Something Bad (2 page)

In the close quarters of the inhouse, Gabe’s internal world was anything but quiet. The lub-dup of each heartbeat reverberated as if branches of his heart extended to every part of his body. And the tensile stretch of his lungs, on each inhalation, felt like the rasp of wood dragged across cement, until it gave way to a twang of elastic recoil and an exhalation. In the darkness, he was keenly aware of the position of his own body parts—every joint spoke to him of its position—and he knew if he moved one, it would scream its swing.

He inched the door outward to enlarge the crack and gasped again.

Father Costello sat perfectly still on the bare metal folding chair. All around him were animal parts and blood. The pieces were so small, and so carefully carved, it was impossible to tell what they had been in life. Gabe saw they half surrounded the priest in an arc that ran from one end of the altar to the other, and that they were being purposely arranged, as if to highlight the altar, or to degrade it.

Gabe’s eyes flicked to the artist, who was engrossed in his work on the carpeted canvas. The strange looking little man didn’t change his evil grin as he went about his task. Precise and efficient at his craft, no blood seemed to spill beyond where he wanted it to go. The knife he wielded appeared sharp enough to cut through bone without perceptible resistance, and it cut so swiftly blood flowed from its cuts without the slightest splatter, forming enlarging, smooth-edged pools. Everything was rounded—the pieces of flesh, the pools of blood, the semicircular arrangement of parts around the altar. Just like the features of the little man, there were no sharp edges.

Gabe was mesmerized by the developing masterpiece. And by the way the little man carefully placed each new severance and then paused to scan the altar, as if he were gaining a wide perspective on his artwork.

Gabe pinched himself. The pain was real. Blood flowed from each of the little man’s cuts—it was real. This wasn’t a dream.

When Gabe regained his focus, the little man was at the far side of the altar. With a stiff-necked spin, the man shuffled up to Father Costello, his evil grin unchanging, like a painted on clown face. A small voice echoed, the only sound in the cavernous church.

“You don’t want to miss this part.” The man’s lips barely moved when he spoke. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

Father Costello didn’t react. Not even an eye blink.

“That’s right, Father. You look right here. You think you’ve defeated me? I can assure you that I always take the game in the end.”

The man lifted a gold communion chalice toward Father Costello.

“This is HER blood, shed for me because of your sins.”

He extended both of his arms, so his small body formed a cross, with the chalice still gripped in his right hand. A loud “Ha” sound reverberated in Gabe’s ears, and the chalice flew from the man’s still hand. It impacted the Father’s chest with a dull thud, spilling its crimson contents down the front of his white robe and up onto his neck and face.

Gabe’s eyes widened and the scene blurred, then came back into sharp focus. Droplets of blood fell to the carpet in slow motion. One drop suspended from the priest’s chin for an agonizing instant, gaining volume, before releasing, then splattering onto the lap of his satin robe.

The little man stepped forward and picked up the chalice and turned it in his grip, inspecting it from every angle. “Now, for the final touch to my masterpiece.”

Gabe wanted to look away. To curl up in the corner of the inhouse and turn his mind to another time and place. But it wouldn’t turn. He felt the same sense of perverse curiosity that captured him a year ago when he had witnessed a head-on collision on State Route 27. A passenger in one of the cars went through the windshield, all the way to his ankles, and his leaking, lifeless body colored the white hood with streaks of maroon, like painted-on flames of a hot rod, but going in the wrong direction. He had felt sickened then, but he couldn’t look away.

Gabe’s eyes flicked to the animal pieces and their surrounding pools. The blood that spilled on the royal blue carpet drew the red and blue hues to a neutral, dull gray. But the blood that adorned the white, satin robe of the priest emitted a metallic sheen that resonated to an intensity that was hard to look at straight on. His eyes returned to the primary actor in this gruesome play.

The little man reached down and pulled Father Costello’s left hand from its resting place on the father’s thigh, and turned it palm up. He placed the stem of the chalice across the palm and pushed the father’s fingers closed around it, then gently lowered the hand back to the thigh. When the little man stepped back, Father Costello’s grip on the chalice had a slight tremor, like he was straining, strangling it.

“You’re ready, now,” the man said. He pivoted and ambled toward the front doors of the church. “I’d like to stay and watch the show, but my services are needed elsewhere. I hope to see you again, later rather than sooner.” The church doors unlatched with a dull metallic clunk.

Gabe jumped. Nudging the inhouse door, he peered toward the front doors. Pressing his head a little closer to the hinge-side crack, so his forehead was against the door, he strained to expand his field of view.

Something hard smacked against the door and slammed it shut. Gabe screamed. His head ricocheted off the sidewall, and then the back wall of the confessional, and he slumped to the floor with a loud thud. His head spun and a stinging sensation crept up his back.

The door of the cubicle swung wide open, and the invading light lent more confusion to his sensory world. Both hands extended toward the light—he tried to shade his eyes and fend off the blurred image at the same time. He squinted between his spread fingers. A small, round head hovered above him. It was backlit with the harsh light of the church, but he made out high arching eyebrows and a strange, tight-lipped grin. And the scars. Both corners of the mouth had thick scars that turned upward, forcing the face into the wicked smile. But the rest of the face didn’t smile. The eyes were black with anger. Or evil.

Gabe pulled his knees up to his chest and folded his arms over his head and face. And prayed.

A high-pitched voice came from above, with a Yankee accent. “You’ll forget what you saw today if you know what’s good for you.”

