The First Church (4 page)

The man’s thick fingers idly played with a pen, and occasionally he reached out to adjust the position of a spiral bound notebook in front of him.

“Now,” the man said, “my name is Detective Dan Brown, and this is Officer Raelynn French.”

Jim’s mother nodded.  “You can call me Karen.  This is my father, Luke Allen, and my son, James.”

Officer French nodded, but Detective Brown grinned and extended his hand to Jim.

“A pleasure to meet you, James,” he said.  He turned to Jim’s grandfather and said, “Is it rude to offer my hand?”

“It’d be rude not to,” he replied evenly.  He offered his hand, waited for the detective to grasp it, and shook it firmly.  “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Same here.  Now, you’re not any relation to Luke
Allen, who played football for UNH, are you?” Detective Brown asked.

Jim’s grandfather grinned.  “I’m the one who played.”

“Hell,” the detective laughed.  “My dad used to bring me to all of the university’s home games.  You were a hell of a running back.”

“When I could see,” his grandfather agreed, chuckling.

“What happened, if you don’t mind?” Detective Brown asked.

“North Vietnamese sniper,” Jim’s grandfather,
said with a shrug.  “Went into the Marines as an officer.  The Vietnam War kind of did me wrong.”

“Well,” the detective said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Allen.  I enjoyed watching you play.”

“Thank you.”

  “Now, Officer French, do you want to lead off here?” Brown asked.

She nodded, fixed her hard eyes on Jim and asked, “Do you know why we’re here, James?”

“The fight at school?” Jim offered up.

“Yes,” she said.  “The fight at school.  Do you want to tell us what happened?”

“Sure,” Jim said.  He told the police the same story he had told his mother and grandfather.

Officer French took out her own notepad and pen,
and Jim watched, mildly curious, as the two officers wrote down most of what he said.  When he had
finished, Officer French looked at him.

“And what about after school?” She asked.

“What about it
?” Jim asked in return.  “I took the bus home, came upstairs, played a game of chess with my grandfather, read a little bit, and then I helped with the dinner table.”

Officer French paused before she said, “Chess?”

Before Jim could answer, his grandfather interjected.

“You doubt I can play, Officer?” he asked.

The woman blushed, cleared her throat and said hastily, “No.  Not at all, sir.”

“He’s really good,” Jim said, glancing at his grandfather.  “He remembers where every piece is.”

“I bet,” Detective Brown said with a chuckle.  “Now, Mrs. Bogue, can you confirm your son’s story?”

“Story?” h
is mother asked.  The nervousness bled out of her voice.  “It’s not a story, Detective.  He was here.  Has been here.  He doesn’t go out without permission.  He knows better.  What’s this about?”

“Mrs. Bogue,” Officer French said, “there was an incident with Carlton Talbot and Matt Espelin.  They were severely injured this afternoon.”

“Over at the Church?” His mother asked.  “We saw the ambulances and the cruisers.”

“Yes,” Detective Brown said, his voice becoming serious.  “We have a phone from one of the boys, and they said something about recording what happened to them, but, well, one of our forensics experts managed to
trigger the auto-wipe feature on the phone,
and we can’t see what’s on it.  Both of the boys are in emergency
surgery, and we won’t know all of the details until they’re done.”

“Then why don’t you wait until they’re out to ask questions?” Jim’s mother asked, looking from Detective Brown to Officer French.

“We’d like to get this settled as quickly as possible,” Officer French said.  “If James can tell us what he did, it will go much easier for him later on.”

“What I did?” Jim asked.  “What I did?”

“James,” his mother said.

“Mom,” he said.  “Come on.  I got home, lost two out of three games of chess, and read some more of
Republic Commando
.  Nothing else!”

“James,” the detective said, a note of severity creeping into his voice.  “James, you’re the only one who had an issue with those two boys, and you live across from the Church.”

“And I didn’t do anything!” Jim snapped.

“We will get to
the truth,” Officer French said.  She started to say
more, but Jim’s mother cut her off.

“I think we’re done talking,” she said angrily, standing up.  “I’ve been here since James got home.  He hasn’t gone anywhere.  Thank you for being polite, but I really feel it would be best if you both le
ave now.”

The two police officers nodded and gathered their things.

“Detective,” Jim’s grandfather said as the cops stood up to leave.

“Yes, Mr. Allen?” Detective Brown asked.

“What happened to them?  To the two boys?”

“Someone gouged their eyes out, Mr. Allen,” Detective Brown said.  “They’re both blind.”

Chapter 7: In the Basement

Miles Cunningham had a key, although no one knew it.

He’d made a copy, and he kept it close by.

With the key,
he opened the side door to the First Church, slipped in and made his way easily through the darkness.  The backpack on his shoulders was black, as were his clothes.  Even his sneakers were black, the rubber tread silent
ly
on the old linoleum of the basement floor. 

Miles
made his way down to the boiler room.  A sharp twist and downward pull popped the old lock out of the door casing.

From his pocket,
he took out a small flashlight, the LEDs covered with red cellophane.  The red protected his night vision, let him see and didn’t give away his presence to any who might pass by.

But at two in the morning, he doubted anyone would pay attention to the Church.

There was nothing to steal, and no one ever vandalized a Protestant Church.  They saved their attentions for the Catholics.

Miles
stole easily around the giant, ancient heater.  Near the new duct work
, he removed a cinder block from the wall and shined his light inside.

