by Gerry Boyle
I looked to Roxanne. She was putting the apples in a bowl, her back to me.
“I need to make a picture of Pokey with the goats so he can see what it will be like,” Sophie said.
And she was off, trotting to the staircase, Roxanne shushing her, saying Salandra was asleep. “Close your door,” she said. Sophie kept going, but more quietly. I heard her tell Welt to shush as they passed on the stairs.
And then it was the three of us. Welt went to the wine cupboard, looked at me, and said, “I don’t know about you, Jack, but a day at a corn maze makes me ready for glass of wine.”
A corn maze. Was that what this all was? I gave him a half smile. He pulled out two bottles, inspected the labels. “The 2011 sauvignon blanc from Twiddling Thumbs. Four stars from Wine Spectator.”
He went to the drawer for a corkscrew. I moved to Roxanne, gave her a nudge. She looked up at me, said, “Is everything okay?”
I started to say, Sure, but stopped. It was enough.
Roxanne’s eyes widened and she turned to me. I nodded toward the sun-room, and we walked out of the room as Welt turned the screw into the cork.
We stood on the deck. Clouds had moved in from the south and the temperature was dropping. Roxanne shrugged her sweater up over her shoulders and said, “What is it now?”
I took a breath, looked out at the flowers, and said, “You remember Boston.”
“Yes. You went to talk to somebody. With Louis.”
“Yeah, well, that guy. He’s in a gang in Dorchester. The one getting the guns from Semi.”
“Yes.”
“The cops want to talk to me about it. I don’t know what that guy is saying—”
I stopped.
I was looking across the field. There was someone on a horse coming out of the woods, crossing the field toward us. The person was riding hard and fast, pressed to the horse’s neck like Paul Revere.
And then he veered and went out of sight behind the flower sheds and the barns. I stood up, watched for him to reappear.
“Heather said they saw hoofprints out there.”
“So the guy in Boston,” Roxanne said.
“I don’t know, but—”
“Oh, Jack. They aren’t going to charge you with something?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to them. They came around looking for me, and Clair said—”
“Happy hour,” Welt said, coming out on the deck with a tray holding the prosciutto and cheese, crackers. Two glasses of wine, a can of ale for me, and a frosted glass. We turned.
Roxanne smiled, said, “The service here is certainly—”
“Put it down and put your hands up.”
The voice was behind me. I whirled around, Roxanne already saying, “Oh my God.”
There was a guy in black wearing a ski mask coming up the steps.
A sawed-off rifle pointed at my head.
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He came onto the deck, stopped ten feet away. He had the gun at his hip and he moved it from me to Welt to Roxanne, then back to me. Welt carefully put the tray down on the table. We all raised our hands.
“Keep them up,” the guy barked.
And I knew.
The hectoring tone.
Victor.
“My wallet’s in the kitchen,” Welt stammered. “And if you want drugs, there’s OxyContin in the upstairs bathroom. From when I tore my ACL. I think there’s some Oxycodone, too. I’ll get it for you if you—”
“Quiet,” Victor said.
He stepped closer, pointed the gun at my chest.
“On the floor, all of you. Hands behind your heads.”
Roxanne hesitated, eyes fixed on the mask, then dropped to her knees. Then to her belly.
“Come on,” he said. “Move.”
Welt did, falling prostrate to the deck like he was paying homage.
“Hands behind your head, I said.”
Then the gun turned back to me.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Heard you loud and clear, Victor,” I said. “Also know now who took a shot at me and then got through the woods so fast. The horse.”
He stiffened.
“I’m not Victor,” he said. “I’m Abaddon.”
“And I’m Captain America,” I said. “We can play games, but you really should put the gun down. Put it down and then tell me what you want.”
“Revelation, nine-eleven,” he said, barking the words. “ ‘They have over them as king an angel of the abyss. His name is Abaddon.’ ”
He raised the rifle, pointed at my face. Just like Semi’s last moment on Earth. His buddy’s, too.
