Adam's Woods

by Greg Walker

  But it was over. Arnie and Paul would need to face it on their own. His son was free, and he was dying. Whatever happened next - what Isaac would do now - would happen without him. But God already knew. And he, Pastor Patrick Burroughs, would face those consequences very soon.

  He felt the life draining from him, faster now. His tale was finished, but he had one more thing to say. "Eric. God did not do this. We did this. Isaac did this. But never God. Forgive me. Someday. If you can. But think of it. What if Adam hadn't been killed, but had done the killing. What then?"

  He allowed his muscles to relax, stopped fighting against the swift current. There was pain, but from a distance and receding, no longer his concern, damage to a body that belonged to the dust now; life blood drained from a life no longer in need of it. He fell into darkness, then rose up, thought, "forgive me, I am so blind" and then knew only light.

  Chapter 18

  Eric watched his chest fall and waited for it to rise.

  "How dare you?" he said to the corpse. "How dare you?" But he was gone. He wanted to breathe life into him again, just to make him answer. What if Adam had done he killing? How dare the pastor turn this back on him?

  He needed to get away from this place, far away these men, but wondered if any place he went was far enough. He tried to stand up but his legs felt heavy and awkward. His heel slid in the pastor's blood and he fell to the floor again, landing hard on his tailbone. He glanced at his watch, noting the time of nearly four in the morning, the Pastor's confession taking nearly an hour. Eric believed he had willed himself to live until the end.

  He made it to his feet and turned to leave. Arnie blocked the doorway, breathing heavily, his hands clenched into fists. They locked eyes and then each regarded the shotgun on the floor. Before Eric could clear his mind enough to act, Arnie had entered, stooped and picked up his weapon.

  "I told you coming back here was a bad idea, Eric. Now look what you've done."

  "What I've done? You bastard."

  "Your brother was dead. Nothing we did caused that, nothing we did changed that. There were others to think about."

  "Others to think about, Arnie? Others that you lied to. Others that you let live in fear. My parents. The parents of those kids. Were you thinking about them too, Arnie?"

  Arnie flinched, but held the gun steady. "I didn't know about those kids until tonight. None of us did. But way I see it, it doesn't make any difference. They were already dead. Isaac was here, locked up tight. Wouldn't have been a problem. Until you showed up."

  Eric took a step towards him. "Let me by, Arnie."

  "Can't do that, Eric. No, I'm sorry. Can't do that."

  "Then shoot me. Like Pastor Burroughs."

  A look of genuine pain passed over his face. "That wasn't my fault. I was going to kill Isaac and be done with it. Should have done that a long time ago, but knew those two would never have let me. He deserved to die for Adam alone. But the Pastor was going to bring it all down tonight, figured I didn't have a choice. He grabbed the gun, it went off. I panicked and ran. It's a big mess, Eric."

  "Well, you have a choice now. Let me go. It's over. We need to get to the police. He killed Adam and those kids, and he's free." He took another step, testing Arnie, needing to know if he'd stop at this new line drawn or cross over. The jumble of thoughts and emotions were settling, his mind once more his own.

  "That's enough, Eric." He wasn't sure if Fisk would shoot in cold blood, but read the signs in his eyes and posture well enough to keep from rushing him. So he stopped, and they stared at each other. Arnie's eyes flicked past him to the Pastor's body on the floor.

  "I'm going to back up, Eric, and I want you to come out of there. But you come slow."

  He backed out of the door, and Eric found himself wishing Isaac were out there, that he would attack Arnie from behind. With any luck, they'd kill each other. No, not yet. Now that he had recovered, although the shame of his cowardice in the bushes still burned, he wanted to talk to Isaac. He wanted to know why. But Isaac didn't appear. Just an impatient Fisk now motioning him out with the gun.

  He stepped out into the clearing, and Fisk was reduced to a dark shape standing far enough away that he could easily shoot should Eric try to move against him. Eric could sense his conflict and uncertainty. He thought about swearing silence to all of this, but he wouldn't do that even to save himself. Nor lie about it. He couldn't.

  "How did you know he came out here?"

  At first, he didn't think Fisk would answer, but then he cleared his throat. And he thought Arnie grateful for the reprieve, to have something else to think about than killing. Or so he told himself to hold out hope.

  "Had a meeting at the church the other night. He was distracted, staring at the table, at his hands. Kept having to repeat ourselves. I saw you and the Collins girl leave the church a few days before that, and I knew something wasn't right. I haven't been sleeping well, was expecting something to happen. When he started his car, I knew there was only one place he'd be going this late."

  Eric tried desperately to think of something else to say, to keep Arnie talking. He didn't want to hear anymore, but talking wasn't shooting. But nothing came to mind that wouldn't inflame. And did it really mater? Any belief that he could escape was fading fast. Nothing he could put his finger on, but Eric could almost hear the cold machinery of Arnie's thoughts, how he could hide the bodies, get rid of the evidence, the lies he could make Paul believe. Lies that Paul might want to believe.

