Defenders of the Faith

by Williamson, Chet

  Paul was somewhat reassured, but the words that kept gnawing at him were instability at home. To all appearances, Clyde and Miriam were devout if humorless people. But Paul was aware that devotion could sometimes mask aberrant behavior. What if the boy was being abused at home? He had not forgotten Peter's inability or refusal to look him in the eye. It could have been due to shyness, or to fear. It would not take much effort to find out.

  The following Wednesday, he stood peering into the windows of the family room of the Hursts' suburban home after night had fallen, watching through a four inch vertical gap where the curtains joined. The television was on, although the strong October wind that sent dead leaves scraping and hissing against each other shrouded any sound that might have come from within.

  Clyde Hurst sat in a recliner reading the newspaper, while Miriam perched on the couch, organizing supermarket coupons on a coffee table. Peter was playing with little metal cars on a strip of orange plastic track, pushing them along and scurrying to the end near the curtains. When Peter neared the window, Paul drew back until the boy moved away again.

  After a while, Clyde Hurst looked at his watch and said something to Miriam, who then spoke to Peter. He walked over to his mother, and she kissed him and gave the first smile that Paul had ever seen on her face. Then Peter held up a finger, and she frowned and started to shake her head, but Clyde said something and she shrugged. Peter, smiling, ran to the right, out of Paul's view.

  Paul had just moved closer to the glass when suddenly the curtain was pulled back several inches and he found himself facing Peter Hurst's shining eyes, which looked back at his own with magical astonishment.

  ~ * ~

  Uncle Mistletoe.

  That was who it was, who it had to be, even though Christmas was weeks away.

  Daddy had told him about Uncle Mistletoe, the elf who helped Santa Claus by going from house to house and looking in the windows to make sure all the boys and girls were being good. And Petey had been good, because Daddy said that you never knew when Uncle Mistletoe was looking.

  And now here he was.

  He looked almost as surprised to see Petey as Petey was surprised to see him. Petey just stood there staring, even though Mommy was talking to him, but he really wasn't sure what she was saying. Maybe something about running his car one last time and then getting ready for bed, but he didn't know. Sometimes he had as much trouble understanding what people said as they did understanding him.

  Now Uncle Mistletoe was backing up real slow, and Petey leaned his neck out and tried to look through the darkness, but it didn't do any good, because he couldn't see Uncle Mistletoe anymore.

  But he waved, because he knew Uncle Mistletoe could still see him.

  "Petey?" Mommy said. "What are you doing?"

  "Uncle, see him. Mistletoe."

  Daddy chuckled, not looking up from his paper. "Saw Uncle Mistletoe, huh?"

  "Clyde." Mommy's voice sounded mad. "I told you that had no place in a Christian home."

  "Seed Mistle-uncle-toe," said Petey. "Him seed, Mommy."

  "And what did he look like?" Daddy said, sounding like he didn't believe Petey because he didn't want to make Mommy madder. Mommy didn't believe in Uncle Mistletoe. She didn't believe in Santa Claus either. She said the three wise men brought the presents.

  "Man," Petey said. "Tall. Eyes big, bright." They had reflected the lights inside, Petey remembered.

  "And was he wearing his holly hat?" Daddy said.

  "Hat, no holly. Head black." It was the best way Petey could think of to tell his daddy that Uncle Mistletoe had been wearing a dark stocking cap.

  "All right, Petey, that's enough," Mommy said. "Black head, I never heard such talk. I don't want to hear these Uncle Mistletoe lies anymore, not from you," she said, looking at Daddy, "or from you, Peter, you hear me?"

  "Mommy. Yes."

  "You want to spend some time in the shower again?"

  "Mommy, no."

  "Then you hush up about Uncle Mistletoe. That's just a story your father told you, that's all. There's no Uncle Mistletoe, and there's no Santa Claus. There's Jesus and the Virgin Mary and Joseph and the shepherds and the three kings, and the Lord God of Hosts, and that's what there is to Christmas. And that's enough for any good Christian. Now you get ready for bed, hear?"

