by Greg Walker
Arriving at the farm, he pulled into Paul's driveway, and found Paul standing on the front steps of his house. He didn't look at Burroughs but stared at the small house across the road next to the main barn and grain silo, where his son, Isaac, lived. He got out of the car and followed the intense gaze; saw nothing unusual and approached Paul. Uneasiness settled into his gut when he received no greeting.
"Something's happened. With Isaac, Pastor."
He looked again at the house, did not see his son, but he rarely did when visiting Paul. If home, he stayed inside, venturing out only to attend to his chores or to get in his car and drive away. Burroughs had hoped that the distance between them, living in their own spaces and within their own boundaries, would help mend the gulf between them. The opposite had occurred.
Before Isaac had left to live on Paul's farm, argument had become their primary form of conversation. Isaac often baited him on some theological topic - and he too often rose to take it - until Burroughs realized that his flushed cheeks and high-pitched tone provided the response his son sought. He despised Isaac's small smile that announced his victory and despised himself more for delivering it. In quieter moments - usually when Isaac had left for a weekend or even longer, to where he couldn't guess as the boy had no friends that he knew of - he looked for his son in the stranger that shared his roof and his food, the latter at different times, and couldn't find him; he ealized he should have looked long before this for the soft spoken, polite boy that Carrie had doted on, held on her lap to read stories and sing songs to, the child that gazed at her face with adoration that had never fallen on his own. But his son had respected him, and loved him in his own way. Probably reciprocated to the degree offered. They had shared some good times: camping trips and catching trout, triumph at the first successful bicycle ride without training wheels, the alter call when Isaac had shuffled down the aisle alone to kneel at his feet.
He knew Carrie's death had been the catalyst for the change, or perhaps had only triggered something already there, waiting. But the boy watching his mother waste away to disease withered himself, and her burial carried a part of him into the ground. If Burroughs had tried harder to salvage the remnant of Isaac, things would be different now, he believed. Or he could at least claim a measure of peace with the attempt. But the grief that stole his son took its pound of flesh from him as well, created an aching hole in his heart that only throbbed more intently when he attempted to approach where it lived in either of them. A dangerous predator with unfinished business best left alone. He could have, should have, sought outside help, for himself first and then Isaac. But his pride and denial would not allow it.
He tried to console himself, when watching Isaac drive away from the farm with eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring first his wave and then later Burroughs' own expressionless face, that he had done much good: he had guided others through their grief, helped to salvage marriages, steered tottering sheep away from the temptation of a destructive lifestyle or called a lost one back through the ruins of consequence. But none of it made up for losing his son, when he lay alone in his bed, touching the cold place where Carrie used to lay down next to him.
"Pastor?"
"Paul, I'm sorry. Is Isaac sick?" He doubted it. Paul and Isaac had become friends since Isaac had taken on the job of farm hand. Paul knew about their strained relationship, but could cross the no-man's land between them while fostering a like and respect for both. But Paul wouldn't have called him out here for fever and chills.
"He came in about an hour ago. From the woods, I think. He had something all over his clothes, and on his hands. I thought it was paint. I went over to talk to him, and he seemed...gone. Somewhere else. Saying something over and over but I couldn't hear. And then I smelled it and realized it was blood, not paint. I asked him if he was hurt, and he seemed to notice I was there for the first time...and the blood too. He looked surprised. Said, no, he was fine, and then started talking again, like whispering. Almost like praying, Pastor. I didn't know if I should call an ambulance, or the police...and then I thought that I should call you."
The last statement came out almost as an apology. But he could hear and see the concern, the fear in Paul. He was tall, his wide frame augmented from years of throwing hay bales and the ceaseless physical demands of running a farm. His face might be described as homely - eyes too close together and a smile that appeared as a grimace - but surely one of the most decent men Burroughs had ever known. And he was glad that if he personally couldn't be a friend to his son, this man could. Paul's shy demeanor and sparse time to spend away from the farm all but guaranteed his loneliness, so that Isaac, a thorn in Burrough's side, became Paul's blessing.
