The Portal

by Russell James

  He was tempted to go out and check on Allie, then shook his head at her self-imposed tech isolation. Colleen Olsen had Stan’s support. He wanted to offer Allie his. She’d been deeply upset after he exposed her, firsthand, to Krieger’s nightmare come true. Would she even want to see him after that?

  But first things first. He needed to head out to Canale Road and get a look at everything in the daytime, see if he could get something that made sense from the FBI agents on the scene. There sure as hell was something Scaravelli was covering up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Allie didn’t wake up that Friday morning alone. Despair shared her bed, that dark, life-sucking companion she’d hoped to leave in the plastic world of LA. Last night’s tragedy called it back and now it lay heavy beside her, its black magnetism holding her beneath the stifling comforter, its curtain of hopelessness blocking the sun’s rays.

  The tragedy of Natalie Olsen’s death blew through the thin wall of normalcy she’d built since returning to Stone Harbor. She’d thought she’d conquered her demons and re-centered herself, but all that concrete accomplishment now seemed only sand. In LA, one call would have brought her a solution to all this, a ziplock bag of white powder, doorstep delivered in a red Carrera, in less time than a Domino’s pizza.

  Newly sober actors always decried the evils of cocaine in interviews, lamenting how awful it was to be hooked. They were all full of it. Being high on coke was the greatest feeling in the world. Anxiety, exhaustion, fear, all banished when the drug hit the bloodstream. The white powder always assured Allie she could handle any problem, overcome any obstacle. There was nothing miserable about being on cocaine.

  There was, however, something miserable about not being on cocaine. The rush of reality’s return and the punctured sense of invincibility were hellish, like returning to mortality after being a god.

  And ‘recovering’ addicts were blowing smoke when they said that the cravings got weaker over time. There was no bigger lie. Did someone crave ice water less the longer she stayed in the desert? Drugs were a tempting shortcut to happiness. Who would choose the long route up the mountainside when the valley route beckoned?

  If she had still been in California, she could have seen her program mentor for support. But even if she went into town and found a phone, a disembodied voice through a tinny speaker would not cut it at all. Human contact made such a difference, contact with someone she could trust.

  Scottie was the first person who came to mind. The connection they’d had years ago had somehow survived the storm she’d unleashed upon it. But she dared not lay bare her vulnerability. She was sorely disappointed by the person her LA years had created. The more of that she shielded from Scottie, the better. There was no point both of them being ashamed of the person she had become.

  The hearty Puritan fishermen who founded Stone Harbor left a legacy of self-reliant DNA and a proud reticence when it came to airing emotional problems. LA sprouted shrinks on every street corner, but Stone Harbor boasted a count of zero. There’d be no help available from a pro.

  Then she remembered seeing Reverend Snow out on Canale Road last night, across the road in the shadows. He had been the rector at All Souls Church since before her mother had been born, absolving sins and nurturing the needy. Allie had sung in the choir during middle school. He’d at least remember her as someone other than starlet Allison Layton, a good enough start. She wasn’t going to shock him. National news had already overshared the part of her life she was willing to discuss.

  She threw back the comforter and rolled out of bed. With a sweep of her arm, she pulled back the drapes. Sunlight streamed across the empty, rumpled bedsheets. The bright light lit a flame of hope.

  * * *

  An hour later, she passed out of town and pulled into the tree-shaded parking lot of All Souls Church.

  The church’s slender spire had watched over Stone Harbor since 1790. Flush with the promise of religious freedom, the congregation had built the church, which still stood today. A high-peaked roof of black shingles covered the simple white wooden structure. The tall, narrow windows along the side were done in precious stained-glass, made back in the days when true artisans created it for the glory of God.

