Salvage (37 page)

"Bless me father, for I have sinned," he said.

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

"A week," the boy said. "But last time I lied."

Silence greeted him.

"Father…?"

"I'm here," the priest said. "Why did you lie, son?"

"Because I didn't want to say…"

"Say, what? You can tell me. God sees all. He is all-knowing, but through Jesus Christ all sins are forgiven." He paused, letting the gravity of this hang in the musty confessional. "Even lying."

"Even
murder
?"

The priest cleared his throat. "Murder?"

"I killed him." Tears filled his eyes. "I—I k-killed my daddy."

"Surely you didn't
kill
your father. Did somebody tell you that? They may have been exaggerating, embellishing the truth. As it says in James, 'No human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.'"

"It wasn't that," young Everett said. "I seen it happen. I did it, I seen him die."

"Son, these are serious things you're saying. You mustn't speak lightly—"

"I don't wanna go to Hell!" the boy cried, his small hands clasped desperately together over the Holy Bible on the kneeler, wringing them in an all too familiar way. "Mama says all murderers go to Hell, but I don't wanna burn for all eternalty! I don't
wanna
!" Everett wept then, his whole body shaking.

"Every sin is forgiven through our Lord Jesus Christ," the priest said patiently. "Even murder."

"But Mama says—"

"Your mother is not a priest, is she?"

Everett sniffled. "Girls can't be priests."

"Is she a nun?"

He sputtered. "Nuns ain't s'posed to get married."

"That's right. Neither am I. You might say we've entered into a sort of spiritual marriage with God."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," the priest said. "Go back to the day it happened. Tell me why you think you've harmed your father."

The scene shifted to a man sprawled at the foot of the stairs, a man Owen was entirely unsurprised to discover looked exactly like Brother Woodrow—and it was only then that Owen saw the family resemblance: the flat bridge of his nose, the high forehead, the flat pink lips. Owen's recollection of Woodrow's beard had drawn his attention away from these features. Owen stood behind young Everett at the top of the stairs, looking down at his grandfather. The toys scattered at their feet, toys Everett's father had stepped on and had sent him hurtling down the stairs, breaking his bones, the man flailing his arms all the way down, cracking his head on the floor below, where he now lay in a growing pool of blood.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?
Woodrow's voice boomed, seeming to arise from everywhere at once, just as the horn had before it, rattling the crucifix against the lattice and shaking the tiny confessional.

"Son, I want you to know that whatever you did or think you've done, God forgives you…" the priest was assuring him, but his voice was very far away.

THIS IS NO PLACE FOR A LIAR LIKE YOU!

The screen slammed shut. Everett scrambled back against the corner, shuddering in unholy terror. When it opened a moment later, a giant green-gray eye peered through, swimming with whorls of blue, every fleck and flaw visible as the pupil dilated to peer into the dim booth at Everett.

FEE-FI-FO-FUM! I SMELL THE LIES OF A LITTLE CRUMB-BUM!

Everett shrank back against the far wall.

"Are you all right in there?" The priest. Speaking from another world. Another cosmos.

ME MY, HO HUM, NEVER TELL ANOTHER ONE!
Woodrow sang, his giant's eye squinting through the lattice at the boy, his breath rattling the thin walls. Everett moaned, a runner of drool spilling from the corner of his lips.

"Son…?
Son
…?"

The wood groaned and creaked. The giant eye twinkled in a dark smile. A tremendous, earth-shattering crack pierced the air, and the roof of the confessional tore off, Woodrow's massive, neatly manicured fingers tearing it away like the top of a toy box. Woodrow himself towered above the opening, peering down at the boy from the cathedral ceiling, the hairs in his nose the width of tree branches, each of his straight, yellow teeth as big as the boy's head.

I SEEEEEE YOUUU…

Everett's shaking grew more pronounced. Suddenly, he fell back against the seat, and his eyes fluttered back as he seized madly, violently. His head struck the wall just as the door flung open.

"
My God!
" the priest said. "
Somebody call an ambulance!
"

The priest rushed to the boy's side.

GOD MAY FORGIVE YOU, BUT I DON'T FORGIVE, BOY, AND I'LL
NEVER
FORGET! YOU'RE MINE! YOU'LL ALWAYS
BE
MINE! …AND YOU'LL DIE BEFORE I LET YOU TELL!

