by David Dean
Gabriel regarded the old man for several moments, then, as Preston watched, the broad face grew more relaxed and the panting quieted. Gabriel answered, “So I did, Preston… but it is wise to remind me.” The smile returned.
“It’s true, then, isn’t it?” he asked aloud, though he required no answer. “You are… something… apart from us.” The enormity of his discovery (because he did consider Gabriel his discovery) suddenly overwhelmed Preston and he staggered back against the log, nearly stepping into the dying embers of the fire. “But…” he began, as a sudden thought occurred to him, “how… how do you feed, Gabriel? I see a lot of teeth, mind you,” he giggled drunkenly, “but no fangs! How do you explain that, my boy? With those ragged choppers of yours you’d chew their heads off, wouldn’t you?”
Sitting down hard on the sand, he laughed aloud as the last of the alcohol he had consumed that day released itself into his bloodstream. He had been drunk often enough to know that he had, at last, reached the end of his endurance for another day.
Gabriel squatted before the older man, shadows twining themselves across his face from the last of the fire, and opened his great mouth, the jaw impossibly unhinging itself to achieve a nightmarish gape. As Preston watched, stupefied, the tongue emerged like a thick, raw serpent, lifting itself to gently touch the tip of Gabriel’s nose. Then he saw the two viper-like teeth that lay buried within the flesh of the underside of the tongue. Like twin hypodermic needles they lay sheathed within the muscle and were retracted once more as he watched. Gabriel had answered his question.
Groaning in terror at what he had witnessed, Preston began edging crab-like away from the boy to the useless shelter of the beached tree. He pointed desperately at an edge of red that lay to the east of them, just visible on the low horizon. “The sun is coming up, boy! You’d better go now don’t you think? Hurry now or it will burn you up!”
Gabriel stood, looking to the rose-colored tinting of the eastern sky and chuckled, saying, “I don’t like the sun, Preston, it makes my eyes tender, my skin raw, but it will not kill me. Still, it is time for me to go,” he agreed. “It is not good for me to be seen in the daylight.”
Relieved, yet still reeling with fear and shock, Preston managed to ask, “Where do you go to, Gabriel? Do you rest in a grave?”
The boy, or creature, as Preston now understood him to be, appeared to grow pensive, answering, “I would not like that, I think, Preston. How would I breathe? Once, many sleeps ago, I dwelt in a house with wings. I liked it there. The sound of the wings was nice, but then it fell into the creek bed one night and I sought other shelter.”
“Wings,” Preston repeated, “I don’t understand.” But the boy had already begun striding toward the line of maritime forest that lay nearby. “Where can I find you, then?” Preston called after him.
Stopping, Gabriel turned and waggled a long finger at the old man. “That would be telling,” he said. “I’ll find you when I have need of you.”
“Need of me… need of me for what?” Preston shouted back, but Gabriel was already bounding swiftly through the dune grasses, only to vanish within the stunted trees of the twisted, windswept woods.
CHAPTER SIX
Father Gregory Savartha watched Preston stumbling hurriedly down the street in his direction. It was warm in the early morning sunshine and he was content to wait a few moments before entering Wessex Coffee. He hoped to engineer a meeting.
The little priest knew the other man only as the “Professor,” a title which Father Gregory respected greatly, especially as he understood it to be for advanced degrees in English literature. He was a great admirer of Dickens and Harding, Greene and Austen.
Though English was not his native tongue, he had made a thorough study of it during his seminary years in India. These lessons had not been wasted and he had discovered a world of literature of which he had become very fond. Less happily, his command of the spoken tongue had not kept apace.
“Ah, Professor,” he called out cheerfully to Preston as the older man shuffled past him without as much as a glance. “It is a beautiful day today, I find! Will you not halt with me for some moments?”
Preston half-turned to take in the plump little man who had accosted him, and saw Father Gregory in his black suit and Roman collar beaming at him, his small hand gripping the door handle to the coffee shop. “Please, come join me for a coffee,” he clarified, while making a sweeping gesture with his free hand. “Please do.”
Stopping altogether now, Preston regarded the foreign priest sourly. He had noticed the dark little man listening intently to his diatribes in the library from time to time, but they had never spoken. He also realized that he was very hungry, and his head was beginning to pound from an incipient hangover. He had only slept for a few hours on the damp beach before the cold had awakened him, sending him scurrying for home. Nightmarish visions of Gabriel and their night by the sea dogged his steps, pursuing him like a bad conscience. But the thought of a cup of hot coffee and something to eat, added to the fact that his pockets were empty, decided him. Even so, he felt compelled to add conditions to his attendance.
“I have no respect for your office, little man, and will not tolerate a recruitment speech,” Preston warned, his tongue clacking dryly. “You have already inducted my only daughter into your cultish practices, so consider that I have already ‘given.’”
Father Gregory’s smile grew brighter yet as he realized that he had received some form of acceptance. “Splendid,” he crowed. “It is all settled then, shall we say?” He held the door as his imperious guest strode past him into the shop, and followed happily.
