“I’ve only been in town for one night, and my car has been stolen.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“I understand, Father, but—”
“What did you call me?” the priest demanded suddenly.
“Father?” Tim replied. He wondered if his memories from church failed him. Should he have said pastor? Or reverend?
Thankfully, however, the man seemed to relax somewhat. His shoulders sagged and his expression calmed. “Go on, son.”
“As I was saying,” he continued carefully. “My car was stolen last night, as well as my money and wallet. I have nowhere to go, and you’re looking at everything I have right now.” He began to empty his pockets. “Hell—sorry, Father—heck, I had to take deodorant and shampoo samples so I wouldn’t stink in the morning!”
The priest seemed suddenly amused at the distraught young man before him. “My son, whatever have you done to bring such a fate upon yourself?”
“I don’t know,” he said stuffing his pockets once more. “It suddenly seems as though everyone is out to get me. Even the danged crows seem to be laughing at me.”
“Crows? Did you say the crows?” Again, the old man peered past Tim and into the yard.
“I don’t want to impose, or be a burden, but I’m getting desperate. Father, please. Help me. I need a place to stay.”
The priest considered him carefully.
“Just for a while. In fact, I’ll tell you what. I’ll trade you some work around this place for a few meals and a place to stay until I can manage to find a way out of here. It’s been a while, but I know how to paint. My father was a handyman, too, so I know a few things about home repair. How does that sound?”
The priest looked him up and down for the umpteenth time. He pursed his lips in consideration, his brow furrowing so deep that it conspired to swallow his face. “Very well, then,” he said suddenly, flashing a friendly smile. “Come on in.”
Tim stepped inside, noting the interior looked to be in much better repair than the exterior. The fading wallpaper peeled in one or two places, but the floor and carpet looked clean. He passed a set of stairs to left, a liberal coat of dust on the upper portion of the banister telling him the priest seldom, if ever, went upstairs. Also on the left, beyond the stairs, he saw two doors. One he guessed to be a closet set beneath the steps, and the other sat partially open to reveal a sitting room or study. On his right, the foyer opened into a large living room. A couch rested against the far wall, perpendicular to the windows. A massive, ancient television rested on a short stand around the corner. A coffee table sat in front of the couch, and a recliner stood in the corner at one end. A taller chest of drawers supported an old radio.
“Make yourself at home,” the priest said. “The television and radio don’t work anymore, but you’re welcome to any of my books.”
Tim followed him into the living room and saw a bookcase in the comer. From the look of the spines he bet they were very old and had been read many, many times.
The priest turned suddenly. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Timothy Wilder, Father. I prefer Tim.” He extended his hand.
The priest gave him a firm handshake. “Timothy. Good biblical name. I’m Michael Tierney. You can lay off the ‘Father’ title, though. Just call me Mike.”
The turn of events relieved Tim, and for the first time all day he smiled. While he spoke with Father Mike (he felt uncomfortable dropping the honorific) at the door, he kept seeing the vision of himself sleeping in some barn play itself over and over.
Father Mike led him through the living room, around through a dining room, and into the kitchen. Except for a china cabinet and a large table set with six chairs, the dining room lacked decoration. There was another small table in the, with a chair on each side of it. A window shown out onto the back yard. A door on the back wall opened to a set of stairs and a concrete walk leading to the back entrance of the church. The cupboards and counter appeared to be in good repair, but at best the appliances were antiques. The refrigerator clunked noisily as the condensers kicked on.
“This thing’s old and noisy, but she does the job. I just pray she never gives out. I don’t know what I’d do, then,” Mike said conversationally. “Have a seat. I was just going to make a sandwich. I’ll make two.”
“Thanks, Father.” His stomach grumbled in anticipation.
“Sounds like you’ve trapped a tiger. The bathroom’s through there, by the way. Why don’t you unload? This will be ready in a minute.” He reached over the fridge to motion toward a narrow hallway. Halfway down the hall, which appeared to end at the office, was an open door through which Tim could see the sink and mirror. He saw a shower curtain in the reflection.
“Good idea,” Tim replied. He went into the bathroom and relieved himself, though the priest likely meant his pockets, not his bladder. He flushed, then opened the medicine cabinet. The priest’s shaving kit, medications, denture grips and cleansers, and various other items Tim hesitated to put a name to cluttered the shelves. He closed it, choosing instead to procure himself a small space on the broad surface of the sink. The tiny sampler bottles of hotel toiletries hardly took any space at all.
He returned to the kitchen to find a tall glass of milk and a ham sandwich waiting for him. Father Mike still stood at the counter putting the finishing touches on his own sandwich. Tim decided to wait before eating in the event the priest would say grace over the meal. His stomach loudly proclaimed its impatience.
Father Mike, sensing Tim’s discomfort, chuckled as he approached the table. “Dig in, son. I only say a prayer over the big meals.”
Not bothering to be embarrassed, Tim took a large bite of his sandwich. The two men ate in silence, and when Father Mike offered a second helping, Tim got up and made it himself. He used the meat sparingly, not wanting to look greedy.
“What happened to the place, Father?” Tim asked as he sat back down. “Don’t your parishioners help with the upkeep?”