The spin of Gabe’s world accelerated and then went dark.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it was dark again in the inhouse. The church was still. Too still. Then, a commotion registered, muted, off in the distance, as if filtered to a cacophony of unrecognizable frequencies. He peeked through the door crack, at Father Costello, who sat paralyzed, eyes wide. This time, the scene was surreal.

The sun had broken the sills of the east windows, casting multi-colored beams across the altar through stained glass images of saints, who stood glaring in disgust. Faint noises of a gathering congregation filtered through the windows and closed doors of the church. Gabe wanted to run, but he didn’t dare.

The din increased with each passing second, and he imagined the impatient group, awaiting the traditional and symbolic opening of the church doors. A doorknob turned, and a muffled voice echoed. “It’s unlocked.”

The doors of the church opened wide and a slow wave of horrified gasps swept into the church. Gabe shifted to the other side of the door. The morning glare from the doorway spilled a V-shaped beam across the altar, spotlighting the little man’s artwork, and Father Costello’s frozen body.

Back to the hinge side of the door. People flowed in, moving along the walls, avoiding direct movements toward the altar. Within minutes, the group framed the back and two sidewalls of the church.

When the influx of the now-hushed group slowed, a man’s voice boomed in the cavernous room. “Father Costello?”

Gabe lunged back to the other crack just as Father Costello’s paralysis lifted. The chalice fell to the floor with a muted bell ring as he stood on wobbly legs. Without saying a word, he pivoted and hurried into the back room. The back door of the church slammed.

Gabe slid back on the inhouse seat and the door bounced to a rest. A moment later, bright light flooded the inhouse again. He lifted his arms against the luminescence and flailed, trying to fend off something he vaguely remembered as threatening. He wasn’t quite sure what it was. There were voices, different voices, seemingly off in the distance.

“There’s someone in here.” A deep one.

“It’s a boy.” A little higher in tone.

“Who is it?” A woman’s voice?

He flailed his arms as hands touched him, pulled him from his sanctuary, lifted him up, and placed him on a hard wooden pew. He curled into a fetal position and crossed his hands over his head and face. And more voices aimed at him.

“Is he all right?”

“What happened here?”

“Did you see anything?”

“Who is it?”

In answer to his prayers, the room went black again.

G
ABE DIDN’T KNOW
what was worse, his last hangover or going to Mac McKenna’s general store in the late afternoon. It took two days to get over the first, and today, he couldn’t avoid the second. He knew John Johnson would be holding court on the store porch, and he didn’t relish the prospect of walking through the thick air that always formed between him and John.

Two of the three members of John’s crew were there with him. Billy Smyth sat hunched in his mechanic’s jumpsuit, splotched with the grease of trucks, tractors, and assorted farm machinery. In contrast, Press Cunningham’s pristine overalls bore no evidence of his farm ownership. John stood over the other two, his flannel shirt rolled up to show huge forearms, the left bearing the words, “Semper Fi” in the faded blue of a Viet Nam era tatoo.

Gabe parked to the side opposite “John’s” bench and tried his best to hurry into the store with a nod.

Billy Smyth leaned forward and swiveled on the bench. He flipped his head to the left sending a cascade of straight blond hair toward his ear. It fell back over his left eye. “Gabe. Where you going in such a hurry? Come and sit awhile. John was just telling us about—”

“Billy.” John’s booming voice vibrated the corrugated metal roof over the porch. The crimson flush of John’s face extended to the top of his bald head, highlighted by the horseshoe of grey-silver hair that connected his ears.

Gabe rolled his eyes. Not another one of John’s schemes.

“Come and sit,” Press Cunningham said. “Maybe you can get John off his high horse.”

John scowled at Press.

Gabe suppressed a chuckle. He loved to watch Press mess with John. Of John’s three cohorts—Billy, Press, and Mac McKenna—Press was the only one John didn’t try to bully, and Gabe enjoyed it more than Press did.

It wasn’t a secret why John left Press alone. John’s full name was John J. Johnson, and only one person outside of John’s family knew what the “J” stood for. That was Press.

Gabe shook his head. Secrets were like a narcotic to residents of the Tri-counties. The lifespan of most was short as the locals had snooping and prying down to a science. But none was as long-lived and protected as John’s middle name. John became furious whenever it was mentioned, and Press resisted all attempts to draw out the information.

Gabe thought of how he loved the way life played out in the Tri-counties. It was predictable, but with its share of local intrigue. There was order and understanding, with few surprises. It was no wonder he felt so comfortable here.

Gabe’s mind came back to the porch. “I can’t hang around. I only have a few minutes.” He remained standing. “What’s up?”

Press smoothed the bib on his overalls. They always looked like they were dry cleaned instead of washed and hung out. “You have to hear John’s latest,” Press said. Like John, he was in his mid-fifties, but his clothing hung on him the same as in his youth when he earned the nickname, “No-ass Cunningham.”

“Shut up, Press,” John said.

Gabe rolled his eyes again. He didn’t want to hear John’s latest, or earliest, or middle for that matter. It was bad enough he horned in on their card games, but every time Billy or Press started to tell a good story that involved John, John would shut them up.

Press blew a noisy exhalation and looked up at Gabe. “Heard you had quite a time after the game.”

Gabe smiled. He didn’t want to open up the conversation to John’s ridicule. “Did just fine. Had a bit of a headache, though.”

“You hear about Horace Murtry?” Billy said.

“Shut… up,” John said.

Gabe bounded two steps closer. “No. What happened?”

Billy looked at John and slumped against the bench back.

“Disappeared again, for two days,” Press said. “The way I heard it, he came back smelling like whiskey and women’s perfume, and I ain’t talking about the store bought kind of either.”