Chapter Nineteen
Father Darius had slept well. His wounds, no longer fresh, had scabbed over and allowed him a measure of comfort. New ones would be inflicted in due course, but that did not concern him at this moment. A fine meal and a half-bottle of excellent wine had afforded him the sleep of a child, free of the concerns that worried the sleep of the less holy. His room faced east and its two finely-decorated windows had kept the sun at bay until it was well into the sky. Even the winter angle of the sun could not hide its brilliance on this day and he felt its warmth upon his face as he climbed from his slumber.
He rolled onto his knees and grabbed his Rosary for his morning devotions, offering the discomfort of his bladder as a sacrifice to Her. He was in such a state of completeness that he repeated the Rosary before his morning ablutions. After he had dressed, he looked out the window at a cloudless sky and decided it was a grand time to go for a drive. He would stop for breakfast at a place the desk had recommended and then enjoy the mountains.
He ate in a small restaurant that had once been a gas station and the island where the pumps had stood was still there with its chipped curb and fading sign. The building was rather shabby, he thought, but the place had a good reputation among the foodies who were devoted to this area of Virginia. Inside, the place was nearly full even on a weekday morning. A fresh-faced young woman in black shirt and pants greeted him, waving a menu as she led him to a table near a fireplace where a log burned and crackled. The old wood floor creaked as he walked on it and men in formal riding attire looked down at him from horse country prints on the walls. He liked the feel of the place.
He ordered Eggs Benedict, applewood-smoked bacon, and jalapeno biscuits, along with a small pot of Italian roast coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. His good cheer made him hungry. It was not often that he allowed his appetite a free rein and he was thin from years of self-denial. On this day he felt as though the Virgin Herself wanted him to eat.
The sun was higher when he left the restaurant and he decided to put down the top of the MG and to endure the winter air which stung even though it was warm for the time of year. He buttoned his overcoat and placed a wool golf cap on his head. He drove west on Route 211 past Sperryville and into the park until he found an entrance to Skyline Drive, then he headed south along the spine of the range, breathing the clear mountain air and feeling exultant. On another day he would have felt ashamed at his sheer happiness, but not today.
He drove for several hours, waving at other drivers who wondered to themselves or their significant others why the man in the MG had his top down in the middle of winter. He laughed at them. What did they know? Nothing, that’s what. At least that what he told himself when he saw their faces bundled in their warm cars. He began to sing Ave Maria, his voice loud but lost in the wind. “Ave Maria, gratia plena…Maria gratia plena…” It had been his grandmother’s favorite and so it was his. She had sung it to him as a boy after the two of them had knelt before the statue of Her, where the candle was glowing inside a red glass container. Often she had cried as she sang and he had comforted her. He was only a boy but he venerated both his grandmother and the Virgin. She had taught him the Rosary. It was her beads that offered him the comfort of the Rosary even now, years after the accident.
Tears rolled into the wind as he sang and remembered her. He had been told to control his rage and to channel it into his faith. “Offer it up,” they said. It was a priest who killed her, a drunken priest. A Jesuit, no less! How can he let that go? His good cheer evaporated as he wept and remembered her, the good one who venerated the Virgin with him. His only comfort had been the sure faith that his grandmother was now and would forever be in the arms of the Virgin Mary, sitting next to God, waiting for him.
He pulled over at an overlook to pull himself together. He got out of the roadster and looked down at the farms in the valley and thought of what he was about to do and it gave him joy. He took the butterfly knife from his coat and flipped it open, testing its action in the cold air. He knelt under a tree and said a Rosary with it, keeping the image of his grandmother in his mind as he prayed. “It is nearly done,” he whispered.
A U.S. Park Service Ranger saw the MG parked at the overlook and noticed that its top was down. His name was Roger Etter and he had an MGA of his own in his garage in Front Royal. It was partially restored and was far from a condition where it could be driven, but he admired others that ran, so he pulled into the small parking area to have a look at the car. Etter saw that the car appeared to be in mint condition. Its seats could have come directly from a showroom and the outside paint was perfect. He walked around the car, checking the chrome and wire wheels. He looked around for the driver but saw no one, at first. He yelled, “Hello?” but got no response.
It occurred to him at the driver may have come here to jump. It had happened in the past. He looked over the side of the overlook and saw nothing that caused concern. Etter assumed that the driver had pulled over and gone for a walk in the forest or had gone off to relieve himself. In the corner of his eye he saw something in the woods and went to investigate. There was a man on his knees, masturbating while fondling a knife. He seemed to be praying but it was hard to understand his words. The man was crying and swaying back and forth.
Etter stepped closer to the man and was about to say something to him when the man saw him and jumped up, running and waving the knife. Etter had no time to defend himself. Before he could grab his radio to call for help Father Darius was on him, severing his vocal cords. Seconds later Etter was bleeding out in the woods he had spent his working life protecting. He was thirty-three years old, married to a kindergarten teacher, and had two small boys. He was in the Virginia National Guard and had served in Iraq as a military policeman. He was a volunteer firefighter and a leader of a home Bible study group at his church. He coached Little League baseball and youth soccer. He was the kind of young man communities pray for. In Front Royal, he was as good at it got when it came to young men. His body would be found the next morning and his community would go into shock for days. Father Darius had no feelings at all for Roger Etter. He was nothing more than a threat that had to be eliminated.
The MG was driven back to the inn where Father Darius was registered as Walter Williams, where it was parked behind the holly tree. It had been observed passing through Sperryville by Malone, who was smoking a cigarette on a metal bench in the yard of an antique shop when he looked up and saw what he believed to be the man he was chasing. He saw the car heading east on Route 211 and he ran to his own vehicle and caught up with the small red car within a mile. Father Darius was driving very slowly, enjoying the late afternoon sun as it faded into a winter night. Malone settled back a good distance. It was not hard to follow a small red car with its top down during the middle of winter. He watched as it was hidden behind the holly and he used a long lens to take pictures of the man who walked away from it and into the inn. He felt like a hunter bagging a deer. It was almost too easy.
Butterfly Knife Page 19