Father Mike gave a mournful sigh. “I wish they could. Unfortunately, the few I have remaining are getting on in years, just like me.”
Strange, Tim thought. This town seemed full of young, healthy folk. “Where would you like me to start?”
They talked landscaping and cleanup for some time. Tim discovered the church only had older lawn tools, such as a rolling blade mower and a rake. Oh well. He did not expect it to be easy work. Father Mike kept paint and brushes from old projects in the shed, as well as a ladder and some roofing materials that he purchased the previous year.
Apparently, a young man offered to help out that summer, so Father Mike splurged on supplies. But the volunteer disappeared suddenly. Father Mike said he did not know what happened to him, but Tim sensed the man knew more than he let on.
Father Mike said he would take Tim into the church in the morning. He told him how some “young heathens” vandalized the chapel. Nothing extensive, just fairly messy. Father Mike chased them off, and since that incident kept the church locked when he was not inside. Like much of the outside remodeling, he could not reach most of the damage.
A group of young girls trampled his flower bed last night, thus trampling Father Mike’s only pleasure. Gardening remained one of the few hobbies left to him these days, and he endured the arthritic pain it caused because of the joy he got out of it. He claimed he lacked the energy to start afresh.
Tim felt a tug of pity as the priest talked about the flowerbed. The girls did a thorough job in their destruction, and most of the flowers had yet to germinate. He used most of his seeds during his first planting. Tim did not know a thing about gardening, but decided if he had the time he would work on attempting to restore the garden. Perhaps it would give the old man the heart to try again.
Father Mike looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearing eight thirty. “Well, Tim. It’s getting to be my bed time. I like to shower and retire early with a book. I don’t negotiate more than a handful of steps very well
these days, so I can’t lead you upstairs. There are a few unused rooms up there and the bathroom is bare. I was going to have it modernized only wound up with the money to finish the one down here.”
“No problem, Father. I’ll figure it out. Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate all this.”
“You’re welcome, my son. I’m sure our little arrangement will work out for the better for both of us. It’ll be good to have this place in tip-top shape again. I sleep on a small cot in my study, straight through the hall here.”
Tim nodded. “Good night. I think I’ll take a walk upstairs and get ready for bed myself. I’ve had a long day.”
“Good night, now.” Father Mike walked down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom.
Tim walked upstairs, waving aside the small motes of dust his steps disturbed. The hall wrapped around the stairwell, leading to five separate doors and an alcove. Tim noticed a small table and lamp in the alcove, and the lamp came on when Tim hit a small switch he found at the top of the stairs. A hatch leading to the attic hung partially open over the last door, the bathroom. He could see from here that the bathroom walls and floor were bare of tiles and fixtures.
He opened the first door and hit the light switch. A dirty, bare bulb mounted in the ceiling gave off a feeble glow. A wide, shallow closet opened on one wall, and a small, single bed sat beneath the window. The bare mattress and pillow looked comfortable. A coat of dust covered the hardwood floor, and except for the bed there were no furnishings in the room.
He moved on to the second door and discovered a linen closet. He briefly sorted through the sheets and blankets, curtains, and so forth inside, as well as a broom and dustpan. He removed the latter and set them against the wall. Doubtless he would be needing them, whichever room he chose to make his temporary home in.
The next room, possibly once a master bedroom, was a shambles. Someone shredded the lining of the king-sized bed, then removed and scattered the stuffing all over the room. Shreds of cloth lay strewn in piles of dust. The vandals carved all manner of obscure designs and shapes into the head- and footboards. A tall dresser sprawled across the floor, the round knob to one of the drawers sitting beside it. A vanity stood against another wall, its drawers hanging open and empty, its mirror shattered. The cover for the light fixture in the ceiling lay in shards on the floor. The vandals also spray-painted the walls with a number of crude drawings and filthy slogans. Tim picked out a lopsided pentagram amongst the graffiti, and one sentence read “Father Tierney is a faggot” in large red letters. Another said “I worship the Devil” in yellow.
The vandals left the curtain and curtain rod untouched, likely to prevent Father Mike from seeing the damage from the outside. They probably thought it funnier to let the priest wander in and out of the house, never knowing that the ultimate insult taunted him silently from upstairs.
Shaking his head, Tim closed the door. He debated on whether or not he should tell Father Mike about it in the morning. Steeling himself for another surprise, he opened the last door. Inside he found stacks of boxes and chests and trunks, all full of various items. One overflowed with clothing here, another with various trinkets and baubles there. Some of them appeared to have been ransacked by the vandals from the next room, then left alone in disinterest. Not in the browsing mood himself, he turned off the light and closed the door.
Broom and dustpan in hand, he returned to the first small bedroom and set to work getting it ready. He swept up the dust and dumped it into a small trash bin he found in the unfinished bathroom. He found appropriate bedding in the linen closet and made the bed, then went downstairs to help himself to a shower. The water could have been a bit hotter, but he knew he was in no position to complain. Wrapped in towels he also obtained from the linen closet, he went back upstairs. He discovered hangers to drape his clothes on in the bedroom closet.
