by R.M. Haig
September 13th, 7:00am
Burlwood, Indiana
Jake woke up a few minutes before his alarm went off, probably because he'd slept so long and hard on account of his hangover from the previous day. It was nearly nine PM when he got back from visiting Evander Hughes, and it wasn't much later than that when he hit the couch like a brick and passed out for the night. Apparently, his small vacation from drinking had stripped him of his ability to hold his liquor, because he'd never had problems like this in the days when a fifth an evening was light duty.
Still feeling a bit sluggish, he climbed off of the couch and took a hot shower to rinse away any lingering influence of the alcohol. Thanks to his old friend Jack Daniels, the twelfth had been a largely wasted day. All he'd managed to accomplish was committing to a date he really didn't want to go on with Nikki and learning that Evander Hughes was completely and totally fried. Neither of those things helped advance his investigation, and neither would help to set Chucky free, which was the goal he needed to accomplish before he could take care of other pending business.
Hoping for a more productive day out of this one, he tossed around tasks and objectives in his head as nearly scalding hard water ran down his body to the rust stained tub below his feet. He wanted to talk to Father Lovett about Voodoo, since his conversation with Joseph Blake appeared to suggest that some dark religious connotation applied to the incident between Rusty Parker and Freaky X. In conjunction with that, he wanted to cast a few lines to figure out exactly who Freaky X was. That wasn't going to be easy with so little information to go on, but he had a few ideas of how he might start the process.
Then there was FGSI, the mysterious company that was such a generous benefactor of Rusty in his retirement. The first step in digging into that, he figured, was to simply check out that Cadillac gate car at the downs and compare its VIN to the one formerly owned by Evander Hughes. If it was the same car, that would speak a lot to Rusty's potential connection to the vehicle, and therefore to the murders of the past.
He wanted to spy on old Rusty himself a bit as well, if only to qualify the fact that he truly was as sick as he let on. If he were putting up a front with the illness, if he was more able-bodied than he let on, he would quickly become the prime suspect given his experience with Freaky X in the past. Then there was that storage unit to check out, the one he'd stolen a bill for from Rusty's kitchen table. A ten-by-twenty unit at Safe & Secure Self Storage, unit thirty-three-L to be exact. He wanted to get out to see what surprises lay behind the door of that unit, but the facility was way out in Waycroft. That was a half-hour drive under the best of circumstances, and he wasn't sure it was in the cards for this day in particular.
Also, as much as it made him feel like a heel to think about it, he was going to have to pickup where the feds left off and spend some time surveilling Daryl Lane. The way the cards laid at the moment, assuming Rusty really was sick, Timmy's father was the sole surviving original suspect who was still physically capable of killing Billy Marsh on his own. Jake's heart told him Daryl didn't do it, but his better reasoning was nagging him with the crux of Occam's Razor. When faced with multiple possible explanations, the one that requires the fewest assumptions is most likely to be true. Under that umbrella, the killer of the Marsh boy was most likely Daryl Lane. He had the equipment, he had the knowledge and he had the physical capability. That was a bitch to admit, but as a neutral party -- as a detective -- it was necessary to admit it.
The last thing he had to consider, and the last thing on his mind at this point in time, was his date with Nikki at The Garthby Icehouse. While he appreciated her efforts to endear herself to him, he simply had bigger fish to fry. That sentiment was hard to reconcile with how it made him feel when she was anywhere near him, however. Against his will and better judgement, his dick seemed to like being close to her, and his libido didn't mind her presence either.
Of course, there were the feelings she sometimes inspired in him -- those unrelated to sex -- that also warranted consideration. More often than not, she brought his spirits up and made him feel like a young man again... a man not planning for an end to suit the means of double indemnity, which was otherwise constantly on his mind. Being free of its shadow was fantastic, but it was also self-defeating since that end seemed to be the only workable option for him that satisfied his obligations to Tracy and Garrett.
