by Greg Walker
Eric passed the cemetery, and his will hardened as he picked out the shape of Adam's grave. If Burroughs caught on and stopped, then Eric would demand an explanation as to why he hadn't called the police right there at roadside. He could still see the tail-lights ahead, and then they disappeared as the car went right, complete with a blinker indicating the turn. For who this late he didn’t know. Funny how habits conquer common sense, he thought. Unless Burroughs already knew he followed, and made sure to light the way. Eric swallowed with difficulty, wished he had brought some water, and drove on.
He was driving the route Eric had used in his story, Burroughs now heading up the hill that Sean had struggled to summit before plummeting down ahead of the van. Entering the woods past the cemetery, he turned on his lights, the road a dark tunnel through the trees. As he turned at the end, he decided to leave them on. Driving into a ditch or tree wouldn't help his cause.
At the top of the hill, his lights illuminating gravel and potholes and the retinas of a small animal low to the ground that scampered away into the woods, the tail lights had disappeared. Eric drove a little faster, thinking that perhaps a bend up ahead had concealed them. After a half-mile of this, he caught a flicker of red in his periphery, and braked hard, skidding on the loose dirt and nearly ending up in the ditch anyway. In control again, Eric backed up and turned onto the unmarked road to continue his pursuit. He was glad Burroughs was an elderly man, and a slow driver. Otherwise he would still be driving straight ahead, to end up God knew where.
The road continued on for several miles, and Eric tried to remember where it might go, if he had ever known. The network of unpaved roads threading through what even they in Lincoln Corners had called the "boonies" had proved more than a match for an adventurous boy and his bicycle. He gave up guessing the destination and instead concentrated on remembering the route as Burroughs turned again, another left, the blinker leaving staccato impressions to float before his eyes. He didn't want to get lost out here.
Finally, the car slowed and made a wide, ponderous turn. Eric slowed and then stopped a quarter mile behind and cut his lights. From the stars he could see out ahead and the silhouette of the trees where their line ended, he knew the land had opened up. Some kind of field, perhaps. He didn't know if he'd been seen, didn't see how he could not have been seen, but had come too far now to go home. He would know what there was to know from this post-midnight ride, if anything. He yawned and stretched, glad that no time clock expected him later in the morning.
Eric waited. He put down his window and heard the car he couldn't see go silent. A minute passed, the clock on his dashboard now reading two-forty three, and he heard the slam of a door. He waited another minute, and knew he had to move. With his night vision improved, he could now make out the road. He drove towards the spot where he'd last seen the pastor's car, until he spied a pull-off, with starlight reflecting on puddles occupying permanent ruts; likely formed by hunters abandoning pick-ups to stalk their prey or teen-agers escaping from their parents to make out. He brought his car forward and parked, then got out, careful not to step in the water, and gently closed the door. Several mostly white signs hanging at eye-level on the trees caught his attention, and he stepped closer thinking they might offer a clue to the identity of the place. "Posted" he made out. "No Hunting" on another. He walked down the road.
At the edge of the trees, he found a service road blocked with a gate. The Pastor's car was pulled up to it and parked, and he saw the disembodied glow of a flashlight bobbing and tracing the road that hugged the edge of the woods, a few hundred yards ahead.
Eric passed the car and skirted a gate post, cursing softly as he stepped ankle deep into water that filled his shoe and pasted his sock to his foot. He followed the light, and glanced to his left at the barely visible electric wire fencing, and then the huddled shapes of cows sleeping upright in the pasture it enclosed.
The flashlight changed course, and by the way it now appeared - there and then not there - Eric knew its operator had entered the woods. He moved faster, but remained vigilant for holes in the road filled with more water or deep enough to twist an ankle. The smell of cow manure filled his nostrils, oddly disgusting and comforting at the same time. A smell of his childhood. And it came to him. Paul Myer’s farm. Paul was a large, stoic man who said little but had always been kind to him as a boy. He had never married, and Eric had then wondered if the faint odor of manure that clung to him even when cleaned up and in his Sunday suit had prevented matrimony. His family had visited the farm on occasion, and he and Adam had enjoyed petting the calves and even once shoveling soiled hay from a dirty stall, as only boys could that don't know yet the dull repetition of manual labor long after any novelty had faded. If he remembered correctly, Paul's house, his barn and silos, lay another half mile or so past the fields of pasture and corn.
He continued on, memories mingling with the dread of his mission, and found a path into the woods. He followed, snapping a few branches that sounded like gunshots. He wondered how much further the pastor would lead him, and where he could possibly be leading him to. On rounding a bend, he took several hasty steps back to find a large tree trunk for concealment. Fifty yards ahead, Pastor Burroughs sat on a large rock at trail side, the flashlight pointed at the ground. After five minutes or so, he stood up slowly, grimaced and eased back down to spend some time massaging his thighs and calves. Eric could faintly hear him humming, a hymn that he unconsciously accompanied with soft words too low to carry the distance between them.
Burroughs stood and began a stiff shuffle deeper into the woods that gained momentum as his joints loosened. The pace was quicker than before, and Eric matched it once the minister had put enough space between them.
