by E J Elwin
“You haven’t spoken with Father Gabriel at all recently, have you, Arthur?” Sheriff Murphy asked, ignoring her yet again.
“Um, no,” I said, my heart pounding. “I don’t really know Father Gabriel.”
“You don’t know him?” the sheriff asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I-I mean, I knew him,” I stammered, “but I stopped going to church a long time ago and haven’t spoken to him since.”
“When did you stop going to church?”
“When I was eleven,” I said.
“So you haven’t spoken to him or seen him recently, then? Like say in the past week?”
The pounding of my heart was becoming painful.
“No,” I said, with as much nonchalance as I could muster.
“Well then,” the sheriff said, “could you possibly explain to me why the church’s security cameras show you entering the church the other night and then leaving with Father Gabriel?”
A freezing cold chill swept over me, like I’d been doused with a bucket of ice water. My parents looked dumbfounded. Sheriff Murphy looked triumphant.
“Um, what?” Panic exploded inside me. I had no idea what to say. There were never cameras in the church when I’d gone there as a child.
“You heard me, Arthur,” said Sheriff Murphy, clearly relishing the reaction he’d caused. “Why do the church’s security cameras show you in the church Tuesday night? What were you doing there?”
I frantically tried to craft an explanation in my head, with the eyes of the sheriff, his deputy, and my bewildered parents, on me. “Well, I— I wanted to talk to him,” I said.
“Talk to him?” asked Sheriff Murphy. “Even though just now you said that you hadn’t set foot in that church since you were eleven years old?”
“U-um, well, what I meant was that I stopped going to church at that time,” I sputtered, “not that I hadn’t set foot, um, physically there…”
“Right,” said the sheriff. “And you say you wanted to talk to him? About what?”
“W-well,” I said, writing the story wildly in my head, “I wanted his help. My boyfriend died recently and I felt I needed some, um, spiritual guidance…”
At the word “boyfriend”, the sheriff raised his eyebrows up at my dad, who clenched his teeth and looked away, a muscle twitching in his jaw. A fire ignited inside me, and I felt burning hot hatred for them both. The advantage of this was that it dispelled some of my panic and calmed me down.
“Your boyfriend?” the sheriff repeated.
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “Connor. He died in a car accident two weeks ago, and I’ve— been having a hard time with it. I needed to talk to somebody.”
“And so you went to the church alone at eleven at night?”
“I didn’t want to see anyone else from the church,” I said. “I thought it would be awkward since I haven’t been there in so long.”
“The footage shows you walking into his office, then both of you leaving not long after,” the sheriff said. “Where did you go?” This latest question revealed that there weren’t cameras inside Father Gabriel’s actual office, which offered a small bit of relief.
“I don’t know where he went,” I said. “We walked out of the church together and then went our separate ways. I came back home.”
“Did you two know about this?” Sheriff Murphy asked, finally addressing my parents.
“No,” my mom said nervously, while my dad shook his head and looked at me suspiciously.
“So you can’t confirm that Arthur came home shortly after the cameras at the church show him leaving? Say around midnight?”
My parents shook their heads. My mom looked terrified and on the verge of tears. I felt bad for her at least.
“And you have no idea where Father Gabriel went when you parted ways outside the church?” Sheriff Murphy asked me. “He didn’t tell you?”
“No,” I said. “I assumed he was going home.”
“His car is still in the church parking lot,” the sheriff said. “He didn’t leave town. You were the last person to see him, after which he doesn’t go home, and eight hours later, doesn’t open the church for the first time in thirty years. Now, no one can find him. Wouldn’t you agree that looks strange? Wouldn’t you agree that makes you look a bit suspect?”
“If you choose to look at it that way,” I said.
“Arthur, are you sure there isn’t anything else you want to tell me?”
“I’m sure,” I said, determinedly keeping eye contact.
He stared into my eyes, then sighed and looked away. “You know what I think, Arthur? I think you’re not telling me everything.”