“ ‘He cast upon them the fierceness of his anger, wrath, and indignation, and trouble, by sending evil angels among them.’ ”
“You’re not an angel, Victor,” I said. “You’re just a young guy from an Old Order Mennonite community in a small town in central Maine. A good guy who’s lost his best friend in a horrible way. It’s very upsetting, I’m sure. Hard to make sense of it.”
“ ‘And the Lord said to Gabriel, proceed against the bastards and the reprobates, and against the children of fornication.’ ”
I saw Roxanne flinch and then tense.
Sophie.
“He said it to Gabriel, Victor. He didn’t say it to you.”
“I’m Abaddon,” he said. “Now get down.”
I stayed standing, moved a third of a step closer. Then another.
“So what do you want, Abaddon?” I said. “Anything. Just tell me.”
He seemed to relax his shoulders and neck.
“The computer and the phone,” Victor said.
“What computer? What phone?”
“His,” he said. “Semi’s. The ones with—”
He stopped, unable to say it.
“The video of Miriam?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you want them?”
“To destroy them. I’m the destroyer, the angel of judgment.”
“Okay, but I don’t have them,” I said. “I gave them to the police.”
“Liar,” Victor spat. “Semi, he said you had them. He said you were using them to make him give you money.”
“He was lying, then,” I said.
“He wasn’t. He was telling the truth. You tell the truth when you’re about to fall into the abyss. You tell the truth to try to save yourself from the eternal fire.”
He’d killed twice. He’d kill again. And the Glock was in the truck. I looked at him and smiled.
“I guess he thought you were bluffing,” I said. “But good for you. You weren’t.”
“I’m presiding over the tribulation,” Victor said. “I am the minister of death. Where are they?”
“I can get them,” Welt said, lifting his head from the deck. “Let me go and get them for you.”
Victor hesitated, then shifted the gun to Welt.
“No, please,” Welt said. “God, no.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Victor said, his mouth contorting behind the cloth.
“Okay, okay,” Welt said. “But listen. I have nothing to do with this. I just let them stay here because their house got messed up, and the police were there and everything. It was a Christian thing to do, right? Kind of like the Good Samaritan. They needed a place to stay, and—”
“Quiet,” Victor said.
He put the gun back on me. Welt began backing away, scooching his way toward the shrubbery.
“Where are they?” Victor said.
“I told you. Sergeant Cook, Maine State Police.”
He lifted the gun to my face. His finger massaged the trigger.
“You do that, you’ll never get them.”
“I’ll send you to hell,” Victor said. “You made all this happen. You brought us to that party. You told them it was okay to go. It was you.”
“I just gave you a ride so you wouldn’t get hit by a car,” I said.
“And now Miriam, if they see it, those guys putting themselves on
her, stripping her naked like a harlot—”
“They won’t, Victor.”
“Because Abaddon will stop you.”
“And you’ll go to hell,” I said.
“I’ll burn in the fires of damnation for all eternity to save her.” He was trembling, the end of the gun barrel shaking. “I’ve decided. That’s my choice.”
Welt was up on his elbows. Victor turned to him and moved fast, pressed the gun barrel to the back of Welt’s head.
“And the Lord said to Gabriel,” he said, panting, “proceed against the bastards . . . and the reprobates. He cast upon them the fierceness of his anger, wrath, and indignation. Proceed—”
“No,” Welt said. “Please, no.”
He started to cry, his head jerking up and down with his sobs.
And there was a footstep at the screen door to the house. A whisper. Sophie.
She was standing there with a piece of paper in her hand. Her picture. Pokey and the goats.
“Mommy?” she said softly. “Daddy?”
“—against the children of fornication,” Victor said.
He turned to the door, started walking. “Hi there,” he said. “What’s your name?”
He had the gun lowered, aimed at her small center. I started to move and he said, without looking back, “Don’t, McMorrow. I’ll do it.”