The warmth in his heart when Nikki touched him, the tingling of his skin when it was in contact with hers, the rebirth of his sex drive and his desire to, well... his desire to have her. These were things that he didn't deserve, things that he hadn't earned and things that flew in the face of being a decent man once he'd turned his back on his family to spare them his poisoning. They were forbidden fruit to him, now, given the choices he'd made and the things he'd done. His head understood all of that, but his body... his body was apt to betray him. He couldn't let that happen, so he figured he would be doing no ice skating on this day. Their meeting wasn't scheduled until eleven forty-five, though, so he would have time to see where the day took him before he had to make the decision about whether or not he would stand her up.
As he stepped out of the shower and dried, applied his deodorant, fixed his hair with the Brylcream and sprayed himself with cologne, he resolved to go see Father Lovett as the first order of business. Voodoo could be the domino that set the rest of the case in motion if it was really involved, so that was as good a place to start as any.
As he dressed and prepared to leave Chucky's, his cellphone rang in the living room, Racing to it, he saw that it was Donnell calling.
"Hey Donnell, what's up?" He answered, lighting a smoke.
"Not much, man, not much," Donnell replied. "How'd it go with the old man?"
Confused, Jake tried to calculate how Donnell knew he'd been to see Evander the previous night. Remembering the pause before he buzzed in, he figured that the wench working the gate had probably called him for permission to let an unauthorized visitor in when she realized he wasn't on the list. "Not so well," he said, "I'm sorry Don, the guy's really far gone."
Donnell chuckled lightly, this certainly wasn't news to him. "Yeah, life's a bitch, eh?"
"I won't argue with you there."
"Look, man," Donnell continued, "I've got a light day today. I've got LeTonya and I both free for a couple of hours. She dug into that FGSI shit hard, and she came back with absolutely nothing. Whatever or whoever they are, they're a ghost. There ain't a damn thing more we can do with that one. Is there anything else we might be able to help with?"
Thinking quickly, Jake ran down the list of things he wanted to do again to determine which might be done without boots on the ground. "Actually, there is," he countered. "I got a bit of information out of old Sheriff Blake, but it's led me into another hunt."
"How so?"
"He couldn't tell me who the victim was, only that his last name rhymes with Freaky and that the other kids used the pair as his nickname. He went to Indy Central, either the class of '88, '89 or '90, so far as he could remember -- which wasn't very far at all."
"So, what? You want me to try to find the guy?"
"It's on my agenda, so if you can take it off, that frees me up to spend a little more attention on a few of the other leads I've got working."
Donnell grumbled, as though he wasn't sure exactly how to proceed with his information limited to Freaky and a three year timespan. "I'll see what I can do," he said, sounding not at all optimistic. "If anything else comes up, you know where to find me."
"Thanks, Donnell," Jake offered. "Let me know if you have any luck."
Jake ended the call just as he was stepping out of eighteen-seventy Maplewood, and he froze at the threshold once the door had swung open to reveal something that seemed terribly suspicious. It was a beautiful morning with the sun shining brightly in the east, a ball of fire sparkling in the sky dead center over a very dark looking vehicle that was parked along
Oakwood. It was facing directly towards him and Chucky's trailer, its wide grille shining and its blackened windshield catching the rays of sunlight. He stood perfectly still when he saw it, his eyes locked on the ominous looking car that seemed, from his perspective, to have limo-tint all around. The car similarly sat still, not reacting to him or his appearance outside in the least.
Determined to have a closer look at this menace, Jake strolled casually to his Malibu as though he was oblivious to the vehicle's presence altogether. In as fluid a motion as he could manage, he nonchalantly opened his rear door and reached inside for his binoculars, which were resting on the back seat. Changing pace once they were in hand, he snatched them up and slammed them to his eyes as quickly as he possibly could. He hoped to out-reflex the driver of the vehicle with his speed, trying to catch him off guard and get a good look at his ride before he could speed off, which is what he imagined would happen when the hunter realized he'd become the prey. As soon as the binoculars were in place, however, he immediately heard the peeling of rubber in the distance. Spinning the focus wheel as the vehicle tore backwards and away from him at warp speed, he managed to catch the slightest glimpse of it in profile as it spun ninety degrees at the hands of an expert tactical driver. Once rotated, the vehicle roared into drive and it sped down Arkwood, out of view and out of reach.
