The Devil's Own Crayons

by Theresa Monsour

  The Scot broke the quiet: “I’m absolutely gutted over three children being used. Being made to believe they’re evil. Being manipulated so the world thinks they’re evil.”

  “Evil from birth,” added Khoury.

  MacLeod stopped pacing and pointed at Rossi. “Your FBI mates. They could rush the convent and steal the girls.”

  “Right.” Rossi tore a length of cloth in half. “We’ll call in the SWAT team. Tell them that the nuns are actually a sleeper cell. Should we go with al-Qaeda or is Hezbollah more believable?”

  “You’re saying we have to snatch them ourselves,” said MacLeod.

  She wrapped a bandage around a gash on Khoury’s upper arm. “It’s our job.”

  “What if something goes wrong? What if we have to kill one of the nunnies to get to them?”

  “You said you didn’t like the nuns,” said Khoury.

  “I don’t want to kill them.” MacLeod gripped his head with his hands, as if his skull was ready to explode. “This can’t be happening!”

  “You’re the one who brought us here, Patrick.” She ripped a length of cloth with her teeth. “Whatever told you we needed to come to Wormwood – your gut or your crystal ball - what does it say about these girls? Is it telling you how we can save them without taking out half the convent? Read the damn tea leaves and let us in on it.”

  The Scot dragged a hand down his face. “I won’t be the trigger man on this. Don’t have the stomach for it.”

  Freezing while in the middle of tying a bandage, Rossi confessed in a low voice, “Don’t know if I can do it, either. I’ll try, but...”

  “I will,” said Khoury, slumping against the barn wall. “I can do it.”

  “You’re a priest,” said Rossi.

  “You’ve lost someone to violence,” added MacLeod.

  “That’s why I can do it.” He looked from one partner to the other. “As a man of God, I truly believe we’re fighting for those girls’ souls. It’s as if I’m fighting for my daughter’s soul.”

  A gust of wind and hail buffeted the barn.

  Peering through the window in the girls’ room, the young nun watched the hail bounce off the porch roof. “Shit.”

  The girls stopped coloring and giggled.

  “This isn’t working,” the nun said. “The hail isn’t hitting hard enough.”

  “Especially while they’re in the barn,” said Babette, who resumed her coloring.

  The nun turned around. “What? They’re in the barn? Did you see them go in? How do you know?”

  “I just do,” said Babette.

  “Stop showing off, Fatty,” said Cecelia.

  Adeline looked at the drawing under her hands. “Stupid pearls.”

  “Stupid barn,” the nun said to the window. She spun back around. “The barn. Draw the barn.”

  Adeline ripped the pearl drawing off the pad and started with a fresh sheet of paper. Reaching for her colors, she started pulling out a crayon.

  “That’s got too much orange in it,” said Babette. “The dark one. Use that.”

  “Hurry,” said the nun.

  Adeline’s arm moved in broad, bold, hurried strokes.

  “Help her, C.C.,” said the nun.

  “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea,” Cecelia said. “What if...”

  “Chicken,” said the nun.

  With reluctance, Ceclia pulled out a crayon. “I’m not a chicken.”

  “What about Fatty?” asked Adeline as she started in on the roof.

  “Shut up,” said Babette. “Stop calling me that!”

  “I’ve got a special assignment for you,” the nun said to Babette.

  “Hah, hah.” The girl grinned and stuck her tongue out at her sisters.

  “Your tongue is fat, too,” said Cecelia.

  “That’s enough.” The nun went to one of the beds and began pulling back the linen. “Where’d you hide it?”

  Adeline: “Under the pillow.”

  The nun lifted the pillow and snatched the lighter. Examined the amount of fluid left in it. Almost empty. “We’re going to make this quick. I have to get out of here.”

  He’d stood motionless at the window for so long, the abbess wondered if he was real. If any of it was real. “What do you find so fascinating?” she asked tiredly.

  “The barn.”

  She got up and went to the window. Inhaled sharply and ran to her desk.

  “Drop that phone, Mother,” he said without turning around.