How far had they gone now? At least a mile. The path was narrow but well defined, and Eric had to step over several fallen tree trunks that blocked it. He noticed that large branches had been removed with a saw, but the trunks themselves hadn't been touched, as if intentional attempts to make it inaccessible to anything but foot traffic. He knew a lot of rural families kept dirt bikes and quads to ride on trails such as these, and perhaps Paul had grown tired of trying to keep them off of his land.
Still he walked. Another mile, easily. Where could Burroughs possibly be going? To the children’s graveyard? How far would it be entering the woods from here, he wondered. Trying to see the land as if a bird above it, but his knowledge too limited to make any trustworthy calculations, he would have walked right by the building if not for the sharp knock on the door, and then the rattle of keys. Thick rhododendron plants blocked access from the path, and he saw a square of light appear, faint as though from a camping lantern. The geometry of some sort of edifice resolved in the gloom, perhaps fifteen feet square. There were two small windows, but well above where anyone standing could see out of them. Was it a storage shed, or some kind of hunting cabin?
Eric moved into the rhododendron, creeping to its furthest edge, up to the small clearing in front of the building, to have an unimpeded view but to stay hidden. Burroughs fumbled with something, the flashlight stuck under his armpit, and he twisted at an odd angle to train the light on the business of his hands. Finally a lock yielded, but the pastor didn't open the door, as though he had unlocked it for someone else that hadn't yet arrived. He looked up to the stars and stretched out his arms in supplication. His head then fell to his chest and in this position he paused again, then disappeared inside.
Voices drifted through the partially-open door, that of Burroughs and another. Younger. He couldn't hear the words, only murmurs. Then - Did you do it? Did you kill them, Isaac? - he heard clearly, Burrough's voice raised in demand. The other voice responded in the same low, even tone as before, not sharing the excitement. Eric heard a slap, and then silence.
Isaac? His son...here in this cabin? Did you kill them? Did you kill those children? What other reason could explain this trip at this hour, the lie of Isaac living somewhere in California, this cabin in the woo
ds. And the question not asked rang louder than the one shouted. Did you kill Adam? Because he didn't have to ask what he already knew. He thought he understood the reaction in the church now. Burroughs believed the cabin had been found. The place where he hid his own son to escape the consequence of murdering Adam.
Eric found it hard to breathe, and his cramping muscles begged him to move from his crouch. He tensed in reaction, torn between fleeing the madness before him or breaking cover and confronting them. Rage and confusion, bitterness and betrayal and sadness coursed through him in a volatile mix he didn't trust to guide him in a confrontation. And what if he were wrong? Despite the evidence in front of him, he couldn't place Burroughs at this scene as he read it. Not a man he had so trusted as a child, a trust that had carried into an adulthood where members in that club numbered so very few.
Still reeling and unsure, Eric could only stare numbly as another figure approached the cabin, but from the other side, from the woods and into the clearing. He identified the shotgun and Arnie Fisk at approximately the same time, almost instinctively shouted a warning before remembering where he was, why he was here. Arnie reached the cabin door without breaking stride, pushing hard on the door so that it banged at the furthest reach of the hinges. Eric heard Burroughs' voice again, strained with sorrow and anger, ordering Arnie to leave. Harsh, sharp words followed, voices overlaying voices so nothing intelligible emerged. No! he heard Burroughs shout, this time in horror. There was a pause, scuffling feet and grunts, and the shotgun erupted. Eric flinched at the sound and covered his head with his hands.
He heard running feet and Fisk burst from the cabin and ran back into the woods. He did not carry the shotgun. The sound of his reckless flight gave way to the night's silence. Fearing the worst, Eric had resolved to go inside when another blast forced him back down into the tangle of twisted trunks and waxy green leaves. He was aware of a presence in the doorway before raising his head to confirm it. A figure, not Burroughs, stood poised at the threshold.
Isaac.
He slowly turned his head, and Eric was sure he had been found by the eyes not seen but felt, but they swept over his hiding place and scanned the entire area. Isaac put out his hands in the same gesture as his father, arms out and palms upward, his face to the sky. Eric shivered as he watched the man of Sean's world step through this surreal portal and into reality. And he had. This was the man, the murderer that had stolen his brother and his own childhood, the man that crept up the stairs in his mind in the nights after and again in his story. In the shock of the moment, he reverted to being that child again, helpless to do anything but watch and wait.
Isaac stepped outside and walked directly towards him. Eric stifled a scream, the terrified child trying to reassemble the adult, but the pieces refused to stick together and crumbled into a heap. Isaac paused before the rhododendron, and then moved to his left. He stopped, tensed, and walked slowly back. The flashlight that his father had carried to the cabin clicked on, and the beam struck Eric full in the face. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head against the sudden light, and raised his arms in defense, cringing in terror, a whimper escaping his lips, the man screaming from somewhere within but so far away. He felt he had been turned inside out.
"Eric." A word of recognition and nothing more.