Given the masterful maneuvering of whomever was at the wheel, Jake didn't get a close enough look to determine much about vehicle. He knew now, however, that his sense had been right from the beginning. Someone was watching him, someone was following him. Just as he suspected, someone had been tracking his movements in and around the Township of Burlwood, possibly since the moment he arrived. It was someone who was good at going undetected, and it was someone who was presently driving a blacked out and larger than average sedan... blue in color. He couldn't say for sure whether or not it happened to be a Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, but it was certainly in the realm of possibility. Whomever it was, they were not too keen on being identified, and that likely meant that they weren't looking after his best interests as he conducted his investigation.
As much as he wanted to speed down to Arkwood and give chase, he knew the doing so would be reckless and likely fruitless to boot. There were still children living in The Meadows, and it was about time for the school busses to be picking them up. To stomp the gas the way the driver of the blue sedan had would put many young lives at risk, and the target probably doubled back to Oakwood and sped all the way out of the park by now. Vowing to catch him another day, Jake backed out of his spot calmly and set course for Our Mother Of Sorrows.
The drive wasn't long, and he found the place to be just about abandoned. The mayhem of the carnival had been packed up and hauled away, and there was no mass scheduled for this morning. The parking lot was completely empty, a sight that gave Jake the chills for reasons he didn't immediately understand. As he thought about it, he realized he'd never seen it this way, as the old Our Mother van was almost always parked by the side door of the building. It wasn't missing on this day because it was out delivering food to the needy, it wasn't absent because it was collecting used clothing to resell, it wasn't away transporting elderly citizens to medical appointments, it was gone because it had been used in the commission of a kidnapping that resulted in yet another child murder.
The shock of that idea setting in left him evaluating his suspects again, primarily Daryl Lane and Evander Hughes. Not only was Evander down for the count mentally and Daryl not at all what one would expect in a murderer, neither one of them had keys for the old Dodge Ram van. Neither one of them could've easily gotten into it, gotten it started and drove it away on that fateful morning.
That added a complication, it added an assumption to the Occam's Razor test he'd held the evidence against earlier. Before throwing the van into the mix, it seemed Mister Lane would be the most likely suspect when judged by how many assumptions were necessary to tag him as guilty. Now, with the van figured in, he would have to assume that Daryl somehow got his hands on a set of keys to the vehicle, and that he used it either with the intention of deceiving investigators, or because it was somehow the most convenient option available when the time came. That didn't make much sense, he had a vehicle of his own that he could've used with far less trouble, unless he was afraid of being spotted. He supposed the butcher could've hot-wired the van, but that was an assumption just as grandiose as the one about him somehow acquiring the key, and it totally erased any notion of him trying to be inconspicuous, because hot-wiring a vehicle is mighty fucking suspicious if someone should see you doing it.
All of those clauses applied evenly to Evander, except for the fact that with him as the killer there would have to be the even greater assumption. One would have to entertain the suggestion that he could somehow escape his nursing prison and then manage to drive a large vehicle down public roadways in his whacked out condition. Then, he would've had to find a way to conceal the van well enough that it couldn't be found, which seemed pretty well beyond him in the state that Jake saw him in.
Suddenly, his Occam equation was way out of whack. Suddenly, he had no obvious prime suspect.
Putting that aside for a moment, he parked where the van would usually be and stepped out of his car. He approached the side door of the church and knocked, but got no reply. Knowing that the place was always open to parishioners who felt the need to be there, he turned the knob and simply walked right into the storage area of the building. There were old and broken pews stacked and covered with sheets, what appeared to be an old baptismal tipped over and dented, a busted looking old organ and several other odds and ends scattered about as if they were of no value and would rot where they say forever.
Moving through the space toward a corridor in the distance, he was drawn to a large piece of equipment along the way that was also partially covered by a sheet. Recognizing the form and the color of the metal that was visible, he pulled the cover off and realized that he was looking at an old bandsaw. The table of the machine was rusted, and there was no blade held in its housing -- just as Rusty's circular saw had been. Curious to know whether the tool was even functional anymore, he looked around the foot of the industrial sized saw until he found the electrical cord. As it happened, he was near enough to an outlet to plug it in, so he did. Stepping to the operating side, he found the main power switch and flipped it to the on position. The motor did start, but it made a terrible whining noise as juice flowed through it, as though age and rust had locked its rotary action in place. Within seconds there was a strong smell of burning electrical components, as though the motor wanted desperately to catch fire and end its suffering for all time. Switching it off and unplugging it, he moved on to the corridor that would lead him to the chantry.
