He stopped his pacing and crossed his arms.
Actually, the candles gave him an idea.
Maybe the police were the wrong call; maybe he ought to look in a different direction. Candles were used in ceremonies and services, weren’t they? And who would know more about ceremony than the church?
He grabbed his satchel of books, notebooks, and pens and dashed downstairs, taking them two at a time.
When he reached the secretary, he was panting, but determined. “Ma’am,” he said to Francis, “What kind of churches do you have here on the island?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Churches. For worship. Where people go on Sundays and the like—a chapel, or a . . . I don’t know. What’s the population like here?”
“Ours is a fine and spiritual population, Samuel, but there aren’t that many of us and there are only two churches between here and the mainland.”
“Excellent. What kind are they?”
She shrugged and twirled a pencil in an idle manner. “They’re just normal churches. You know.”
“Normal? You mean Christian?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“So you don’t attend services yourself?” Sam asked, realizing that the question was a touch personal and possibly inappropriate.
But if the implication offended Francis, she didn’t show it. She twirled the pencil again and stuffed it behind her ear. “I go sometimes. But I don’t go all the time.”
The phone made a tinny ring.
The secretary pointed at it, letting her hand hover for a few seconds while she answered the question she knew he’d ask next. “Go out to the main drag and take a left. It’s half a mile or so down, on the right.” Then she lifted the receiver and turned away to speak into it.
Sam backed out, then twisted his feet around to carry himself forward.
The courthouse was a small building, barely any bigger than a house, and it was made from a combination of stucco and coquina with long, tall windows, ostensibly to keep it cool. Sam didn’t think the construction worked until he stepped outside and found it even hotter in the sun than it had been in the attic.
He checked his watch and noted with some relief that the sun would be down in an hour. Night wouldn’t bring anything close to a chill, but at least the blazing light would be aimed elsewhere and the ocean air could blow the muggy afternoon away.
Sam thought of the courtyard, and of the infuriating fact that every time he visited, there was something new and disgusting left behind to greet him. He thought of Dave, who was happy to see nothing, hear nothing, and know nothing so long as he got paid and got to take a nap in the afternoon.
And he thought of the insulting letters and the ticking clock, and he knew he was running out of options. He would try this church, and he would try the courtyard one more time—that night, which might be the last opportunity before he was forced to go home to Bradenton.
First, the church. Then, the courtyard. He could hide himself behind the banyan tree at the courtyard’s edge, and from there, he could watch through the archway and see for himself if anything sinister was at work.
Left, Francis had said.
Left into the packed-dirt street he went, and up onto the curb to avoid what small amount of traffic traveled it. Along the main drag there were a handful of stores and a market, where seagulls argued amongst themselves in the yards, bickering over scraps of trash and food. They fussed and flapped, but they hopped out of the way on their pale, webbed feet when Sam went striding past.
All the stores looked more or less the same. They were cracker shacks painted with light colors to deflect the sun, and some had porches wrapped with wire mosquito mesh.
At the market, a sign advertised Coca-Cola and pointed at a chest that overflowed with ice and sawdust. A puddle pooled beneath it, and sparrows took the opportunity to bathe themselves there, flipping their wings and splashing happily. A tin tub filled with water held stalks of sugarcane, submerged by a screen to keep the flies off them. Two little boys poked at the screen.
Three big carts of oranges were displayed in the shade of a striped cloth overhang. On either end were other bins. One held light green limes the size of plums, and the other was stacked with mangoes and grapefruit.
But Sam didn’t see any sign of a church. He reached the end of the strip and looked left and right, finally spying a white board building offset behind the stores, toward the beach. If it weren’t for the steeple, Sam would’ve assumed that it was just another house.
His initial impression changed only slightly as he approached. A narrow path went from the dirt avenue to the church’s door, which was positioned up a few stairs onto a narrow porch.
A plain brown sign with white letters identified the spot as OUR LADY OF THE WATER and suggested that services were held on Sunday mornings and evenings, with a midweek Wednesday vespers for those who were interested.
If Sam squinted, he could make out a shape up at the top of the steeple; but it was difficult to identify. He was just concluding that it was the strangest rendering of the Virgin Mary he’d ever seen when the front door creaked open and a tall, gray-haired man emerged.
He was lean, with hands and feet that were too large for his frame. His face disagreed with his hair; he looked too young for it to have gone so thoroughly salt and peppered. He wore a short-sleeved black shirt that could’ve belonged to any priest or reverend, and light linen pants that fluttered around his ankles.
He stopped, doorknob in hand, and lifted an eyebrow as he studied Sam.
“Hi,” Sam said. “I was—I don’t mean to bother you or anything, and obviously you weren’t expecting me, but Francis down at the courthouse told me about your church, and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute. If this is your church, I mean. I’m not trying to imply that it isn’t, or that you don’t belong here,” he added quickly, unsure of what was making him so uneasy. “It’s just . . . I’m sorry. It’s been a weird few days, that’s all.”