  Slowly, she set the receiver in the cradle. “The other sisters will see. They’ll call.”

  “They’re preoccupied on the other side of the house, baking your blessed bread,” he said to the open blinds. “By the time they notice, it’ll be burned to the ground.”

  The abbess pressed her fist into her bosom. “So they’re inside, all three of them.”

  “What do you think? They set fire to Sister Rose to get rid of her, and now they set fire to the barn.” He turned away from the blinds and smirked. “And who, pray tell, gave our three little hellions a book of matches?”

  She smiled. “A lighter.”

  “Take the girls. Take that young man they healed, for protection.”

  “But...”

  “There’ll be too many questions. Even if they’re eliminated, they’ve told too many people about their suspicions. Others will come here, to carry on their work. To take possession of our daughters.”

  “My sisters...”

  “Don’t tell them anything. Just go.”

  “I can’t leave them. Our mission work, the bakery...”

  “I’ll handle it. They’ll never have to worry about bread again.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Run!” he roared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A blast of frigid air raced through the barn, rattling the hardware hanging from the beams and sending a chill down MacLeod’s back. Shivering, he ran his eyes around the dim space.

  Rossi froze in the middle of tying off a bandage. “What the hell was that?”

  “The wind, sweetheart. Keep your head on your nursing.”

  The instant he and Rossi set foot in the barn, MacLeod had sensed something was wrong. The dank air quivered with anticipation. The simmering surface of the water before the pot starts to boil. He’d blamed his wariness on tension and exhaustion. The addition of the priest had somehow intensified the energy, however. Any second, something ominous would start rolling. Until then he didn’t want to alarm his partners, or give them another reason to question him.

  Another draft and more tool rattling. Reminded him of the sticks he used to clack together during his mum’s séances.

  “There it is again,” said Rossi.

  “We have a saying in the old country,” he said lightly.

  “Oh, good. Another one.”

  “The devil’s boots don’t creak.”

  “Which means?”

  “When the worst comes your way, you’ll be getting no warning.”

  “Comforting,” Khoury said.

  Rossi tied off one last rag and patted Khoury’s shoulder. “That should do it, Ryan.”

  The priest held his wrapped arms straight out in front of him. “Nice job.”

  MacLeod studied the man sitting with a torn white shirt and stiff arms encased in white rags. A strip of white tied around his head. “Pair of white trousers and you’d make a fine mummy, your holiness.”

  An extended gust shot through the barn, tipping the oil lamp onto the bale. As they all turned to look, the cube of hay exploded into flames.

  “Bugger!” MacLeod ran over and beat the hay with his blazer. Two bales next to it caught fire. Two more.

  Rossi joined the fight with her suit coat. Rather than help, her jacket caught fire. She dropped it on the ground and stomped on it. “The lamp wasn’t lit!”

  “Forget it!” MacLeod barked. “Get out!”

  Khoury jumped to his feet and pushed Rossi toward the exit hole. Before they c
ould reach it, the entire back of the barn went up in flames. A floor-to-ceiling wall of fire. “Son-of-a-bitch!” she yelled.

  MacLeod dropped his jacket and fell away from the fire, shielding his face in the crook of his arm. “Jesus!”

  The trio ran to the opposite wall and tried to slide the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. “Locked from the outside!” Khoury hollered.

  The blaze raced up the sides of the barn, closing in around them with a fiery embrace. Above their heads, the loft erupted with a loud whoosh. Flaming strands of hay showered down on them like red rain, and they covered their heads with their arms.

  “Here!” yelled MacLeod, coughing and side-kicking in a corner to the right of the doors. The corner was a weak spot, with daylight seeping in through the rotten, jagged bottoms of the boards. But the wood wasn’t giving; with each blow, it bounced back. His gut wound throbbed from the exertion. The air was hot and thick with smoke, and he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth.

  Rossi worked on the slat to the left of MacLeod’s target, bringing her heel down low and hard. The Scot heard coughing and banging beyond Rossi. Khoury was trying to kick their way out.