Along the way, he passed the area that he knew to be the kitchen and its walk-in cooler and freezer just beyond it. This place was almost constantly buzzing with activity in the past, as the church also served as a soup kitchen to the more impoverished families of Burlwood. Jacob had eaten there on a few occasions in his childhood, when his mother would fall behind on bills or sell her food stamps for things she had no business buying. There was no one to be found in this place today, and when he pulled the doors for the cooler and freezer opened he realized that there likely wasn't ever anyone working in this area anymore. Both storerooms were completely bare, and neither had their cooling units running. There hadn't been food in either one of them in a long time, and there were clearly no plans for them to receive any in the near future.
More shocking to him than the fact that the church had peeled back this charitable service was the presence of something he instantly considered sinister in the freezer. Scanning the room for any indication that there was an explanation for what he was seeing, he quickly realized that there was not. The walls and ceiling were made of the same strangely textured metal that made up Daryl Lane's walk-in, but in the center of the
room -- for no apparent reason whatsoever -- was a thick and heavy chain dangling from above. It was attached to an eye-bolt in the ceiling and hung nearly to the ground, showing no indication that it had even been attached to anything or used for any purpose whatsoever. The chain itself was rusty and old looking, as though it had been swinging there for a very long time and had been oxidized by the condensation caused by the doors being opened and closed repeatedly throughout the years.
Just as he had at Butcher's Lane, Jake visualized each of the six little boys taken from Burlwood before their time dangling from that rusted old chain, which wrapped around their ankles and bit into their tender young flesh. With frigid air blowing at their bodies, they swung side to side and front to back like some horrific and demented wind chime, their arms dangling lazily as they danced with awkward rhythm of the ammonia fueled breeze.
Shuddering, he slammed the door shut and continued making his way into the church. Trying not to distract himself further, he pressed forward without looking around much until he reached the door to the rectory, where the Deacon had delivered him previously to meet with the good father. He knocked gently, hoping not to startle the old man, and spoke his identity softly.
"Father Lovett?" He said. "It's me, Jake Gigu?re again."
"Come in, Jacob," the priest replied quickly, yet sedately.
Jake stepped in, making note of the musty old book smell again as he approached the living area slowly, the floorboards still creaking under his feet. He found Father Lovett in his La-Z-Boy again, another large volume in hand and his reading glasses on his face as he digested some new and esoteric information.
"Have a seat," the priest said, motioning towards the coffee table where there still existed a cleared out area with books stacked high around it. "But not too close, you stink of tobacco!".
"I'm surprised you didn't cover this spot over again, given how much you seem to read," Jake commented.
"Meh, I knew you'd be back," Lovett replied.
Jake nodded with a smile, appreciating the old man's intuition even if his attitude seemed a bit on the dismissive side. "Thanks, I guess," he chuckled.
"Tell me," the priest continued, still focused on his book. "What answers do you think I have for you today, my son?"
"A few, actually," Jake returned. "First, what's the deal with the kitchen and storage areas? You aren't doing the soup kitchen stuff anymore?"
"Oh, no," Lovett sighed. "Sadly -- or thankfully, perhaps -- the demand for that died down about fifteen years ago. I know it wasn't economic recovery that shut out kitchen down, so I guess I'm at a loss as to what happened. It would seem that we've just become more of a welfare state out here, I don't know. In your time, most were too proud to be on the dole, so they ate here because it wasn't as hard a blow to their pride as accepting money from the government. With time, that's changed. That sentiment is gone, now, I suppose. Whatever the reason, people slowly stopped coming, so we slowly stopped cooking."
"I looked in the freezer," Jake said, " and there's a chain hanging from the ceiling. Do you have any idea what the chain was for?"
"Nope," Lovett said plainly. "That was all the territory of the cook and Rusty."
Experiencing a flush with the mention of Rusty, Jake followed up on the other individual Lovett mentioned first. "Who was the cook?"
