The Judas Child (32 page)

“Why didn’t she just get the lock fixed?” Sadie was examining a handful of dog biscuits, perhaps with a view to a trade—biscuits for the head.

After a few minutes’ reading, Gwen said, “She didn’t want to call a locksmith. Listen. She says, ‘All I need is for some fool to go to town and talk about the oak trees. They’ll put me away.’ ”

“It
is
crazy—growing trees in the house.”

“She needed the tree roots to grow truffles. She wanted a sample of every fungus in the—Wait.” Gwen picked up another journal and flipped through the pages until she found the date she was looking for. “Here. She wrote this when one of the trees died. ‘In the beginning, my work was all about the fungus collection. But now it is all about the trees. I must not lose any more of them. It is so hard to make new friends when you are old.’ She blames herself for the tree that died. Grieves over it like it was a person.”

“Well, what does she want with us? And who’s The Fly?”

“Maybe he’s a relative or something, but this woman probably doesn’t know we’re here.”

“How do you figure that?” Sadie had turned away from the dog, and he crept a few inches closer to the head.

“She’s not even in the house.” Gwen rested one hand on the stack of journals on the ground beside her. “Each notebook covers one year. Every year, she breaks off on the same day. I checked the dates for every journal. And she always makes an entry
exactly
nine days later. So she’ll be back the day after Christmas. If we just hold on till then, we won’t have to use the dog.”

Sadie looked back at the animal, and he immediately stopped edging toward the mask. Gwen thought he looked shamefaced to be caught. Sadie turned away from him, and the dog crept closer to the mask again. Though Gwen was still watching, apparently he didn’t care what she thought of him, for she was no Alpha wolf, not even close.

“You don’t think the dog can really do this, do you?”

“He can. He wants to,” said Gwen. “When we were in the ground, I know the man hurt him, and—”

“The Fly. Call him
The Fly.
” Sadie’s correction was gentle but firm, for this distinction between man and insect was very important to her—more than a movie title. In her own way, Sadie had already defeated the man—the bug, The Fly.

“Right,” said Gwen. “The dog was already limping when I got here. The Fly probably mistreats him a lot. If you keep hurting an animal that way, he’ll turn on you.”

“So we’re training the dog to do what he really wants to do.”

“Yes. I don’t think that man—Sorry. The
Fly
doesn’t know anything about animals. The dog is the journal lady’s pet, not his.”

“Why do you think she isn’t part of this? For all you know—”

“She’s not mean enough, not mean at all. That dead tree over there?” Gwen pointed to the barren oak. Its arms ended in cruel flat cuts. “She feels guilty because she couldn’t keep it alive. This is the book she started when the tree died.” Gwen held up a journal and opened it to a turned-back page. “She says she’s in mourning. She named all the trees for people she loved. The dead tree was called Samuel. He was a soldier, I think. It says he died in a war.”

Sadie turned to the dog. He had moved a bit closer to the black felt head, breaking the Sitting Bull pose again—cheating. A cross look from the Alpha wolf made him back up a few steps. “So she named a
tree
after a dead soldier? My family names
kids
for dead people. But a tree?”

“Hmm. She kept it alive for more than twenty years.” Gwen ran one finger down the page until she found the line she wanted. “And when the tree died, she wrote, ‘I must have a penchant for grief. He went to war, he said, for my sake. And now Samuel is killed again. Forgive me twice, my love.’ ”

Gwen was first to notice the silence. The plant misters no longer shushed fine sprays of water into the air over the mushroom tables, and the pumps had ceased to buzz and chug. The brilliant ceiling went dark, and all the table bulbs blinked off beneath each shelf of mushroom blocks.

“This happens every night,” said Sadie.

“But the lights—the heat.” The pills were wearing off. Pain was stealing over her, and Gwen could hear the fear creep back into her voice.

“Don’t worry. The furnace will kick in when the temperature drops. You’ll hear the hiss of the radiators in a little while.”

But for now it was dead quiet, and the only remaining illumination was from a single bulb over the door of the white room. It wore a halo of refracted light from the drops of moisture in the air, and it appeared to hang there as an independent thing, a floating disk, an electric moon.