Several patrons turned to witness their entrance, and Father Gregory noted a distinct line of worry crease the owner’s forehead at the sight of Preston. He took the older man’s threadbare sleeve possessively and led him to a table that was being hastily abandoned. Father Gregory thought he recognized one of the librarians from across the street as she scurried past them. “Good morning,” he called after her in puzzlement.
As they settled themselves, a young couple at a table facing the priest suddenly decided to leave as well. It was then that Father Gregory noted the sour fishy smell that emanated from his contentious guest’s clothes and skin, as well as a slightly musky, more mysterious odor. Whispering too loudly to the girl with him, the young man said “Oh my God,” wrinkling his nose at the same time to make his point. The owner, a crumpled looking man standing behind a glass counter, shook his head in either resignation or disgust.
Within moments the small, warm establishment was largely empty. “I am Father Gregory Savartha,” the priest introduced himself.
Preston turned in his seat, as if nothing had been said, to glare at the proprietor. “Service,” he shouted, turning back to his befuddled host. “A café au lait for me, thank you, and since you’re offering, a bran muffin, toasted and buttered.”
As the owner was already standing over them, it was not necessary for Father Gregory to repeat it, so he simply nodded apologetically to the man, adding, “My usual, Mister Charles, if I may please.”
Charles, having come within the bloom of Preston’s less-than-hygienic person, backed quickly away while jotting something onto his order pad. “It’ll be right out to you,” he promised.
Having had a few moments to digest Preston’s earlier words, Father Gregory alighted upon their meaning. “Your daughter is one of our parishioners? What is her name, may I ask?”
“Fanny,” Preston answered, glancing impatiently over his shoulder.
“Ah,” the little priest cried, “yes, I know her… she is a very charming young woman… very devout! Fanny Howard! You must be very proud of her.”
Preston turned back to his host and snapped, “Of course I am, and I also forgive her for her ridiculous lapse of reason as regards the Roman Church.”
“I see… yes, it is good to be tolerant of one’s children.” Giggling, Father Gregory added, “Of course, I would have no way of really
knowing, would I?” He smiled broadly across the table at Preston.
“No,” Preston answered as their orders arrived, “you wouldn’t.” Charlie managed to spill some of Preston’s coffee in his haste, but was already returning to the safety of the kitchen before Preston could chastise him. In any event, Preston found he was famished and began devouring his muffin.
Father Gregory joined him by eating his pastry with equal relish. After several mouthfuls, he mumbled while patting his round stomach, “I really should not be eating such things. I am growing fat here.”
Preston did not think his remorse convincing and stared through the sheen of warm moisture that coated the plate glass window of the store front. Outside, vehicles and people were hurrying this way and that in what passed for a rush hour in Wessex Township. How mundane and ordinary their lives were, Preston mused, as the bloodstained image of Gabriel, crouching on the moonlit shore of the Delaware Bay, flickered through his mind like a primal memory. Father Gregory’s words only belatedly entered into his consciousness.
“… And now, so the paper says, two more children have not returned to their homes. It is all most troubling, wouldn’t you agree?”
Preston turned his attention back to the priest. “What children?” he asked after a pause.
“Two boys this time, it seems,” Father Gregory replied. “Not as young as the little girl however, and the police say they are very perplexed at these goings-on.”
“Two boys,” Preston repeated, “How old?”
“They were both fourteen years of age,” Father Gregory answered. “It seems they have run away before,” he added disapprovingly, “and have caused their parents and the police great worry. Perhaps that will be the case this time as well. The police state most empathically that they are searching diligently for all three and rule nothing out. The police are behaving most commendably in this matter, I believe.”
Preston snorted his amusement, “They have no idea what they are looking for.”
Father Gregory studied his guest for several moments as he sipped at his heavily sugared coffee. “I see,” he said, “You have a theory, Professor?”
“A theory,” Preston countered, “hardly. I know…” he began; then stopped. He raised one of his patrician brows at Father Gregory and recited, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Father Gregory nearly sprang from his chair with excitement. “That is Shakespeare,” he cried, “The Tragedy of Hamlet, if I am not mistaken—a most unfortunate young man!”
“Very good, Father,” Preston smiled at the priest’s enthusiasm… if only he had had students like this strange little man, he thought.
Father Gregory regained his composure. “But, why have you said this to me, Professor Howard? What is the meaning here?”
“You, of all people, should know,” Preston replied. “Your almighty church has built its golden edifice upon the unknown… nay, the unknowable—angels and demons, saints and miracles! Why should anything on this earth be a surprise to you? What of Cain’s descendants… his inheritors? Now there’s a thought for you!” He slapped the tabletop with a force that rattled their cups, and the owner shot him a warning glance.
The cleric raised a hand, saying, “You have perplexed me greatly, Professor, I must confess.”
“For God’s sake, call me Preston,” the older man snapped. “I only have the morons call me Professor these days—for that matter, it was mostly morons that called me Professor when I actually taught.” He barked a laugh.
Father Gregory smiled, once more genuinely pleased to have been granted the privilege of Preston’s Christian name. “That is most welcome,” he said. “You honor me greatly… Preston.” He gulped down the last of his coffee, replacing the cup in its saucer.