"What is it, Brother Woodrow?" an altar boy asked the priest, stepping up behind them.

BROTHER WOODROW!
Owen's mind cried out, as further twists and shudders ran through the boy's fragile body.

"Everett Crouch is having a seizure," the priest said, his voice far-off now, and as the man peeled back Everett's eyelids, Crouch shook this memory from his head, finding himself behind the church in the harsh sunlight, on a day brisk enough to see his breath but not cold enough to require a jacket. Already the streets were flooding, the sidewalks turning to rivers, the holes where family homes had once been—good, God-fearing people, most of them—filling with brown water, with branches and leaves and splintered two-by-fours and sodden children's toys that looked like ugly little imps. That drunkard Selkie, who'd lost his job as a detective because of his love for the Devil's drink, sat in a rowboat in the middle of King Street.

"In those days before the flood," Crouch muttered to himself, "they were eating and drinking right up to the day Noah went into the Ark, and they did not understand until the flood came and destroyed them all." He rubbed his hands against the chill as he made his way to the church.

In the street, Howard's old pickup truck stood idling outside his office. Looking out through his father's eyes, Owen saw a young, blond boy he knew instinctively was himself at age five—and at such a young age, the family resemblance was nearly perfect. The boy heaved a duffel bag into the back, while Margaret stepped out of the office.

She glanced up the street, and locked eyes with Everett Crouch. He shouted her name, approaching them at a fast pace. Young Owen smiled—until he saw the look on his father's face. Howard was nowhere in sight.

"What is this?" Everett demanded. "Where do you think you're going?"

Margaret stepped between Owen and his father, hiding him behind her. "We're leaving, Everett. This is madness, what you've got planned. I'll be no part of it."

"You'll be no—? It's what God wants, Maggie! He spoke to me—"

"Nobody
spoke
to you! Those voices, that damned monster Woodrow—they're all in your head! You're a sick man, Rett. You need help. You need to let those poor, deluded people go home."

"We'll all be going home, if you take him away from us. Going home to be with the Lord."

"Owen, get in the truck," his mother said.

Everett pointed. "Don't you get in that truck, boy!"

Owen hesitated, torn between his parents. Finally, the decision was made for him. Everett strode toward them, and pushed Margaret out of the way. She yelped as she stumbled to her knees, surprised by the blow, and dropped her purse on the sidewalk, its contents spilling out.

Everett snatched Owen by the arm and dragged him away from the car. The boy yelled back, "Mom!" Margaret got to her feet and chased after them, hobbling on the broken heel of her left shoe. She stopped to remove both shoes, then splashed through the brown, shin-deep water in her stockings.

Owen stumbled along behind Everett, reaching back to his mother while his father dragged him along toward the church. "Dad! Dad, please, let me go!"

"No one is going anywhere," Everett said distractedly. "You're coming with me. God has a plan for the two of us."

Margaret had fallen behind, and was looking up the hill at them in despair. She turned from them, and Owen cried out for her once more. But rather than look back, she headed toward the office, while Everett continued onward determinedly. They soon reached the big church doors, and Everett threw them open to discover the nave empty. He dragged Owen inside, and slammed the door shut.

"Don't you think you're being a tad firm with the boy?" A lanky old man with sunken cheeks and leathery skin had emerged from the basement stairwell, his voice startling Crouch and the boy. In everyday life, Rusty "Red" Adams chewed straw and wore red suspenders to hold up his paint-stained slacks, but today he wore the same wispy white robe as the rest of the congregation.

"'Whoever spares the rod hates his son,'" Crouch said absently, and looked down at Owen, who wept silently, standing a few steps away from his father. "Owen's been a terrible boy, and now he must make amends."

"Fair enough," the old man said.

Crouch looked around, still holding Owen by the arm. "Where are the others?"

"Downstairs, as God commanded."

Crouch nodded. "Good, good." His eyes were on the baptismal font. He looked away to question the old man. "And why aren't you with them?"

Red looked disgruntled. "Forgot to leave my shoes," he said, and crossed to the altar. He sat with a pained groan, and removed them one by one, casting them alongside those that the rest of the flock had left behind.

