Sacrifice

by Edward Lee

  Well…

  Not to pick up men, she reminded herself.

  So what was she doing—really?

  Part of her felt so at odds with herself, though—that was the problem. Christ, what a jam. My psychiatrist’s a lesbian, and she’s in love with me. But Alice knew her confusion had to do with a lot more than Holly. How could she feel so good and so confused at the same time?

  have faith, read a bumper sticker on a car that whizzed by at the turnoff beside the City Dock.

  Have faith, she thought.

  So maybe that was it. Faith.

  On the spur of the moment, then, she turned back up Main Street and headed for the church.

  ««—»»

  The great Catholic church seemed to loom, a fortress and spire emerging from the vast round parcel of land called Church Circle. From her vantage point Alice could see that the church’s steeple stabbed the moon. The stained-glass windows stood softly alight. A sudden breeze cooled her as she looked upward.

  She’d come here last week, hadn’t she? She’d come here for something, but she didn’t know what. Solace, perhaps. Consolation just hours before she would attempt to take her own life. Yes, she’d come here, but—

  The high double doors had been locked.

  Not tonight, though.

  Tonight they stood wide open, as if in invitation.

  Pretty, flittering lights greeted her when she entered and walked past the fonts of holy water. Candles from afar.

  Candles on the altar.

  Alice proceeded past the pews, and that was when the figure turned.

  The priest? she wondered.

  Faces in the stained-glass windows seemed to follow her as she walked on. It was a young man who had turned at the altar, tall and slim, in black slacks, a black button shirt, and a Roman collar.

  “Hi,” the man said. He was folding up a purple frontal, with gold tassels at its edge. “I’m afraid the evening Communion service is over. We finished up about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Oh,” Alice said. “I was just, uh—”

  Next he was wiping out a beautiful silver chalice with a gold lining and putting it in a box. “And the late confession is from six to eight.”

  Alice nearly laughed. Confession? “No, I didn’t come for confession. I just—”

  “Ah,” the young man guessed. “You must’ve come to talk, then. More bad news—all three priests have retired for the night; they’re at the rectory. But if it’s an emergency, I can call one right now.”

  “Oh, no,” Alice replied. “I wouldn’t want you to bother them.”

  “It’s no bother, believe me. Those old duffers are just dying for an excuse to get out of the rectory,” the young man tried to joke. “The TV’s broken. They can’t watch ‘The Simpsons.’”

  Alice smiled. The young man had said that the “priests” weren’t here. Then what was he?

  “I’m Phil Barry, by the way,” he finally introduced himself. By now Alice had fully encroached upon the splendid chancel, the candelabra glimmering in her eyes. The man, Phil Barry, closed a wooden box into which he’d placed the chalice, then placed it in a low cabinet and locked it up. “I’m the parish deacon. Would you like to talk to me?”

  “I—” Alice faltered. The candlelight danced in her eyes, reminding her of the oil lamps and candles in her dream. The dream of the black church.

  She didn’t know what to say in response to the deacon’s question.

  Deacon Barry smiled warmly. He was handsome, lean. He seemed to have an aura of good spirit.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’m a deacon. Do you have any idea what a pain in the butt it is to get to be a deacon?”

  “I-I don’t understand,” Alice said.

  Then Deacon Barry came down off the short steps of the altar. “Deacons know things,” he said jovially. “We can tell, you know? I mean, it’s our job. If we couldn’t do that, then we wouldn’t be deacons; we’d be pumping gas or working at the car wash.” His voice lowered, yet his beautiful, faithful smile seemed to glow. “I can tell just by looking at you. You have a problem, and you want to talk about it. Don’t you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Listen, it’s my job, for cryin’ out loud. Why don’t you give me a shot? Let me earn my keep around here.”

  “I-I—” Alice stammered.

  He held out his hands, his smile blazing. “Come on. Let’s talk.”

  — | — | —

  34

  Holly passed out around eight p.m. Her dreams were appalling—

  The squat, pug-faced ushers were holding her down in the hot netherworldly chasm, stretching out her naked body like a frog on a dissection board. Their foot-long tongues fell out of lipless, lust-filled grins and laved in delight every private place of her physique. She couldn’t scream, for one of these denizens was kissing her, its enslimed tongue burrowing all the way down her throat until she could feel it wriggling in her stomach, while its stubbed fingers pinched her nostrils closed for minutes at a time, releasing them the moment before her lungs would burst and she would die.

  She’d been made into a toy for devils, a plaything of flesh to allay the boredom of this chasm’s eternity. All around her rose the stench of corpse piles in rot, human fat and excrement cooking on hot rocks, blood boiling vigorously. And in the distance she could see the woman, stunningly naked, beautiful yet faceless, whispering to her:

  (Alice is mine, Alice is mine…)

  When Holly woke up the images dragged her to the bathroom just as surely as if the ushers were dragging her themselves. She vomited violently into the toilet.