"His name was Jeremy Mosian, until he died in 2004. I guess you could say he doesn't have a name anymore," the father said, turning the page of his book gently and indifferently.
"How did it have anything to do with Rusty?" Jake wondered.
Lovett pulled his eyes from his book for a moment, just long enough for them to give Jake a look that asked if he ever thought before he spoke. "Rusty was the maintenance man," he said, "part of his job was to keep the freezer operating, therefore it was also his territory."
"Did he spend a lot of time in there?"
"No," the father offered, "just enough to maintain the units and make sure everything was working."
Leaving that topic with an unresolved question mark in his mind, Jake moved on to more information he was after. "I found a bandsaw back there also," he said. "The blade was missing, what's the deal with that?"
"That was Rusty's domain, too," he replied. "So far as the blade goes, your friend Ron Boudreaux took it a few weeks back. I guess he thought it was possible that the saw was used to dismember poor little Billy Marsh or something, that's the gist I got. I told him I didn't think the damned thing even worked anymore, and that I'd never seen Chucky use it in all the time he's been here. I think he was afraid of it, actually, but Boudreaux wanted the blade anyway."
"Well, you were right -- it doesn't work." Jake explained. "I think the motor is seized up."
"Surprise, surprise," the priest said in an uninspired tone. "No one's been maintaining it since Rusty retired, machines require maintenance. I imagine, however, that these questions you're asking are just a preface, as they seem to be about things you discovered on your way to my door. Tell me, will we be getting to the real questions any time soon?"
"Very shrewd," Jake smiled. "You should be doing my kind of work."
"Not shrewd, just impatient. " Lovett replied. "I'm a dying man, Jacob, I haven't time for petty issues or petty questions. I'm sorry if that strikes you the wrong way, my son, but it's the plain truth."
"Dying, eh?" Jake responded. "Well aren't we all?"
"Perhaps, if that's your philosophy. But you likely aren't dying as actively as I am," the priest said. "I have stage four lung cancer, Jake. From aspirating asbestos within the four walls of this glorious building... just like poor Rusty Parker. Of course, he got it in the form of COPD, but it's the same difference."
"I don't know that I could ever use the phrase poor in describing Rusty, regardless of his condition" Jake replied, trying not to let on that he was dying just as actively as Lovett was. His death wasn't going to come at the hands of illness, though, but it was as real and as imminent as the disease that threatened the priest.
"I don't know what you've heard or seen of Rusty, but he was always a decent man," Lovett answered. "He had his demons, he had his wounds, if you will, from the war, but he dealt with them. Now, all of these years later, we find that we've both been killed by the years we spent here, in the house of the Lord. If that's not ironic, son, then I guess I don't know what is."
"Looks like your precious little tabernacle is gonna kill Chucky too," Jake snapped back. "Guilt by association, I guess, because he had the same keys that Rusty Parker had and happened to work with The Butcher Of Burlwood without his knowledge for all of those years you spoke of."
Lovett didn't acknowledge this slight, simply continuing to read his book before he spoke again. "If you're here to ask me to slander Rusty or to point you in his direction as the man who killed those six children back in the nineties, then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. I worked with the man day and night during those times, you shall never convince me that he was The Butcher. The door is back that way, as you know, and if it's dirt on a mentally ill man who actually worked through his troubles instead of relying on the dole the way that people do now, then you might as well head through it."
Jake itched his nose, partially because he was pissed and partially because he had an itch that needed scratching. He was impressed at Lovett's loyalty to Rusty, despite the fact that he believed the man was mistaken in his assessment.
"So I guess Chucky doesn't count as a mentally ill man who actually worked through his troubles then, is that what you're saying?" Jake fired back.
The priest still showed no sign of emotion, and he was still not compelled to stop reading his book. "Of course he does, Jacob, but if you don't mind my asking -- when was the last time you actually saw or spoke to Chucky?"
"I saw him on Friday," he answered.
"Before that!" Lovett barked, though his eyes remained locked on the pages of his volume. He waited an ample period
of time for calculation, but he spoke before Jake offered any answer. "I figure it must be twenty years or more," he said, "because I know it's been about that long since I saw you, and I keep a pretty good finger on the pulse of this town. The boy you knew as Chucky was vastly different than the man who exists today."
