The Church of Dead Girls

by Stephen Dobyns

  “Wait,” shouted Ryan again. Then he, too, ran toward a car. Soon there was no one left in Franklin’s yard. In a few windows I could see faces. The wind blew across the trampled snow.

  “Take me there,” Paula said. We hurried toward my car.

  At the edge of town, Lincoln Park bordered on about sixty acres of a wooded preserve through which had been cut cross-country ski trails. The police search of the area on Sunday had been done very methodically, with sections cordoned off and combed inch by inch. This Wednesday evening there was no plan. By the time Ryan got to the park dozens of people were running through the snow. Only a few had flashlights. The fact, or supposed fact, that someone had been seen carrying Sadie was enough for them to lose their heads. There had been three calls to the police station, by a woman and two men, each reporting a man carrying a girl. It seemed clear that the man was Paul Leimbach, though I am not sure if people asked themselves why they thought this. They had a passion for wanting to think it was someone specific and Leimbach’s name had been given to them. But it was more than that. The name had been given to them by Donald Malloy. And wasn’t he in a position to know?

  It was said later that over two hundred people, mostly men, searched through the park and adjoining woods. Because of the lack of coordination, because of the shouting and darkness and sense of imminent closure, there were many false alarms, many sightings that were only sightings of one another. Ryan managed to control most of the police and he had lights brought from the highway department. He also sent men to surround the general area, though it was so large—over three hundred acres—that the men were spread ridiculously thin. But he also called for more police and sheriffs deputies. These calls were picked up by people with police scanners, and soon people were driving toward the park from all over town, or at least that was how it seemed. And of course the television stations received word as well. I drove to the park with Paula and parked on Johnson Street. We saw dozens of people on the hillside among the trees. Lights bobbed in the darkness. I kept the car running and the heat on. Paula sat hugging her knees with her feet drawn up on the front seat. She still wore the heavy coat that I had brought for her, a dark overcoat that my father had worn fifty years before. She stared from the window and didn’t speak. At times she shivered.

  Ryan was doing his best to coordinate efforts and had set up a command post at a corner of the park at Johnson and Walnut. He was skeptical about the sightings of a man carrying a girl up the hill and he was skeptical about the footprints leading from Sadie’s window. Why would she have walked? Why hadn’t she cried out? But for now there was no way to pursue those questions. The search had been taken out of his hands. He did, however, send a policeman to Aaron’s apartment.

  It seemed to Ryan that he heard shouts coming from fifty directions. And there were bouncing lights and vague shapes. Then, shockingly, he heard a pistol shot. He sent several policemen to investigate, then called the rescue squad for an ambulance. The fact that ten hours of darkness stretched ahead was frightening, and Ryan ordered two men—not police officers—to build a fire so that people could warm themselves. When he heard two more shots, he began sprinting up the hill.

  —

  Franklin had run to the park on his own. It was four blocks from his house. He had a flashlight and he scrambled up the hill, sliding in the snow, falling, then getting to his feet again. Because of the shouting, he thought Sadie had been found and he ran toward wherever he heard noise. In this way, he found himself moving deeper into the park. There was noise ahead of him and noise behind. People ran past but no one knew anything or they would say something like, “She was seen over there!” Two men told him that Leimbach had been spotted. Franklin was wearing low hiking boots and snow got inside them. At some point his Irish fisherman’s hat was snatched away by a branch. His British scarf caught on things. He kept slipping and tumbling in the snow, which in places was over a foot deep. If he couldn’t find Sadie, then he wanted to run until he passed out. And when he fell and hurt himself, even the pain felt good to him, as if it was proof of something: the purity of his wishes, the intensity of his effort. Far better to push himself, to run as fast as he could, to fill his brain with physical exertion, than to have thoughts that led to no place except regret.

