Light From Heaven (60 page)

J.C. peered at Mule’s lunch. “Mineʼs tuna fish on whole wheat. Whatʼs yours?”

“Ravioli.” Mule stabbed his lunch with a plastic fork, which snapped in two. “Shoot a monkey, wait a minute. Maybe itʼs...” The realtor looked bewildered. “I don’t know what it is.”

“I’m out of here,” said Father Tim.

“I don’t know what to do,” he told Betty Craig on the porch of the town museum.

“If you don’t do
somethinʼ,
you’ll be seein’ me in Broughton next time.”

“
That
bad?”

“If you only knew.”

“Then tell me, so I’ll know.”

“But you don’t want tʼ know.”

Nor did he want to be the one to remove Rose Watson from the house her brother built, the home she’d loved and lived in nearly all her life. Further, he certainly didn’t think much of the nursing home in Holding. And, as the only way to get into Hope House was for someone to die, he darn sure wasn’t praying along that line.

Time. That’s what he needed. Time, and the prayer that never fails.

“Father, I’ll give you another week and after that, I’m done. I’m sorry, ’cause you’ve been awful good to me, but I’m only human. I am not a saint with a halo.”

“Oh, yes you are, Betty!”

“An’ don’t go flatterin’ me, now, ’cause it wonʼt work.”

A week. To do the impossible.

On Tuesday morning, he figured he should slip over to the house in the woods, check it out, and get this thing behind them once and for all.

There was no need to say anything to anybody here. Heaven knows, there was enough going on at Meadowgate, including an improvised kindergarten in the attic, where Sissie was painting and coloring, and asking questions a mile a minute.

While the boys were still sleeping, he’d go over alone, see what was what, and if he needed to involve the county police, Justice and his partner looked like fellows who could take care of business.

Then again, maybe he shouldn’t go alone...

“Barnabas!” he said, taking down the red leash. “How about a walk in the woods?”

As they neared the house, Barnabas growled.

Probably, he thought, because something was hanging from the light fixture on the porch.

He approached cautiously and saw that a couple of wire hangers contained a pair of beat-up khakis, stained briefs that washing hadn’t improved, a pair of white socks, and a shirt.

A blue and white checked shirt.

He walked onto the porch and examined the sleeves. Someone had tried to close the gap in the left sleeve with an awkward go at stitchery. The clothes were still damp to the touch. Wash day at the house in the woods; the thought made his hair stand on end.

He would leave as quietly as he’d come, and return to the farmhouse at a clip; the phone number of the county police was on a notepad hard by the phone.

Suddenly, Barnabas dove off the porch, barking wildly, and raced around the side of the house. Father Tim ran after him.

A naked man cowered beside the woodshed as Barnabas stood a couple of yards away, barking in a booming baritone that echoed from the surrounding woods.

“Git this dog offa me!”

“You’re on our property illegally, my dogʼs just doing his job.” His heart was thundering. He knew this face well, though he’d seen it only once. “And—heʼs got all day to do it.”

Barnabas’s incessant barking was punctuated by his low growl, not a pretty sound.

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong, I’m jis’ passin’ through f’r a little warsh-up in y’r creek.” The man hunkered over, trying to cover himself. “You cain’t blame a God-fearin’ man f‘r usin’ yʼr creek.”

“I could blame him for using my chickens.”

“What chickens?”

“The ones you stole from our henhouse and cooked in your fire pit over there. Those chickens.”

Barnabas stopped barking and settled into a low growl. The growl, thought the vicar, was even more alarming than the bark.

“I ain’t stole no chickens ...”

“Letʼs don’t pretend. I know who you are; you know who I am, and I believe I know why you’re here. Let’s get down to it, or I’ll let my dog run you out to the state road and all the way to Kirby’s Store. After that, you’re on your own.

“I been dog bit a time or two; I ain’t skeered.”

“Yes, but you ain’t been bit by this dog.”

“Let me git m’ clothes on; I’ll go away from here.You’ll not see me ag’in.” He held up both hands. Father Tim noticed that his hands were trembling.

“Stick around awhile; we’ve got a lot to say to each other.”

“I’m naked as a jaybird, f’r God’s sake ...”