“Well, I told you everything I know,” I said, “and my spaghetti’s getting cold, so…”
The sheriff was silent for a moment, watching me.
“Arthur, do you know Old Man Morley?” he asked.
“Um…” I said, confused.
I did know who Old Man Morley was. He was an elderly man whose favorite thing to do was to sit on the wooden bench in front of the grocery store in town, with a Styrofoam cup of coffee, a donut, and a pack of cigarettes. He did this just about every day of his life, spending hours at a time watching people enter and leave the store. The owners treated him like an unofficial greeter and let him use the bathroom whenever he wanted. I had no idea why Sheriff Murphy was bringing him up or what he had to do with Father Gabriel.
“The man who hangs out in front of the Mom & Pop?” I asked, puzzled.
“The very one,” said Sheriff Murphy. His tone was way too cheerful and I started to get nervous again. I couldn’t imagine where this was going.
“I’ve seen him in front of the store,” I said slowly. “I think everyone in town has. I’ve never really said much to him. Why?”
“Well, it’s the funniest thing,” said the sheriff. “Lou and I—” he gestured at his deputy next to him, “just stopped in at the Mom & Pop on our way over here, and chatted a bit with old Morley. Apparently his dog has been having some really nasty diarrhea.”
Now I was really confused. I glanced at my mom who looked both baffled and disgusted.
“Sheriff,” she said, “we’re having dinner. Is there—?”
“I’m getting to it, sorry,” he said, smiling at her too widely before turning back to me. “Anyway, the other night, little Benji starts getting hit with the trots and Morley takes him outside in front of his house. And who should he see strolling down the street but one Father Gabriel and one young man Morley handily recognizes as you.”
A brick fell into my stomach. As my brain scrambled once again to come up with an explanation, Sheriff Murphy went on.
“He said it was hard for him to tell in the dark but that Father Gabriel was stumbling.”
“U-um,” I stuttered. I had nothing. There was no explaining this one. Even if I could, I’d now been caught in a lie twice. Then things got worse as Sheriff Murphy spoke again.
“Arthur, did you know that Morley’s house is one of the oldest in town?” I shook my head, unable to say anything. “It was built in the 1890s,” he said pleasantly, as though he were just giving me a fun history lesson. “Right down the street from the cemetery. Morley said that’s the direction you and Father Gabriel were headed in.”
Shit. Sheriff Murphy watched me, barely able to contain his glee at having blindsided me.
“So what were the two of you up to?” he asked. “And why have you been lying about it?”
“Yes, Arthur,” my dad chimed in at last, “what the hell is going on? Why did you lie about not having seen Father Gabriel?”
All four adults stared at me. I didn’t know what to say. I felt my world collapsing around me. My heart jolted against my chest like it wanted to jump out and take off running without me.
“Does this have anything to do with why you weren’t at school yesterday and Tuesday?” my dad asked furiously. I felt the blood drain from my face as I looked up at him. My mom also looked furious bu
t at him. Even though she still didn’t know what was going on, she took my side by default. That, in short, was the difference between them.
“Really?” the sheriff said, looking up at my dad. “Where was he if he wasn’t at school?”
“He still hasn’t told us,” my dad said, looking down at me.
“Robert,” my mom said warningly, giving him a look that clearly said shut the hell up.
“Arthur, we’re going to have to ask you to come with us,” the sheriff said, rising from his seat.
“What?!” my mom squealed, jumping up from her chair. “You’re arresting him?!”
“Now, let’s calm down,” said Sheriff Murphy in the most condescending of tones, putting out a placating hand on my mom’s shoulder. “We’re just going to have a talk down at the station. Find out what exactly happened between Arthur and Father Gabriel, and why he’s deemed it necessary to keep it from us. We’re not arresting, we’re asking. Politely.”
“Um,” I finally managed to speak, “shouldn’t I have a lawyer?”