  The bell tower, long silent for fear the vibrations of the bell’s peals would weaken it, stood a story higher than the main roof. It was said that on a clear day it afforded simultaneous views of Massachusetts and Long Island. Allie remembered how the reverend hung a star of white lights on the tower each Christmas, a tradition that stretched back to a candle-powered version during the church’s first year. A set of steps led to two large black doors at the steeple’s base. Two enormous fir trees flanked the entrance.

  New nagging doubts surfaced as she ascended the church steps. Her last visit was at Easter when she was 16, a distracted final pantomime of worship after years of increasingly intermittent attendance. Would Reverend Snow remember her? Would he really want to help her out, given the mess she’d made of her life? Natalie Olsen had been brutally murdered last night. What weight could he give to her problems compared to that?

  She pulled open the heavy door and entered the church. It closed behind her and her eyes adjusted to the dim interior as she stood under the small choir loft at the rear. The air was redolent with the familiar scent from those old holiday services, a combination of old wood, melting wax, and incense’s sweet aroma. Multicolored beams of soft light cascaded down on the rows of stark wooden pews that faced a simple altar.

  A life-size wooden replica of the crucified Christ hung on a massive cross, suspended by two ropes that passed through ceiling mounts and down to cleats in the wall. Jesus’ head hung down, his eyes closed. Allie had wondered as a child whether Jesus was dead or just resting in the statue, and always decided on the latter.

  The warm familiarity experienced on Scottie’s porch washed over Allie again. This house of God, witness to countless baptismal inductions, seemed to reach out and welcome her back, as if it remembered her christening amongst the thousands. Allie smiled as she walked down the aisle, and just a bit back in time.

  In the center of the main aisle, a tombstone lay flush with the floor. The polished marble inscription read:

  ZEBEDEE SNOW

  FIRST RECTOR OF ALL SOULS CHURCH

  APRIL 14, 1680 – OCTOBER 22, 1770

  “With God, all things are possible.”

  When she was a child, the reinterment of the first rector’s body underneath the church had always struck her as just a little creepy.

  “Can I help you?” she heard from the altar.

  She looked up to see Reverend Snow. Even in daylight instead of the darkness on Canale Road, he hadn’t seemed to age a bit.

  She stopped several pews short of the altar and braced for a stiff welcome. “Reverend Snow? You may not remember me….”

  “Allison Layton,” the reverend said with a smile. “Of course I remember you. You sang in the youth choir. First girl to ever play Gabriel in the church Christmas pageant. Ever since then it’s always been played by a girl. How nice to have you back.”

  Allie sighed. No judgment, no condemnation, none of the appraising looks people gave as they compared Allie past to Allie present and came up disappointed.

  “What brings you back to All Souls, Allison?”

  Well, this is it, she thought. Either I give him a BS answer about randomly visiting familiar sites, or he gets the truth.

  Sympathy and strength shone in his eyes.

  “Can I talk with you a moment?” she asked.

  Reverend Snow stepped down and sat in the first row of pews. He turned to face Allie and gestured to the pew behind him with a sweep of his hand. “My time is yours. Have a seat.”

  She sat down and already felt less burdened.

  “Reverend, I’ve made some mistakes the last few years.”

  “So I’ve heard.�
��

  She blushed and looked at the floor.

  “I run a parish, Allison,” he said, “not a monastery. I have plenty of contact with the world outside of Stone Harbor.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m not here to judge you.”

  “I was in a dark place before I returned to Stone Harbor,” she said.

  She paused, then chose her words carefully, unsure of whether the reverend would admit his clandestine observance on Canale Road last night. “You’ve heard about Natalie?”

  “Horrible,” he said. “Just horrible. I visited with Colleen and Stan this morning. They are having a tough time of it.”

  That non-admission didn’t help her much. She decided not to confirm she was there either.

  “Last night, when I found out about little Natalie, I started to slip back to that dark place. I mean, such an awful, disgusting thing…here in Stone Harbor…I came home to escape things like that, you know?”

  “I’m sure everyone on the island feels the same way,” he said. “If you didn’t feel sorrow for the girl, then you would really have a problem.”