  While the men went at it, Rossi stepped back and pulled out her cell. Prayed that she could get a signal. She blindly fingered the keypad until the screen lit up and pushed 9-1-1. She told the emergency dispatcher where they were. That they were trapped. The emergency dispatcher switched her to the fire dispatcher. The male fire dispatcher told Rossi that the convent had called in the barn fire, but didn’t say someone was inside.

  Rossi: “We’re inside! The door is locked from the outside! Tell them to unlock it! Tell them!”

  Fire Dispatcher: “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  Rossi: “Sam! Samantha Rossi!”

  Fire Dispatcher: “How many are inside the barn?”

  Rossi, hacking: “Three! Three of us! Hurry!”

  Fire Dispatcher: “We got help on the way, ma’am. We have fire and we have police en route.”

  Rossi, coughing hard: “An ambulance! We need...”

  Fire Dispatcher: “What are your injuries?”

  Rossi: “I...I don’t know.”

  Fire Dispatcher: “Okay. We have a paramedic en route. You can’t get out?”

  Rossi: “The door is locked from the outside!”

  Fire Dispatcher: “Ma’am, stay calm. Help is on the way.”

  Rossi: “Tell the nuns to unlock it! Tell them!”

  Fire Dispatcher: “Ma’am, stay with me here. Try to calm...”

  Rossi hung up on him. Her eyes and nostrils were burning. She smelled singed hair and wondered if it was her own. She could hear MacLeod to her right, doing more coughing than kicking. When Rossi extended her arm to her left, she felt nothing. Khoury was down. Dropping to all fours, she patted the ground. Touched a bandaged arm and a shoulder. He was on his knees. Her hands traveled to his face. “Ryan?”

  “Alive,” he wheezed, and coughed.

  Not for long, she thought. She felt the heat at her back. We’re all dead. She reached out and put her hand over Khoury’s.

  On the other side of her, MacLeod stopped kicking. All she heard was his coughing. He’d given up.

  Suddenly MacLeod grabbed Rossi by her collar and yanked her to her feet. “Bloody hell!”

  She spun around. Couldn’t believe it. Wiped her smoke-clouded eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. “Christ!”

  “Tis Him who saved us,” said MacLeod.

  Coughing violently, Khoury crawled to his feet and saw what they saw.

  As if doused by an invisible flood of water, the flames were sputtering and shrinking. Retreating lower and lower to the ground, leaving scorched, smoldering wood. The sky was visible through the charred holes in the roof, but it wasn’t on fire; it was barely smoking. The flames that had raced up and around the walls were dying in a slow dance along the perimeter, sinking and disappearing into the floor. Even the smoke was melting into the ground.

  MacLeod cleared his throat, spitting a gray wad of ash and phlegm onto the ground. “There’s your blessed miracle, your holiness.”

  Khoury coughed twice, shook his head and pointed to the ceiling.

  “No, no, no,” MacLeod chanted.

  Rossi covered her ears. The ominous sizzle and pop of the fire was being replaced by the loud crack of breaking boards.

  Above them, the blackened ceiling was puckering. Sagging and creaking. The walls, too, were crumpling. It wasn’t the gradual collapse that might follow a fire – a shingle tumbling here or a beam falling there – but a complete and sudden disintegration. The entire barn was falling inward.

  A paper lunch bag getting all the air sucked out of it.

  The barn door shook and rattled. All three of them pivoted around to face it, and backed away from it.

  “Watch out!” MacLeod bellowed, holding his hands out in front of him.

  Instead of falling on them, it slid open.

  Daylight.

  Someone had thrown the door wide open.

  From behind, strong arms wrapped around Rossi. As she was dragged outside, she flayed her arms around in a frantic dogpaddle. Who was carrying her? It was Patrick. Where was Ryan? He stumbled outside behind them. They were out. All three of them had made it out.

  The barn shuddered and folded, making a thunderous racket. All that was left was a cloud of ash and dust suspended over a pile of burned sticks.