Finally, he retrieved a small alarm clock that survived the vandalism in the bedroom with only a cracked window. He wound it and set it to eight o’clock in the morning, then set it on the floor beside him.
Walking around all day took a lot more out of him than he realized, and he fell fast asleep in minutes.
* * *
Shortly past midnight the cat strode purposefully up the walk toward the front door of the rectory. Her small, black form slipped through the night, her radiant silver eyes flashing in the moonlight. Her owners called her Samantha. Only a tuft of white fur at the tip of her right ear made her distinguishable from her sisters.
Silently she padded up the steps and stood before the door. She cocked her head, considering the doorknob. She blinked calmly, and, with a soft click, the lock came free. The door swung open silently, just far enough for her to squeeze her slim body through.
She moved to the door of the next room, listening. The priest snored softly. Moving swiftly, she padded across the floor and leapt softly onto a chair at the foot of the cot. She considered her options for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest. His right hand dangled limply over the side of the bed, the other laid across his stomach.
Finally, the cat stepped over and onto the cot, taking care not to disturb the man until she was ready. She stalked the length of his body, then cautiously mounted his chest. He shifted suddenly and she froze. A second later, his normal breathing resumed. Undaunted, she moved closer, sitting down on his sternum. Now what to do?
Scratch his face? No, that lacked creativity.
Scratch his neck? Possibly deadly. Maybe next time.
Bite his nose? Maybe. Of course, he might become violent when he awoke.
Aha. Perfect.
She leaned down in front of his face, her chin hovering just over his lips. His breath tickled the underside of her jaw. She tickled the end of his nose with a stiff whisker. His hand came up, wiped at his face, then dropped down again. His slumber remained undisturbed. The watcher behind the cat’s eyes considered how amusing it may have been to have filled his palm with shaving cream first.
But she had crueler intentions than practical jokes this evening.
She leaned forward once more, again tickling his nose. He shook his head and blew forcefully at his nose. Then he awoke. Slowly he blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked down. The face of evil hovered before him, staring him dead in the eye. He sat up abruptly, a scream caught in his throat as he hurled the vile creature from his chest.
She landed on her feet and rounded on him once more.
Mike turned, sitting on the edge of his bed and leaning forward, his hand pressed to his chest as if to steady his pounding heart. Recognition came to him as his fears abated. “What do you want with me, Alexandra?” he asked his feline visitor.
The cat ignored him for a moment, licking at her fur in irritation. She did not expect to allow the man to touch her. Satisfied her fur was clean and smooth, she gave herself one last inspection and stared up at the priest.
Mike, long used to such games, waited patiently for her to finish. “You look ravishing,” he said acidly.
Alexandra ignored the remark. “Timothy Wilder is ours,” her voice whispered in his head.
Mike sighed. “You can’t let just one go, can you?”
“You should not have taken him in.”
Mike chuckled. “Why? You afraid to visit him like you do me?”
“That time will come. We’re very upset with you.”
“You know what I think about you ladies.”
The cat’s eyes narrowed. “Believe me, Priest, the feeling is more than mutual.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Is that all you’ve got to say? I’d like to get some shuteye.”
“Do not tell the stranger our secrets. He will discover them in due time. By then, it will be too late. Consider yourself warned, Priest.” Her contempt echoed between his ears.
Angered, Mike lunged to his feet and swept up the cat in one motion, clutching her by the loose flesh at the nape of her neck and holding her out at arm’s length. “You threaten me i
n my own home?” He stormed out of the room and toward the front door. His back screamed agony but he ignored it.
The cat hissed, spat, and swiped at him as he carried her. When he stepped out onto the porch she gave up, prepared for the inevitable.
“Get out of here! Next time I won’t be so civil!” He hurled her out into the yard. Despite his advancing age and arthritis, he still possessed considerable strength in his arms. She flew a good ten yards before landing roughly in the grass.
She hit the ground feet first, but the momentum sent her rolling an extra few feet and knocked the wind out of her. Shaking the disorientation from her head, she turned to face Mike.
He watched her in the moonlight, her tail beneath her legs and ears flattened. Her eyes flashed fiercely. “I remember your silly rules. I’ll abide them only as long as it suits me.”
“The time will come when our patience with you will grow thin. You will not live long beyond that point. I may just see to that personally.”
“That’s twice you’ve threatened me in my home, Alexandra. Do not cross my threshold again.” He turned on her and went inside, closing and locking the door.
Alexandra withdrew her mind from the cat and summoned the other ladies to plan their next moves.
Chapter Four
Tim woke and stretched, the first rays of dawn just starting to fill his upstairs bedroom. He leaned over the side of the bed and picked up the alarm clock. It was only six fifteen a.m. He shrugged, turned off the alarm, and got up to do a few light exercises.
Very little fat covered his fit body. He never considered himself shapely enough to belong in a fitness magazine, but he had enough pride to consider his body better-looking then most other men his age. It had been a while since he last exercised, what with the stress of the divorce and his termination, so he figured he better get back to a routine or lose it forever. The bare space between the bed and the door should offer plenty of room for his purposes.
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