A yellowed skull sat on a piece of wood.  Jawless and toothless.  Empty sockets stared at him.

He put his hands together around the flashlight and gave a solemn bow.  When he straightened
up,
he shrugged off his backpack and opened it.  He removed
a second skull, as barren of jaw and teeth as the first, and placed it beside its companion.

Once more,
he bowed, then returned the cinder block to its place.  He shined the light on the floor and made certain there was no trace of dirt, nothing to show he had been there.

No evidence of the cinder block’s removal from the wall.

Silently, he closed his pack, returned it to its place, and slipped out of the room.

He closed the door behind him and left the Church.  He locked the side door behind him and made his way to his car parked nearly a mile away.

Miles had been in the Church for less than two minutes, and all was as planned.

Chapter 8: Luke Allen, August 15, 1955

The Victory over the Japan parade had been short and sweet,
and Luke could still taste his hot dog.  He switched his bottle of Coke from one hand to the next and walked home.

Mr. Boyd sat on his porch, holding a beer and having an electric fan set on a table.

The man looked at Luke and then called out, “Luke!”

Luke stopped and turned to
Mr. Boyd.  “
Yes, sir?”

“How was the parade, boy?” the man asked, his words slightly slurred.

“Fun,” Luke answered.

“Did Homer Ferguson march as well?” Mr. Boyd asked with a frown on his face.
  Luke had heard his own father complain about the way Homer went on about his military service.

For a moment,
Luke wanted to lie, but he decided against it.  Mr. Boyd would only get angry if he found out otherwise.

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Boyd muttered something Luke couldn’t hear and finished his beer.  He put the empty bottle down on the porch floor beside the other half a dozen, reached into an ice bucket and pulled out a fresh beer.  With a sharp
motion, he struck the cap against the arm of the chair, and the small metal disc spun up 8into the air.

The man caught it easily and set it down beside the electric fan.  He looked at Luke and said, “You busy, boy?”

Luke shook his head.

“Come on up, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Boyd said.  “My wife’s visiting her sister in
Concord, and I’d appreciate the company.”

Pa’s probably drunk anyway,
Luke thought and realized he really didn’t want to be home if his father got too angry at the world.

He went up the cement walkway, climbed the stairs and stood a few feet away from Mr. Boyd.

The man smiled.  “Take a seat, boy.  Take a seat.”

Luke sat on the porch across from Mr. Boyd and took a drink of his Coke.

“Did you know I served with your Pa in the Pacific?” Mr. Boyd asked.

Luke shook his head, surprised.  “He doesn’t talk too much about it.”

“Hm,” Mr. Boyd said, taking a pull from the bottle.  “I understand.  Only a few folks
I
know was in.  I ain’t like Homer Ferguson.  He pulled supply duty in England for the whole war.  Talks like he landed at Normandy, went all the way to Berlin and won the damned war himself.”

Mr. Boyd snorted, finished the beer and put it
down angrily.  In
silence, he got himself another
fresh one from the bucket, opened it the same way as the previous bottle and looked at Luke.  “Sorry, boy.  Don’t mean to snap.”

“It’s okay,” Luke said. 
So long as I’m out of arm’s reach
, he thought silently.

“You know, when the Japanese surrendered,
none of us believed it,” Mr. Boyd said after a minute.  “We’d been fighting them for so long
,
we never thought they’d give up.  Hell, we were gearing up for the big push into the Japanese home islands.  Well, the Marines were.  Six divisions to spearhead the invasion.  Casualties would have been terrible.”

Mr. Boyd reached out, adjusted the fan slightly, and the cool air washed over Luke.

“War’s a terrible business, boy,” Mr. Boyd said softly.  “Terrible business.  I don’t march because I know.  Same with your father.  Some can justify what they’ve done.  Some of us, we
’ve come to love it too much.”

The two of them drank in silence for a moment, and then Mr. Boyd smiled.  “Your father bring home any trophies?”

“From the war?” Luke asked.

Mr. Boyd nodded.

“No,” Luke said.  “
At least,
none I know of.  I asked him once, years ago, he said the shrapnel in his rear was trophy enough.”

Mr. Boyd chuckled.  “Well, he has a point there.  I brought home some trophies.”

“You did?” Luke said.

“Plenty.  Plenty.  I was a gunnery sergeant by the time we finished
, and no one
was going to go through my sea bag,” Mr. Boyd said with a snort.  He finished half of his beer, grinned and asked, “Do you want to see
them?”

Luke felt his eyes widen.  “Honest?”

“Honest,” Mr. Boyd said, chuckling.  The man stood up, swayed slightly, and then walked to the front door.  “Come on, boy.”

Luke stood up and followed him into the house.

The front room was small and well decorated, and it smelled like roses.  Doilies were on the furniture and the side tables.  Pictures of
family
stood in neat rows on the mantle and several shelves.  A picture of a young Mr. Boyd in a Marine uniform stood off in one corner.

“I think I weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds soaking wet when I joined the Marines,” Mr. Boyd said, shaking his head as they walked out of the room and into a hallway. 

He stopped at a closed door, dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked it.  Mr. Boyd flicked on the light and stepped into the room.

“Wow,” Luke whispered.

The room was lined with bookshelves, but there weren’t any books.  War trophies and weapons filled the spaces instead.

Luke saw samurai swords and bayonets.  Helmets and pistols.  Medals, photographs, shell casings, and skulls.

Six skulls looked at him from a glass display case set in the wall across from the door.