  "What would Tony and Jeff think about all of this, Arnie? That you're standing here trying to find the balls to kill their friend? Do they know about any of this?

  "You leave my boys out of this, Eric. The reason they can hold their heads up is because of all of this. I saved them, I saved everyone. This town. It's ours, and we take care of our own."

  "They're so proud of their old man that they never come back here to see you. They're ashamed of you, Mr. Fisk. And what about John Thomas Groves? How could you accuse him when you knew he didn't kill my brother?"

  "That boy is a piece of trash!" Arnie shouted, and the gun wavered and Eric tensed for the blast, involuntarily putting his hands out as though he could catch the buckshot that would end his life. "His mom and dad were trash, he was and is trash, and nothing he did on the football field, or anywhere else, changes that. If I had my way, I would have run them off a long time ago. Thought accusing him of killing Adam might have worked to get rid of them. But he's too stupid, I guess. Even with all that money he got, he still lives in that shithole of his momma's by the junkyard."

  "You had no right. You're not God."

  "In this town, I am God, Eric! If God cared about what happened here, he would have sunk Isaac to the bottom of the creek as a baby, and your brother, and all those other kids, would still be alive. So I've done what I could."

  The words shocked him, because they so mirrored his own thoughts. And he saw more than a crazy lumberyard owner before him, heard his own raw pain and confusion, could for the briefest of moments understand. But he understood more that these choices could never be justified, and that nothing more could be said. Either Arnie would shoot him or he wouldn't.

  Feeling calmer than he believed possible, Eric said, "I'm leaving Arnie. That shotgun is the only thing that will stop me. Do what you have to." He turned his back on the gun and faced the rhododendron and the path beyond and took the first step. He thought of Mary, and wished he could hold her one more time, the connection there still something so novel and good. He thought of his parents, and wished, for their sakes, they had died before this evening, to avoid burying their second and last son. If his body were ever found to bury.

  "Stop, Eric. I will do it."

  "You're going to do it anyway, Arnie. I'm not going to make it easy for you." His voice sounded steady, surprised him. He looked up to the sky and thought, Help my parents. Help Mary. Please stop Isaac from hurting anyone else.

  He heard the roar of the gun and then silence. He wa
ited for the pain but it didn't come. He wondered if he were dead already but his body, though shaking, felt whole and he could feel the wind on his face and hear a plane flying somewhere high above and out of range of all of this and laughed, though he didn't quite know why, didn't understand this levity in the face of death. There surely would be another blast to correct for the poor aim of the first.

  For the second time in his life a gun barrel was pushed up against his head from behind, but this time he knew who held it.

  "If you've got that other dog with you, I suggest you keep it back, or I'll kill Eric, Groves!" Arnie shouted.

  Eric noticed a black shape on the ground beside him, motionless. A dog. A doberman. John or Lee. He didn't know which.

  "Lee! Heel!"

  So it was John, then.

  He didn't crouch to get through the bushes, but simply pushed them aside. He glanced once at his dog, but if it's death meant anything he didn't show it. He would bury and maybe mourn his dead after the battle, it appeared. He didn't look towards Eric at all. Only at Arnie Fisk. Lee whined and nudged his fallen brother with his nose. They had stopped close enough that Eric thought the dog had a chance to take Arnie. It stood at attention beside its master, channeling his mood and waiting for a command. Lee's restraint awed Eric, or rather the absolute control JT had over the animal. The gun remained pressed against his head, and he could feel the heat from the barrel and smell singed hair. He also knew that if the dog attacked, he likely would die.

  He looked at John Thomas, read the hatred in his expression and posture. He noticed, though, that JT stood awkwardly to keep weight off of his bad leg, and saw the sweat on his brow that he didn't believe came only as a result of exertion. A low growl came from the dog, the vocal manifestation of the silent man before him that had once been his friend.

  "Get control of that animal now. Don't make me say it again." Eric heard Fisk's fear. In response, the intensity of Lee's growl increased like a finely tuned engine fed more fuel.

  Eric waited for a glance of acknowledgement from JT, something to clue him in on the plan, but increasingly feared that the depth of his hatred might well allow Eric's sacrifice in favor of its expression. He calculated that JT's proximity had probably been such to hear Fisk's condemnation of him, and believed it went deeper in and further back than just those words, however hurtful in their own right. John might have been sent to see where things lay, an acceptable casualty, all the better if he made the kill. For all Eric knew, John might have charged in intent on tearing out his own throat, that Fisk's shot may have extended his life for a few more useless heartbeats.

  Eric shut his eyes, the situation gone from his control, had been since the start. He mentally recited a fragment of a passage once known in full. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.

  And believed it.

