The Thirteenth Child

by David Dean

  Preston glanced up at Fanny. “I hope there’s more to this than a sermon?”

  She nodded and he returned to his reading.

  “Perhaps it is they, the former slaves that came to us for succor and comfort, that should instruct us in the proper practice of Christianity! Dear reader, these dreadful events of late have succeeded in exposing our greatest weaknesses and heathen superstitions. As an example, I was approached of late by several of our eldest citizens with an explanation as to the mystery of our missing children that I would not dare repeat but as an illustration of the godless thinking that we must avoid in these dark times.

  “It would seem, according to these ancient wags whom shall remain nameless to protect their reputations, and perhaps to prevent their being locked away in a closet as feeble-minded or mad, that at the turn of the last century our community was beset by identical crimes to those we find ourselves victim of today. They assure me, dear reader, that the perpetrator had been both identified and dealt with and was nothing less than a child that dwelt in their own midst!”

  Fanny saw her father flinch and sit up and knew what passage he had come to.

  “A young girl, in fact, whom the public had thought to be a victim, yet was seen wandering the cemetery at night by a most reliable witness—God save us from such witnesses! It would appear that we have recently relied on just such witnesses, have we not? But this is not the end of the horror, but only the beginning, for this same poor, and quite probably deranged child, was purportedly found reposing in one of the mausoleums with the blood of her victims upon her lips. Dear reader, according to these unseemingly gleeful informants of mine, the child was promptly decapitated without benefit of trial or even of the most rudimentary trappings of justice. Can you imagine the horror of her dear parents upon learning of the dreadful news? Is this what we are coming to now? If so, let us draw back from the precipice before it is too late!

  “Perhaps it satisfies our astute constabulary to settle for vampires or practitioners of voodoo as their elusive villains, but a more enlightened people will insist that facts, not fancy, rule the investigations of our hapless constables into such dire matters. Shall we blame our Jersey Devil, as well? After all, Mrs. Leeds’ thirteenth child is also missing and remains at large! Certainly his great wings would be an asset in eluding our slow-plodding lawmen, though Lord knows, he would hardly have need of them!”

  The opinion piece masquerading as investigative journalism sputtered to a halt with this last exhortation and Preston set it down once more. Fanny saw that he had paled and his eyes were unfocused.

  “Dad,” she began.

  “He told me about this,” Preston whispered. “He thought it was a clever trick leaving one of his victims in the cemetery to take the blame for him.”

  Fanny reached across the table, grasping his arm. “Pop, it can’t be. It just can’t.” The image of the boy clad as a scarecrow flitted across her memory, his face the blank undulating grey of a filthy pond, and she shuddered.

  Shoving the two books at his daughter, Preston said, “It was him, I swear, Fanny,” he pecked at the open pages with a finger “The stories are real, and so is he. As real as you and me.”

  Seizing his veined hand in her own, Fanny looked into her father’s bloodshot eyes. “Dad,” she whispered, “Are we losing our minds, you and I?” Preston made to pull free, his mouth turning down in disdain. “Because I think I may have seen him, too. I think he may have followed me home today.”

  Preston snatched his hand away. “Followed you? Why on earth would he follow you? He has no use for you—you don’t even believe he exists!”

  Fanny turned her face away, her eyes coming to rest on Loki at his forbidden perch, his golden eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the curtained window and the night beyond.

  ?

  Nick sat in silence in the small fusty room, the two priests watching for his reaction. The little one had left a message on his voice mail earlier in the day and requested he stop by the rectory. He had not given any details on the phone, but had politely insisted that his presence would be most appreciated by both he and Monsignor Mulcahy. Now, as the light rain had hastened the end of another day’s fruitless search for the missing children, Nick found himself damp and deeply depressed, sitting in a worn overstuffed chair in the rectory’s office.

  The image he regarded without actually touching lay atop the small spindly end table at his elbow. A crucifix with its bleeding transfixed Christ looked down upon it as well from the near wall, prompting Nick to think, “The fight goes on.” As he no longer regarded himself as a religious man, the thought surprised him.

  “It appears that evil is very enterprising in Wessex Township,” Father Gregory offered, as if reading Nick’s thoughts, “but without artistic merit, I’m afraid.” Smiling, he appeared to be waiting for Nick to appreciate his quip.

  “It’s clear enough it’s meant to be me,” the larger priest boomed from his wing-backed chair. He dwarfed the little Indian who sat by his side in a kitchen chair brought in upon Nick’s arrival. Father Gregory looked like a plump dark child next to his superior. “He’s done a good enough job for that much,” the older man concluded.

  Nick could hear the phlegmy rattle deep within his lungs. Though he was still a huge imposing man, it was evident that he was wasting. His once-thick neck was corded and thin, his Roman collar no longer gripping his flesh but simply providing a reference to measure his diminishment. The complexion that Nick had once thought of as comparable to rare roast beef was now the powdery white of a man who sees his own waiting grave—the thundering Irish giant was clearly dying.

