by Greig Beck
There’s nothing there, he thought. Maybe just a moose or a bear… a little bear, just a cub really.
He turned back slowly and saw Rachel at the door waving him in. “Yes.” He jogged down to meet her. She vanished back in before he got there, followed by Manny and Gloria. Matt went straight in and then paused, waiting a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.
Shapes began to materialize from the gloom. He presumed dust, debris, and maybe even cobwebs, to add to the gothic feel the exterior of the church promised. But as the darkness receded he saw that it was clean, sparse, and bigger than he expected purely because there were no pews, or any church furniture other than a small altar before a larger stained glass window at the rear. In each of the walls there were tiny alcoves with statues depicting the Stations of the Cross.
“I’ve never been in here before.” Oscar’s voice sounded almost reverent.
“Old, but looks inhabited,” Rachel said from his side.
“Both a church and home.” Matt replied as he looked around the walls at some of the script. “Italian by the look of the language.”
“Jesuits?” Rachel asked. “Haven’t they been coming here for centuries?”
“They have,” Matt acknowledged. “But the Jesuits’ main focus was on South America, and nowhere near this far north. “I’ve been in old European structures before, and this looks to be easily that old – 1600s easily.”
“400 years?” Oscar whistled.
Matt stood staring up at the window. Though much was overgrown, many of the panels were still illuminated from the weak outside sunlight. There were hallowed saints and apostles and magnificent calligraphic words.
“There’s writing, but the panel segments look newer than the entire window – as if they were added in later.” He peered at the writing. “Benedisse la casa di Noè.” He smiled and nodded. “Of course.”
“You want to share?” Rachel asked.
Matt stepped closer. “It means: blessed house of Noah.”
“Noah?” Rachel looked around. “Then this must be the place.” She pointed. “Got a door here.” Rachel was behind the altar. She looked back. “Officer, please tell me you have a flashlight.”
Oscar held up a small black mag-light. “Never leave home without it.”
“Good man.” Rachel waved him over. “On three, two, one…” She then pulled open the small door in the back of the altar. It was more like a trapdoor leading to a cellar. The air that escaped was heavy with fungus and damp, and when Oscar shone his light into it, Matt could see there were albino tree roots like white wire springing from the walls.
“Is it too much to expect a light bulb down there?” Matt crouched, looking into the steep hole. It was about as uninviting a place as he could imagine.
“Might be one down lower, but…” Oscar shone his flashlight up and around inside the church. “Do you see any lights up here? More likely to find candles.”
Matt stood and leaned over the altar, snatching at the nub of an old candlestick. “This’ll help you.”
Oscar held up a small cigarette lighter to the wick. It sputtered for a moment and then caught. He handed it back to Matt, and nodded to the pit.
“Me? I don’t think so.” Matt shook his head and backed away. “I can’t go down there.” Matt felt light-headed at the thought of going into the dark, enclosed space. He shivered and crossed his arms.
“What’s the matter with you?” Rachel asked, reaching out for him. “You’re shaking.”
“Yeah, I got this thing about going into caves. I’ve had some bad experiences before.” Matt tried to push down memories of ice caves, and things that hid in the dark. “I’ll wait here with Oscar.”
“We’ll go together, okay?” Rachel pulled him closer. “I need you.”
He stared down into the dark pit. He felt his breath quicken and his throat constrict. He couldn’t do it. But then how could he let Rachel go down by herself?
“It’s fine if you really don’t want to.” She held onto him. “Neither do I.”
Their eyes met and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment. He drew strength from her and Matt felt his breathing slow and come back under control. He exhaled and straightened. He took Rachel’s hand and squeezed it. “I can do it.”
Rachel smiled. “I’ll be with you. We’ll be fine.”
With a final squeeze, she released Matt’s hand and then took the flashlight from Oscar. “Matt, you follow me. Oscar, you and the officers stay here and cover our asses.”
Oscar grunted his assent and then crouched beside the open door. Rachel moved the beam of light around in the hole, before heading down fast. Matt took a deep breath, and then followed her, carefully holding up the candle.
They descended about ten feet below the floor of the church and found themselves in a single square room. Without their lights, it would have been as dark as hell. The walls were of the same stone as the walls of the church, but this was more than just foundation stone, it seemed carefully constructed as a special basement.
Matt wrinkled his nose. It smelled like old earth – graveyard earth, he thought morbidly. Matt held up the candle and turned slowly. There was a table with one lonely chair and a single cupboard. Rachel crossed to it and pulled the door open.
“Tools.” There were chisels, hammers, and other metal implements. “Looks like Father Xavier was a real handyman. Might have been doing his own repairs to the church.”
“Makes sense; can’t exactly get a team in and out of here in a hurry.” Matt looked up at the ceiling, trying not to imagine it pressing down on him. He swallowed. “And this place has been here for centuries, so if he didn’t maintain it, it would have collapsed in on itself a hundred years ago.”
He put the candle down on the table and watched Rachel pace around the small room. She turned to Matt and hiked her shoulders. “Gotta be something we missed.”