  Petey moved quickly now, taking the track apart and putting the pieces and his cars into the Snoopy waste can, then setting it neatly in the corner. He didn't want Mommy to get mad enough at him to put him in the shower.

  He hated the shower. Sometimes when he was bad, Mommy would make him take off his clothes and sit in the bathtub. Then she would turn on the shower so that it wasn't all the way cold, but cold enough so that he would feel cold by the time she turned it off again. The cold water would come down over his head, and he would close his eyes so that he wouldn't get water in them, but also so he wouldn't see that it was dark, since Mommy turned all the lights off too.

  "Now you just think about this, Petey," she always said. "The darkness and the water and being naked and lonely. But you think too what it would be like if this water was hot instead, so hot that it burned you everywhere it touched you. So hot that it burned your skin right off, and as soon as your skin burned off it'd grow back again so it could burn off again, and this happens all the time, it never stops, forever and ever. And that's what hell is like, and that's where bad people go, people who don't do what God wants. And they stay there all the time, and they can never get out. So you just think about that, and maybe I'll be back soon."

  And then Petey would sit in the dark with the water splashing down on him and think about it being fire instead of cool water, and he would cry, and then it wasn't long before Mommy would come back and turn on the lights, and she would take him out of the tub, and he would try to tell her he was sorry, and she would dry him off with a big, soft towel with yellow ducks on it, and hold him and say that it was all right, and God forgave him, and remember this the next time he thought about being bad.

  But Mommy and Daddy never, never hit him.

  Chapter 6

  By the following summer, Paul Blair had ceased to be concerned about Peter Hurst. In the intervening months, he had observed the boy and his parents several times through their windows, and had never seen anything to lead him to believe that Peter was being abused. Except for the shyness apparently caused by his speech difficulties, he seemed normal enough, and his behavior in Sunday school and church was exemplary.

  By that hot afternoon in August, over a year since his wife had died, Paul Blair was actively living his life again, and had even begun to shoot his pistols the previous spring, though he had not yet rejoined his club's team. Even now, he had his guns in the storage box in the trunk of his car, intending to shoot some targets before he went home.

  But at two o'clock Bill Geyer came into the store. He stopped just inside the door to wipe his perspiring face with a white handkerchief the size of a tablecloth, then spotted Paul. He didn't smile, and Paul wondered what was wrong.

  "Paul, do me a favor? I have to call Joan, but she's not home and I've got to let her know where I am, what happened."

  "What?" Paul said. "What's the problem?"

  "Bad. Real bad." Bill spoke quickly, as if he had somewhere else to go. "Peter Hurst has disappeared."

  "What?"

  "Miriam was at the church this morning, at Bible study. She left Peter with her neighbor, and he and the neighbor's little girl were playing in the backyard just before lunch. The little girl goes in the house for a drink, and when she comes out Peter's gone."

  "Where?" Paul could feel his stomach churning.

  "Who knows? Now here's the bad part. Another kid down the block said he saw a man and a little boy he thinks was Peter drive past in a van, down the alley."

  "Did he get the license number?"

  "No. He was only seven. But he said the plates weren't blue and gold, so it was probably out of state."

  "Oh, God help him..."


  "Clyde's in New York on business, the police are trying to get hold of him now, and Miriam's at her house with Joel and some friends. I just came from the police station, and they've got bulletins out but haven't heard anything yet. Now I'm going over to Miriam's, and I don't want to have to call from there, have Miriam overhear and all. Could you call Joan in a half hour or so and let her know what's happened? She should be home by then."

  "Sure, sure, no problem."

  "Thank you," Geyer said, heading for the door. "Miriam must be just frantic," and he was gone.

  For a moment Paul stood in the middle of the store, feeling numb. His salespeople looked at him curiously, but he said nothing. Then he walked back to his office, sat at his desk, and thought about monsters.