"How so?" Jake wondered.
"When you left town, he became an outcast. Without his treasured Darkwing, he had no friends to speak of. Then his mother died, and things changed further yet. He became a recluse, barely leaving his trailer when he wasn't coming to work, which was still only twenty hours or so a week. When he was here, he was very awkward. Shy, quiet, and most of the congregation would say strange. I thought he still had a good heart, I thought he was still an innocent soul... but I just don't know anymore. The more I reflect on it, the more I wonder."
"Has Boudreaux been back?" Jake chirped in reply. "Has he been feeding you all of this bullshit?"
Lovett shook his head, still focused on his book, still only half involved in the conversation.
Jake was irritated and frustrated, but there was still information to be had. Sucking up his desire to tear into the man, he put on a friendly face and continued his inquest. "You'll be happy to know that I'm not looking for anything on Rusty," he said.
"Then what is it, son? You want to talk more about those six children who were cut down before their time? You want to know what they looked like all chopped into pieces? I was called to every scene, as you probably know. You want to talk the latest child, Billy Marsh? I got to see him, too."
"In a way," Jake returned. "The murders are, after all, what I'm here for."
"Let the children rest, Jacob," Lovett begged of him. "I baptized many of those boys. I presided over the funeral services of every one of them on top of seeing their poor little bodies torn to bits. I also aided in Clyde Rambo's investigation, and I know that the suspects he believed were guilty simply could not have been. What happened to those boys was terrible, and whomever was responsible for their deaths will be judged harshly by God, but that is all the judgement they shall receive, because the identity of the killer is lost to time. Whomever it was, they will pay their penance just the same. Of that I can assure you, son."
"That's all well and good," Jake replied, "but our friend Ron Boudreaux wants to see Chucky pay for Billy Marsh now. As you likely know, he wants to do it in a way that will send him up for that final judgement you speak of in short order."
Lovett sighed and finally closed his book, setting it down on the table beside Jacob. "Certainly, my son, you've heard the old adage if the shoe fits, wear it?"
Jake was stunned at this, and he pulled back physically in response. "Father Lovett," he said after a long pause, "are you telling me that you believe Chucky did this? Are you telling me you really think that he killed little Billy Marsh?"
The priest shrugged, sighing and removing his glasses to fold up and nest in his pocket. "I'm saying it certainly looks that way, Jacob."
Shocked, Jake pulled back further and let his surprise show on his face. They sat silently for a moment, staring each other down intensely, before Jake finally addressed the comment. "What makes you say that?" He asked.
"A preponderance of the evidence," the preacher said after a momentary pause. "And if you were thinking clearly, you would see it just the same."
"Well I'm sorry, Father," Jake retorted, "but I believe I see more clearly than anyone when it comes to Chucky and what he's capable of."
The priest laughed as soon as the words were spoken. It was light at first, but it ramped up into a hearty fit quickly that continued until his ill lungs objected and caused him to choke a bit. Clearing his throat, his voice trembled as he replied. "My son, you see things as clearly as if you were looking through a brick wall! I've told you how that is the case when it relates to Chucky, and I can tell you that it's no different in any matter you consider! Look at you, Jacob! You're a disaster!"
This came as yet another surprise to Jake, as he felt like he was looking pretty good. Checking over his clothing, which was sharp and clean, and thinking back to his shower earlier in the day, he wondered what the man could possibly be seeing that led him to deliver such an insult.
"Not your clothes, you fool!" Lovett cackled again. "Try looking in a mirror, Jacob, that is where you'll see it! It's in your eyes, it's on your face, it's in your heart! You're toxic, Jacob, I could see it on you the moment I first laid eyes on you from the pulpit! Your heart is full of so much hate and negativity that it's all you can see anymore! What's worse, it's all anyone else can see when they look at you, son! The man that visits me every time you come to this place is not the kindhearted boy I knew before! This man is not the proud warrior I saw take to the ice when you played hockey! This man I see before me now is not Jacob Gigu?re, and I believe you know that just as well as I do! Do you want credit for having a tough life? I'll give it to you, you did! Did you make the best of what you had, though? Hell no! You're a shell, my son! A shell that's filled with everything vile and dark! I'm ashamed to see what you've done with yourself, if we're being frank!"