  “Is there any chance you two didn’t handle this with bare hands?” Nick asked.

  The two priests glanced guiltily at one another before Father Gregory answered, “I should have known better, Chief Catesby. It was very stupid of me, of course… unforgivable.” He began to wring the offending hands in distress.

  Pointing one of his large fingers at Nick, the monsignor said, “He’s the bloody policeman, he should have caught the bastard while he was making free with our parking lot! If he bothered coming to Mass, maybe he would have!”

  Nick had long since become immured to the monsignor’s chastisements, having endured them in his younger, more impressionable years. Even so, he refrained from pointing out to his old confessor that he had fallen away from the Church long ago—sometime around the time his brother Stephen had been killed in Panama, he thought. “We’ll have to get both of your prints, you know, in order to distinguish them from the possible culprit.” He looked at them without expression and again both men grew silent and shame-faced.

  “Whatever you say,” the monsignor croaked, “you’re the chief after all. We’re just poor men of the cloth; even Christ Himself cooperated with his executioners.”

  “Meaning…?” Nick asked.

  The old man shifted in his seat and Nick noticed Father Gregory glance at him before turning away to study his shoes. The sunburst clock on the wall became suddenly audible in the tiny, makeshift office. The patter of rain struck the window in a sudden gust, like a handful of pebbles.

  “Well?” Nick persisted.

  “It’s not easy, Nick, talking frankly with a boy… a man, that is, like yourself, that I’ve once served communion to, taught in catechism class. You see what I mean, don’t ya? You take my meaning?”

  “I do not,” Nick responded in the priest’s own manner.

  Father Gregory nodded to the Monsignor as if this was something they had discussed prior to Nick’s arrival. The older man nodded in return, appearing to think for a few moments, before clapping his big hands together and saying, “Well, it would’a come out anyway, you bein’ a policeman and all, so I may as well be the one to tell ya.

  “It’s like this, Nicky, many years ago, back when I was still a young priest and assigned to a parish way the hell over and gone in West Jersey, that certain allegations were made against me.”

  Feeling th
e room grow warmer, Nick experienced a slight dizziness that was only partly due to his not having eaten since morning. He tried to keep his expression blank.

  “Ah,” the old priest remarked, “I can see by your face that you’ve got a notion where I’m going with this. Well,” he leaned back gripping his bony knees, “I can imagine what you might be feeling with what I’m about to tell ya, havin’ been a boy in my own parish, but then you must also know before I’ve said it that the allegations were untrue.” He halted to cough, fishing out a handkerchief to wipe at his mouth, then caught Nick’s gaze with his own. “I’ve never touched a child, Nicky, never, not once. I’m just not made that way and doin’ without women does not a pedophile make, no matter all the fancy theories about celibacy that they spew on the television.”

  Nick willed himself not to squirm in his seat.

  “There was never no police involvement that I knew of, Nick. Back in those days when such things were said, ya got moved on… quietly—the last thing the diocese wanted was police involvement. That was the way it was done. I’m not sayin’ it was the right way, and it wasn’t the way I wanted it, of that you can be sure—you can take that to the bank!

  “As I had done nothin’ wrong, I wanted to have it out and be done… to save my good name! But the bishop wasn’t havin’ it. He sent me on my way to Wessex Township and silenced the family with money from the church coffers—a shameful business any way you look at it. But, as obedience is one of our vows, I did as I was told and came away.”

  He stopped to take a breath, bowing his head as if in prayer. After what seemed hours, he looked up once more, his grey wintry eyes wet with emotion. “The truth is, Nicky, I’ve dreaded this day all of my life, and over the past few years with all the scandal, I’ve feared every moment that my name, my face, would appear on the evening news programs as one of the accused, one of those damn predators. Then, just when it seemed that it might all have blown itself out at last, there’s that… that thing…” he pointed at the crude ugly drawing as he groped for the words “… that abomination. When Father Gregory showed it to me, I told him what I thought it meant, and he said that I should tell you straight away. So…” he threw open his hands, “Here ya are.”

  Nick found it hard to meet the old man’s eyes, but asked anyway, “What do you think it means, Monsignor?”

  “Oh don’t be thick, boy,” the monsignor groaned. “What with the children disappearin’ isn’t it obvious? Someone knows my past and wants to frame me, and do a little more damage to the Holy Mother Church while they’re about it! Can ya not see that?”

  Risking a glance at Father Gregory, Nick found the little man staring at his clasped hands. “And who do you think that might be?”

  The big priest threw up his arms in despair. “How the devil would I know that, Nick? Aren’t you the one that does the investigatin’?” He turned to Father Gregory in exasperation. “What kind of bloody policeman have we raised in this parish?”

  Nick stood abruptly as Father Gregory, smiling once more, answered, “A very good one, I suspect.”