“We did.” He pointed at the candle on the table. The flame was bending away from one of the walls. He picked it up and carefully carried it to the solid-looking stonework. He waved it across the rough-hewn surface, and at one of the edges, the flame danced back toward him.
“Something behind here.”
Rachel grabbed a long chisel and one of the metal hammers from the cupboard. “Well then, lucky they left me the FBI house keys.” She hefted the tools.
“Wait a second.” Matt held out the candle to her. “Just hold this for a moment and keep the light on me.”
She set the tools down on the table and held the flashlight and candle in each hand. “You got five minutes, and then I’m coming through.”
Matt turned back to the wall, and started to press along the edges, of the individual stones. There was no give, no cracks, edges or seams that he could feel. He stood back. “Hold the light up, will you?”
He stood back a step. “Ha!” In the corner there was one brick that was slightly lighter in color than its surrounding brothers and sisters – exactly as if it was the only one that was being rubbed by years of touch. He reached up and pushed it. There was a grinding noise and a click, and then the wall panel clanked open an inch.
“Not just a pretty face.” Rachel grinned and held up a hand as he went to drag it open. “Hold it.” She handed him back his candle, and pulled her revolver again, holding it and the flashlight up and aiming at the hidden door. She stood to the side and then nodded as Matt grabbed the edge of the stone door and eased it open.
*
In the labyrinth of dark rooms the stonework was vastly more ancient that that of the church. In many areas the tunnels appeared to be carved out of the bare rock. The darkness was complete and it was as still and silent as a tomb. Matt felt his heart rate pick up and he took a few steadying breaths. Curiously, there was some basic furniture in some of the rooms.
“I think this is where Father Xavier lived,” Matt said.
“No foundation stones; it’s just caves down here.” Rachel stood in the doorway of one of the rooms, moving her
light around inside.
“I think these caves were here long before the church was built,” Matt breathed.
“They built the church on top of them?” She turned slowly. “And I think more than just the priest lived here.” She turned back to him. “Looks like quite a few people have been coming and going. Do you think Officer Ojibwe knew?”
“Nah.” Matt sorted through some papers. “I believe him when he said he’d never been out here.” He opened a cupboard and on a shelf inside was a heavy metal box about two feet, by one. “Hello.” It wasn’t a safe, more a strong box. It was wrapped in a chain and padlock as big as his fist.
“What have you got?” Rachel asked.
“A locked box.” He grabbed it and rattled it. “But still strong; let’s see if we can find a key.” He lifted the box to the ground and then crossed to an old chest of drawers. “Hey, we…” He was just in time to see Rachel swing a large hammer down on the lock – once, twice, and the third time her teeth were bared and the hammer came down from above her shoulder. The chain shattered and fell away.
“I’m guessing that’s the way your solve all your problems?” He grinned.
She dropped the hammer. “Why do you think I’m still single?”
“You okay down there?” Oscar’s voice carried down the steps and along the dark passageways.
“Yeah, we got this.” Rachel yelled back over her shoulder. She turned and nodded toward the box. “After you.”
Matt crouched before the strong box. If there was one thing about his work he loved, it was being the first to find some artifact, document, or object from the past. It was a window into another time that had been lost amid the centuries.
He slowly lifted the lid and it creaked satisfyingly. He recognized the smell immediately and loved it – antique, ancient, old ink and paper. It was what someone who dealt in ancient languages lived for. He reached in and lifted one of the documents.
Rachel knelt beside him and dived a hand in. She lifted rolls and folded papers, some wrapped with ribbon and others wax sealed. “Shit, it’s all in different languages.”
Matt jiggled his eyebrows. “Well then, lucky you brought a linguist.” He lifted a sheaf of paper. “Here we are – Father Xavier Arvod Bernard – came here in 1945, following the death of his predecessor, and former ward of this parish, Father Phillip Duran Leurant, who… er… came here in 1869.” He read the details, and the lifted another, this one even older. “Father Gerard Francis Bartolone was here before him, presiding over the church for 75 years, and before that…” Matt picked up several more documents, quickly looking at each. “This is weird. Each priest comes for around three quarters of a century, and then dies in the job. No one ever goes home.”
“Talk about a job for life,” Rachel said.
“But that’s just it. I know church rules, and they’re supposed to go home before frailty takes them. And did none of them ever get sick? Miraculously, they all managed to hand the baton over on the day of their death.” He looked at more of the documents. “The previous priest dies, and then hallelujah, we got the new guy already standing at the door.”
Rachel took some of the papers from him, looking closely at each. She hmmd, and then handed them back. “I’m no expert, but I have worked in document forensics before, and in my opinion, all those signatures look remarkably similar – the cursive loops, curls, and strokes of the letters. Could be fakes.” She straightened. “And you know what else is missing?”
Matt looked up at her. “What?”
“If all those priests are dying out here, where are the graves? Where’s the crypt or cemetery?”
Matt remembered the thick undergrowth. “Could be lost in the brush; it’s pretty dense out there.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” She waved it away. “It’s not important. The key thing is to find out where Father Xavier is right now.” She pointed. “Keep looking.”
Matt dove back in. He sifted through more documents, with more signatures. He lifted several. “Hold that light closer.”