  She’d started drinking at about four in the afternoon, waiting by the phone, wondering when Alice would return from this aerobics seminar, or whatever it was. She’d said she’d call, hadn’t she, that they’d have dinner?

  But this, of course, was the least of Holly’s worries. What if she was correct? What if Alice was, indeed, close to suffering a schizoid break, or an episodic personality split?

  But Holly should’ve been worrying about herself. By now her drinking had taken her over, and she knew it. It’s almost like I’ve become possessed, she thought, wiping her mouth, looking aghast at her reflection in the mirror. It was almost as though some foreign entity had taken hold of her spirit and was inspiring her to drink, seducing her to return to the weaknesses that had once nearly ruined her…

  She trudged to the phone, noticed the light on the answering machine blinking, and quickly pressed the message button.

  Then she groaned. It wasn’t Alice at all; it was Bill Stone, the graphologist with whom she’d left Alice’s notes earlier in the day.

  “Hi, Holly, this is Bill. Sorry I missed you today— these damn freshman orientations are murder. But I just wanted to let you know that I got those handwriting samples you left, and I’ll try to do a workup for you in the next day or so. I’ll mail them to your office. When I’ve got this damned orientation behind me, let’s do lunch. See ya.”

  Another message was equally disappointing: someone from the subscription department of the American Psychiatric Journal reminding her that her subscription had expired. Would she be interested in renewing for 51 percent off the cover price?

  There were no other messages.

  Then she made a call herself, punching in Alice’s number and hanging up just before the sixth ring, so she wouldn’t set off her answering machine. She’s home, Holly felt assured. She’s just not answering her phone because she knows it’s me.

  With nothing else to do, Holly reached for her bottle of Scotch…

  ««—»»

  God, give me strength, Deacon Barry thought.

  Why had he done this? Why in God’s name had he offered to drive her home? A lost soul, that’s what he’d thought when she wandered into the church. He could tell by her aura that she was troubled, that she needed some spiritual advice. Well, that was his job, wasn’t it? To counsel the masses, to give comfort to the disconsolate. She’d begun fal
teringly, claiming that another woman loved her, that she didn’t know what to do. Then her confession stretched on: She’d attempted suicide just over a week ago, but since then she said she felt “changed,” that for the first time in her life she felt happy. Now, though, and just as quickly, that happiness seemed to be diminishing. She’d had blackouts of late; she couldn’t remember whole hour-long blocks of time. She was having strange dreams. She was hearing voices. When Phil Barry had suggested she seek psychiatric counseling she admitted that she had, and that her counselor was the woman who’d fallen in love with her…

  So many problems. So many different people in the world. But the deacon wasn’t discouraged—there was only one answer to any of the world’s countless problems.

  “Put your trust in God,” he’d told her right there on the chancel steps. “Come back to God.”

  “But I don’t even know who God is,” this woman named Alice had said.

  “Maybe not, but He knows you. He knows everyone, and he wants to help. But you have to let Him help. You have to develop a relationship with Him, and the first step is simply trusting Him. Would you do something for me, Alice?”

  Glumly, her hands folded in her lap, she nodded.

  “I want you to come to church this Sunday. That’s all,” the young deacon asked. “And afterwards we’ll talk some more. All right? Will you do that?”

  Alice smiled gently, nodded again. Deacon Barry knew that faith couldn’t be taught; it couldn’t be thrust on people. It was, instead, something that could only be experienced in divine mystery, one step at a time.

  And he’d just gotten Alice to take the first step.

  She’d thanked him then, promised to come to the Sunday service, and prepared to leave. “Let me drive you,” the deacon had offered.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t impose.”

  “It’s no imposition, really,” he’d said. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to take out the parish Mercedes.”

  She’d laughed softly and agreed…

  And here he was now, standing in her house. He’d accepted her offer of a drink—soda water, in Deacon Barry’s case; even though the church permitted it, he did not indulge in alcohol. It was a beautiful house, and…

  She’s a beautiful woman, he couldn’t help but think.

  Then—

  Something…happened.

  It was going on midnight. He knew it was time to leave. He’d done his job; he’d helped her out as best he could, and now it was time to thank her for the drink and leave.

  But he couldn’t.

  She’d excused herself for a moment, disappearing into what must have been her bedroom.

  Deacon Barry blinked, gulped.

  What the—

  Sweat broke out around his stiff collar. He felt dizzy, distracted. Something…something…seemed to caress him, something in the air, an infusion—a mental one. As though something were emanating from the very walls and taking hold of him.

  Then the lights flicked off.

  The glass of water fell from his hand.

  God give me strength, he thought again when he saw her drifting out of the room, into the moonlight, silently approaching him—

  —wide-eyed—

  —serene, and—

  —nude.

  ««—»»

  Steve was—well, he was celebrating in a sense. Decided to go have a few beers at the Undercroft, his former hangout. He hadn’t been here in a while; neat place, lots of good imported beer, lots of chicks. He used to come most every night, but with his nighttime workload of late, there often wasn’t time to cop a few beers at one’s leisure.