  In this moment, what else was there, in this rarified air without the impurity of a tomorrow and its false promise of a clearer understanding to dilute it? Because this moment was connected to all others he had lived and any others to follow - however unlikely - and either belief had relevance to them all or it applied to none. Facing his own death, Eric could see above his brother's murder, understand that in this moment, as it had been when the knife had cut Adam, that someone else had died, too, and others born and billions struggling at all points in between. Life hadn't stopped with Adam's heart and wouldn't with his, either. And whatever ran the show didn't need his faith or approval to keep it all moving along. So, in this moment, without the time to weigh and measure the reasons or the rightness of his anger and resentment, and knowing that he couldn't hold them in one hand and faith in the other, he made his choice. He opened his clenched fist to let those things fall that would tear him apart; things that he understood now had done nothing else all along. He simply believed, and smiled in the darkness with a shotgun steadied by Fisk's hatred held to his head that had no more power over him anymore than a slingshot. Power over his body, but not the most crucial component of his soul. He didn't want to die, but he could, now, satisfied that when given the choice to spit or surrender, he had chosen the latter, and that this moment had more importance than all of the others in his life combined. He still didn't understand the why of anything, but did, finally, understand that he didn't have to, and felt a peace in that.

  "Quiet, Lee."

  It was a soft-spoken command, drained of the bloodlust, but the dog instantly obeyed. JT turned his eyes on Eric for the first time, who read an apology there, knew he had guessed correctly.

  "Put the dog in there. In the cabin." Arnie said, the fear fading, the bully re-emerging. "And tell it not to touch the Pastor."

  JT limped to the cabin and put the dog inside, then shut the door. It appeared perplexed, its expression almost comical before the door closed, but Eric found himself no longer amused.

  "Now lock it."

  "There is no lock."

  "Yes there is. A Masterlock. It must have fallen on the ground. Look around."

  John Thomas made a show of searching the ground around the door. He faced Arnie, who still held the gun on Eric.

  "It's not here."

  "Groves, you had better not be lying to me."

  "Come look for yourself, Arnie. There's no lock."

  Fisk opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it. He scowled at JT, as though a stern expression could force the truth. JT returned his gaze evenly, waiting.

  "That dog better stay inside. Now step over here, next to Eric." JT shuffled over, slowly, his limp was worse than when Eric had first met him in Adam's Woods. How had he come to be here? Was he keeping him under surveillance, to see who knowledge of the dead children flushed out? JT winced in pain as he stopped next to Eric. He hoped it was a ruse, but his drawn face and short gasps said otherwise. Not that a healthy leg would make much difference against a twelve gauge. But he was glad that to know JT had nothing to do with Adam's death, that the Pastor at least had given him that. He struggled to maintain the peace and deny a return to the fear of dying, uncertainty creeping back into his mind like a parasite, suspected it would always be this way, and felt that peace just enough to hold steady.

  "So what are you going to do, Arnie? Shoot us both?" JT asked, unconcerned, as though the choice would have no effect on him personally.

  "I don't know that I have much choice. Eric, I feel sorry about. You I don't have much problem with."

  "Fuck you, Arnie." JT smiled with the comment.

  Fisk smiled back, a hateful, mean smile of triumph. He raised the gun to point the barrels at John Thomas' face. If he had pulled the trigger without hesitation, it would have been finished. But he paused, said, "No, fuck you, Groves."

  The gun roared, but Eric had sensed JT shifting his weight to his good leg, and he dropped with amazing speed to a crouch. The buckshot, which at that range might have decapitated him, flew overhead and shredded the rhododendron. Eric instinctively ducked, his ears ringing at the proximity of the blast. With a cry of rage and pain, JT sprang towards Fisk, who backpedaled and pumped the shotgun in panic to chamber another shell. Before he could aim, JT grabbed hold of the barrel. The gun fired again, but high and into the treetops. Small amputated branches and shreds of foliage rained down upon them. JT drew back a fist and hit Arnie in the mouth. The angle of his body and pain in his leg drew some of the force from the blow, but Arnie's head snapped back and the rest followed. But he held on to the gun, and his momentum pulled John Thomas with him. JT let go to get his balance, stumbling and hopping to take weight off of the injured leg. Arnie, the cruel smile returning with the advantage of sound limbs, didn't try to shoot again. Instead, as JT righted himself and began to pivot towards him, he turned the gun around and swung by the barrel so that the stock crashed into JT's leg.

  JT screamed and crumpled to the ground. One hand dragged across the leaf litter and into the soil beneath, digging furrows into the ground. The other held the leg th
at Fisk had struck. Arnie cocked a hunting boot and kicked the hand and the leg. JT released a high-pitched wail that chilled Eric in its almost child-like expression of desperation and agony.

  "You see. White trash, that's all you are. Your mother was a whore, and you're a whoreson. Get up. Such a big man, big football player. You're nothing, Groves." He spit on JT, who lay writhing on the ground, his breath coming in short hitches.