Chapter 15

The two bikers rode with synchronized precision along the thirty-mile trek down Highway 50 as if they had ridden together for years. Like two soaring eagles, they leaned to their left and turned into the long Clayton driveway. Zeke went right, and Vince went left, around Zeke’s Suzuki. They both stopped right before the two steps to the front porch.

“How about some bottled water?” Zeke asked as he dismounted.

“Sounds great,” Pastor James replied while removing his helmet and attaching it to the soft tail’s sissy bar.

Zeke unlocked the door, touched the black glass, and disarmed the security system.

The pastor walked past him with a rectangular manila envelope under his arm.

“I broke the code, by the way,” Zeke said over his shoulder as he crossed the great room.

“What code?” the pastor asked.

“The security code.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know what the security code is?” Zeke stopped and stared at the pastor.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Didn’t need to.”

“Oh, well, I figured out what it meant to Luther.”

“Well, good.” The pastor waved a hand as he turned away. “And what about the other clues? The Jabez prayer? The family curse? How are you coming on those?”

“Oh, I think I’ve got that figured out, too.” Zeke disappeared behind the refrigerator door.

“Really? Good.” The pastor stepped into the kitchen.

“Yep. See, everybody here is suffering from Shared Delusion Disorder.” Zeke pulled two water bottles from the fridge and handed one to the pastor.

“Oh, really?” Pastor raised an eyebrow and twisted off the cap.

“Yeah, I thought long and hard about this.” Zeke led the pastor back into the great room. “I don’t believe in curses, let alone a generational curse. I don’t even believe in bad luck or good luck. I don’t believe I can pray a prayer to God, and He will hear me, and end this fictitious curse, which will allow the wishing well to fill up with water, and the land to be healed.”

Zeke dramatically gestured, tossing water from his bottle. “Or the land will forgive the wrong done to the Indians. Or whatever all that nonsense was, about the well and the land.”

He looked at the spilled water on the hardwood floor and then lifted his eyes to the pastor’s. Zeke took a long deep breath and continued. “Some of this—most of this—is coincidence, pure and simple and some of it is, as I said, a shared delusion.”

“Yeah, so you said.” Pastor James squinted one eye as he lowered his chin.

“Look, Luther believed in this so deeply and had such a strong influence over a lot of people. He convinced several of y’all that this coincidental similarity from one generation to the other is based on the Wishing Well Curse. So, now y’all believe what he did. It’s a simple case of contagious insanity.”

“Really?” the pastor said slowly. “Contagious insanity?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Pastor. It’s just that I come from Texas. I grew up a long way from here and I haven’t been—influenced by the folklore.” Zeke wiggled fingers in the air indicating quote marks. “I don’t believe any of it. It’s basic psychology. I’m an EMT major, did you know that?”

The pastor nodded.

“Of course you knew,” Zeke looked down and shook his head. “Now, see there, that’s something I haven’t figured out. How is it everybody knows me, but I never knew this community or this family existed? Not until Tuesday. How is that?”

“Well, Zeke. Your family’s history is a well-known and shared tale in these parts,” the pastor said with a pastoral-patient tone. His eyes told a different story.

Zeke stared into the pastor’s eyes, trying to see past the conflicting signs. “Okay, the Clayton family has been here for more than a hundred years. I get that. But how does everybody know me?”

“You’re simply part of the”—the pastor’s eyes rolled up and returned to Zeke—”folklore.”

Zeke stared at the man. Finally, he shook his head and closed his eyes.

“Okay.” Pastor James reached to gently touch Zeke’s shoulder.

Zeke’s eyes popped open.

“Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say this whole community is under the spell of Luther Clayton. How do you explain your tattoo?”

“What?” Zeke’s head jerked up as he yanked from the pastor’s reach.

“How do you explain what you feel when you go near the wishing well?”

Zeke’s eyes blazed with anger. “How did you know? Who told you about that?”

Clifford.

“Zeke, calm down. Please,” Pastor James said. “We’re all trying to help you.”

Zeke stared at him. His jaw muscles bulged and released. “What did Clifford tell you?”