can see. Put ’em up here.

Elder made fists and put them on the edge of the bench. Across the knuckles of his right hand was tattooed the word LOVE. The left hand bore the word FEAR.

Where’d you get them? Stewart asked.

A tattoo place in Gulf Shores. I got ’em done right after I dedicated myself to the Lord.

Preacher fella in a movie had LOVE and HATE tattooed on his hands.

Elder knew the film: The Night of the Hunter, with Robert Mitchum as a demented false prophet. I got no time for hate, your honor. Christ said, ‘Let us love one another, for love is from God.’ Don’t say nothing about hate.

Then why you got ‘Fear’ on there?

Because ‘Hate’ isn’t the opposite of ‘Love.’ ‘Fear’ is.

So, you don’t hate anyone?

Hate doesn’t come from the Lord. Hate comes from some other place entirely.

So, you believe in the devil, then.

Your honor, I believe in the devil just as surely as I believe in Mississippi.

The judge took another drink of ice water, swiped at the sweat bee buzzing around his face, and said, "Well, Reverend, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt on this one. Sounds like you didn’t know what you were walking into, and since no money changed hands, I can’t charge you with fraud. But let me ask you one thing."

He motioned Elder closer to the bench and asked, If I let you go, how soon can I expect you back here again?

Never.

Not even if the Good Lord tells you to?

The Lord doesn’t send a man where he can’t do any good.

You sound pretty sure of that.

Elder’s reply was as sincere as anything he’d ever said. I truly don’t believe that there’s a thing I can do for the people of Corinth, Mississippi.

A police car dropped Elder off back at the church. His old Chevrolet Nova, a 1969 classic with a three on the tree gearshift and an Alabama license plate that read ELDER 1, remained where he’d parked it, now all alone in the parking lot. No one appeared from the building to question him.

His car started on the first crank, and he turned the air conditioner on high. As he waited for it to cool off, he thought about the past few hours, specifically about the girl speaking in Grove Prosser’s voice. There was no way that little girl could know about Grove Prosser. Just no way.

Dandelion. What did that mean?

Elder was no hero and certainly no saint. But he was a loyal friend, and genuinely committed to fighting the influence of the demonic in the world. Whatever his flaws, whatever weaknesses in his character, Grove Prosser knew that Elder would not walk away from someone who needed his help.

He could do nothing more for Jurnee Holscomb at the moment. But perhaps he could help the victim Grove had risked damnation to tell him about.

He pulled out onto highway 45 and headed north into Tennessee, toward the town of Somerton, where Grove Prosser had died the previous summer.

2

Linda Scote, sixteen years old, flushed the toilet and emerged from the restroom stall in the Somerton TLC-Mart. The women’s bathroom was reasonably clean, but she still put toilet paper strips over the seat so her skin never came in contact with it. That was just sensible.

The restroom had been refurbished six months earlier after a backpack with a portable meth lab had contaminated it. The kid they arrested had once asked Linda out, and she now kind of wished she’d accepted. She liked danger and dangerous guys.

She washed her hands and checked herself in the mirror. Although the fixtures were all relatively new, that hadn’t kept vandals from marking them. Someone had scratched a Nazi swastika in the mirror’s metal frame, and Linda found herself staring at it. She knew its meaning and connotations, of course, but for the first time, she saw it as something beautiful, like a delicate flower with petals twisted by a spiral wind.

An unbidden idea sprang into her mind and quickly swelled to an irresistible compulsion. She headed to the toy department.

"It’s called a Weejie board," Linda said as she put the box on her bedroom floor and tore off the plastic. It was finally fully dark outside, and she’d been waiting for this all evening. She’d locked her bedroom door, closed the blinds and drapes, and stuffed a towel under the edge of the door in case Susie brought a joint.

Still, she knew they should be undisturbed. Her father was in the basement watching porn and playing with his gun collection, and her mother was wine-drunk and asleep on the couch in front of one of the Real Housewives shows.

Linda’s friends knew about her parents, who otherwise presented entirely respectable fronts to the world. They said nothing, however; their own parents were just as weird, self-involved, and hypocritical about their daughters. The main difference was Susie and Bethany were still scared of their parents. Linda never had been.

How can it be ‘Weejie’ when it starts with an ‘O’? Susie asked. She was the oldest of the trio by six months, thus would turn seventeen first and, by the arbitrary standards of her parents, be able to start actually dating. She had perfect blond hair and high cheekbones, but her chin was small and made her look weak. She wore an old sleep shirt with a faded image of Edward Cullen. Shouldn’t it be, ‘O-Weejie?’

That’s ’cause it’s Spanish, Bethany said. The three girls had known each other since kindergarten, and Bethany gave the other two a common target for their teasing and tormenting. Bethany, for her part, no longer even registered the abuse. She had long legs and a face still ringed by baby fat, and a lot of the other girls’ taunting was driven by their unconscious certainty that, when she finally matured, Bethany would be the real beauty of the trio. She wore flannel pajamas despite the summer heat, and slippers covered her unpainted toes.

It’s not Spanish, it’s French, Linda said, pronouncing the word Fraynch. She wore a genuine nightgown, ordered from Victoria’s Secret as a present for her sixteenth birthday. Them French people, they’re always doing stuff like this.

Like what? Bethany asked.

Like dealing with the devil, Susie said, drawing up her knees. This ain’t right, Linda. I don’t want to do this.

Oh, shut up, you big baby, Linda said. It’s just a damn board game. I bought it at the TLC-Mart. Look, it says right here on it, ‘Parker Brothers.’ They’re the same ones who make ‘Battleship.’ I reckon you think ‘Battleship’ is all about dealing with the devil, too, right? Besides, ain’t no devil gonna be interested in two dumbasses like you two. She opened the box and took out the board and planchette.

You curse a lot, Bethany said. Just like your daddy.

Fuck you, Linda said.

My daddy says your daddy is a son of a bitch, Bethany said.

Yeah, well, your daddy smokes crack, and everybody knows it, Linda shot back.

Can we not do this? Susie asked, her voice low and serious. The whole Weejie thing, I mean. Can’t we just watch TV or look up videos or post pictures or something?

Or sit in different corners and text each other? Linda said snottily. Look, you want to do that, you can just have this sleepover without me.

It’s your house, Susie said.

Right. So, you two can just haul your fat asses out the back door.

Bethany sighed. All right, we’ll play your stupid game.

There was a knock at the door. The girls sighed in unison. What? Linda said in a voice like nails on a chalkboard.

The door opened partway before sticking on the rolled-up towel. Her uncle Travis wormed his head through the opening and grinned lasciviously, the way he always did around any girls who were past puberty. What up, dawgs?

We’re talking about our periods, Linda said coldly.

Oh, man, I better armor up, he said, putting up his hands to block his face. He laughed like he was in on the joke. Travis Scote was her father’s youngest brother, and he still lived with their mother across town. Travis was nearly thirty, long and lean, with an impenetrable sense of self-worth and entitlement that translated into both arrogance and laziness.

Linda simultaneously glared and narrowed her eyes. Travis had a key to their house and tended to show up at odd hours, drunk or high. Daddy’s down in the basement, playing with his toys. Why don’t you go find him?

Maybe I came to see you pretty ladies, Travis said, leering at Linda the same way he did her mother, the same way he did every girl. She knew the nightgown made her look much older than sixteen, and usually, she reveled in it. But now, she felt conspicuous and icky.

Bethany giggled, then blushed. You’re too old for us, silly.

Well, Travis said, you know what they say—