  Paul was not naive. He knew that it was hardly likely Peter Hurst had been kidnapped to be held for ransom, then returned safely. He knew why, in this violent age, people took children. He knew that terrible things were done to boys and girls every day. Molestations, attacks, tortures, murders, cruel and unthinkable things. Things that human beings could not do. Inhuman things. Things done by monsters.

  Only monsters, damned by God, could do such things, could harm such purity, destroy such innocence.

  He knew why someone had taken Peter Hurst, and it made him feel sick, made him go into his small, private bathroom, lean over the bowl, and vomit up his lunch.

  For a while he sat gasping, then he stood up, rinsed his mouth, and prayed, his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror over the sink. He prayed for Peter's safety and deliverance, prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything. Then he went back into his office and looked at the clock, waiting for the half hour to pass so that he could call Bill Geyer's wife.

  She was home when he dialed the number, and he quickly told her what had happened and where Bill was. Then he hung up, took off his suit, and changed into a pair of tan slacks and a green polo shirt. He called Todd Ebersole, his manager, on the main floor and told him he was leaving early, then went down the back stairs to the tiny parking lot reserved for him and the clerks, got in his car, and headed southwest out of the city to the Willow Rod and Gun Club, one of two sporting clubs to which he belonged.

  It was three-thirty when he tacked his targets onto the backboards, too early for anyone else to be on the outdoor pistol range. He tried to concentrate on the black circles just above his sights, tried to let the controlled explosions of the cartridges ease the hate and tension from him, but it did not work. His hand was shaking too much, throwing off his aim. Here he was, shooting at paper targets like a child breaking bottles with a .BB gun, when he should have been true to his vow, doing something, anything, to preserve Peter Hurst from the darkness that even now might be claiming him.

  But what? he asked himself in rage and frustration. What could he do that was not already being done? Every police car in the county must be looking for a van with out of state plates. Besides, the monster could be gone by now, taking the boy out of the county, out of the state...

  Or would he?

  Would he take the risk of driving any farther or longer than necessary with a kidnapped boy by his side, a boy whose presence was more damning than fingerprints or bloodstains?

  If he wanted to do monstrous, ungodly things, wouldn't he just go somewhere and do them? Then leave the boy behind.

  But not alive to tell a story. No, not alive.

  Paul found himself thinking like the monster, and it made him ill again. He couldn't shoot anymore, so he opened the cylinder, pushed the spent shells from the chambers, and got into his car to drive home.

  It was as he passed over the Interstate that led to Baltimore that he started to think like the monster again:

  ...interstate, out of state, out of state fast, near here, back off the road, then do it, do what he wanted, then leave the boy, get out of state, gone, leaving nothing behind, except the boy...

  Near here.

  Paul was driving up Indian Hill now, a mile long, gaping cut through the top of a mountain that overlooked the Susquehanna River. There was a park on top, and nature trails, but too hot to hike today, in the high nineties and humid, and no one would be up there, back there, in the trees, on the cliffs near the river...

  Then why were there tire tracks on the dirt road?

  Paul slowly pulled his car to the shoulder, and looked at the tracks through the tinted glass. It had rained early this morning, but the sun had come out by noon, and now the wet mud was baked nearly dry. Paul got out of his car, crossed the road, and kicked at the impression of the treads. The outside of the ruts were dry and caked, but the inside was still muddy. Someone had driven up the road several hours before.

  Paul looked at the design of the tire treads, comparing them with the tires on his own car. These were wider, with a heavier pattern. He thought they could be from a van.

  No. It wasn't possible. He couldn't be lucky enough to find Peter Hurst so easily. It was probably just some redneck in a pickup truck who drove up the dirt road as far as he could, and walked the rest of the way to the overlook, where he lazed away the hot afternoon with a six pack.