"Thanks, Carl," Jake said with heavy sarcasm.
"Are you prepared to tell me that I'm wrong?" Lovett asked. "If so, color me surprised because I've been counseling people longer than you've been alive! I've been summing people up by the look in their eyes and the lines on their face for nearly fifty years, Jacob, and I know hate and emptiness when I see it!"
Taking the words to heart, taking them personally and feeling hurt by them, Jake sat silent and looking like a guilty child. He was keenly aware that he wasn't the Jacob Gigu?re of old, and that was okay when he thought that only he and perhaps Tracy knew it. Someone else seeing it, though, someone else calling him out on it -- that wasn't okay. He was injured by the words of the old priest, and he felt that the wounds of the stigmata should develop on his wrists and his feet at any moment. He'd been crucified by Father Lovett. He'd been condemned, he'd been damned and issued a crown of thorns, all punishments that he very well deserved for the things he'd done to himself.
"You see?" The priest said. "You know it's true! Your silence speaks volumes, young Jacob! I'm not the only one ashamed at your condition, clearly you are too! Now you come back to your hometown, after leaving under incredibly awful circumstances, and you think you're looking through clear eyes at what's happening here? Are you even for real about this? It sounds like a fool's errand to me, Mister Gigu?re!"
"What would you suggest I do, father?" He asked, not entirely sure he really wanted to hear the answer he would receive. "You suggest I just let them fry Chucky on a case that is almost entirely circumstantial? You suggest I just walk away because, in your opinion, I'm not in the appropriate state of mind to do what needs to be done? That's crazy, Carl!"
Instead of speaking, the priest started laughing yet again. This laugh wasn't so malicious as the previous had been, though, it came across as more laughing with than laughing at. When it finally passed, he placed his glasses on the table next to Jake and spoke kindly.
"That is the question, isn't it young Jacob?" He said assertively. "That is what you should be trying to find out, what are you supposed to do here? Chucky brought you back, but taking care of Chucky is not what you should be focused on right now, more are things like why is there a chain hanging in the freezer!"
"I'm trying to save Chucky!" Jake barked in retort. "I'm not here asking about this shit for my health!"
"How can you save Chucky, my friend?" Lovett replied astutely. "How can you hope to save anyone if you can't even figure out a way to save yourself?"
There was no denying the wisdom in the words, so Jake couldn't respond for a moment. He felt the question reverberating in his heart, in his mind, in his soul. "Save myself from what?" He finally asked.
"From you!" The priest answered plainly. "You desperately need to save yourself from yourself, Jacob!"
"Right," Jake said with bite. "And I suppose I have to do twenty Hail Mary's and read some passages from your little bullshit book, right?"
"You don't have to fall to your knees before Christ, Jacob," Lovett said. "It would be a shortcut, but you don't have to do it, if it's not what suits you! You don't have to beg God for forgiveness. In fact, you can continue to not believe in God, just as I know you always haven't, if that's what you wish, and still find your answers. That is not outside the realm of possibilities, many good men have done it. Sure, this is how most people do it," he said, extending his arms to indicate the breadth of the church. "But this is all just window dressing, Jacob, this is all just for show when it's all boiled down. God is a figurehead, he's the one the fortunate thank and the unfortunate blame, the one that the condemned curse and the desperate beg for help. He isn't the only answer."
"I'm surprised to hear you say something like that, father," Jake replied.
"Why? Because I wear a frock and a clerical collar, that means I must pitch God to everyone I come into contact with? Yes, I help lead people to God -- but that's only my duty when they come seeking Him! Do you blame God for the bad things that have happened to you in your life? Do you thank him for the things you've had that were good?"
"You said it yourself, father, I don't believe in God. How can I blame him, then? How can I thank him, if I'm convinced he's not around?"
"There you are, you've summed it up! So why would I try to sell God to you, if you're so stubbornly set against Him? The wiser move, the move I would make if I were trying to help you would be to ask who do you blame if not God?"