“Living up to your name, then. I’m told you’re known to the federal government as Jaybird Johnson, a name you stole from a man who died on one of your job sites.”

“I don’t know what y’r talkin’ about.” The one-eyed Clyde Barlowe, alias Jaybird Johnson, moved suddenly toward the rear of the woodshed. Barnabas launched himself in that direction and nailed Clyde at the corner of the building. Standing only inches away, Barnabas snarled at their prey so fiercely that even the hair on Father Tim’s neck stood up.

“Lord God have mercy!” shouted Clyde.

“Tell me about the mercy you showed your son, Sammy, when you held him at gunpoint.”

“I donʼ know what y’r talkin’ about.”

“I see you call on God.”

Clyde spit vehemently. “That’s a manner of speakin’, they ain’t no such of a thing as God.”

“Why don’t I leave my dog with you while I go make a phone call to the county police? It takes roughly eight minutes to walk to the house, and ten or fifteen for the police to arrive. That would give you plenty of time to get better acquainted with my friend here. Let me formally introduce you—his name is Barnabas. Barnabas, this is Clyde Barlowe, the father of Dooley and Sammy, who never gave any of his children a moment’s love or protection.”

Clyde uttered an oath, and dropped to his haunches, his back to the woodshed. “I’ll git y’ f’r this, I’ll git y’ f’r stealin’ m’ boys. I never signed nothin’ sayin’ you could take m’ boys.”

Father Tim sat on a stump. Barnabas hadn’t once taken his eyes off the target. “Good fellow, Barnabas, keep doing what you’re doing. So, Clyde, tell me why you’re here. And please—donʼt waste my time or yours, or I’ll have to ask Barnabas to get to the heart of the matter.”

“When Sammy run out on me, I knowed where he’d go, he’d go to them as stole m’ other boy from me. So I hitched up tʼ Mitford an’ they tol’ me where you was at. I come on thʼ place off of thʼ state road anʼ seen this house. I was goin’ t’ git Sammy t’ come back to ’is rightful home.”

“Looks like you weren’t in any hurry to contact Sammy.”

“When I seen y’r henhouse, I figured they wonʼt no use t’ let a pen of chickens go t’ waste.”

“So you planned to eat up the chickens and then come and get Sammy.”

“Looked like a good plan tʼ me.”

“Clyde, you need somebody to help you think things through.”

“I know how t’ take a hen off thʼ roost slick as grease. I can git by dogs, by donkeys, you name it.”

Father Tim didn’t know how he got by the guineas, but that was a story for another day.

“You’ve got a lot of offenses going here, including larceny. A judge could throw the book at you—something like two hundred and forty days.”

Father Tim knew the anguish both boys had suffered over their father. If he called in the police, Timothy Kavanagh would have to testify in court; the court date could drag on; and Dooley and Sammy would be seriously affected, to say the least. Bottom line, the summer they’d all looked forward to would be ruined.

“Let a man git ‘is britches on, f’r God’s sake. That’d be th’ Christian thing to do.”

“Look at it this way, Clyde:

“I know where your trailer is.

“I know something you don’t want the government to know.

“I have a patch of your shirt that I will use as evidence.

“My witness can easily get you two hundred and forty days behind bars.

“And—if push ever comes to shove—I will take the stand against you on Sammy’s behalf. You don’t have a chance.”

The sun had moved from behind the oak tree. Clyde shaded his eyes with his hands.

“Here’s what I’m telling you:You don’t ever want to come back here.”

Barnabas sat down, still eyeing Clyde.

“In case a judge ever needs to see it, I’m keeping the shirt. Get your britches on, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

After escorting Clyde Barlowe to the state road, he walked back to the farmhouse, now trembling, himself.

He told her everything.

Should he also tell the boys? She didn’t think so. Any discussion of his father always upset Dooley, just as it did Sammy.

Clyde Barlowe had come and Clyde Barlowe had gone. They decided to leave it at that.

At breakfast on Wednesday, his wife looked like the wreck of the Hesperus.

“I’ll take over tomorrow,” he promised, “if you can handle Sissie one more day.”

“But only one,” she said. “Then I’ll take her again on Friday. Howʼs that?”

He’d long considered division of labor a highlight of the marital state.