Boys in the Valley(36)
Together, they walk down the length of the hall and down the stairs.
They are crossing the foyer toward the dining hall when Johnson notices one of the chapel doors is open. Wide open. Wedged at the bottom with what looks like a shoe.
He stops, glances down at Ben, who has stopped alongside him, looking up at him with apparent confusion. “Stay here,” he says. “Wait for me. I don’t want Poole seeing you without me next to you, understand?”
“Where are you going?” Ben says, but then he also notices the chapel’s open door, his eyes curious.
“Just stay here,” Johnson repeats, and walks toward the chapel.
He approaches the open door cautiously.
Go on, you nit. What are you worried about? That some little brat will jump from the shadows and scream BOO!
If Johnson is honest with himself—beneath the shaggy black beard, the wicked scar, the six-plus-feet of height and broad bulky frame—he truly is a coward at heart. Most lifelong criminals are. Vicious, yes. Like dogs. But when confronted they balk, they cower, they flee. Also, like dogs. Yes, he’d done horrible things. Terrible things. But those are things done from the shadows. In darkened alleys. To turned backs. He never walks toward danger, not if he can help it.
It’s a damned chapel, Teddy, not a warehouse on the docks. What are you scared of?
As the chapel interior comes into view through the open door, he leans cautiously to look inside. The large room is dim. All the candles are extinguished. But gray daylight seeps through the single stained-glass window, offering a rusty duotone image of the room’s innards. He pushes in, closer, and sees the backs of the benches, the matching curtains that bookend the raised stage from which Poole gives his sermons, upon which the deacons—Father Francis and Father White—sit during ceremonies.
Licking his lips, he steps fully into the doorway, the entire room now visible . . .
And stops, frozen. Eyes transfixed. His mind swirls like black smoke, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.
My God, what in hell is that?
Numbly, he stares at the pulpit, and then the altar nestled behind it, which is nothing more than a broad, mahogany table crudely etched with Christian symbols. On either side of the altar stand two massive, unlit candelabras. A large, bare wooden cross—nearly six feet in height—hangs against worn brick above and behind it.
He takes a step closer, squinting. It’s deathly quiet. The air is thick, muffling his senses.
As he studies the cross, his face twists in disgust. In naked horror.
Soft footsteps approach from behind, but he can’t turn, he can’t speak, he can’t look away. What he’s seeing is impossible. It’s a nightmare.
“Brother Joh . . .”
He comes alert, his wits finally breaking free from the trap of shock. He spins around, eyes frantic and wide. “No boy! Don’t look!”
But Johnson is too late.
Regardless, Ben pays him no attention. His eyes are fixed on the frail, naked body hung from the cross; the stretched, bared arms sliced open across each wrist; the dripping blood pooling atop the altar.
And then Ben screams.
23
BY THE TIME WE REACH THE FARM I’M SHIVERING. THE road, along with the surrounding hills, is now coated a thick white with fallen snow. It’s beautiful and expansive. The sky is the color of stone, flat and hard in appearance, but brittle, as if it would crack like an eggshell—revealing black seams of the universe beyond—if struck hard enough. The surrounding horizon rolls gently, disrupted by waves of white knolls. The barren, uneven land gives the world an ethereal, almost heavenly, feel.
If I wasn’t so cold I’d almost be enjoying it.
The Hill farm, as always, is a welcome sight. The house is sturdy and well-kept, sided with brown panels and stamped with navy shutters. A comforting curl of smoke drifts from a red-brick chimney. I imagine the warmth of being inside, and the imagined contrast to the cold wagon makes me shiver again.
The massive red barn is settled further back, and the doors are closed to keep the snow out and the animals warm. Past the barn are the fields, the snow-dusted acres of crops.
John Hill steps out the front door, likely having seen our approach. He’s lightly bundled in a flannel shirt and knit cap. There’s a pipe in his mouth, per usual, curling smoke to match the chimney’s. It makes me think that he and his home have melded certain characteristics, like an old married couple.
I wait for Grace to appear, looking from the barn to the house, not certain from where she’ll emerge. Moments later, however, she hurries through the same door as her father. A deep green dress flowers from beneath a toughened, wool-lined canvas jacket. Like her father, she also wears a knit cap, a green that matches her skirts, and her eyes.
Andrew waves an arm as we approach, and John lifts a hand in return. I can see Grace’s face in more detail now, and the bright smile she wears gives me all the warmth I’ll ever need. A long blonde curl has fallen loose from her hat and rests aside her face. I wave as well, unable to hold back my eagerness.
We settle the wagon near the barn as John and Grace walk over to greet us. John speaks to Grace in the fashion of instruction, likely giving her a list of things to start acquiring. Andrew and I disembark from the wagon, and I’m thankful for my boots; the snow is already a few inches deep, and my feet would have been quickly frozen if I’d worn only my brogues.