  “It’s my reaction to it that scares me, Reverend. I had a serious drug problem in California. It almost killed me. I beat it back in rehab, but my first instinct last night was to use again. If I had access, I know I would have.”

  “Now think before you answer, Allison,” Reverend Snow said. “Do you really know that you would have used?”

  She imagined the line of powder across a glass tabletop, the demon in white, promising her escape. She remembered the hell she went through to get clean, the worse hell of doing it all again. She imagined the look on Scottie’s face if he saw her as the addicted mess she had been a year ago, all her worst weaknesses front and center.

  “No,” she said. “I really don’t know that I would have used. The temptation though….”

  Reverend Snow nodded in confirmation. He reached out and held her hand. His rough skin was warm, his grip firm.

  “That’s the part that really upset you,” he said. “The temptation. Since you had surrendered to it before, you assumed it inevitable that you would do so again. Now you realize that was not the case. Temptations never vanish. The nature of our struggle with evil is that it always returns to tempt us. Even Jesus was tempted by Satan himself, who offered Christ the world for his allegiance. God will not provide temptations you cannot decline. He will not test you past your limit. Don’t look at temptation as an exploitation of weakness, but an opportunity to reaffirm your strength.”

  Some of the emotional weight she’d carried in on her shoulders eased off.

  “You really think so?” she said.

  “I know so.” Reverend Snow leaned back. “So, have you reconnected with old friends since you’ve been back?”

  “I’ve spent some time with Scottie Tackett.”

  “I’m sure that seeing Scott again was very nice,” Reverend Snow said.

  Allie felt like some preteen having to admit she had a crush on a boy in her class.

  “Well…yes. I think he’s helping me center myself.”

  Reverend Snow stood up.

  “I’m sure that he will, Allison,” he said, looking down at her. “I’ve got a pre-marital counseling appointment I’m due for. Stop by anytime you want to talk.”

  Allie rose.

  “Thank you, Reverend,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

  She wanted to hug him, but Reverend Snow had already turned and headed to the sacristy door behind the altar.

  She walked back down the aisle between the pews, treading lightly on the stone that marked the resting place of the first Reverend Snow. She opened the door to leave, and the bright sunlight hurt her eyes. The morning overcast had burned away to reveal a resplendent blue sky and a few stray white puffy clouds.

  Maybe she could handle all this. The island had given her things stronger than a sandbar to stand on. Reverend Snow could be a source of strength, and Scottie made her feel more like the person she used to be, and wanted to be again. She returned to her car, much less fearful about facing the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Reverend Snow watched from a sacristy window as Allie departed the church.

  Did she see me last night? he wondered.

  He chided himself for getting old and careless. Ten generations later, the prophecies were coming to pass. Months of premonitions had warned him that Satan’s return was imminent. His last one sent him out to Canale Road last night, a premonition he’d hoped in vain he’d misinterpreted. What he’d seen was horrible, but he was certain darker events approached from just beyond the horizon.

  In fifty years of spiritual leadership, he thought that he had become a decent judge of character. He now had a clear read on Allison. Something still unspoken troubled her kind heart. But she was strong.

  But she’d reconnected with Scott Tackett. That was another story. A good man, but his family history wasn’t at all reassuring. Under great stress, which way would he bend? There would be no second chances when the remaining prophecies came true.

  He shifted his weight right and leaned against the wall to relieve the pain on his arthritic knees. Awful trials were certain to come in the next few days. He was an old man boxing an immortal opponent. Odds were, he wouldn’t go the distance. He’d need someone in his corner, maybe sooner than he thought.

  Could she be the one to help? he thought. Is that why God brought her home now?

  Trusting her with centuries-old family secrets would be a step he couldn’t take lightly. He looked at her sitting in her car. He gripped the edge of the window frame. She was about to leave, and he had a feeling that any delay in recruiting her would be catastrophic.