  Franklin was past the top of the hill and had entered the wooded area where there was more shouting. The branches kept cutting his face. He called his daughter’s name but there was no answer. The snow wasn’t as deep between the trees but there were branches and fallen logs. He kept an arm up to protect his face. At one point he yanked off his scarf and threw it away. He could see nothing but the beam of his light bouncing along in front of him. When his foot caught between two fallen branches and he was thrown forward it felt as if someone had grabbed his right ankle. He fell over a log and toppled heavily into the snow, dropping his light. Snow got under his shirt and down his back. The pain in his ankle was like a bright glare. He lay in the snow breathing hard and feeling nauseated. Then he retrieved his light and tried getting to his feet. Right away he fell again—his ankle wouldn’t take his weight. It felt as it had when he’d sprained it in a basketball game a few years before. He was sick in his stomach and there were lights before his eyes. He lay in the snow and slowly straightened his leg. Getting to his feet again, Franklin pulled himself up by a branch and stood on his left leg. He was angry at everything—the snow, his boots, himself. The pain in his ankle was like pain he deserved. He tried to put weight on the ankle but it hurt too much and wouldn’t support him. He hung on to the tree and tried not to drop the flashlight.

  Other than being in the woods, Franklin had no idea where he was. He hopped forward, moving from tree to tree. “Hey!” he shouted. He tried to break off branches to use as a crutch and at last found a dead one. He trimmed the twigs from it and hit it against a tree trunk to shorten it. The branch was about four feet long, with a bend at the top. He trusted his weight to it and began to hobble forward.

  After ten minutes Franklin came to a cross-country ski trail. He had skied these woods with Sadie in other winters and he knew there were lean-tos where skiers could rest. Franklin turned left and began to make his way along the trail, though he had no idea if he was following the trail out of the woods or going deeper into them. He couldn’t put any weight on his ankle and he was afraid to put too much weight on the broken branch. Twice he fell. He felt frantic that his pain should distract him from his daughter. Then he heard a gunshot somewhere behind him. He stopped and tried to see between the trees. It seemed that his light was getting dimmer.

  Franklin found a lean-to about three hundred yards up the trail, though it took ten minutes to reach it. In the meantime he heard two more gunshots. Franklin’s shirt was soaked with sweat; his socks were wet from the snow. He ducked inside and collapsed on the long bench that ran the length of the back wall. He set the broken branch beside him. At least he was out of the wind. Franklin saw a small potbellied stove but he didn’t have any matches. He turned off his light, then sat up on the bench, leaned forward, and began to massage his ankle.

  After several minutes Franklin saw a light on the trail. Its beam swung across the trees. “Hey!” he called. Franklin tried to get to his feet and fell back again.

  Someone appeared at the entrance of the lean-to and flashed his light across him.

  “Who are you?” demanded a voice.

  “Franklin Moore,” said Franklin, blinking.

  “The newspaper guy, right? It’s your kid they’re looking for.”

  “That’s right. Who are you?”

  “Martin Farmer. What’re you doing in here?”

  Franklin didn’t recognize the name and he could see nothing behind the man’s light. “I twisted my ankle,” said Franklin.

  “And you can’t walk? Hey, too bad.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Sure, I’ll tell them you’re here.” The man began to leav
e.

  “Wait!” said Franklin. He turned on his light. Farmer’s face was a blur. Franklin saw a dark-red hunting cap and red wool jacket.

  “I can’t carry you myself,” said Farmer. “I got a bad back. I’ll get a bunch of guys. Funny running into you.” The man disappeared.

  Franklin leaned back against the wall and put his foot up on the bench. Even the slightest movement hurt him. By his watch he saw it was ten o’clock. He turned off his light. The air felt damp, as if it would snow again. The wind in the trees made a sighing sound.

  Someone was running down the path. Franklin called out. “Hey, give me a hand!”

  The person kept running. Had he been mistaken? Was it the wind?

  Maybe five minutes later Franklin heard someone else, the heavy sound of running feet. He started to call out, then he heard his own name being called.

