The Church of Dead Girls

by Stephen Dobyns

  “I’m glad we’ve had this talk,” said Donald. The light kept swinging back and forth over Franklin but didn’t settle on him.

  “Sadie’s a pretty name,” said Donald. “I’m sure we’ll find her.”

  Forty-three

  Donald came out of the woods by the parking lot. A Salvation Army wagon had arrived from Utica and a woman in a dark uniform was handing out cups of coffee. To the others, Donald must have looked like one more person hunting through the woods. He didn’t pause but cut across the parking lot toward the sledding hill. It was the shortest way toward town.

  Ryan saw him coming down the hillside. Or rather, he saw a man carrying an attaché case and he saw the yellow boots. He knew it was Donald. There was a way that Donald ran, bent over and never straightening his legs, that reminded Ryan of an animal. A wedge of light from Donald’s flashlight cut across the snow in front of him. Ryan was with Chuck Hawley and they were making their way across the hill toward Aaron, who apparently had just arrived. Ryan believed that Aaron might know something about Sadie. Then Ryan stopped and turned toward Donald.

  “That’s Donald Malloy,” said Chuck.

  “Hey!” Ryan shouted. He began jogging toward Donald. He wanted to ask him about what Dr. Malloy had said and he was curious about the attaché case. He meant to look inside it.

  Donald stopped on the hillside. Flicking off his light, he stuck it in the pocket of his coat. He stood facing Ryan, holding the attaché case in front of his belly with both hands. His cap was tilted back on his head. Standing higher up on the hill, he looked huge. As Ryan got closer, he saw Donald was grinning. Ryan pointed his flashlight at him in time to see him move his right hand from behind the attaché case. When Ryan saw Donald’s pistol, he at first thought he was mistaken. It led him to delay a moment. Then he jumped just as Donald fired. His body jerked and he felt as if he had been kicked. His flashlight flew through the air. There was a second gunshot. Ryan hit the snow and rolled. He tried reaching for his pistol but none of his muscles would do what they were supposed to.

  Aaron was halfway up the hill when he heard the gunshot. He saw someone fall but he didn’t know it was Ryan. Then there was a second shot. He began to run up the hill. Ahead of him, Chuck Hawley, intent on Donald, was tugging his pistol from its holster.

  “Donald!” shouted Chuck. Then he fired: one, two, three times.

  Donald Malloy turned and ran back up the hill. There were trees and Donald ran behind them. He paused and fired back down the hill. Aaron could see men by the bonfire stop and fling themselves to the ground. It never occurred to him that he might get shot. He saw Chuck running toward the man lying on his back in the snow. Aaron ran after him. The man’s flashlight was still on and it stuck straight out of the snow like a torch. The triangular wedge of its beam seemed to brush the low-hanging clouds. It was only when Aaron reached the flashlight and looked over toward Chuck that he realized the other man was Ryan Tavich.

  “Oh shit,” Chuck kept saying. “Oh shit.” He was crouched down in the snow beside Ryan, who was twisting on the ground.

  Aaron grabbed the flashlight, then ran up the hill after Donald, who was just cresting the top. There was shouting up ahead. Aaron slipped, then regained his balance. When he reached the parking lot, he saw men running toward him. Maybe there were twenty men. He didn’t see Donald.

  “Is it Leimbach?” someone shouted.

  “Where’s Donald Malloy?” said Aaron. He could see the Salvation Army wagon and the woman inside staring at him. Several troopers had their weapons drawn. People were moving in all different directions.

  A man grabbed his arm, someone he had never seen before. “Who’s dead?” the man shouted.

  Aaron gestured down the hill, then he pulled himself free. He ran toward the woods. A small sign showed a glyph of a cross-country skier and a pointing arrow. Aaron’s light swung across it. He thought of Donald Malloy running down the path ahead of him. He knew that Donald had been mixed up with Barry Sanders. He knew now that Donald had killed his mother. A professional man—that’s how he described himself. Aaron wanted to hurt him so much that it made an iron taste in his mouth. He ran so fast that he kept slipping and once he fell.