  The trio dropped into the grass, under the canopy of an old oak. Khoury propped his back against the trunk. The bandages slipped off, revealing the cuts and punctures. The priest scraped a layer of soot and sweat from his face, only to have a trickle of blood snake down the middle of his forehead. Several of the nuns were in the yard, and two of the younger ones went down next to Khoury, fussing over his cuts. They were both pretty, with small hands and creamy faces. The priest didn’t seem to mind the attention and the Scot wished for a minute that he had a battle wound that required nursing.

  As MacLeod sat on the grass, he felt the hailstones under him. They were cold. He gathered up a fistful. They weren’t fake pearls, but ice. MacLeod scrambled to his feet and pulled Rossi up with him. He tipped the contents of his hand into her palm. “I’ll wager we were the only ones who were assailed by the beads.”

  She scouted the ground around them. “Was it a miracle? An illusion?”

  MacLeod hurled the melting hailstones to the ground. “Who knows?”

  More nuns ran outside to investigate the commotion. One walked a circle around the smoking hill of wood that used to be the barn. A couple of them milled about the driveway, looking toward the road. Probably hoping to see fire trucks.

  Then it occurred to MacLeod:

  Both the nun mobile and the green car were gone from the driveway.

  Before he and Rossi could find out who’d left the premises, a gaggle of nuns clustered around them. It was not a prayer meeting.

  “What were you doing in our barn?” asked an older sister, an apron tied around her wide waist and a smudge of flour on her nose.

  MacLeod thought she was the one who’d opened the door. “Cheers to you for letting us out.”

  “Saw smoke and went outside to hose it down. Heard you banging.” The apron nun put her hands on her hips. “What were you doing?”

  From behind her glasses, another nun’s eyes narrowed. “You started it, didn’t you? You were mad that we threw you out, so you set the barn on fire. Got locked inside.”

  MacLeod recognized the accuser as one of the baseball bat nuns. “We didn’t start anything, Lass...Miss...Sister.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She pushed her pop bottles up the bridge of her nose. “When the sheriff gets here, you’re going to be in it up to your eyeballs.”

  MacLeod realized that the scariest of the nuns wasn’t in the yard. Surely the boss would have come outside to investigate. “Where is your abbess?”

  Rossi ran her eyes around the yard. “And where’s the blind
girl?”

  Behind them, the house shuddered.

  Rossi and MacLeod spun around.

  The house shuddered again. Everyone stopped what they were doing and saying and focused on the convent. An icy wind blew through the yard, and the windows of the farmhouse rattled. One of the nuns put her hand over her mouth and another said: “Earthquake?”

  A third nun screamed someone’s name. “Jane!”

  MacLeod started for the porch steps, with Rossi and Khoury at his heels. The Scot put one foot on the first step, and was blown backwards, knocking over his partners.

  The high-pitched cries of the women in the yard were cut short, drowned out by the din of the imploding building. The glass gave way first, the windows popping all at once as the unseen force sucked them inside. The roof sagged lower and lower, until it disappeared from the skyline entirely. The clapboard sides bent inward around the middle, resisted for a second or two, then snapped and cracked and splintered, as if squeezed in the fist of an invisible giant.

  Sprawled on their backs, Rossi and MacLeod and Khoury struggled to sit up, but were pressed back. Held down by a gale. Showered with debris, all they could do was close their eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  As the trio shook off the glass and splinters, emergency rigs pulled down the driveway.

  The nuns had been knocked down, too. As the women helped each other to their feet, they were weeping. “The oven!” one of them wailed.

  Rossi and Khoury and MacLeod looked at each other. They knew that wasn’t the cause.

  The baseball bat nun, her glasses gone, ran up to MacLeod, shrieking and pulling on his arm. “Help them! Get them out!”

  The Scot and his partners limped over to the ruins and started lifting boards.

  “Hey!” hollered a fireman, hopping off a big rig. “Get away from there!”

  “They’re trapped!” yelled one of the younger nuns.

  “How many?” asked another fireman.

  “Five,” said the one in the apron, her eyes tearing. “Including our youngest. Sister Jane.”

  A pair of sheriff’s deputies moved the crowd back while a crew of firefighters picked through the debris.