“I see,” the minister said. He lowered the eyebrow and closed the door behind himself without bothering to lock it. “And you are . . . ?”
“I’m sorry. I’m Samuel Lee. I’m an insurance adjuster from, well, I work with the fire company over in Bradenton. I’m here in town with Dave Brendt.”
The minister nodded. “Welcome to the island, Samuel. I’m Henry, and this is our little sanctuary. I’m afraid I can offer you only a few minutes of my time at the moment, as I’m on my way to visit a parishioner, but if you’d like to walk with me, perhaps? I might be able to assist you.”
Sam worked up a smile and some thanks, even though he was almost disappointed. He didn’t want to talk to Henry anymore. He rather wanted to run away from Henry, but that was an irrational way to feel and he knew it, so he forced it back and waited at the bottom of the steps.
Henry joined him shortly, stepping down toe-first into the sandy yard.
“And what can I do for you this afternoon, Samuel from the fire company?” He had a way of speaking quickly while still pronouncing every letter in every word, as if he were reading aloud from an unseen page.
“Ah. Well.” He fell into step beside the minister, whose long strides covered a lot of ground with effortless swiftness. “I suppose you know about the house on the west side of the island? The empty one, where—”
“The Murder House,” Henry supplied.
“The Murder House? Yes, I guess that’s what they’d call it. But I try to avoid that designation. I was asked to come here and examine it for Salvador Langan, a gentleman from Pennsylvania who is interested in purchasing it.”
Together they reached the main road again and turned right, away from the courthouse and away from the murder house, too. If they stuck to the edge of the unpaved strip, enough trees overhung the shoulder to keep them shaded.
“I can hardly blame you for your discretion. But I must assume that Mr. Langan is aware of the house’s history, is he not?”
“O
h, he heard about the murder, sure. I don’t know how many details he ever found out, and I don’t think he much cares. Mostly he wanted someone to take a look and tell him if the structure is sound and the grounds are intact.”
“And you were the lucky man to land the task?”
“Mr. Langan is a friendly acquaintance of the fire chief in Bradenton, and I wasn’t important enough to keep close to the station. I don’t fight fires or anything. I’m a pencil pusher, that’s all.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Henry said. “If you weren’t up to the task, I doubt Langan’s friend would’ve chosen to rely on you. Now, you said you were accompanied by someone else as well?”
“Dave. He is a fireman, but as far as I can tell, he’s just along for the ride. I think he sees the whole trip as an excuse to go drinking on the beach—begging your pardon there, sir. Or is it reverend? I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just unclear on what kind of church this is, or how I ought to address you.”
“‘Henry’ is fine. Now, the murder house,” Henry said again. “You wanted to ask me something about it.”
“I did, in a roundabout way. Or maybe it’s not so roundabout, I’m not sure.”
“Then I’d ask that you do your best to be direct, and brief. I don’t mean to cut you short, but we’re nearing my destination and I’m afraid that it’s a private kind of call, you understand.”
“Oh yes, yes. I understand. It’s just that the more directly I phrase it, the stranger it sounds. But here’s the long and short of it: I think something strange is happening in the courtyard behind the house, and I think it might involve some kind of religious ceremony.”
Henry didn’t miss or skip a step. “Do you, now?”
“I do, yes. I know it sounds bizarre, but when I went there with Dave and we were looking around the place—”
“I thought you were only there to check for structural issues.”
“Structural issues, sure. But we noticed something while we were there. And Mr. Langan did ask specifically about the grounds. And frankly, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, Henry. Frankly, Henry, I’m a very thorough man. Even when I’m not being somewhat preposterously overpaid for a small errand, I try to be meticulous in my assignments, so I truly feel compelled to treat this as methodically as possible.”
“Admirable of you,” the minister said. “And I mean that. It’s good of you to go to so much trouble on your client’s behalf. Though I can’t help but wonder if theological investigations fall under your assignment’s specifications.”
“Ordinarily I’d say that they absolutely don’t. But there’s nothing ordinary about the murder house, almost by definition, wouldn’t you say? Something terrible happened there, and now something unusual is happening in the same place. The distant buyer has a right to know what goes on at the property, if he’s going to be persuaded to invest a sizable amount of money in it. Don’t you think?”
“I do think, yes.”
Instinctively, Sam reached for his satchel and began to fiddle with the buckle, but he stopped himself. “It’s just that there are candles, fires, and . . . and blood.”
“Blood? There was blood on the scene? Perhaps you don’t need a minister after all; it sounds like you should contact the police.”
“I tried that,” he mumbled. “But they don’t care, and I think there’s something going on—and I think it has something to do with the statue.”
“The statue?”
Sam got the distinct feeling that Henry was directing the flow of conversation while trying very, very hard not to appear interested in it. “Yes, the statue,” Sam said again. “In a corner of the courtyard there’s a statue of a woman. I’ve never seen anything like it. I think it’s the centerpiece, or the altar, if you will.”
And then, because the right ideas collided in his head at precisely that moment, he added, “I think they’re worshipping her. It. I think they’re worshipping it.”