  Aaron ran down the path, swinging the light to either side to make sure he wasn’t missing any footprints cutting off into the woods. There were the parallel tracks of cross-country skis and heavy footprints imprinted across them. He began to fear that Donald wasn’t in front of him, that he had missed him. Aaron stopped to listen. Up ahead he heard someone calling.

  “Hey! Somebody!”

  Aaron didn’t recognize the voice but he began to hurry forward, not quite running. He wondered if it was a trick but could think of no reason for a trick. He imagined Donald’s getting away from him and how awful that would be. It had begun to snow, and fat flakes drifted across the beam of Aaron’s light.

  “Hey! Help me!”

  Even before Aaron noticed the dim figure standing in the path, he recognized the voice as Franklin’s. It occurred to him that Franklin was his brother-in-law and it made him wince, not from dislike but from something like embarrassment.

  “Help!” called Franklin. He could see Aaron’s light approaching him.

  Aaron kept the light on Franklin’s face, so that Franklin was forced to turn away. He was standing on one foot. Like a duck, Aaron thought.

  “Franklin,” he said.

  Franklin held up a hand to shield his eyes from the light. With his other hand he was leaning against a tree. “Aaron? I’ve sprained my ankle. I can’t walk.”

  Aaron approached. “Donald Malloy shot Ryan,” he said.

  “Jesus, did he kill him?” Franklin stumbled and had to grip the tree with both hands.

  “I don’t think so. Malloy ran into the woods.”

  “He’s looking for Sadie. We’ve got to find him,” Franklin said in a panic.

  “He won’t find her.” Aaron moved the light away from Franklin’s face. “I’ve got her.”

  Aaron had taken Sadie to the Aurelius Motel. Harriet was with her. He had done it to protect Sadie. He had hoped that the delivery of the hands would force the killer to show himself, but first he wanted to make sure that Sadie was safe. And then he had thought of making her disappearance look like another abduction. Wouldn’t that also provoke whoever was guilty to think that someone else was trespassing on his crime? After Aaron had learned about Barry’s brief relationship with Donald and how Donald had scared him, Aaron had been almost certain that Donald had killed his mother and abducted the girls. But he wasn’t entirely positive. He wanted to make the person act, to reveal himself publicly so there’d be no doubt about his guilt.

  “But somebody saw her being carried into the park. They called the police. Is she really safe?”

  “That’s what I just said.” Aaron felt angry with his brother-in-law.

  “You’ve got to help me down the hill.”

  “I have to find Malloy.”

  Franklin grabbed Aaron’s arm and nearly lost his balance. “Aaron, I’ll die up here. I’m freezing.”

  “He’s the one who killed my mother.” Aaron’s voice was flat, as if he were reporting the weather.

  Franklin was silent. Then he said, “I know.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Aaron, pulling away.

  Franklin fell onto the path and groaned. Aaron stood without moving, his light focused on Franklin. Neither of them spoke. Franklin tried to sit up. His sheepskin coat was covered with snow and there was snow in his hair.

  Aaron thought of leaving him. He thought of Franklin freezing into a block of ice so that when he broke he would break into thousands of pieces.

  Aaron reached forward and grabbed Franklin’s wrist. “Pull,” he said. Franklin pulled himself up onto his left leg and Aaron grabbed him around the waist. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”

&n
bsp; Franklin hung on to Aaron’s shoulder and hopped forward. It was slow but they kept moving.

  “Once I was going to kill Ryan myself,” said Aaron, “but I wasn’t sure.”

  It took ten minutes to get out of the woods. They didn’t see anyone, but when they reached the edge of the park they found two state troopers. The Salvation Army wagon had gone. The troopers helped Franklin down the hill. Aaron watched him go, their lights bobbing. He thought of how he had let Donald get away and tried to tell himself it had been for the best. He thought of Donald’s standing trial. It wasn’t punishment enough.

  —

  Donald Malloy only ran through a corner of the woods and soon he was out on the street again. It must have amused him to think of the police searching the woods when he was running down the alley between Juniper Street and Spruce. He carried his pistol in one hand and his attaché case in the other. He wore a dark-brown overcoat that reached just past his knees. He’d lost the cap he’d been wearing. There were cars on the street but the alley was empty. In the past month he had gotten to know all the alleys and backyards of Aurelius.

