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.
Grace is smiling broadly but the first words from her mouth is a rebuke. “Peter Barlow, where are your coat and hat? Can you not see winter all around you?”
I start to respond, then close my mouth. Unsure of a reasonable excuse.
“Go fetch the boy one of my coats. And a cap, please,” John says to Grace, and I nod to him in appreciation as she runs off. John puffs his pipe, turns his attention to Andrew. “You fellas going to need a good bit of supply, Father. This storm is going to block you in for two, maybe three weeks.”
“Yes, that’s our thinking as well. It’s been a decent season of harvest for us, and the animals have remained healthy, thank goodness. But we’ll take our usual supplies . . . plus, oh, fifty percent more, I’d think.”
“I figured.” John points his pipe to the barn. “I’ve got most of your goods set aside in there, with a few things more to gather. I waited on the eggs. No good to you frozen.”
Grace returns with a pea coat draped over an arm and a black cap clutched in one hand. “Here, Peter. Papa’s coat will hang on you a bit,” she says with a critical eye, “but at least you’ll be warm.”
I put on the coat and instantly feel better. It does indeed hang on me, almost to my knees, and my thin frame swims in the coarse fabric, but I’m warm as a bug in July, and that’s what matters. I pull on the cap and Grace flashes another smile that makes blood rush to my face.
“Papa, Peter and I will gather the eggs, if you’d like.”
“In a moment,” John says absently, his sharp eyes—gray and intelligent beneath heavy brows—never leaving Andrew. “Heard you, uh, had some trouble at the orphanage the other night.”
I startle at the words, glance toward Andrew to see his response. Despite my prodding, he wouldn’t tell me all of what he knows, but seemed deeply bothered by it. I tried to bring it up again on the ride over, but he would say nothing he hasn’t previously said, which amounted to: the man was injured, and then he passed. I didn’t want to press him on the other details, such as the dead deputy and the strange laughter. The gunshot. The screams.
I’m hoping that, since there’s an adult inquiring, he may reveal more.
“Trouble?” he says, and I almost laugh at the feigned innocence on his face. Andrew is many things, most of them good, but a liar he is not.
“Well, now, I don’t mean to pry.” John scuffs his boot into the snow, revealing frosted strands of grass and packed dirt beneath. I feel Grace’s fingers clutch my elbow, as if she too had heard rumors, and is anxious to hear Andrew’s reply. “Anyway,” John continues, “Sheriff Baker came through here the other morning. Had a dead deputy in his wagon. They stopped for some food to take with them, stayed long enough for a cup of hot coffee, and we got to chatting. Heard some strange things.”
“Strange?” Andrew says, looking considerably more uncomfortable.
“What they did to that little girl, for one.”
“Papa,” Grace says, her voice small but filled with warning.
John, to his credit, looks properly abashed.
“Just rumors, I suppose,” John finishes lamely.
“Yes, well,” Andrew says, his face now having lost its mask of innocence, replaced with a hardening of his features I’ve seen many times. Mostly when I’m asking for something he knows I shouldn’t be. “It’s in man’s nature to seek knowledge.”
Hill seems to think a moment, then nods. “And Proverbs says a man who whispers separates close friends. So how about I shut my trap and get you stocked up?”
Andrew chuckles, but his features do not soften. “Fair enough.”