  “Franklin, Franklin.” It was a high, reedy voice.

  “Here!” cried Franklin.

  A figure appeared in the doorway. Franklin shone his light in that direction. The light had gotten so dim he could barely make out the person’s dark legs and yellow boots.

  “There you are,” said the voice. It was Donald Malloy.

  “I sprained my ankle,” said Franklin. He felt tremendously glad to see him. He began to relax.

  “So I heard,” said Donald. He sat down heavily on the bench and Franklin felt it sag. Donald had a flashlight and shone it briefly in Franklin’s face so that he blinked and looked away. Then Donald turned it off, becoming a large indistinct shape in the glow of Franklin’s light.

  “They’re out there,” said Donald. “They’re all running around.”

  “What about Sadie?” asked Franklin.

  “Another little girl,” said Donald with a sigh.

  “Jesus. She’s my daughter.”

  Donald leaned back against the wall. His breathing made a hoarse sound like the sawing of wood. “I never had any children,” he said.

  Franklin tried to make him out in the darkness. He thought that Donald must be exhausted from all the running.

  “Is there any trace of her?” said Franklin. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “There must be a trace someplace,” said Donald. “But there’s nothing here. Everything’s coming to an end.”

  “What do you mean.”

  “It will be over soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

  “What were those shots?” asked Franklin.

  “That was me,” said Donald. He took out his pistol, showed it, and set it on the bench beside him. “They were signal shots.”

  “Who were you signaling?”

  Donald didn’t answer. He was still breathing heavily. Franklin’s light reflected off the barrel of the pistol.

  After a moment, Donald said, “Why didn’t you interview me?”

  Franklin felt he must have misunderstood. “For the paper?”

  “I could have told you many things.”

  “You said you didn’t want to be interviewed.”

  “I wasn’t ready then.”

  “I was going to try again.”

  Donald sat up and hissed at him, “You should have done it sooner.” His tweed cap had slid down his forehead as he leaned back against the wall. Franklin saw that Donald still carried the attaché case. He couldn’t imagine carrying an attaché case through the woods. He realized something was wrong.

  Donald reached over and picked up the branch that Franklin had been using as a crutch. Abruptly, he threw it into the dark. Franklin heard it hit against a tree on the other side of the path. He started to speak, then remained silent. The wind in the trees made the branches rattle and click together.

  “You won’t be needing that,” Donald said.

  Forty-two

  Paul Leimbach had been at the state police barracks in Potterville studying the mug shots of child molesters when the call came over the radio that Sadie Moore had disappeared. Of course, he had gotten permission from Captain Percy to look at the pictures and Percy knew he was there. Leimbach left the office and ran for his car. By the time he was driving out of town he heard on his radio that a man had been seen carrying a girl up the hill in Lincoln Park. He called his wife on his car phone.

  “People have been telephoning,” she said. “They’ve even come to the house looking for you.”

  Leimbach thought she meant people from the Friends. The road was mostly cleared of snow but some of the curves had patches of ice. Though he drove fast, six state police cruisers passed him on the way to Aurelius with their lights flashing.

  He called Sandra Petoski at the Friends’ headquarters.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said. “People are saying things. I think you should go to the police station.”

  Leimbach’s pistol was in his desk at his office, so he drove there first. On his desk was a shoe box wrapped in red paper with his name on it. He grabbed the shoe box as well as his pistol and hurried back to his car. On the way to Lincoln Park, he opened the shoe box and found the hand and the photograph of Janice McNeal. It was too dark to read what was written on the back, but the hand gave him a chill. He didn’t understand why he had gotten it. He realized that his name had been mentioned in connection with the disappearances and that the police knew he had been briefly involved with Janice, but none of it made sense to him. He parked on Johnson Street, along the edge of the park, and got out. Up at the corner by Walnut, he saw a bonfire with some men standing around it. Eight or nine police cars were parked with their blue lights flashing. There were moving lights on the hillside. Men were shouting. He could see their dark shapes running between the trees. Wind blew snow across the ground. Leimbach stood under the streetlight and buttoned his overcoat. He put his pistol in his coat pocket. Then he drew on his gloves.