The girls sat very close together in the darkness and listened to the sound of the dog chewing on the head.

Dr. Mortimer Cray signed the paper
acknowledging that his life was worthless should the inmates take him hostage; understanding that there would be no negotiation to save him; and agreeing that neither he nor his heirs would hold a harsh or legal grudge against the State of New York for his mutilation or demise. Then he deposited his keys in a plastic tray, for they might be used as weapons—or so the prison authorities maintained.

The psychiatrist opened his arms and spread his legs for the man in the dark uniform. After probing all the forbidden zones, the corrections officer was satisfied that the doctor possessed no contraband. Finally, Mortimer Cray passed into a long room where the prisoner awaited him, shackled hand and foot, seated behind a table near the opposite wall.

A guard was posted by the door, far enough from the table to prevent eavesdropping on a normal level of conversation. This was not the privacy the psychiatrist had hoped for, but it would do. He did not trust the telephones in the common visiting area, nor did he want a wall of glass to hamper intimacy.

Mortimer adjusted his glasses as he approached the prisoner. He was about to turn to the guard and tell him this was the wrong convict; this hulk was not Paul Marie. The man he wanted was of slight, almost delicate build. Then the prisoner raised his head and Mortimer beheld the man’s eyes, large, dark brown and liquid—so beautiful. Once they had been the priest’s only truly outstanding feature.

From the moment the psychiatrist sat down at the table, the prisoner began to grow in size. The doctor blinked, but the illusion persisted. The man’s shoulders grew wider, his thick arms more muscular. The chains seemed less substantial now. Mortimer glanced quickly over one shoulder to see the guard engrossed in his newspaper, taking no notice of this frightening metamorphosis.

The doctor diagnosed his own delusion as a by-product of increasing tension over recent days—and all the long years of fear.

“
Mr.
Marie,” the psychiatrist began, deliberately using the wrong form of address. But the prisoner did not correct him, nor was there any outward sign that he minded being stripped of his proper title. Perhaps Paul Marie no longer thought of himself as a priest.

“I don’t believe you’ll remember me, sir.” Mortimer could not look away from the man’s eyes. They were invasive, probing. The prisoner was clearly sizing up his visitor. And now, as Paul Marie settled back in his chair and his chains, the doctor wondered how he had fared in the analysis. “I’m a psychiatrist. I was—”

“You’re Ali’s uncle.” The tone was so civilized, that of a gentleman, but with each slight movement, his chains clanked. A warning? A reminder that this was a most uncivil place? “When I was a parish priest, you never came to the services. But the checks you’ve sent to Father Domina—since then—they were all very generous.”

The last phrase was close to sarcasm, but so subtle that Mortimer was unsure. How much could a priest extrapolate from tithings?

“I read the report of your last hearing, Mr. Marie. You showed no remorse for the crime. I expect that’s why they denied your parole. You never admitted to—”

“It’s against my religion to make a false confession.”

The doctor’s skin prickled. He turned his head quickly, but there was no one beside him or behind him. The guard was still seated near the door and half hidden by the opened pages of his newspaper.

At odd moments over the past few days, Mortimer had sensed someone standing close to him. And several times he had seen shadows behind the reflection in his shaving mirror and wondered if he was alone in his own bathroom. Again, he diagnosed himself: he was never alone; death was always close by—and closer now that he had ceased to take his medication. One must expect unusual symptoms and reactions—the racing heart, its missing beats. And breath itself was no longer taken for granted. He tried to remember what his respiration had been like only minutes ago—not too shallow, not too deep. Mortimer lowered his voice, though he was confident that the guard was oblivious to all conversation. “It might be possible to get you a new trial. I have a certain amount of—”

Had he given something away? Paul Marie was shaking his head from side to side, as if the psychiatrist had already named his price for this miracle.

No deal,
said the eyes of the priest.