Crouch peered anxiously toward the big church doors. "Must you do that now?"

"I do as the Lord asks." Red gave him a questioning look. "Unless, of course, He's changed His mind again."

"No, no, do as you must," Crouch said with a sigh, his eye on the door. Finally, the old man grunted as he pushed himself up barefoot from the altar. His gnarled feet swished against the wood floor as he headed back toward the basement.

"See you down there," he said.

"We'll be down shortly," Crouch said hurriedly. He looked at Owen. "Stay there," he said. He went to the door himself and closed it gently. Then he came back to Owen and led him to the baptismal font. "Don't cry. Hush now, Owen. Everything will be all right. You'll be with your mother again, soon enough. We have to cleanse you, Owen, before you step into the presence of the Lord." He held his arms out. "Come up into Daddy's arms," he said. Owen shuffled over warily, and allowed himself to be picked up.

Crouch groaned from Owen's weight. "You're getting big," he said, hoisting the boy onto his shoulder. Against his will, the boy found himself smiling through his tears.

"Dad…?"

"Yes, son." He hugged Owen to his chest.

"Mom says you're sick. But you don't look sick."

"No man is sick, who is full of God's love." He held Owen back from himself, regarding him. "It's too late. I know it's too late," he said.

Owen reached out and brushed the tear from his father's eye. "What's too late?"

Without another word, Crouch spun Owen around and thrust the boy's face into the holy water. Owen kicked his legs, his small fists thrashing in the water. "Let not your hearts be troubled," Crouch said over the splashing, turning his head from the sight. "Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself—"

The heavy doors crashed open. Howard Lansall stood in the doorway, Owen's mother standing behind him. She cried out in terror when she saw what Crouch was doing.

Startled, his grip slackened, and Owen rose from the font choking and gasping for air, his hair dripping holy water.

"Let the boy go!" Howard said.

"It's for his own good. Can't you see that?"

"You're mad, Crouch. The Mad Preacher. Kill yourselves if you must, but the boy needs his mother."

"No," Crouch said. He thrust Owen's face toward the font again. Owen screamed, and Howard stepped in through the vestibule.

"Put him down!"

"God demands it!" Crouch shouted back. "He was meant to drown, don't you see? I'm only doing what God asks!"

"You're doing what Woodrow asks," Margaret said, stepping up beside Howard. "You can't seem to tell the two apart anymore."

"No…"

"Woodrow speaks, and you listen. Woodrow says jump, you say 'How high?'"

Crouch shook his head.

"What do you think God would have to say about that? 'Worship no one before Me, for I am the Lord thy God.'"

Crouch's shoulders fell. He let go of Owen, who ran bawling to his mother and hugged her fiercely.

"Come with us," Margaret said to Crouch. "It's not too late."

"It
is
too late," he said, hanging his head. "Go. Go now. The flood will be at the doors any moment."

Howard made to leave, but Margaret hung back. "He's made up his mind, Madge. We have to leave."

Margaret nodded. She lifted Owen into her arms, and turned to leave. Looking over her shoulder, Owen watched his father slump down onto the altar. The man never once looked up.

When the doors had closed behind his wife and son, Crouch stood and descended the stairs toward the basement shelter, comforted to know his congregation would follow him to Abaddon, if it came down to it. They were survivors. Together they would build a new Eden on the ruins of Peace Falls, once the Lord had washed away the sins of the past.

Crouch stopped by the door and listened to his followers speaking in hushed voices inside the shelter. Their words were unclear. The tone seemed to signify worry. He pulled the big door open and stepped inside.

The others were slipping out of their shoes. Already they wore their baptismal robes. There were close to ten of them left in all, but Crouch was afraid it wouldn't be enough. Without the children, the Lord would surely turn His gaze from them. Their prayers, however loud, however fervent, would go unheard.

The others came over, barefoot in their robes of purest white. "Where's Margaret? Where's Owen?" Several of them spoke at once, overlapping as the voices sometimes did in his head. He couldn't tell them the Backstabbing Brit had run off with them. He couldn't say that Howard had been working on Margaret since the Purification. The snake Lansall had been whispering in her ear like a Devil on her shoulder.