  “I’ll do what I can with lifting and identifying any prints on this,” Nick said, as he slid the hideous drawing into the evidence bag he always carried with him, “but don’t get your hopes up. I’ll still need both of yours, as well, since you’ve seen fit to paw the evidence. ”

  He planted himself in front of the older man, adding, “If any more of these show up, don’t touch them and call the department right away. Also keep a look-out for anyone suspicious hanging around the church or the rectory. It seems as if whoever did this wants to create suspicion and distrust of you—maybe even tie you and the Church to the missing children. At the very least it smells of a hate crime, an attempt to intimidate, to smear.” Nick snatched up his jacket, pulling it on.

  When he reached the door, he paused and added, “In the meantime, I’d advise you to keep as quiet as you can about this, which won’t be easy considering that some of your parishioners have already seen these.” He shook the bag in emphasis. “In any case, don’t go making any statements to the press just yet, Monsignor—maybe, if this guy thinks he hasn’t gotten to you, he’ll try again… and this time, as unlikely as it may seem, we’ll catch him.”

  Monsignor Mulcahy smiled at Nick. “If it can be done, Nick, then I’ve no doubt that it will be you that does it.”

  Stepping out onto the small railed porch that led to the driveway and Mercantile Street beyond, Nick pulled the door closed behind him. Outside, the misting rain was a grey veil that twisted beneath the street lamps and he turned up his collar against the damp.

  Plodding toward the street and home, a boy flashed across the end of the drive, impossibly swift it seemed to Nick in his exhaustion. No doubt, he was late for home and supper, but it worried the policeman in him that his parents should allow him out on such an evening; with all that had been happening. And it seemed especially irresponsible to have allowed him to do so without shoes on his feet.

  But he was far too tired to pursue the boy and comforted himself with the thought that he was flying to a warm home. As Nick walked through the wet semi-darkness he thought of Monsignor Mulcahy and his evident and impending mortality—he had once thought of him as a titan amongst mortals—God’s black clad warrior-priest, but now he found him grown old and, if not feeble, as destined for the grave as any man.

  Even so, he made a mental note to add the prelate to his list of potential suspects and, though it pained him to do it, to authorize an investigation into his past. The tragedy and mystery of the missing children seeped a poison, Nick thought, which was finding its way into the bloodstream of everyone that lived in Wessex Township, tainting all that it touched—the good with the bad, the innocent with the corrupt.

  Reaching his house, Nick stopped and studied its dark windows, its empty driveway. As the rain seeped through to his scalp and down his neck, he found himself picturing the abandoned, lifeless rooms within, rooms that he had occupied like a phantom for the past year—a home that had never held children. He wondered about Megan, Jared, and Connor, about what kind of night they might be having, whether they were still alive. Then suddenly it dawned on him—it was the anniversary of his divorce.

  Turning away from the empty house, he began to walk again. It didn’t really matter to where.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Preston stood outside his daughter’s bedroom door listening. From within he could hear a faint susurration that, after several puzzled moments, he identified as Fanny’s slumberous breathing. Satisfied, he tip-toed down the hallway to the mud room at the back of the cottage, avoiding the floorboards that creaked along the way.

  Preparing for his nocturnal outing with coffee and brandy, he felt confident that he was sober enough, without being uncomfortably so, to achieve his mission—seeking out his elusive discovery. Since his conversations with Fanny about the children, his conscience had begun to prick and worry him. Perhaps, he thought, Gabriel could be reasoned with on this account, besides which he wanted to compare his notes of the day with him.

  Removing a hooded jacket from the coat peg, he pushed his arms through the sleeves, fumbling with the zipper. Grunting and cursing he at last managed to align it and close the front, then turned for the door. Loki awaited him there, anticipating an opportunity for an unauthorized night out.

  Preston regarded the little beast with disdain, while Loki attempted to charm his adversary by purring loudly, his golden eyes glowing with artificial affection for his mistress’s father.

  “You must be joking,” Preston said aloud, shoving the cat away with a booted foot. Loki hissed at him. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have an opposing digit?” he asked, turning the door handle and slipping into the misty night. Before closing the door behind him, Preston added, “Or the power of speech, for that matter? Then you could have, at least, argued your case—too bad.” He drew the door closed, the large cat glaring at him through the narrowing aperture.

  It was not
the kind of night he would have chosen to pursue his studies, he thought, but field-work made its demands and they could not be ignored. Fanny’s mention of a strange boy watching her, Preston took as a summons. Flicking the hood over his dampening pate, he strode off toward the front of the house and the street beyond. In spite of the lateness of the hour, Preston felt energized and suffused with an enthusiasm he had not experienced since his earliest days of teaching. How quickly the bloom falls from the rose, he thought ruefully, and how rare for a man to receive a second opportunity.

  Drawing in a breath moist with a rain so fine as to be almost invisible, he thought of his quarry with gratitude. “Gabriel,” he said aloud, as if to conjure him up from the darkness, setting forth to find a boy who had already lived for three hundred years.

  Walking first to Gambol Street, he then turned north on Chapel, away from the small town center. His goal was the cemetery Gabriel had alluded to in his alternative history lesson on the night beach. He couldn’t really say why, but he felt that it was as good a place as any to find the creature on such a night.