The crack of a branch sounded from across the clearing, and the light swung away. Eric opened his eyes but everything had gone dark, and a large spot floating within his vision moved wherever his eyes went, as they searched for Isaac.
So close to his left that he could reach out and touch him, Eric heard Isaac force his way through the rhododendron and then his footfalls on the path behind, the light tinkle of metal accompanying every other step. When the sounds disappeared, when his heart had begun to slow and the shame of his cowardice began to burn like a wasp bite after the shock of the sting had passed, when his vision had cleared - the spot diminished to a transparent purple - he heard a groan from inside the cabin. His rigor had finally passed, and Eric stood up on legs full of shooting needles and stumbled towards the cabin, all occupants accounted for, except for Pastor Burroughs. He paused to listen to the forest. Was the snap of the branch forcing Isaac's flight the sound of Fisk returning, or a nocturnal animal reacting to the unexpected presence of people? He couldn't see or sense anyone at the edge of the clearing. And the gun was still inside; Fisk unarmed didn't frighten him as he once had so recently, in this new context.
He stepped to the door, and then stepped over the gun as he entered the single room. Burroughs lay on the floor further in, in front of a cot, the blanket crumpled at the bottom and the image of Jesus' empty shroud came to his mind unbidden, this place a tomb of sorts but not for the Son of Man. But the stone had been rolled away.
Blood pooled on the floor, emanating from the raw meat that had been the pastor's knee and the lower portion of his thigh. Eric felt pity and the need to help, and disgust and the desire to leave the man to his fate. He didn't think Burroughs knew he was there, but as he looked for something from which to fashion a tourniquet, he heard a weak, raspy voice.
"Eric. I'm so sorry. Water. Please. Over there."
His finger had lifted from a hand resting on his chest, indicating shelving against the wall.
"A tourniquet first, and then water. You're bleeding to death, Pastor." His voice sounded oddly formal to his ears, an address to a complete stranger.
Burroughs nodded slowly, and Eric decided on the sheet from the cot. He pulled it free, his fingers burning at the thought of touching the place where his brother's killer had slept, and ripped off a long strip. He went outside and found a stick, returned and applied the tourniquet, averting his eyes from the horrible wound when he could. He wiped his hands on the blanket and then took a gallon jug of water from the wall from among at least a dozen. A shelf below held all sorts of canned goods: vegetables and soups, baked beans, canned ham. A camp stove, with a small propane canister still attached, rested in its own space by the food. He noticed a bucket by the bed with a small amount of yellow fluid at the bottom, the evening's piss, apparently. A large, squared off stone was set into the wall by the bed, with an iron ring attached to a chain. At its far end, the chain was mangled, several links twisted and severed. The reality of what he was seeing sunk in, confirming his fears, and again he had to fight an urge to leave. He glanced over at the shotgun on the floor, and dark deeds passed through is mind. He squeezed his eyes shut until they faded. New questions had been raised with the presence of the chain. Was it simply a hiding place, or a prison?
He found a small tin cup and filled it with water. Burroughs moaned behind him, and he turned and brought the cup to the wounded man's lips. He sipped awkwardly, water dribbling down the front of his shirt to darken the smears of blood brought there by his hands. Eric got the pillow from the bed, lifted up the pastor's head, and slid it beneath.
"Thank you, Eric."
Without making eye contact, Eric said, "I don't know if I can carry you out of here, Pastor. I'm going to have to go and get some help. I'll get Paul."
Burroughs grabbed his arm with surprising strength and whispered. "No, Eric. Just give me water when I need it. I'm not leaving. I need to tell you...why. How this...happened. You deserve to know."
Eric stared at the hand gripping his forearm, at the spots and fine hair, noticed how long and slender the fingers were. Like a pianist's fingers. The whole man like someone he had never seen before.
"Okay," he said. If he wanted to die here, so be it. But he would listen to his confession. But then he pictured this man comforting his hysterical mother while concealing the one responsible, counseling her while feeding and caring for him. A numbness settled over him, the images and emotions too powerful to process all at once, and he let it spread. He gave Burroughs another sip of water and then wiped the film of sweat from his forehead, concentrated only on the mechanics of the tasks. He slid down next to the pale, dying man and listened.
Chapter 17
<
br /> "Pastor, you need to come to the farm. Right away."
"Hello, Paul. I've just arrived for a visit. Should be done in an hour or so. Can it wait until then?"
"No, Pastor. It can't. You need to come now."
He heard the excitement in Paul's voice, a tone in most that wouldn't raise an eyebrow. But for Paul to speak in anything other than a monotonous, near-mumble gave reason for pause. Burroughs agreed to drive out now and hung up the phone, sorry to abandon Beatrice Conway, a lonely shut-in that looked forward to his visits as one of the last good and dependable things in her life amidst failing health and the too recent passing of her husband.
Promising to return soon and admiring the bravery with which she faced her disappointment, Burroughs began the twenty minute drive to Paul's farm. As a pastor and privy to the difficult events of peoples' lives, sometimes a first responder if not involving injury or worse, he prayed for wisdom for whatever awaited.