“My English is not as good as it might be,” he began quietly, “and so I often struggle with the inner meanings of things that are said.” He glanced up at Preston from beneath his white eyebrows, the blackness of his skin made all the darker by the color of what remained of his hair. “Perhaps, then, it is the case now that I have misunderstood once more, but, and here please correct me if I am mistaken, you seem to indicate some secret knowledge as regards the missing children.” He studied Preston with a mild expression.
Preston looked down into the dregs of his own cup, caught off guard. He thought of the creature he had christened “Gabriel” realizing that it was with a terrible sense of pride… even ownership, that he did so. Was there any other man in the world that knew what he did at this moment, possessed such “secret knowledge,” as the priest put it?
Glancing up, he said, “You have a better grasp of the language than you let on.” He ran a paper napkin across his chapped lips, pushing away from the table. “This is a mystery for the mind, Gregory,” Preston murmured, as the cleric smiled warmly at the use of his name, “and, therefore, foreign to you theologians, accustomed as you are to practicing mumbo-jumbo.”
He shook his large shaggy head, reminding Father Gregory of a lion with a worrisome, but delicious bone. “Sometimes, there are those moments when the right man is at the right place—serendipity we call it. When such a moment occurs… well, a man would be a fool to desist, to let go of his discovery before the time is right, before its true meaning has been plumbed.” Rising to his feet, he towered over the much smaller and seated man. “So, let’s just leave it at that for now, shall we?”
Father Gregory was not to be put off. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “such a man might wish to share his secret knowledge with others in order to alleviate their sufferings. Surely, it would be wise, and most kind, to do so, if indeed he has such knowledge.”
Preston looked down the length of his long nose at the curate. “If,” he repeated. “I assure you that if doesn’t enter into it, little man. Please do not trouble yourself further, but leave it up to those with the intellectual capabilities and secular education to do so—to put it bluntly, Father, this is not a matter for churchmen.”
He turned to walk away, but the priest reached over the small table, snagging the greasy sleeve of his jacket, stopping him. “I have offended you, my new friend, and I had no wish to do so. But, I must say this plainly to you, Preston… if you have knowledge of these missing children, you must speak. This is not just for their sake alone, but for your own. Do not allow pride to rob you of your humanity—God would not wish such a thing.”
Snatching his arm free, Preston glared down at the priest, then answered, his voice seething with emotion, “If there were a God, then there would be no missing children, Priest, surely that much is obvious! God has no power here,” he swept a long arm across the room, indicating the whole world. “It’s all left to nature in the end, don’t you see—nature is both god and devil!”
Charlie came out from behind the counter, removing his apron and looking hard at the older man. But, before he could reach him, Preston stalked out the door and into the crisp beauty of the autumn morning, his leonine head held high.
“No offense, Father,” Charlie said, “but I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t bring that wino in here anymore.” He swept up the money the little cleric placed on the tabletop and began to clear away the cups and dishes.
“He is in a very excitable state,” Father Gregory replied while watching the older man’s long-legged progress down Mercantile Street. “Perhaps it is I who has upset him.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that guy,” Charlie reassured him. “Everybody knows he’s got a couple screws loose… and that’s when he’s not drinking… which is never,” he concluded.
Father Gregory rose to his full five foot, four inch height, saying, “Thank you, Mister Charles. The coffee was excellent, as usual.” As he reached the door, he thought to add, “Oh yes, and the bear claw… this was most enjoyable. By the by, do you have a dietary version of this pastry?”
Charlie grinned at the priest and answered, “Sorry, Father, I only serve the kind that m
akes you fat.”
Father Gregory patted his stomach for the second time that morning, and in unconscious imitation of a famous literary bear, responded, “Oh dear… dear me.”
Walking the two blocks to the rectory, his thoughts were on Preston and his mysterious words, and no matter which way he turned the professor’s allusions around in his mind, he was unable to come to any true understanding. He was troubled now and didn’t know what he should do about it, so fetching his Rosary beads from his pocket as he strolled beneath the saffron colored leaves of the elms, he began to pray.
?
The hushed murmur grew in intensity as Chief Catesby descended the stairwell, resolving itself into individual voices as he entered the first floor of the police department. From behind every door of the long hallway there arose the hiss and squeal of suppressed anger, the barely contained fear of men under pressure.
Every available office had been pressed into use as interview rooms to accommodate the number of registered sex offenders, tipsters, and other “persons of interest,” who had been rounded up and brought in. Many of the voices were complaining loudly at having been included in the roster at all, despite their previous histories—these last had the most to lose, either in terms of their carefully constructed reputations or the conditions set down in their paroles—any offense, pertinent or not to the current investigation, might send them back to prison.
Nick continued down the hallway with its grimy linoleum and scuffed green walls. At shoulder-level, someone, probably his secretary he surmised, had strung a banner of black and orange cardboard cut-outs, depicting gleeful witches astride broomsticks and idiotically grinning jack o’ lanterns. The tape securing it to the cinderblock wall had already begun to give way and it drooped in sad neglect. Nick halted before the last door he came to. It was closed and he listened. Inside he could just make out a subdued conversation, but not individual words.