  The sub-street brick tavern was hopping right now, even this close to last call. Cute waitresses hustled trays of fancified mixed drinks and pitchers of Pilsner Urquell. GQ-looking barkeeps concocted wild, multicolored shooters six at a time, while patrons laughed, gossiped, joked, and drank.

  Steve sat at a corner table, by himself. Sometimes he would rather just watch the crowd than be part of it. How many pickups had he made at this bar alone? Shit, dozens, he realized over his pint glass of Old Foghorn. In fact, this was where he’d met Alice. Talk about pay dirt! Yeah, the ’Croft was one hell of a great place, and Steve had had himself many a fine time because of it. But—

  Guess I’m gettin’ old, he considered. Ain’t got time for this shit anymore. That was a fact; partying, cockhounding, playing the game—there was no time, and now he had priorities. After all, he was a professional burglar, as well as a notorious rapist/murderer; he owed it to his trade to be serious, and to maintain his reputation, so to speak. Partying, carousing—those days were over. He looked into the crush of revelers and smiled meekly. Yeah, let the kids have their fun, he thought. Me? I got other things to do now.

  Maybe that was the reason for his odd mood. Even killers came of age. They grew up; they became men. Steve wasn’t a kid anymore, and he was just now realizing it. He knew full well that if he wanted to, he could put the moves on just about any girl in the joint and wind up going home with her. But he didn’t want to; it was as simple as that.

  He had more crucial things to think about.

  Hence this little “celebration,” subdued as it might have been.

  It was almost as if God had answered his prayers…

  Steve had been flipping through the evening paper, looking for info on possible places to knock over, plus keeping an eye out for any articles about his past crimes. (Steve loved to read about his own handiwork.) And when he turned to the local section…

  Holy shit, you’ve gotta be kidding me!

  There she was, right there on the headliner.

  Alice.

  LOCAL RESIDENT SEEKS TO RESTORE THE CITY’S HISTORY.

  It was a big two-page feature on locals who had purchased old houses from the city’s historical society or some shit. Rebuilt them, refurbished them to mint condition. And here was his lovely ex, Ms. Alice Sterling, smiling on the front page.

  Christ she looks good, was Steve’s first observation. Slimmed way down. More shapely, more foxy than he could imagine. Back when he’d been shamming her, she’d always been a bit fat, and more than a bit dull. But this picture told all. She almost looked like a different woman altogether.

  And there was something—

  Something about her smile…

  Steve raced through the article. He didn’t give a flying fuck about this old Revolutionary dump she’d bought and fixed up, some squat-looking joint on the water, called a “watch house.” No, he didn’t give a shit about any of that.

  He just needed to know where it was. And then—

  Another gift from God.

  Local history buffs and architecture fanatics will want to see the preeminent restoration of this rare, original watch house on the corner of Federal Street, perhaps the finest example of Federal period domestic architecture left in the city…

  ««—»»

  “Holy fuckin’ Moses,” Steve had muttered in astonishment. The exact address wasn’t given, but that didn’t matter. A great big color picture of the joint was right here on the front page, along with the cited street—

  Federal Street…

  It was less than a mile away!

  Steve smiled at the recollection, then ordered another Old Foghorn. He looked up once more at the youthful crowd and smiled.

  No, not for me, he decided.

  He had plans to make.

  The blade—

  ««—»»

  It is like you.

  Sleek, beautiful…

  And this new pig for my gullet:

  It is like manna snatched out of God’s mouth!

  That’s it, yes—tie him down fast and sure. Ride him yet again on my cold bed of stone and take it from him, take away at my whimsy what he has avowed to never give…

  Take it like candy from a baby.

  For it is more than just his pious seed you take; it is his faith and every promise he’s ever made. See how easily we make him betray himsel
f, how we make him turn black in the face of his god. Here is his truth! Here is his faith!

  All spoiled now, all ruined.

  More false than it ever was.

  How lovely!

  Now take it again! And again and again and again!

  Good, good.

  Like that, yes.

  And now…

  That’s it; take the knife—

  Take the knife, my pretty cunt—

  Take the knife, and open him.

  Open him up!

  Yes!

  Yes!

  Like that!

  Part Three

  Amon

  — | — | —

  35

  high street nautical museum, read the sign out front. Also sitting out front, for a touch of authenticity, were two huge iron boat anchors, leaning against one another. The building itself looked appropriate: an old, stain-shingled Colonial row house close enough to the bay that visitors could smell the salt in the air.

  Holly was proud of herself; it was nearly two in the afternoon and she’d only had two drinks. She’d come here, to this museum, to investigate something.

  Inside was cramped yet well-kempt. She skipped the gift shop in favor of the lobby, which was filled with glass display cases. Old sextants, compasses, quadrants, and cannonballs were well in evidence, not to mention original naval uniforms from the Revolution through the Spanish-American War. On the walls hung huge, ornately framed oil paintings depicting tallships, frigates, warships, even the first steel-hulled battleships. But the place was empty, and Holly was certain she’d seen several cars parked in the small lot out front.