His Name is Wormwood

By G.V. Hitchman

When a young woman disappears on the same morning her infant nephew is found missing from his crib, Sheriff Stanley Roebuck believes he's only dealing with a kidnapping. He scoffs at the local reverend's suspicion that a malevolent spirit is involved … that is, until the town's criminals begin dropping dead for reasons the coroner cannot explain.

With the woman and child both still missing, Roebuck wonders if something even more sinister is happening in Los Pinos—something neither he nor the reverend have the power to subdue. Then, one deputy's shocking discovery makes Sherriff Roebuck question everything he has ever known, and fear he has waited too long.

A novelette: 13K words

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.V. Hitchman
• Release date: Oct 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781533790972

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sheriff Stanley Roebuck—a graying man approaching his fifties with a proud mustache—sighed heavily as he walked down the dusty road toward the Clarke residence, flanked by his two companions, ruminating in silence. It was only seven in the morning, and after five years as sheriff in the rowdy, rugged town of Los Pinos, this was shaping out to be his worst day yet. He wouldn’t have known it by the way the sun shone among the fluffy white clouds or by the way the birds chirped from the budding trees. Nope. On the surface, it looked like a beautiful spring morning in southern California. But it wasn’t. The residents of Los Pinos, now opening their shutters and brewing their coffee, would learn that soon—Roebuck had no doubt. It was one of two things he knew with absolute certainty.

The second thing he knew with absolute certainty was the identity of the culprit in the latest crime in Los Pinos—the crime for which he had just moments before taken the initial report. Of course, he wasn’t going to say that to Mr. Clarke, not yet anyway. What man would want to hear that his own wife was a kidnapper on the same day he’d discovered her missing?

Sheriff Roebuck said nothing of this to the men who strode on either side of him. To his right was Reverend James Harlow, a small man in his mid-sixties with hunching shoulders and scant gray hair. Deputy Cannon, to Roebuck’s left, was handsome, tall, and broad-shouldered with peppery hair and crinkled eyes brought on by his mid-thirties.

The trio turned and began to climb the creaking wooden steps, leading to the front door of the Clarke home. Roebuck paused as he reached the third step. One of his companions was no longer beside him. He looked back to see Deputy Cannon resting his right foot on the bottom step, his left foot still firmly planted on the dirt road. Cannon placed his right foot beside the left.

I ... I don’t feel so good, he stammered.

Ya sick? Roebuck asked.

Cannon took a step backward. Uh ... yeah.

Cannon, who just a moment before had been as healthy as a man could be, stood stiff and shivering in the road. His eyes were wide, and his forehead glistened with sweat in the cool air. His skin had paled beneath his tan, and his chest rose and fell in rapid succession. Deputy Cannon looked more like Reverend Harlow than himself, but he did not look sick—he looked terrified. His expression seemed out of place on his brawny frame.

Damn it, Cannon, what the hell’s the matter with you? Roebuck demanded.

Reverend Harlow placed a hand on Roebuck’s shoulder.

He spoke in his signature velvety voice so suitable for his profession yet startlingly incongruous to his narrow, ashen face. Perhaps, it would be best to let young Deputy Cannon here take the day off. He certainly won’t do you any good, and his appearance might cause poor Mr. Clarke further distress. And there’s no need for that, now is there?

Well, he has a point.

The sheriff conceded. Alright. Go on home.

Without a word, Deputy Cannon turned and dashed to his horse so quickly the beast reared up in alarm and gave a short shriek. Cannon yanked on the reigns, bringing the stallion’s front hooves to the ground, then leapt into the saddle and rode away, urging the horse to an unnecessary speed.

After pausing to watch his deputy flee, Sheriff Roebuck—feeling both irritated and puzzled— turned back toward the door of the Clarke home, grateful the holy man had ignored his outburst of cussing. The reverend was good like that.

He knocked and called out, Mr. Clarke? It’s the sheriff. I’m here with the reverend.

Almost immediately, the door swung open, and a handsome