  Donald entered Barry Sanders’s yard from the back, then he waited by the corner of the house to make sure no one was around. It was snowing again. He waited a couple of minutes for the street to clear. He must have known that the police were looking for him, that his name was on all the radios. He climbed over the railing and walked heavily across the front porch. He hammered on the door.

  When Mrs. Sanders opened it a crack, Donald heaved his shoulder against it, knocking her aside and entering the hall.

  “Where’s your son?” he demanded. There was snow in his thin sandy hair.

  “Get out of here,” said Mrs. Sanders. “Get out of my house.”

  Donald hit her hard across the side of her face with his pistol so she fell back again. “Where’s Barry? Where is he?” His shout was very high, almost a squeal.

  “He’s not here.” Mrs. Sanders knelt and touched her bleeding face.

  “You’re lying. Don’t you know how bad he is?”

  “He’s not here,” Mrs. Sanders repeated. She tried getting to her feet.

  Donald hit her again with the pistol and she fell to her knees. “Don’t you know it’s bad to lie? You can be punished. Don’t you know I’m in charge of punishment? Look!” He knelt down beside her. Taking a small key from his pocket, he unlocked the attaché case. The two shiny latches clicked upward.

  Mrs. Sanders began to scream.

  Donald closed the attaché case and ran into the living room. “Barry!” he called. “I’m coming.”

  Barry was upstairs. He hurried and locked himself in the bathroom. Donald must have heard him because he ran up the stairs. Mrs. Sanders continued to scream. Barry thought she had been hurt and he wanted to help her but he was too frightened. He hid inside the shower with the curtain drawn. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could disappear.

  “Barry, you’re a bad boy!” shouted Donald. Doors slammed as he ran into different rooms. “I’m going to make you clean! I’m going to make you a church!”

  Barry jumped out of the shower and ran to the window. Donald tried opening the bathroom door and found it locked.

  “Barry, I don’t want to hurt you. You have to be healed and made better.”

  Barry tried to open the bathroom window but it was stuck. The window led onto the roof of the side porch.

  “Open the door, Barry, and I’ll only hurt you a little bit.” Donald threw his weight against the door; the panels of wood cracked. He grunted, then kicked the door, breaking the lower panel, so that Barry could see his large yellow boot.

  There was a stool in the bathroom where his mother sometimes sat and brushed her hair by the mirror. Barry picked it up and smashed the glass out of the bathroom window.

  “Barry!” screamed Donald. “I’m going to have to hurt you terribly!” He again threw his weight against the door, but it held. He threw his weight against it a third time. Then he shot through the door. The bullets ricocheted off the sink. “Barry, you are very wicked!”

  But Barry was already out on the porch roof. He crawled to the edge and looked down. It was a drop of about fifteen feet. Barry sat on the edge with his feet dangling over the side. The wind blew against him and he was cold. He tried to make himself jump but he couldn’t do it. Just then he heard the bathroom door smash open as Donald hit it again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Donald’s huge shape staggering across the bathroom. Barry jumped. He hit the ground with his knees bent. He rolled to his side, hurting all over, but managed to stand.

  “Barry!” shouted Donald. He was halfway out the window. The snow flicked around his face.

  Barry ran.

  Donald didn’t jump. He hurried back downstairs and out the front door. Mrs. Sanders was hiding in the kitchen and she heard the door slam. Donald ran across the yard toward town. He was still following Barry’s tracks but he lost them at the street. By that time Barry had reached the next block and was cutting across a back lawn toward the alley.

  Donald ran across the front yards toward downtown. His footprints in the snow showed a straight line. It wasn’t clear where he was going. Later some people suggested he was going to the police station. Others said he was going to the Friends’ storefront, where his car was parked. Several people saw him run through their front yards. They said he was hunched over as if following a trail. They said how big he looked with his coat open and blowing around him. They mentioned the attaché case and how it banged against his leg.

  Sheila Murphy was standing in the entrance to Bud’s Tavern. She had no customers except for drunk Tommy Shepherd and she’d gone out to the doorway to look at the snow. She was wondering where everybody was. Then she saw a man running down the center of the street, half bent over, “as if he was sniffing something,” she said. She realized it was Donald. The street was covered with slush but fresh snow was falling hard.

