Andrew swallows and spares a glance back to the darkened hallway, hoping for Poole’s expedient return. He chooses, for now, not to comment on the sheriff’s use of the past tense as it pertains to the girl.
“Anyway, a farmer out that way sent his son to me with word. He’d seen some odd things in the trees near their home. Men and women . . . fires . . . screams. Strange things. So, me and three other men rode out there . . .”
Baker shakes his head, takes in a breath. Andrew waits, his serene face belying his quickening pulse.
“It was awful, Father.” Baker’s voice cracks, turns pleading. “Hellish. There . . . there was a group of ’em. They’d . . . oh sweet Jesus, Father . . . they’d sacrificed her.”
Andrew’s blood turns to ice water, a spider-like chill crawls up the knobs of his spine. He swallows hard, thinks of reaching out a hand, to comfort the distraught man, but refrains. Part of him fears that his own hand would be shaking. “You say sacrificed?” he asks, trying to stay resolute. “Not murdered?”
Baker wipes his nose, taps his hat against his hip. “She was stripped naked, Father. And bound with straps to a flat stone. Tied down. And . . .” Baker pauses, lets out a breath, then rushes on. “They’d been cutting her, Andrew. The cuts were . . . patterns, I guess. Symbols of some sort. Deviltry. It was Satan’s work; I’d swear on it. Anyway . . . the man we’ve brought here? He was drinking her blood.”
Andrew tries to reply, to think of something—anything—to say, but his thoughts are a maelstrom, his head numb with the horror of what he’s being told. “Sheriff . . . I . . .”
But the sheriff plows forward, as if needing to get through the story, to purge the memory from his mind one last time. “We killed them all.” Baker’s eyes, which were widened and distant during his retelling, now go hard as flint. “We slaughtered the bastards where they stood. I never gave the order . . . hell, I hardly remember . . . we all just started firing. No one thought about it, no one questioned it. That girl was opened up, Father. I could see her heart.”
Footsteps behind him. Andrew turns to see Poole hurrying back. Thank heaven.
Behind him another, larger shadow emerges. Johnson. Sheriff Baker turns and motions to the men outside, and they disappear into the dark.
“This man you’ve brought,” Andrew says, eyeing Poole as he arrives. “The one you spoke of. He survived?”
Baker starts to reply, then stops as loud grunts and curses carry from outside, loud enough to be heard over the wind, which has elevated to a whining howl. Andrew hears the anxious whinny of a horse, the blown lips and foot stomps of another. Suddenly, three shadow-faced men block out the doorframe. Andrew raises his lantern, and his eyes widen in shock.
Two of the men, he realizes, are deputies. They both wear guns, and one has a dull silver star on his leather coat.
They hold a man between them. The prisoner.
A coarse grain sack covers his head, darkened in places by what Andrew assumes is blood, or perhaps sweat. The man is tall and skinny. His clothes are torn. He’s shoeless, and his feet are blackened.
In the air above them, lit silver by a heavy moon, snowflakes dance.
Baker nods to the men, then looks back at Andrew, who is surprised to see tears running through the dirt and stubble on the sheriff’s cheeks. “He’s my brother, Father. His name is Paul. I spared my little brother, and now I’m hoping you can save his life.” He pauses, as if debating internally, then says, “Or if not that, then his soul.”
Poole, now in a cassock and carrying a bright lantern, motions to the men. “Bring him,” he snaps, already turning on his heel to head back to the priest’s chambers. “Quickly! To my room.”
Andrew and the sheriff step aside as the two deputies drag the tall man between them, across the threshold of the orphanage, and into its depths. A third deputy comes in from the dark, looking sheepish as a guilty schoolboy, and closes the door behind him. The three of them trail behind the others.
“I couldn’t kill him,” Baker says quietly, as if ashamed. “Not my own flesh. But now I realize, he’s not my brother any longer. You’ll see. There’s something wrong with him, Father. Horribly wrong.”
As they follow, Andrew notes the long lines of wet blood running from the dragged man’s black, naked feet; the flow of blood inking a wavery line across the stone, as if it were paint, and the sheriff’s brother the dampened brush. “I would say so,” Andrew says, careful not to step in the dark lines being drawn across the foyer. “He is badly wounded . . .”
The sheriff’s strong hand grips his elbow, and he winces from the pain of it. Baker’s feverish eyes stare into his, pleading. “Not the flesh, Father,” he whispers, eyes raised as if to make sure neither God or the Devil are hovering above, listening. “Something else. Something has overtaken him.”
Poole’s voice cuts through the dark. “Andrew!”
“Come,” Andrew says to the despairing man, hurrying along toward Poole’s chamber. “We’ll do what we can.”
Andrew walks past Johnson, who stands at the end of the hall lighting a wall sconce. He turns as Andrew approaches, his face ghastly white, his tone surprisingly nervous. “Andrew, is this safe?”
Taken aback by the large man’s obvious fear, Andrew breaks stride to study Johnson, wondering if he knows something Andrew does not.
“I don’t like this, Andrew,” Johnson says shakily, and crosses himself.
He doesn’t look afraid . . . he looks terrified.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, then continues down the hallway. There are lights and voices emanating from the open door of Poole’s chamber. The sheriff is now a step ahead. All the deputies, along with Paul Baker and Father Poole, are tucked away inside the room.
Before they enter, Andrew finally formulates the question that’s been nagging at him. “Sheriff?”
Baker turns, a dark shadow, waiting.
“Why the sack?”
Baker’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns and disappears into the glow of Poole’s chamber.
A harsh, barking sound comes from the room. At first, it sounds to Andrew like the loud, rapid barks of a dog. But then it evens out, lengthens and repeats, and he recognizes it for what it is:
Laughter.
8
SOMETHING IS WRONG.
I huddle by the dormitory doors, ear pressed to the wood, hoping for a clue to what’s happening.
Minutes ago, I’d been asleep, woken by the sound of horse hooves beating the earth. Not, in itself, an unusual sound at the orphanage. But in the middle of the night?
Worried, I climbed out of bed and looked out the window. At first, my attention was caught by the thick snow flurries—the first of the year and a sign of things to come—but then I saw movement below, near the entrance. I could make out several men on horseback. One large horse pulled a crude wagon. I couldn’t see, with any clarity, what lay inside. But I would have sworn it was a man.
When the knocking and shouting came, I ran to the doors and listened, but haven’t dared open them. Not yet. Being caught out of the dorm after lights-out is a significant offense, which is why we are given bedpans, something none of us like to use, and fewer to have used, as the stench always filters throughout the room. Besides, I can hear well enough. The pounding echoes from the foyer that filter down the hallway are clear and unrestrained.