"That's fine, Paul. I'm glad you did." But he wasn't glad. Didn't want to go across the street and knock on the door and face his son. Didn't want to see him in this state, or see him at all. He was sure there was an explanation for the blood, if it were even blood. At the moment it seemed trivial. When the phone rang and Paul went inside to answer, and then returned several shades paler with an inability to speak, Burroughs felt himself growing impatient. When he did speak, he wished Paul had never found his voice.
"John Obert just called, looking for you, Pastor. He said that Adam Kane was killed. In the woods behind their house. Someone opened him up with a hunting knife."
Even then it took several heartbeats to register, his shock at the news so great that he forgot about Isaac. Forgot about the blood. Not until he glanced up at Paul again and saw him staring once more at the house across the street. And it surprised him, then, when the horror washed over him, to discover how very much he loved his son.
What he did next began all that would come after. He turned to Paul, to tell him to call the police, and said, "Don't tell anyone Paul. Until we're sure. Keep an eye on the house. If he tries to go anywhere, stop him. If you can't do that, follow him. I have to go."
He knew from the relief in Paul's face that he had correctly gauged his loyalty. To his son more than to himself, perhaps, but it didn't matter. He allowed Paul the hope he wanted, and before he could reconsider got in his car and drove away, avoiding a glance at the house lest Isaac should open a curtain. He didn't want to see, didn't want to believe, either.
By the time he had reached Lincoln corners and had placed his hand on Maggie Kane, so that the violence of the grief convulsing her body became something palpable traveling through his arm and spreading into the dark places where he hid from the truth, he had decided to take his suspicions to the police, outside and talking to Perry Rice who had carried Eric home and then summoned them.
Arnie Fisk stood in the room against a wall, and Burroughs felt his eyes, felt them searching for that dark place, perhaps the inner struggle finding an outlet in posture or expression. He had never been good at hiding. Fisk had always been good at finding things out. Then Arnie hadn't been so bad, or maybe was but Burroughs not as well acquainted with him. Not yet. But later he believed that some men simply shouldn't have power over others, and recognized the truth that it was precisely these sort of men that gained it. Because they expressly sought that power. But he had been blinded by his grief and a need to confide in someone. Arnie was there. Arnie was a Deacon in the church, contentious and petulant sometimes, but dependable. He ran a successful business. He cared about the town and the people in it, was a Fisk from a long line of Fisks with a crowded section of plots in the cemetery on the hill.
Outside, leaving Wanda Rice in charge of Maggie's hitching sobs and moans, each a lash of accusation, and moving away from the mounting police presence as the state cruisers and then the ambulance that would carry Adam away arrived, he told Arnie about Isaac. So he wouldn't have to be the one to betray his son. They sat in Burroughs' car, and Arnie stared out of the window for a long time before saying, "Let's go see him."
Arnie donated the lumber for the cabin. Paul donated the land. Burroughs was sure that he had donated his soul in exchange for the secret. At first, anyway. And i
t was good, he thought, that presiding over Adam's funeral and then counseling George and Maggie Kane had been the first tasks to face. Because if he could hide their son's murderer in the woods and still function as a pastor, as their Pastor, he could do this. If delivering Isaac Burroughs to the sword could have brought Adam Kane up from the ground, he would not have hesitated; he believed that all would be raised on the last day, but this was not that day.
He simply forced it from his mind, as he had his son's and his own grief over mother and wife, and focused on the business at hand. And his empathy and the truths he gently delivered were no less sincere.
And so his son had received a trial before a jury, however unconventional. He had entered a guilty plea, lucid and cognizant of his actions. They had sentenced him to life imprisonment, and would never extend parole; Pennsylvania employed the death penalty, but rarely carried it out, and neither would they. What, really, he rationalized, was the difference between a maximum security prison run by the state and the same run by responsible citizens fully aware of the heinousness of the crime and prepared to exact justice.