“EXCUSE ME?” my dad exploded, before the sheriff could respond. “WHY WOULD YOU NEED A LAWYER?” His look of outrage that whatever I’d been involved in with Father Gabriel would require a lawyer told me I’d just made a huge mistake. I may as well have confessed to a crime.
“Now, now,” said Sheriff Murphy, maddeningly calm. “There’s no need for that if your son has nothing to hide.” But it was clear from the looks of everyone in the room, including my mom, that I had everything to hide. Sheriff Murphy looked down at me with a knowing gleam in his eye, thoroughly enjoying himself. I wanted to hit him.
With that latest burst of anger, I found enough calm to think clearly. If I went with them to the police station, I would fall down a hole that I’d never be able to climb out of. The circumstantial evidence against me was already pretty damning. My excuse for going to see Father Gabriel was weak, not only because I’d abandoned the church long ago, but I had also clearly communicated to my parents that morning that I hated Father Gabriel— something I was sure my dad would readily testify to in court. I had skipped school the last few days and had no alibi for my whereabouts except for Harriet and Connor, and I could never get either of them involved with the police. Their secrets— Harriet being a witch and Connor’s resurrection— were my secrets, just like my secret of killing Father Gabriel was theirs too. And these secrets had to be kept hidden at all costs.
“I have nothing to hide,” I said, standing up. “I’ll go and talk with you at the station.”
The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “Well, alright then,” he said. “Shall we?”
“Arthur, you don’t have to—” my mom began.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to get my coat.”
And so it was that there, under the eyes of my parents and those of the town sheriff and his deputy, as I climbed the stairs to my room, I made the most dangerous, stupidest, bravest decision of my life: the decision to become a fugitive.
**
I closed my bedroom door and looked around the room. I had to move quickly. In less than an hour of talking, Sheriff Murphy now knew me as a boldfaced liar. There was every reason to think that he would realize I was lying yet again and come pounding up the stairs.
I snatched up my backpack and began stuffing it with clothes as I had for Connor. I pulled open drawers as quietly as I could, seizing socks and shirts, jeans and underwear. I stuffed all the money I’d saved for the weekend in Portland, nearly five hundred dollars, into the backpack’s small front pouch, then zipped it closed, shaky with adrenaline.
I looked around at the bedroom I’d lived in my whole life, at the posters on the walls of David Bowie and Joan Jett, hardly able to believe that this could be the last time I would ever see it. I darted to my closet and pulled from it the very coat I had told the adults I was coming to get. It was my favorite coat, a thick black peacoat with big buttons, as comfortable as it was stylish. I pulled it on, threw the backpack over my shoulders, and turned towards the window.
Just as I’d gotten my legs over the window ledge, my prediction of Sheriff Murphy figuring me out came true. I heard his heavy footfalls on the stairs, followed by others.
“You have no right!” came my mom’s voice.
“I do if he’s keeping information from us about Father Gabriel,” said Sheriff Murphy. “How long does it take to get a coat?”
I scrambled onto the wooden trellis laced with dead vines on the side of the house, remnants of a half-hearted attempt by my mom to take up gardening. I felt like I was climbing down the side of a volcano, hurrying to get away before it erupted. I heard pounding at my door.
“Arthur?” shouted Sheriff Murphy. “Arthur, open up!”
“Arthur, is everything okay?” my mom called anxiously.
I clambered down the trellis as fast I could, the dead vines crinkling under my fingers.
“Arthur, open this door now or I’m kicking it down!” yelled Sheriff Murphy. My mom shouted something at him just as I landed on the grass and looked around for my bike.
Boom! The sound of what had to be Sheriff Murphy slamming his body into my bedroom door rang out into the quiet yard. I spotted my bike lying a few feet away where I’d left it after coming back from Harriet’s house. I ran to it, and had just put foot to pedal when—
Crash! I frantically kicked off from the grass as Sheriff Murphy’s voice thundered out from my bedroom window. “ARTHUR!”
I tore across the yard toward the road and took a quick glance back up at my window in time to see Sheriff Murphy run back into the house and my mom standing there looking terrified.