  Before he had gone ten feet into the park, he heard his name being called loudly. Two men ran toward him. Then more men joined them. Looking toward the hill, he saw other men stop and begin to move in his direction. Ten, fifteen men. Their response startled him. At first he felt almost a sense of pride, as if his leadership skills were being acknowledged. Then he was struck by how fast the men ran and by the anger in their voices.

  Leimbach recognized Mike Shiller in front of the others. He took a step toward him. “Mike—” he began. He grew aware of the contortion of the other man’s face, the violent mask.

  “Bastard!” said Shiller.

  Leimbach put up his hand but Shiller didn’t stop. He leapt forward, tackling Leimbach at chest level and knocking him back so they fell into the snow. More men came running up. Leimbach raised an arm to defend himself but Shiller hit him in the face. Two men grabbed the collar of Leimbach’s coat and began dragging him toward the street. Leimbach tried to get his pistol from his pocket but because of his gloves he couldn’t feel the trigger. Then someone kicked him and the pistol discharged, its explosion like a slap above the shouting. The men dragging Leimbach let go and jumped back. Leimbach rolled over into the snow, twisting and grabbing at himself. Half a dozen flashlights pointed at him and in their gleam the snow turned red. People grew quiet.

  Others were running toward the group around Leimbach. Ryan was one of them. He heard someone crying out but he didn’t realize it was Leimbach till he shoved through the crowd of men.

  “Who shot him?” demanded Ryan. He pushed Mike Shiller aside. He was out of breath and furious with everybody.

  “He shot himself,” said Shiller.

  “It was an accident,” said another man.

  “He was trying to commit suicide,” said someone else.

  “I hope he dies,” said Shiller.

  Ryan tore away part of the fabric of Leimbach’s trousers above his left knee. “Get that ambulance over here,” he said.

  The rescue squad ambulance was parked about a hundred yards away, at the corner. Sev
eral men began shouting at it and the ambulance began to move toward them.

  Shiller held the light as Ryan fashioned a tourniquet from a handkerchief. The ambulance bumped over the curb, its red revolving light coloring the faces of the men.

  “He’s the one who took those girls,” said Shiller.

  Ryan had remained crouched down by Leimbach, who seemed barely conscious. “You’ve no proof.”

  “Then we’ll get proof,” said Shiller. “It’s in his house.”

  “If it’s there,” said Ryan, “then the police will find it.”

  “You fuckers take too long,” said Shiller.

  At that moment one of the men shouted from beside Leimbach’s Mazda. “Look what he had on his front seat!”

  Half a dozen lights focused on the man, who was holding up a mannequin’s hand with brightly painted red nails. Nobody spoke for a moment.

  “Come on!” shouted Shiller.

  “Let’s look in Leimbach’s house,” shouted another.

  Shiller and two other men began moving toward the road. One man broke away from the group around Leimbach to join him, then a second and a third.

  “Wait!” said Ryan. But the men were already running toward their cars. Ryan started to follow, then there was a whining noise as the wheels of the ambulance began to spin in the snow. Leimbach groaned. “Get a stretcher over here now!” shouted Ryan.

  —

  The Leimbachs’ house on Myrtle Street was dark except for a light above the front door and one in back by the garage, where there was a basketball hoop. Martha and the children had gone to Dr. Malloy’s. Mike Shiller and the others drew up in front of the house in three cars. There were eight of them. Later, Fritz Mossbacher, a mailman who worked with Shiller, told Captain Percy what happened.

  “There was no one home and Mike went around to the back. All the doors were locked. Mike just picked up a rock, smashed the window in the side door, and let us in. Like he knew just what he wanted to do.”