The doctor was more and more deliberate in his breathing, deeper now and slower. Yet his heart quickened, heedless of the fact that it contained a finite number of beats, and they were being used up by irrational fear. He pressed on in a virtual race with his reckless heart, wanting to finish this business before the final beat and endgame. “But first, I wonder if we might discuss another matter—Father Marie—in strictest confidence, you understand.”

More had been given away with the restoration of the priest’s title. Paul Marie was clearly offended, that much was in his face. Could the man already suspect a prelude to a religious ritual?

“Dr. Cray—this is about the missing children?” Paul Marie folded his massive arms across his chest. “I’m tired of eating sins. That’s not my line of work anymore.” He glanced at the guard, and in a louder voice, he said, “I’ll tell that man whatever you tell me.”

The guard looked up from his newspaper, and in that instant, Mortimer knew that the priest was lying, that he held to the holy sacraments and always would. Father Marie had merely condemned his visitor to a more public truthtelling, not allowing an unethical side street of protected confession.

“I want to tell you something, Father. I’m a very sick man. I don’t have much time—”

“But you want more than absolution, don’t you?”

Mortimer felt the drain of blood between the slow beats, the loss of air, breath coming in shallow sips—the fear. Mind and body were surrendering to the priest, who seemed the better man in this art of reading psyche.

Paul Marie’s voice was lower now, less public. “Pious men believe in a burning hell. You’re perspiring, Dr. Cray, and that tells me you’re close to the fire—a true believer.” He leaned across the table, bringing his body as near to the old man as restraints would allow. “Where are the children, you bastard?”

The psychiatrist’s skeletal body sat at attention, suddenly stiffening in every frail joint of brittle bone. His mouth formed the word
no
—more in wonder than denial. This priest was a throwback to diviners of entrails, reading the sweat of hellfire, guilt from a sinner’s pores. Though Father Marie had never touched him, Mortimer was pressed back in his chair. He had the sense that the priest was growing larger again as the man rose from the table, chains clattering.

They had the guard’s attention now, and he was also rising, stepping forward, but Mortimer waved the man back. After a moment of uncertainty, the guard settled down to his chair, but his cautious gaze remained on the prisoner.

The priest was standing very still, but he continued to grow in Mortimer’s eyes, massing with energy and form. Soon Father Marie would be a giant.

And himself? Altogether gone.

“I don’t remember you as a religious man, Dr. Cray. Come lately to God? Seeking forgiveness? Or did you only plan to shift the burden?”

“Would you tell?”

“In a heartbeat. I wouldn’t send those little girls to God under any circumstances. It’s pretty obvious He doesn’t know how to take care of them.”

Liar.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was forty—”

“Enough!” The chained hands were rising. Then the priest’s anger subsided, and his hands lowered. “The children are dying, Dr. Cray. You have to tell someone, don’t you?” There was a cunning aspect in the face of the priest. “I can see the pressure building. Your fists are clenched, your knuckles are white, the vein in your temple is throbbing—and you’re sweating even more now. Proximity to the fire?”

Mortimer began again—the magic words, “Bless me, Father, forI—”

“Never.”

“For I have sinned.”

“May you burn in hell.”

The priest stretched out one hand toward Mortimer. The guard left his chair again and started across the room, the newspaper crackling in his tight grip.

“I’d rather kill you than hear your confession.” The priest’s hand dropped to the table, and the chains clanked on the wood. And now, in the manner of a perfectly rational man, he said, “But I won’t do that.”

The guard stopped and only gaped at the prisoner, not moving any closer. Was this man also frightened of the priest? Perhaps it was no illusion, but—

“You wouldn’t mind dying, would you, Dr. Cray? The long, sweet sleep? What if the last second of life is the real eternity, expanding out for all time—forever fear, forever guilt. And all that physical pain you’re feeling right now? Is your heart bothering you, sir?”

The priest’s eyes were following the slow crawl of Mortimer’s hand to that place where his organ was hammering wildly out of rhythm.

“The soft gloved hand of Death? Is that how you see it? I don’t think so. I see a fist with all the implements of torture—all for you.” Paul Marie leaned forward, hands flat on the table, looming closer.