His greatest regret and source of pain had been allowing the town to believe that the murderer still ran free and perhaps stalked their sons and daughters: from within a shadow, from the woods, under a ballcap pulled low, or behind a smile. He took consolation in knowing that there was no danger, and that the fear would pass, and that they all might even emerge stronger for it in the end.
He told the police that Isaac had left a month earlier, after erasing the proof of his recent existence from the house. Paul corroborated the story. Arnie would have if necessary, but the authorities needed no further convincing. Isaac's car rested at the bottom of the duck pond on Paul's property.
And so began their new lives as jailers when not preaching, milking cows, or cutting and selling lumber. Each, Burroughs knew, had expanded their job description for different reasons: he to save Isaac's soul, if it could be salvaged, and save him from the brutality of prison that would destroy him. Isaac was not built to live with those kinds of men. Paul participated out of loyalty to his friend, respect for his Pastor, and some fear of Arnie. Burroughs suspected - could never prove it, never asked and didn't want to - that Arnie knew something about Paul that Paul wished he didn't, and used it to ensure cooperation and as insurance against the long nights of doubt ahead.
Arnie wanted to protect his town. He refused to let Lincoln Corners become known to the wider world as a place where a pastor's son kills a child, when the concealment of that truth lay within his grasp. Burroughs never entertained the notion that his personal reputation meant anything to Fisk, but the damage to the collective reputation of the town did. By building the cabin, he denied the media the right to shame them with sensational stories until someone opened fire in a schoolyard or in their own living room somewhere else, and they were finally left alone, but left with a new identity: to customers and neighboring townships, to teachers that taught their children, to fellow tradesman and union members. There would be words of consolation, but also the questions, spoken or unspoken, without ready answers, and a taint to conversations stained with the knowledge. Too many times, the sign that defined the boundaries of Lincoln Corners would prompt the comment or the thought That's the place where the pastor's son killed that kid. They might as well add it on beneath.
Arnie was the only one that never expressed misgivings; if not for him, it might have fallen apart. Burroughs didn't believe he ever experienced them either, at two in the morning when the cadence of the seconds ticking by from a clock in another room chattered incessantly of mortality and choice and consequence. But they all knew that despite their secure prison, they had crossed the line of what the state considered proper, and were now criminals themselves.
But only if someone found out.
He thought a hunter would stumble across the cabin, but the posted signs and fallen trees dragged across the paths kept most away. Paul and Arnie confronted several trespassers that needed further convincing, but not anywhere near the cabin. He thought Isaac could become unmanageable, or even violent, but his son never complained, accepted their decision and sentencing as though it was always done this way. He extended a cold politeness to them all, thanked them for food items or an extra blanket or time in the clearing outside the cabin. But there was a vacant quality to his speech, and if anything lay behind it, scheming or plotting or more murder, Burroughs couldn't tell. Isaac never tried to escape, and they trusted him eventually with a can opener and the potential weapon created by the sharp edges of the lid from a can of green beans. And then the propane to heat his food. He never attempted to harm any of them, or himself - in all, a model prisoner and therefore a windfall for the amateur part-time warden and his prison guards. For over time, it became clear that Arnie ran the show.
Months became years, and the unthinkable became unremarkable and even tedious with no more import than walking the dog or taking out the trash. They hauled food, buried waste, repaired a leaking roof, made extra trips in the winter to ensure the kerosene heater still blazed. It helped that neither he nor Paul had a spouse, and Arnie's wife, a diminutive, furtive woman, had never questioned her husband's actions before and wouldn't start now. Arnie didn't allow it. Paul had volunteered for most of the duties, could move easily on his own property without suspicion, and Burroughs knew that over time he and Isaac had resumed a friendship of sorts. They played checkers and chess together, held discussions on news stories and books that Paul provided. Burroughs had heard about guards crying when leading an inmate down the hallway to the death chamber, and could place those tears in Paul's eyes had it come to that. Isaac never claimed to be innocent, but never spoke of his crime again. Burroughs had given up reading to him from the Bible, although Isaac wore out several of his own, so held out hope that God was doing his own work.