  And then again, maybe it wasn't. It made sense. A private place, take the boy back into the woods, do what you wanted for as long as you wanted, and when you were finished, leave him there. Bury him, or put him among the natural cairns of rocks that dotted the hill top. Then onto the interstate and home free.

  Paul turned his car around and drove it two hundred yards back the way he had come, then turned right on the loose stone road that led to an overlook with several picnic tables. He saw with relief that there were no other cars there.

  He chose the .38 special, the gun he was most comfortable with, loaded it with five rounds of the flat-tipped wadcutters that made such perfect circles in paper targets, and stuck another dozen bullets in his pocket. He slipped the revolver into a light backpack in case he met any hikers, and started jogging east along the ridge, on a trail that led across a bare space, then into the woods until it met the trail that led up to the summit of Indian Hill.

  The sweat started rolling quickly, but he kept a steady pace, slowing only when he saw the dusty, dark blue van with silver trim parked at the spot where the dirt road ended and the trail he was on joined the other. He left the trail then, going through the woods behind the van until he could see the license plate. When he did, he knew that God had led him there.

  The plate was from Maryland.

  Chapter 7

  William Davonier looked up at the beautiful greens of the leaves far above him, and stretched luxuriously. What a wonderful day this had been. Hot, yes, but their sweat had joined them together even more closely, sealed their flesh, made them one. Such a boy, and such a place.

  He had driven down the street and seen him between the houses, playing in the back yard. His smooth, dark hair shone like a metal helmet, reminding William of his little Italian lover, oh God, how many years ago? The boy had been so beautiful, as fragile as porcelain, and it had been a shame what William had had to do at the end. He had cried over his little lover for a long time, knowing that he had to leave before someone came, someone who wouldn't understand love.

  It was their fault. If they had understood, he wouldn't have to end things the way he always did. He wanted nothing more than to take Peter home with him, to keep him by his side, to make the love that they had shared today pale in comparison to the wild flights they could achieve. But they wouldn't let him. So he had to steal his love, take it where he could find it.

  And he had taken it so easily today. Into the house went the little girl, and into the van he had pulled the little boy. It was as if Eros himself had placed Peter at the back of the yard for William's ease. Out and in, with a new lover at his side, and then away, up over the mountain and into the trees, and no one there on this hot, muggy day, no one, a whole mountain on which to frolic with his gifted little faun, a demi-paradise, an Eden of soft mosses and softer skin.

  At
the thought of it he turned, and ran his hand along the delicate curve the boy's hip made. "Peter?" he whispered. "Peter, darling? Is my boy sleepy?"

  It was no wonder, William thought. Peter had been quite a busy boy the past few hours. He hadn't wanted to at first, none of them did, but when he knew that there was no other choice, when he knew and understood what love demanded, he had proven to be quite malleable.

  Peter did not stir, and William wondered if the bleeding had stopped. Although the blood was inevitable, William did not like it. The only place blood should have in love, he thought, is at the very beginning.

  And at the very end. William saw that the time had come now. He would have liked nothing more than to tenderly wrap the boy in the blanket on which they lay, tuck him into the back of the van, and take him home to Baltimore to bring him up as son and lover. But such a romantic thing could never be. They would find him and judge him and condemn him. No, there must be no link, no memory of a lovely summer day in the mind of his dear little boy, his lost love, for whom he would grieve forever, as he grieved for all of them.

  At least, William thought, tugging down his shorts once more, Peter would pass into God's arms in the fullness of love, and he touched the feathery down on the boy's upper arm, noticing how the last of the sunlight made it shine gold.

  But then he stopped moving his hand, stopped breathing for a moment. The sound stopped him.

  It was a tick-tock sound of metal, the sound of a double action hammer being cocked.

  William turned very slowly, his face beginning to shake with fear. Whoever it would be, he knew that they would not understand.

  ~ * ~

  Even though Paul Blair felt like vomiting at the sight, the arm that held the pistol was as steady as oak. The young man's already pale face went even whiter, making the red sores stand out all the more, and his thin limbs trembled.