Sacrifice (25 page)

“There’s no constable,” Dave said. “You guys ran past me shouting about him, but no one followed you. There’s no cop car outside and no constable inside. I figured it had to be the Woodsman.”

Paul appeared at the other end of the hall. He had an unaccustomed grim look of determination on his face.

“Let’s get back to work,” Paul said.

Chapter Fifty-Four

When the three got downstairs Jeff and Ken were already at the bed stone.

“You guys okay?” Ken asked.

Dave looked at Bob. Bob screwed up his face in indignation. “Shit, yeah.”

The trap door opened and Marc came up the stairs from the basement. He carried the sack of bones. He looked paler than usual.

“You all right?” Ken asked.

Marc nodded. “Yeah. Hey, there’s no constable down there. I think it was—“

“We know,” Ken said. He pulled the sack from Marc’s hands. “We all stay in Dave’s sight for the rest of this.”

The boys trained their flashlights on the bed stone. Ken dumped the bones in a pile in the center. He swept every bone flake into the pile. He pulled the packet of lye from his pocket and sprinkled it on the bones.

Bob pulled out a container of lighter fluid and squeezed a trail around the rim of the bed stone. Each of the boys put their contribution along the edge: a slice of Marc’s mother’s mink, Dave’s parakeet feather, Ken’s crushed clam shells, Bob’s fish bones, Jeff’s iron filings. Each of the Half Dozen sat cross-legged before their pile. Bob gave each pile a douse of lighter fluid.

“Easy man,” Ken said.

“Relax, I’m the only one of you wussies who knows how to use a lighter.” Bob set the bottle of fluid on the floor
behind him
and sat behind the fish bones.

Paul took out the bottle of holy water from his pocket. “Ready?”

The six looked each other in the eyes, each time with a nod.

“All for none,” Dave said.

“And none for all,” the rest replied.

“Waste him,” Ken said.

Paul reached over and poured the water on the pile of bones. The lye began to smolder. Bob lit a match and touched the bed stone’s rim. A flame raced around the perimeter in both directions. Each pile of offerings burst into flames with a poof when the fire reached it. The two trails met on the other side and the ring of fire closed.

Ken closed his eyes. A picture of the Prayer of St. Severinus of Tours appeared in his mind. He began to read the Latin text.

“
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. In nomine Dominum Jesum Christum, Filium Dei unigentum
ajuvandum me festina.”

The bones sizzled louder. The smoke rose in a spiral swirl. The flames lit the Half Dozen’s faces in an unnatural glow from below. Long shadows swept upward across their anxious expressions.

“Magna opera Domini
.
Munda cor meum ac labia mea.”

A flame broke out over the bones. It hovered an inch above the tip of the pile, like the flame that burns waste gas from refinery pipes.

“
Ego scisco vos ut solvo Thomas Silas.”
Ken called for Silas’s specific crossing from this world.

The mill vibrated like a car over rumble strips. The Half Dozen gripped the underside of the bed stone. The flame over the bones turned bright blue.

“
De Christe, data est mihi omnis potestas in caelo at in terra.”

The floorboards flexed, as if a wave passed just underneath them. Nails popped and flew across the room. Behind Bob, the container of lighter fluid tipped over. Escaped fluid poured across the floor. Firelight reflected off its surface. A trail disappeared between the cracks and dripped into the basement.

“Emite lucem tuam, et veritatem tuam.”

The flame swelled to several feet high and turned bright white. The Half Dozen squinted against the light. The sickening smell of singed hair filled the room. Ken had one final phrase.

“Ipsa me deduxerunt in montem sanctum tuum.”

The flame exploded into a mushroom cloud against the ceiling. The bed stone rose and pulverized the bottom of the millstone. It dropped, crashing through the floor and into the basement. Falling embers hit the wood floor. The spilled lighter fluid erupted into a river of flames.

The smashed floor boards drooped into a consuming vortex. The Half Dozen scrambled for a foothold. Paul grabbed Marc’s arm and launched the two of them away from the gaping hole. Ken scrambled backwards like a terrified crab. Bob and Jeff grabbed exposed wooden columns and hung with their legs over the abyss.

Dave had no time to react. He slid straight down after the bed stone. His fingernails left gouges in the tilted floor. He screamed as he fell into the darkness.

Flames spread across the rest of the floor. The dried timber needed no more accelerant, and it welcomed the advancing fire. Fire stretched across the ceiling like some yellow spider web centered on the shaft over the bed stone. Smoke filled the air, and the usually comforting smell of burned wood now trumpeted danger.

The boys got to solid footing and ran down the basement steps. The fire above lit the basement in a golden glow. The bed stone lay at an angle, embedded in the dirt floor. Dave lay on top of it. His right leg was twisted obscenely. Jagged bone poked through his thigh. His eyes were closed, his face set in a grimace. Four of the five boys stood stunned.

Paul rushed in. He grabbed Dave’s head and turned it towards him. Dave opened his eyes. His pupils were wide as saucers. Sweat poured down his face.

“I can’t look, man,” Dave said. “I can’t feel it, but it’s gonna be bad. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “It’s bad.”

Outside, the siren of the volunteer fire department blared to life. Some astute resident had no doubt seen the flames and called it in. Smoke filled the floor above, and the hole in the floor blew out heat like a blast furnace.

“We gotta get out of here,” Ken said.

“But Dave…” Marc said.

The mill structure moaned as a great, blackened beam above them sagged under the heavy weight of the shingle roof. Sparks showered down like dying fireflies onto the bed stone.

“I got him,” Paul said. He lifted Dave in his arms. “Go!”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Bob, Ken, Marc and Jeff dashed from the burning building. Paul followed with Dave in his arms and headed straight for the stream. The other four hunkered down in the lee of the mill.

