The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek(7)

“And so,” Pastor Mitchell went on, his voice shifting into a conclusive decrescendo, “we are so blessed to be here together, First Baptist and Second Baptist joined as one, as we consume this delectable bit of sustenance together. In Jesus’ name…”

There it was. Go time.

Rex’s hand was already in the air when Pastor Jingle, clearly desperate to get the last word, began to speak some more. “Yes, in Jesus’ name, we now bless our food. And the Lord hears us. And He likes what He hears.” Seriously? How many blessings were there going to be?

Rex yanked his hand down, but it was too late. Leif had released Tucker’s collar, and Alicia was already sprinting and screaming. Rex wanted to explain his mistake to the crowd, but he had no choice but to keep filming. Sure, the three of them would probably get in more trouble than they’d anticipated—that was very clear when he panned over to the dozens of confused, angry faces staring at Alicia (perfect reaction shot)—but really, there was something even more authentic now: Tucker’s powerful barks forcing the pastor to stop speaking.

“Somebody help!” Alicia shouted. “My dog is a ghost!” Her voice pitched higher on the last word, and it was gold. She’d completely nailed it. But Rex’s triumph turned to concern when he saw that Tucker’s performance was almost too convincing, his pursuit of the bacon tail transforming him into a seemingly rabid dog, inciting what looked like genuine terror in Alicia. Rex instinctively took his eye off the lens and saw Leif, already in a full sprint to retrieve his dog, his panicked face whiter than Tucker’s fake tail.

“Now, what is this all about?” Pastor Jingle said into the microphone.

“You got some nerve, interruptin’ the pastors!” a man with a goatee in a Garth Brooks T-shirt shouted at them, which inspired similar reprimands from others.

It was an accident! Rex wanted to shout, but he didn’t want to taint the incredible take he was getting. He put his eye back on the lens in time to see Alicia zigging and zagging away from Tucker, whose age of eighty-four dog years was the only thing keeping him from closing the distance to Alicia and chomping the bacon lure. Rex figured he’d give it another few seconds before stepping in.

Leif wasn’t on the same page. “Tucker!” he shouted. “Tucker, sit!” The collie, laser-focused on the prize, did not slow down. Then, Leif, apparently sensing the limits of human language, began making wild movements and animalistic sounds to get Tucker’s attention, which only kind of worked. He had, however, in an impressive display of newfound post-pubescent speed, caught up with Tucker. Left with no other options, Leif awkwardly tackled his canine companion, who let out a startled yip. Alicia looked back midsprint, which is why she didn’t notice that all her zigging and zagging had put her on a collision course with Wayne Whitewood, who was standing next to the open grill, ready to serve some pig plates.

“Watch out!” Rex shouted, for some reason still looking through the camera.

It was too late, though. Wayne Whitewood tried to sidestep the curly-haired hellion heading his way, but upon hearing Rex’s warning, so did Alicia. She plowed directly into Whitewood, sending him reeling sideways, his sweat-covered torso landing on the cooked pig. He caught himself on the still-hot metal bars of the grill, searing his bare hands with a sickening hiss.

Whitewood let out an uncharacteristic shriek followed by a long, guttural moan. The crowd, stunned into silence, could have heard the faint sizzle of melted pig fat falling onto the hot coals if it weren’t for Whitewood’s oscillating between gasping and groaning, now coupled with Alicia’s repeated apologies.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Whitewood! So, so, sorry!” Alicia cried.

Whitewood continued to breathe heavily, trying to gather himself. A crowd of about a dozen people, including Sheriff Lawson, had sprung into action and now clustered around the wounded man. Leggett Shackelford—a tall, wide man who, as the owner of the only other funeral home in town, was also Rex’s dad’s arch nemesis—put an arm on Whitewood’s shoulder, then turned to Alicia.

“You, young lady, are out of control!” he yelled, his oversized mustache jumping up and down.

“What possessed you to do such a thing?” demanded Mary Hattaway, who had also come to Whitewood’s aid.

Rex was incredibly grateful that he was still filming, but the gravity of what was happening to Alicia quickly overshadowed his enthusiasm for PolterDog. This wasn’t good. It was an accident, sure, but Rex knew that wouldn’t make a difference to everyone who’d witnessed it.

The crowd began to escort Whitewood to his nearby Ford Super Duty truck, perching him on the tailgate, where he held his red, blistered hands. Rex turned off his camera and ran to Leif and Alicia, who both looked shell-shocked. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Alicia said.

“I’m sorry,” Leif said, staring at the ground. “I underestimated Tucker’s…enthusiasm.”

“Just tell me you got the shot,” Alicia said to Rex.

“Oh yeah. I got it. It was awesome. You were aw—”

“What in the world were you doin’?” Rex’s mom asked as she rushed over to them. She was as angry as he’d seen her in a long time. “Interruptin’ grace like that…have you lost your mind? And Mr. Whitewood is hurt!” She spun to Alicia. “Are your parents here?”