Jake didn't have an answer, so he sat with confusion and bewilderment on his face in reply. His first thought was that he blamed himself, but that was a jagged pill too hard for him to swallow in the moment. Even if that were the correct answer, he wasn't interested in confiding that in the priest at this point in time, in this place of his life. Besides, it wasn't as though he had caused all of the terrible things that had happened in his life. Many challenges he'd faced were simply in the cards he was dealt, the hand he forced to play. If he reacted inappropriately to some of those cards, how could that be labeled as entirely his fault?
"You blame the lack of God, you see?" Lovett intuited with a crooked grin. "So in the end, it all comes back to God, whether you acknowledge Him or not! His is a house of many mansions, and he's a being that wears many masks. You can find Him wherever you happen to be in life, an old and broken down building like this one is not necessary! It's up to you how you find Him and what role he plays in your life, and you may well find Him without realizing what you've done! You may find Him and never know that you've done so, and believe it or not, He's okay with that!"
"So if not this, then... if not the church, if not The Bible, then what?" Jake asked, confused at what the preacher was pushing.
"Well," Lovett proposed, "a good place to start is in begging forgiveness... but begging it of yourself, son, not of some mysterious God. Once you're clear of that, once you can clear your own judgement, then you can start worrying about the universe at large. When you're okay with yourself, you're free to beg forgiveness of everything and everyone else. In your case, you would likely start with those that you've hurt, because I can see in your face that you've dealt some damage to the people close to you. It shows, Jacob, it pulls at your face and at your soul. Some will give it, because they love you. Others will not, because they haven't forgiven themselves either, and you can't give something that you don't have to spare. Those will be few and far between, though, and there's nothing you can do to change them anyway. When you've made peace with yourself, when you make peace with the people you love, that's when you've found the essence of God, Jacob. You may never see his face, you may never invoke his name, but you will have found Him in all his glory. No matter how you choose to go about it, though, it has to start with you!"
Jake ran his hand across his brow, pulling it down over his face until he was able to sigh heavily into it. "I understand what you're saying, sir," he said, "and I'll consider working on it with you, but I have to do this thing for Chucky first."
"I never did hear anyone call you selfish, Jacob," he smiled. "Likewise, also the chief priests mocking said among themselves with the scribes, he saves others, but himself he cannot save," Lovett quoted, shaking his head. "What did you come here to ask me? Let's get down to business so that we can go about what's left of our lives."
Focusing back on the task at hand, Jake prepared his response. "I have reason to believe that Voodoo was somehow involved in the old cases, maybe in the Billy Marsh case too."
The priest nodded, as though he knew of the old evidence. "So you're here to find out what I know about Voodoo?"
Jake nodded, not wanting to offer anything extra if the man was aware of the idols found in the past.
"I know a little," Lovett confessed, "but not a lot. I know it's big in Haiti and certain parts of Africa. I know it has an incarnation in New Orleans, but that's more for the tourists than anything else in modern times. True followers believe in a distant and unknowable supreme creator called Bondye, which is a French term for good God. That's probably a surprise to you, because I'm sure that when you think of Voodoo you think of evil spells and Voodoo dolls designed to cause people harm, right?"
"Yeah, you could say that," Jake replied.
"I'm sorry to burst your bubble, son, but you can thank Hollywood for all of the dark things you believe about Voodoo. True Voodoo is about love and support within the family, and generosity in giving to the poor and the community. The religion has no ties to Satanism, witchcraft or zombies. In fact, many sects have adopted Christian figureheads like Mary and Jesus. If you want to consider some of their practices magic, then it is a white magic. There is nothing about Voodoo that should lead someone to murder little children, you can take my word for that. If you want to know more about it, though, if you want to really get in deep with what the religion is all about, then I'm not the right man for you to talk to in these parts."
"You're not?" Jake asked, surprised. "Then there's someone around here who's involved with Voodoo? Like, actively?"
"Indeed there is," Lovett said, folding his hands.
"And who might that be?"
"A gentlemen from New Orleans, whom you may already know." He paused. "His name, of course, is Sheriff Ron Boudreaux."
THIRTY-EIGHT