“Arthur, what are you doing?!” Her shout ended in a sob, but I had no time to explain anything. Sheriff Murphy and his deputy would be hurrying out to their squad car to come after me. I turned my back on my childhood home and sped away as fast as I could into the night.
**
The advantage I had on Sheriff Murphy in his police car was that I didn’t have to stick to the roads. I knew all sorts of different routes to take that included wooded areas, patches of trees, and the alleyways behind certain houses and businesses. He also didn’t know where I was going since neither he nor my parents knew about Harriet. The challenge would be to get to her house without being seen. Even though it was well past sunset, it was still early in the evening. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to identify me the way Old Man Morley had.
I took the nearest opportunity to get off the road, skidding onto a dirt lot made up of dips and jumps where I’d often ridden my bike when I was younger. I made it across and felt a bit of encouragement as I saw Sheriff Murphy’s car nowhere around, and then a police siren rang out.
Really, Sheriff? The sirens? How dramatic. I sped down a quiet road for a few dozen feet before zooming into the cover of a narrow alleyway between a row of houses and a thick growth of trees. Harriet’s house wasn’t far. I’d walked there quickly enough before. I could do this.
I broke out of the alleyway and was forced onto an open road before I could reach the next patch of cover. I could hear the sirens in the distance and looked frantically over my shoulder, expecting to see the squad car bearing down on me. I pumped my bike’s pedals harder than I ever had in my life, willing the wheeled metal contraption and my own legs to go faster.
Sweat dripped down my face as I flew through the last few feet of open road before turning into the shelter of a small grove of apple trees. After this, there was only one more long stretch of road before the cemetery and Harriet’s house, the road in front of Old Man Morley’s house, where the old bastard had seen me on the street with Father Gabriel.
“Damn you and your damn dog with diarrhea, Morley,” I said furiously under my breath.
I swerved out of the grove of apple trees and onto the road, nearly falling off the bike, before straightening out and pelting toward the cemetery in the distance. The sirens still sounded safely far enough away, and my heart leapt with
hope with each foot that I covered toward the cemetery. My stomach turned nervously as I neared the spot across from Morley’s house where he’d seen me. What were the chances that he was out front again with little Benji?
I came level with the house and glanced at it. I was relieved to see dark windows and an empty yard. My front tire touched cemetery grass just as the police siren blared loudly down Morley’s street.
I tore through the cemetery, weaving around the tombstones, mausoleums, and stone angels, my path lit only by faint moonlight. The bike was more difficult to ride in the grassy cemetery terrain than it had been on the concrete roads. My legs burned and sweat poured down my forehead with the effort of pushing the pedals. I could see the overgrown weeds of Harriet’s yard up ahead and couldn’t believe that I’d managed to escape the police on my bike. Then—
“Hello there!” My heart palpitated in shock. It was a woman’s voice, coming from among the tombstones somewhere to my right.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I whispered, hunching over the bike as if this would make me invisible.
Without checking to see who the voice belonged to, I pressed on through the last few rows of tombstones, hoping desperately that whoever it was hadn’t recognized me. I finally reached the edge of the cemetery, crossed the narrow road beyond, and came to a screeching stop in front of Harriet’s house. I shoved my bike into the yard of overgrown weeds, concealing it from view of any possible passersby, then stumbled through the weeds to the front door. I reached out to knock and it swung open at my lightest touch, creaking loudly as it always did.
“Arthur?!”
Harriet and Connor looked me up and down, alarmed at the sight of my sweaty face. They were sitting on the couch with a large bowl of popcorn in between them, watching something on an old television Harriet must have brought out of storage. Connor wore one of the t-shirts I had brought him and a pair of my sweatpants while Harriet wore her lavender nightgown and fuzzy slippers. They looked the very picture of coziness and relaxation and even in my panic, I felt guilty for barging in on them with my scandalous new problems.
They stood up and walked over to me. “Arthur, what happened?” asked Harriet.