And he would never tell any of them what Burroughs wanted most to hear. The reason that he had killed Adam.
Arnie visited Isaac, often when there was no need. Burroughs believed he simply fed on the power held over another human being, and thought that his personal hatred had started here. But Arnie never physically abused him, and whatever they spoke about, neither Isaac nor Arnie would say. When the jailors realized the need to allow Isaac time outside, Arnie stood by the shackled prisoner with a shotgun. Paul and Burroughs doubted they could personally shoot him if need be. No one, including Isaac who needed to be the one true believer, doubted Arnie.
Arnie's personality deteriorated. Or rather his natural traits became augmented: more demanding in church meetings, throwing away any pretense of deference to the pastor as church leader. Some others noted this and Burroughs' inability to force him down, and a faction developed. But then when rumblings came about forcing Burroughs out altogether, Arnie had been instrumental in putting down that rebellion. He confronted neighbors with things that he personally didn't approve of. Complained about a new garage even though the proper zoning permits had been secured. Physically threatened the owner of a barking dog. Gave an unsought opinion on how often a yard should be mowed and at what height. He was feared by some, a nuisance to most, an embarrassment to his own sons, who left when of age and only occasionally looked back. Burroughs believed that Arnie felt the people owed him for saving them all, even though they would never know from what and he would never tell them. But he would collect their tribute regardless.
There were things not given enough, if any, thought. But then who could foresee every potential crisis in the haste and urgency that the initial plan required? Isaac becoming sick, for one - Paul had to administer antibiotics meant for livestock to combat pneumonia, guessing at the diagnosis and dosage; Isaac dying, or severely hurting himself (they never needed to deal with an injury, and would bury him in the woods in an unmarked grave in case of the former, they had eventually decided); one or all of them dying, Paul losing the farm, Burroughs' losing his job as had nearly happened, Isaac escaping. They had no answers for these
things. He easily could outlive them all, and unspoken were the choices of bringing another into their conspiracy, setting him free, or converting his sentence to death and performing the first execution in Pennsylvania in decades.
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, they said, and carried on, with madness or mercy they couldn't say; if pressed, each might answer differently, in varying percentages of a mixture of the two, or with another label entirely. But they didn't ask each other, just carried on.
When Burroughs suspected, at last, after Eric and Mary had visited his office, that he had harbored a monster responsible for many deaths, everything had changed.
Adam not the first, but the last.
He had come to hope that during the years of Isaac's sentence, whatever had possessed his son in the woods that day had gone. And though Isaac couldn't know freedom again on this side of the veil, he still might on the other. Now Burroughs wondered if his son had been possessed, or had gone missing entirely and a new resident had found a vacancy to occupy, had been there all along, was there still. He believed in demonic forces working through men, and believed too that a brain could malfunction and blow a vital fuse. But their prisoner didn't require restraints past the single one on his ankle, took care to exercise, played brilliant games of chess with Paul, kept up on current events. Not the mind of one possessed. And Burroughs had spent time in a psych ward as part of his seminary training. He didn't see Isaac in what he remembered there. He seemed horribly normal. Burroughs would prefer to blame an agent of Satan or a mental disease than accept the third explanation. That Isaac had chosen his actions. And that perhaps his good behavior was the gratitude of a man that knew he'd gotten off easy and knew better than to rock the boat. Burroughs didn't know and didn't care anymore. He had come to the cabin to confirm his suspicions and then turn in a murderer and his accomplices-after-the-fact. To go to prison himself if required. But somehow Arnie had found out.