  Then Sheila saw a pickup truck coming down the street behind Donald. She squinted her eyes at its high beams. The lights swung across Donald and the driver braked abruptly, causing the truck to slide sideways until its rear wheels hit the curb.

  The driver opened the door and got out. Slowly he lifted a rifle from the rack above the back of the seat. All his actions were unhurried. He left the truck’s door open and its lights on. The snowflakes in the high beams looked immense. Sheila couldn’t see the man’s face; the snow was too thick. She called back into the bar. “Hey, Bud, there’s a guy with a rifle. Call the police!” Then Sheila hurried into the street, rubbing her arms with her hands against the cold.

  Donald Malloy ran across Main Street toward City Hall and the Civil War monument, where the bronze soldier stood at attention with his musket and bayonet. On the obelisk were the names of men from Aurelius who had fought in the war. Bronze stars marked the names of those who had died. The snow seemed to spiral around the monument.

  Donald paused by the monument to catch his breath. That was when the man from the pickup truck raised the rifle to his shoulder. The rifle shot, muffled by the snow, made a dull crack. Donald staggered, started to fall, then caught himself against the leg of the bronze soldier. He turned toward the man who had shot him. He took a step forward and started to speak. The man with the rifle kept it against his shoulder, as if preparing to shoot again. Donald stopped and stood motionless. Then he shook his head, more to clear it than in disagreement.

  He stood by the monument with the snow swirling around him. His head seemed to sink into his shoulders, making him thick and rectangular in his big overcoat. “Coffin-shaped,” said Sheila. Then he turned away and began to walk down the sidewalk. He didn’t walk straight. The man with the rifle at his shoulder sighted down the barrel. He could have blown Donald’s head off, but he didn’t fire. Instead, he lowered the rifle slowly and began walking after him down the street. Sheila followed behind
.

  Donald stumbled a few feet and then fell to his knees. He threw away his pistol and it skittered through the snow. He leaned forward on his knees with his forehead in the snow. He stayed that way for a moment. Then, without haste, he felt through his pockets and withdrew a key. He fit it into the attaché case. The latches popped up with a little shiver of light. Opening the case, he took out what first looked to Sheila to be a square piece of metal. Light glittered on its surface. Sheila saw it was a cleaver. Donald raised the cleaver over his shoulder. His left hand and forearm were flat on the snowy sidewalk. He held the cleaver high over his head. Four cars came to a halt by the monument, including a police car. Abruptly, Donald brought the cleaver down hard on his wrist. His whole body arched and his head bent back so he stared straight upward. His yellow boots kicked up. Blood spilled across the snow. Slowly, he raised the cleaver again and swung it down on his wrist. Then he brought it down a third time. Sheila screamed. Donald’s hand tumbled away into the snow. A high arc of blood spewed from his wrist, turning the snow red. Donald staggered to his feet, dropping the cleaver.

  “Malloy!” someone shouted.

  Donald didn’t seem to hear him. Gently, he picked up the severed hand, wiped the snow from it against his overcoat and set the hand in the attaché case. He closed the lid. Sheila could hear the latch click. Blood kept gushing from his wrist into the snow. Donald straightened up and took a step away from the men who were now getting out of their cars. His arm with the missing hand swung at his side, spraying blood. The men began to move toward him. Donald took another step. Then he stopped, swayed slightly, looked up at the white flakes cutting across the streetlight, and fell forward onto his face as red drops scattered in half a circle, making an arc in the fresh snow.

  The men in the street hurried forward but Dr. Malloy was first. He approached the attaché case and flipped open the lid with the barrel of the rifle. Four hands lay on a cushion fastened down by elastic. A fifth hand, Donald’s hand, lay across them. Except for Donald’s hand, they hardly looked human. Their fingers were curled as if trying to clutch something, a ball or a breath of air. The oldest hand was dark brown and skeletal, its skin like leather. Its fingernails were painted a dull red. The most recent hand still had some flesh color. It seemed like a child’s hand. The other two were gnarled and dry: monkey hands. The skin at the wrists was scalloped and puckered. Donald’s hand was bright pink and looked absurdly healthy in comparison. It lay across the others like a soft tuber. Blood oozed from its stump onto the red velvet.