“Are you sure it was Brother Ignatio?” Father Juarez pressed him.
“I am certain,” he replied. “It could be no other.”
On Sunday, Father Juarez presided over Mass, and for the first time in a very long while, he was acutely aware of the fact that the foundation of this building was filled with bones. The bodies of those he’d had killed lay here beneath the nave, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether it was his own intemperate and misguided decision to inter them there that had led to this pass.
What did God think of his actions? Father Juarez wondered. He had prayed for forgiveness times too numerous to count and had often asked for a sign, though none had been provided. Was he forgiven? Did the Lord look into his heart and see contrition there, repentance?
Maybe Brother Ignatio had taken his own life.
Maybe he had known he would not get into heaven.
That night, Father Juarez made his rounds, checked to make sure the slaves were locked in, then went into the chapel, where he lit another candle for Brother Ignatio before kneeling in front of the altar to pray. The chapel was cold and dark, lit only by the flickering votive candles in the alcove. He was halfway through his prayer, reciting the litany of individuals for whom he was asking blessings, when he heard a noise behind him.
The shuffling of sandaled feet on the floor.
He continued with his litany, willing himself not to speed through the names of those to be blessed. It was probably one of the other friars come to pray or perhaps light a candle. But he did not really think that, and it took all of the self-discipline he possessed to concentrate on his entreaty to God and not open his eyes to see who was coming up behind him.
The shuffling feet drew closer.
His focus was not on his prayer. His attention was divided, and he knew that God knew, and he made the decision to start over again and devote his mind, heart and soul to speaking with the Lord to the complete exclusion of all else—after he opened his eyes and turned around to see who was there.
Father Juarez did stop praying, and he did open his eyes, and he did turn around. Despite the fears lurking at the back of his mind, he really did expect to see one of the friars or, at the very worst, Brother Ignatio’s wavery, transparent shade. He was not prepared for what he actually saw, a horror so unexpected that it caused him to cry out and cross himself even as he stepped backward toward the safety of the altar.
For while the spirit before him was Brother Ignatio, or had been, it was disfigured almost beyond recognition. The entire form possessed the color and consistency of shadow, save for the whiteness of the wildly grinning mouth, which was Brother Ignatio’s mouth but corrupted, just as the faintly glowing eyes deep within the recesses of the distended face were Brother Ignatio’s eyes, augmented by … something else.
The effect was ghastly, a dreadful abomination so far from God’s conception of human that he felt damned just gazing upon it.
The figure spoke to him in a voice aged and cracked and filled with the knowledge of hell, and even as Father Juarez ran out the side door of the chapel, crying out in terror, he heard the threats made against him, atrocities of the flesh he could never have imagined. He expected to be followed but was not, and in the courtyard he stopped, breathing heavily, and looked to the heavens, begging the Lord for deliverance from this evil.
No stars could be seen from this spot. It was as if those lights of heaven winking in the firmament had been extinguished. He knew that was not the case; they no doubt could be seen elsewhere in the world. But they were invisible from this location, and the darkness above the church was complete.
He realized he was babbling as he pleaded with God to put an end to this horror, but he realized as well that he had brought it upon himself, that it was his retributive decision to order the deaths of those natives that had led to this torment. He had usurped the authority of the divine and was being punished for his sins, and God would not hear his pleas, no matter how much he implored the Almighty to spare him.
The wind whispered his name, laughingly, and Father Juarez turned to see from whence the voice had come. All was still, all was dark, but the wind returned and with it the whisper of his name.
All was not as still as it seemed, however. There was a lantern hung from a post holding up the roof of the soldiers’ barracks. It creaked in the wind, drawing his attention, and by its faint yellow light, he saw something slithering on the ground, a monster of mud and leaf, twig and clay, a cousin to the Serpent. It maneuvered through the garden toward him, and it was this that was the source of the whispers, this that was calling his name. As it approached, it began to rise up, this unholy atrocity, and on its elongated head, even in the gloom, Father Juarez saw features of the face that he recognized, that he knew.
The monster whispered his name. Laughed.
He ran to his quarters, awakening all, screaming with the onset of madness.
Twenty-three
There was no courthouse in Jardine, so anytime Claire was required to appear before a judge, whether for a hearing or a trial, she had to drive the fifty miles to Amarejo, the county seat, an arduous trip that inevitably consumed the better part of a working day. Even early morning appearances required an hour’s drive there and back, in addition to the waiting time in court and the length of the meeting itself, so the best she could hope for was a return to Jardine by noon or one o’clock.
Today’s preliminary hearing for Oscar Cortinez was not scheduled for the early morning. It was set for eleven thirty, which meant it would probably be postponed until after lunch. In court parlance, that meant two o’clock. So she doubted she’d be home before five. To make matters worse, she had to attend an eight-o’clock deposition for the Seaver divorce, which the lawyer of her client’s soon-to-be-ex-husband refused to conduct in Jardine. So she needed to get up early, leave the house early, and spend the entire day in Amarejo, with probably a significant amount of downtime between the deposition and the hearing.
She let the kids sleep in, but if she had to get up early, Julian had to get up early, and she prodded him awake, telling him to make coffee and get breakfast ready while she dressed and put on her makeup. Breakfast consisted of an overtoasted bagel, but at least the coffee was good, and she drank two cups to ensure that she would remain awake for the long, boring drive. “I may be back late,” she warned Julian. “So if I don’t get back in time, or the kids get hungry, there’s leftover chicken in the refrigerator and fish sticks in the freezer. If you guys want, you can make Pasta Roni or macaroni and cheese.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Julian told her.
She double-checked her briefcase to make sure she had all pertinent forms and paperwork for both the deposition and the hearing, packed her laptop in its case, made sure she had enough money to buy lunch, turned on her cell phone and gave Julian a kiss before stepping outside. “Be careful,” she told him. She wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, but he nodded, and that reassurance buoyed her as she walked out to the van in the driveway and pushed the button on her key to remotely unlock the doors. She waved good-bye to Julian one last time before he went back into the house.
To her left, Claire sensed movement, and she quickly turned her head in that direction. There was a man walking down the sidewalk toward her, an average-size man of medium build wearing a backward yellow baseball cap. She’d seen him around before, but it seemed odd for him to be out this early in the morning. He could be exercising, she thought, but he was not running, jogging or even walking fast, and the closer he came, the more uncomfortable Claire felt.