Flames engulfed the building’s upper levels. Sirens wailed, and red and blue emergency lights flashed from down at the end of Main Street. They were closing fast. Cops and firemen were on the way. The boys hunched down beside a clump of bushes.

Bob knew they weren’t getting out of this one. He gave the cops about ninety seconds before they arrived. They’d chase any car seen peeling away from an arson scene. Unless they had something else to do.

“Your car’s closest,” Bob said to Jeff. “You three run for it. You don’t want to wade back to mine.”

Jeff and Marc sprinted across to the trail at the millpond’s edge. Ken looked at Bob with dread.

“What are you going to do?” Ken said.

“Buy you guys some time,” Bob said.

“What makes you the one to do that?” Ken said.

“Because the rest of you have a future,” Bob said. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the millpond. “Go find it.”

The police siren was piercingly close. Ken glanced down Main in apprehension.

“All for none, man,” he said. He ran to the millpond trail and disappeared amongst the trees.

Bob sat on the ground and unrolled his pack of cigarettes from his shirt sleeve. An ember had melted a black hole in the center of the pack. The pack had spared his arm a nasty burn.

“And everyone tells me these things are unhealthy,” he said. He shook one from the pack and fired it up. Headlights panned across the bushes, and a Suffolk County cruiser jerked to a stop in front of the burning mill. Two pumper trucks pulled in behind it. Men yelled commands about hoses and hydrants.

Bob blew a cloud of smoke in the air. Splashes echoed down in the stream below the mill. The last two were safe. Or they would be.

The cop began to search the perimeter of the building. As he approached the bushes, Bob stood. His glowing cigarette dangled from his lips.

The cop drew his gun and leveled it at Bob. “Don’t move! Put your hands in the air!”

Bob raised his hands.

Well, this is going to suck, he thought.

At least he’d made the mark he said he’d be happy with. He killed the Woodsman.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Main Street was quiet as Paul carried Dave over the stream embankment and back into the village. The burning mill was a mile away but still lit the night like a torch. Emergency lights flickered between the trees at the mill’s base.

Dave was white as Paul carried him down the sidewalk. There wasn’t much blood loss, but Paul still recognized the onset of shock. Dave needed help before that set in.

“I’ll get you to the hospital,” Paul said.

“No way,” Dave said. He grabbed Paul’s shirt, but his grip was weak. “We’ll all go down. They’ll figure it out.”

Paul knew he was right. But this wasn’t some gangster movie where they had an unlicensed doctor waiting for them in a warehouse.

“I got an idea,” Paul said.

“It may die of loneliness,” Dave managed. His smile was faint as false dawn.

Paul laid Dave on the sidewalk in front of one of the more picturesque older homes. A sturdy maple grew nearby. He pulled Dave’s keys from his pocket.

“When they come out of the house,” Paul said, “you pulled yourself from the car. You were distracted by the fire.”

“What?”

“Repeat it. You pulled yourself from the car. You were distracted by the fire.”

“I pulled myself from the car. I was distracted by the fire.”

“You’re going to be okay.”

Paul ran across the street and behind the village shops. He fired up Dave’s Vista Cruiser and strapped on the seatbelt. He hooked the passenger seatbelt into a loop.

He raced out of the parking lot at twice the posted limit. The heavy Vista leaned hard as he swung her right onto Main Street. He spied the target maple and checked to be sure Dave lay clear. He stomped the pedal, and the big V8 pushed him back into the seat.

The tree approached so fast he barely had time to react. He lay down across the bench seat, grabbed the passenger seat belt and held his breath.

The car slammed into the tree with a symphony of shearing metal and shattered glass. The steering column passed over Paul’s hip and impaled the back of the seat. The engine stopped. The punctured radiator hissed like an angered snake, and a cloud of sweet-smelling antifreeze formed over the crumpled hood.

Paul disconnected his seat belt and kicked open the driver’s door with his foot. He could see Dave on the sidewalk. He opened the passenger door and slid out into the street.

The light on the house snapped on. An older man in a bathrobe looked across at the wrecked car in shock. He got to the gate and saw Dave on the ground.

“Mary! Call the police!” he shouted back to the house.

Paul crouched along the far side of the big wagon and then sprinted across the street. The older man was far too busy with Dave to notice.

Paul had an hour’s walk back home. The light from the mill fire had dimmed. Either the fireman had done their job or the conflagration had run out of fuel. He’d drive down and find out in the morning.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait that long to find out if everyone else made it out safely.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Sunday morning came on cold and cloudy. While the graduates in gowns didn’t miss a blazing sun overhead, the dark sky’s threat of rain had everyone on edge. The Whitman High principal had rolled the dice and gone with the outdoor graduation version since the limited seating in the gym for the indoor version sparked a few fist fights last year. Now it was in the hands of God.

Bleachers flanked the temporary stage by the flagpole at Whitman High’s main entrance. A few thousand folding chairs faced the school, three quarters of them filled with proud parents and family members, most with umbrellas at the ready.

Inside the school, a sea of dark green gowns and bobbing gold tassels filled the hallway. The cacophony of excited voices made the usual cafeteria commotion seem study-hall quiet. Teachers struggled to line up the eight hundred graduates in alphabetical order, only to have an excited student spy a friend and rush over to greet them.

The number two topic of discussion everywhere was the mill fire. It had led WTAL’s quarter-hour news update all weekend. The loss of Sagebrook’s architectural touchstone was unbelievable, on a par with the Hindenburg explosion. The word was out that Bob Armstrong had been arrested at the scene. The hall consensus split into two camps. The first knew all along he was capable of something like that. The second didn’t know who he was. In normal circumstances, the Half Dozen would have been his defenders. But these circumstances were far from normal.