  He did what he always did when the decision was difficult. He took a deep breath, and sought divine inspiration.

  He realized that if she trusted him with her dark secrets, he could trust her with his.

  He rushed out the sacristy door as Allie pulled through the parking lot. He waved her down. She stopped and rolled down her window.

  “Yes, Reverend?” she said.

  “Allie, I’d love for you to come tonight at six for the adult Bible group,” he said. “We discuss the Scripture, not our lives, and tonight there are passages I think you will find meaningful.”

  She answered, without reservation, that she’d love to.

  The reverend watched her pull away. She gave a little wave as she went out.

  Reverend Snow crossed himself for his lie. The adult Bible group never met on Fridays.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Scott rolled up to where the dirt path split off from Canale Road. The obsidian-black pickup truck he’d seen in town sat on the edge of the yellow crime scene tape. The tailgate and cab hung open.

  Scott scratched his chin. Farmers brought men to work in pickup trucks; the FBI didn’t use them to shuttle agents.

  Off up in the woods, five men in FBI windbreakers walked between the trees, too intently focused on the ground to notice his presence. Each had an assault rifle slung across their back. Most were smoking. One glance said none of these men was an employee of the federal government, unless felony convictions had gone from exclusionary to minimum standard in the hiring process. Crude tattoos, broken noses, scars. If law enforcement really looked this scary, there’d be no crime.

  Scott didn’t know anything about doing an area evidence search, but was sure it wasn’t done like this. The men wandered around at random, using sticks and poles to make desultory scrapes through the underbrush. If what they were looking for was smaller than a washing machine, they’d probably miss it. Pigs did a better job rooting for truffles.

  One of the men, a heavyset Hispanic with bad skin, swung a long stick back and forth across the ground. At the end of one arc, it slipped from his hand. The stick sailed through the air and hit a guy with a prison-issue Fu Man
chu squarely in the back of his bald head. Fu Manchu spun to face the other man with rage in his eyes.

  The two burst into a profane shouting match. The rest of the searchers backed away, and waited for the fireworks. The two closed to within a foot of each other. They traded taunts, dared the other to make a move.

  Fu Manchu pulled a hunting knife from his belt. The well-honed edge flashed in the sunlight. The Hispanic man scooped a stout branch from the forest floor and raised it like a knight’s sword to parry the coming thrust.

  A sixth man, also in an FBI windbreaker, streaked in through the trees. He pulled an automatic pistol from a holster at his side and wedged himself between the two men. He shoved them apart like he was separating two angry pit bulls.

  “What the hell are you two doing?” The tall, crew-cut man looked furious. “I leave you alone one goddamn minute and this shit happens?” He turned to Fu Manchu.

  “You pulled a knife?” He pointed his pistol at the man’s head. “I should just shoot you now.”

  Fu Manchu’s steely look didn’t waver, like a man who’d faced the dark end of a gun barrel plenty of times before. The leader let the pistol fall away.

  “Better yet,” the leader said, “how about I tell Mr. Oates you’ve decided not to play well with others?”

  Scott’s stomach did a flip at the mention of Oates. Apparently, so did Fu Manchu’s. The man’s eyes went wide. His jaw sagged. He sheathed his knife.

  “Ain’t no need for that, Kyler. We’re cool. Little misunderstanding is all.”

  “No, no, dude,” pleaded the Hispanic man. “No need to get Oates into it.”

  Scott backed up to his truck and got in. He closed the door without a sound and prayed he could get away from here without being noticed. As soon as the men began searching the forest floor again, he started the engine and backed away until he could do a discreet U-turn.

  Nothing about this added up. Those guys were no more FBI agents than he was. Scaravelli said they were working for him, but from the looks of them, they’d spit on Scaravelli, or any cop, on sight. The guy called Kyler was obviously in charge. And he wasn’t reporting to Scaravelli, he was reporting to Oates.