The minister dragged his expansive gait to a halt. “My goodness. That’s quite an accusation there, Samuel.”
“It’s not an accusation, really—”
“Well, it’s quite an assumption, or speculation. I’m sure things are different on the mainland, but this is a close-knit community. We all know each other, and we’re all friends.”
“And I’m not trying to suggest—”
“Regardless of what you’re trying to do, please, for your own sake, don’t wander the island asking about such things. Though your intentions are honorable, they’re guaranteed to be misinterpreted. People will think you’re accusing them of witchcraft, or worse, and it won’t make you any friends.”
“I’m not trying to make friends, exactly. I’m only trying to do my job.”
Henry shook his head. “It sounds to me like your job has been done, and done well. And I’m afraid that I must leave this conversation now, for I’ve reached my destination.” He indicated a bright white home with black shutters and an American flag hanging from the porch pole. “Mrs. Engle is a shut-in, and I’m running late for our weekly supper and—” He lowered his voice and winked. “—card game.”
“Thank you,” Sam told him. “And I want you to know, I appreciate your time. You’re right, I mean, you’re perfectly right. But if—well, could I ask you a favor?”
“Quickly, Samuel. Mrs. Engle doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Could you—if you think of anything—could you drop me a note in the post? Just so I can demonstrate that I tried every outlet, you understand.”
Henry smiled and took Sam’s hand to shake it. “Absolutely. If you could leave a forwarding address with Francis at the courthouse, or drop it off at the church—I’d be happy to do that for you.”
“Thank you,” Sam said, still shaking the minister’s hand. He released it and waved as the lanky man went up the walk to the bright white house, and once Henry had disappeared inside, Sam slumped again.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked back in the direction of the courthouse, strolling slowly and with a sulk.
Henry hadn’t seemed half so surprised as a clergyman ought to be when confronted with the prospect of dark rituals among members of his flock. Especially for a flock that was, as he’d been fast to point out, close-knit.
And isolated, Sam added as an afterthought. The ferry ride wasn’t too prohibitive, but it was inconvenient enough to prevent people from taking it any more often than was strictly necessary. So there was no fast way onto the island.
And no fast way off it, either.
May the Circle Be Unbroken
Sam was on his way back to the courthouse when he passed the turn-off that would take him back to the church. In the middle of the road he stopped. He hesitated. Could the church be considered public property? Henry had said it was an institution that took all comers. That was practically like declaring it a public place.
Wasn’t it?
He could take a quick look around outside, and satisfy some of his curiosity. That much was definitely fair game—and required the breaking of no rules or laws. At worst, it could be described as a friendly case of trespassing.
Before he had time to change his mind, Sam glanced both ways to see if he was being watched, and determined that he wasn’t. He turned on his heel and changed direction, away from the courthouse and toward the church.
He crept, nearly tiptoeing through the sandy dirt even though he’d convinced himself he was doing nothing wrong. When he realized he was sneaking, he stood up straighter and walked with less care. It even occurred to him that he might want to make some noise, in case someone was inside. Inquiring at a church was one thing; slinking up to one was something else altogether.
He climbed the steps and reached for the latch.
What would he say if he found other people inside? Oh yes. He’d promised to leave a forwarding address so Henry could contact him later. It was perfectly true, after all.
He wrapped his hand around the latch and squeezed it
, and the door swung inward.
It was not bright inside. It took Sam’s eyes several seconds to adjust, and when they did, he was not at first sure what he was seeing.
Everything looked normal enough at a glance. The sanctuary held two rows of wood pews. Up front there was an altar, and a podium. The tall windows were narrowly designed and didn’t let much light pass through, and the dimming effect was enhanced by the painted or stained touches on the glass. Between the darkly decorative vegetation and the watery blue light filtering past the windows, the room looked and felt like the bottom of a tide pool.
“Hello?” Sam called, not very loud and not very insistently. “Is there anyone here?”
No one answered, so he pushed himself all the way inside and shut the door. Once he was cut off in the semidarkness, he found the place truly oppressive. The heat was so thick and dense that it was as if he were trying to breathe through a barber’s towel; and without the crack of daylight from the open door, the interior was so bleak that Sam could barely see to walk around.
He went down the aisle between the pews, checking the windows and noting that the colored glass laid out scenes of some kind. But the scenes were too abstract to make much sense. He thought he saw seashells and fish, and maybe a spindly-legged shrimp.
“What kind of church is this?” he asked himself, since there was no reticent minister handy to dodge the question.
The altar was a wide slab made of dark wood that had been polished until it gleamed. An inscription was carved on one side. At first glance Sam assumed it was a note from Christian communion: Do this in remembrance of me.
He looked closer, and saw that he was wrong. Instead of Jesus’ request, the letters spelled out, remember us, as we remember you. Sam’s voice was loud and scratchy in the dim, closed-up chapel. “Hello?” he tried again, but again he received no response.
Still, he did not feel alone.
A prickly, chilly sensation tickled the back of his neck. He wiped at it with the back of his hand.