Rachel stood over him as he brought the papers close together. Father Xavier Arvod Bernard, Phillip Duran Leurant, Gerard Francis Bartolone, and another for Father Claude Alain Piccard, who took up residence in 1720.
Matt stared – Rachel was right, the signatures did look the same. But where she had suggested they might be fake, his imagination took him in another direction. A hermit-like uninterrupted line of priests, hidden away up here in the remote forest with the same hand writing, same signature – but what if it wasn’t a line of different priests, but the same priest just pretending to die and become someone else to avoid attracting attention. Father Xavier was Laurent, who was Bartolone who was Piccard, and on and on. His mind whirled.
It was impossible, preposterous, but then there was Clarence van Helling who had wandered out of the forest looking not a day over 35 when he was closer to 115. Madness, he thought.
“You okay?” Rachel watched him.
“Yeah, yeah, fine.” He continued to pull material from the box.
He could feel Rachel’s eyes on him, and she reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “You think of something, you tell me.” Her fingers gripped a little tighter for a moment before she released him. “I’m going to take another look around – keep at it.”
He nodded, and dug in again, finding Bibles in various languages. In one there was an old black and white photograph of a serious-looking young man in a cassock. There was a large silver crucifix around his neck with some sort of polished stone at its center. He turned it over, but there was no date or name. He flipped it back to study the face. There was something recognizable about the features – strong jawline, thick dark eyebrows overhanging the darkest eyes Matt had ever seen. The gaze was confident to the point of bordering on being imperious. Matt was sure he’d looked into those dark eyes before.
“Is that you, Xavier?” He wiped its surface. “Or maybe it’s all of you.” Matt used his sleeve on his brow, and then stuck the photograph in a side pocket.
“Matt, get in here.”
Matt sprang to his feet and rushed into one of the side rooms. It was like a smaller chapel or prayer room, little more than a stone box with an alcove and a statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. There was a single flat stool used for kneeling before it. Matt jumped as he caught sight of something that definitely should not have been there – a pile of clothing and the sharp sticks of bones jumbled in among it. It all looked partially incinerated.
Matt sniffed. “I can still smell carbon – this happened recently.” He knelt beside the pile. The skull had rolled to the side but was still scorched. He traced one of the arms to the end. “Left hand is missing.”
“Removed?” Rachel also knelt.
Matt shook his head, as he lifted the blackened bones. “Nope, the nub is rounded, so healed. He lost this long ago.” He shrugged “Something to go on.”
“It’s a start.” Rachel turned the darkened skull over and then lifted it. She stared into the empty sockets for a moment and flipped it over so she could finger the back. Matt saw there was still a portion of vertebrae dangling from its rear.
She rubbed her thumb and finger together. “This has been severed.” She squinted down at the ground, and then moved her light around on the stones. “And what’s all this shit?”
Matt lowered his candle, which was now just a nub in his fingers. Near the skull there were tracks in the dust, like where tiny snakes had squirmed away. They ended in dried thread like things.
“Some sort of worm, a carrion eater I assume.” Matt pulled back.
“Yech.” Rachel dropped the skull on the pile. “They look like they came out of the corpse and tried to make a run for it.” Rachel fished in her pocket and retrieved a penknife and an evidence bag that she shook open. Using the knife, she scraped some of the dried worms into the bag and sealed it.
Matt pulled at the dark cloth. “Could be a priest’s tunic – his cassock.” There was the tinkle
of metal, and Matt lifted more of the burned cloth and found a silver crucifix on a heavy silver chain. The stone set at its center was the deepest red. “Probably a ruby, not theft then. And look…”
He dug out the picture and showed it to her. “The same crucifix.”
Her mouth turned down. “Could be but don’t assume anything. Might also just be the order they came from.”
“Yeah, true.” He stood, hanging onto the crucifix. “This is exactly like what happened to Clarence van Helling.”
Rachel also got to her feet. “But is this Father Xavier, or did Xavier do this?” She stepped back a little from more of the thread-like trails on the ground. “I bet there are no dental records, no DNA and certainly no prints anywhere to identify old boney here. We have no way to really find out who it is.”
Matt toed the bones. “Do you know what taphonomy is?”
She gave him a bored look. “No, Matthew, I do not know what taphonomy is. Please tell me… if it’s relevant.”
“It’s the study of what happens to bodies over time; especially the bones.” He sniffed again. “The soil out here is quite acidic, and there’s moisture in the air. Those two things alone should have meant over time the bones should have degraded down to nothing. But the sort of age darkening on the bones of this guy, excluding the incineration marks, only happens over the high hundreds or more like thousands of years.”
“But the cut looks recent. Why cut the head off an already dead body?” Rachel queried.
“Or were the…” Matt stopped himself. “Nah, that’s dumb.”
“It probably is, but tell me anyway.” She held the light in his face.
“I was going to say, what if the guy was old? I mean far older than we can imagine, and the bones were already like that – inside him.”
She stared for a moment, and then rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that doesn’t really help.”
Matt looked back down at the bones. “I’ve got a feeling we won’t be meeting Father Xavier any time soon.” He looked up into her face. “Dead end.”