I froze. He pulled the screen door open. Reached for Sophie and, taking her by the shoulder, guided her out onto the deck. He kept her in front of him and moved back to us, stopping six feet from me.
“Now you choose,” he said. “The computer and phone or your little girl.”
“I want my mommy and daddy,” Sophie said in a small voice.
“Choose, McMorrow,” he said.
“Stop it,” Roxanne said.
The masked head turned slightly.
She was getting up onto her knees.
“Stay down,” Victor said.
“There is no God,” Roxanne said. “It’s a fairy tale. There is no Abaddon or whatever the hell you’re playacting at. There is no Gabriel. There is no heaven and there is no hell. When you’re dead, you’re just gone.”
“Reprobate,” Victor cried. “Unbeliever.”
“Do you think if there was a God he’d let your friend die the way he did?” Roxanne said, easing to her feet now. “Smashed in the head and tied to a tree? He was a good person. Would God let that happen?”
“Abram deserved it,” Victor said. “He allowed it to happen to her. If he hadn’t—”
He caught himself. The pause hung in the air. “You killed him,” I said. “You killed him because of Miriam.”
“Abram had fallen. I stopped him from taking any more of us with him. From taking her to hell.”
“And carved his forehead?”
“The defilers must be defiled.”
“And you needed time.”
“The Lord sent me to save her. Protect her. I needed time.”
“Miriam.”
“To keep her pure. To keep her from knowing that the Devil tried to possess her.”
“So she’s good enough for you?”
“I’m on this Earth to protect her. It’s God’s will. She loves the Lord. It was one night when she was tempted. They drugged her and tried to seduce her. But Abaddon avenged her.”
“Victor,” I said. “Would Abaddon hurt a little girl?”
Sophie was still, her face pale, the picture still in her hand. It fluttered in the breeze. And Roxanne started to move, almost imperceptibly.
“You’re not an angel,” I said. “You’re a pathetic little coward. Hit Abram from behind. Shot the other two when they were unarmed and defenseless. Because you wanted to be the hero. Because you have some weird sexual repression, obsession thing.”
Roxanne was turned. Lowering ever so slightly.
“You’re a backshooting little worm, Victor. A freak. A sinner if there ever was one.”
“No. It’s not a sin. It’s ordained. It says it. Revelation, nine-eleven.”
“Killing in the name of religion,” I said. “Hey, I admit it’s a long tradition. The Inquisition. The Crusades. Maybe you ought to move to the Middle East and lop people’s heads off because they read a different version of the Holy Book.”
“No,” Victor said, spittle showing at the mouth hole of the mask. “Stop.”
The gun came up, the raw edge of the sawed-off barrel showing in front of my face.
And Welt ran, breaking from the floor like a sprinter, tumbling off the deck. As Victor spun toward him, Roxanne launched through the air. I dropped and got under the gun, grabbed Sophie, and swung her aside. The picture flew into the air, was floating when Roxanne hit him, the boom deafening.
The shot went high, over my shoulder, and Roxanne was on him, Victor trying to backpedal. He had his hand on the bolt, yanked it back, started to push it forward, rack another shell. Roxanne dropped down and sank her teeth into that hand. Victor screamed and she kept biting, her jaw clenched, blood running. I wrenched the rifle from his hand and flung it aside.
Roxanne was up now, clawing the mask off. She raked his face with her fingers, nails clawing his cheeks, his forehead, his eyes. Victor was writhing, trying to get loose, but she was astride him, both hands slashing, leaving pink-flesh gouges. He got his hands up, tried to get them around her throat, but she was quicker, had her hands clenched around his neck, squeezing, the muscles in her arms taut.
Victor choked and sputtered and his hands fell off of her. His face was bloody and then it was turning dark blue under the red and Roxanne stayed locked onto him.
I moved to her, said, “Enough. Enough.” A flash of déjà vu, pulling Louis off of Billy. And then she relaxed her grip. Took her hands off his throat.
“It’s okay,” I said.
And Roxanne raised her right arm, made a fist, and drove it into Victor’s face.
“Don’t you ever—”
Smack.
“—threaten—”
Smack.
“—my child.”
Smack.
She raised her arm, then stopped. Her knuckles were gashed and bloody, Victor’s face, too, blood streaming from his broken nose and open mouth.
Roxanne got off of him, wiped her hands on her jeans, and moved quickly to Sophie, picked her up, and trotted down the steps to the lawn. I rolled Victor onto his stomach, yanked his arms back. Unbuckled my belt and yanked it off and cinched his wrists tight. “If you try to get up, I’ll let her kill you,” I said.
And then I went and picked up Sophie’s picture and brought it to her. The three of us stood on the grass in a family embrace. We were quiet, not crying, not talking, just pressing ourselves together like we wanted to become one. Again.
And then Sophie said, her voice muffled against Roxanne’s shoulder, “I don’t think Pokey will like to live with goats.”
We stood for a minute and then heard a sound on the deck. Salandra was standing over Victor, a puzzled look on her face. Roxanne handed Sophie to me, ran to Salandra and picked her up and brought her to us.
Salandra looked at us and said, “Where’s my daddy?”
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Welt was upstairs, came running down and back out onto the deck. He skirted Victor, lying in a pool of blood, and hurried over to us, grabbing his daughter and swinging her up into his arms.
“Daddy,” Salandra said, squeezing him tight. “Where were you?”
“I was looking for you,” he said.
“I woke up,” she said. “I was looking for everybody, and then I came outside and saw that man lying there.”
“It’s okay,” Welt said. “Daddy’s here.”
He looked to us and said, “I called the police. They should be here shortly.”
We turned and walked away.
Roxanne collected our stuff from the room. Welt was in the kitchen with Salandra. I waited on the deck with Victor, who lay there for ten minutes without speaking.
“I was just trying to save her,” he s
aid finally.
“Good job,” I said.
“If I go to hell, that’s okay,” he said.
“You’re on your way,” I said.
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It all made sense, so much so that we wondered how we’d missed it. Victor lost in the sway of two forces that were most irrational: love and religion.
“He forgot about the ‘thou shalt not’ part,” Roxanne said.
“Happens,” I said. “In the end, Abaddon just wanted to get the girl.”
We threw out the bloody rug, repainted the floor where Billy had fallen. I patched the bullet holes in the wall, and Clair and Louis hung new closet doors. Roxanne and I painted the walls mocha and the trim off-white. And then we rearranged the furniture, swapping the bed and the bureaus and the overstuffed chairs. We hung a framed photograph of the three of us. With Pokey.
And then we stepped back and surveyed our work. I held Roxanne and we waited for the bad karma to infiltrate the room like gas. It didn’t. The curse was lifted.
That night, we brought our suitcases from Clair and Mary’s house, Sophie between us with her stuffed lamb, its fleece hugged off.
We were home.
I had called the Times, said there would be no story on the Old Order Mennonites in Prosperity, Maine. I’d called Outland and said there would be no story on the Maine gun pipeline. The editors understood. They’d read the stories about the Prosperity homicides, the guy who had killed his best friend. They’d read that Sergeant Cook of the Maine State Police said the motive was a dispute about a girl. He declined to elaborate.
And then we sat on the couch, the three of us, and watched The Jungle Book. Sophie concentrated, not speaking, holding my hand, and Roxanne’s. It wasn’t easy for Mowgli—the tiger, Shere Khan, almost got him—but he made it home, too.
And then Sophie slept on the couch between us, her mouth open and her breath coming in small, delicate strokes, like a violin being played very softly.
“Thank God,” Roxanne said.
“That fairy tale?” I said.
“I was praying the whole time, until I started screaming at him.”
“Me, too. No atheists in foxholes.”
She looked away and said, not to me but to herself, “All the killing.”