The Calling (12 page)

Inside, I expected to find Grandma playing cards or dominos with Mrs. Roberts, but she was alone. Sitting at her little table, a large box of Cheez-Its open before her. She looked up, startled, when I opened the door, then gave me a weak smile. She asked me how I slept and I lied and told her fine. Next she asked if I was hungry and I told her I wasn’t. Then there was a silence and I saw something in her eyes, a sadness that expressed so many different things.
 

“I’m going back home, aren’t I.” I didn’t even bother making it a question.
 

She nodded slowly. “Sheriff Douglas ... she mentioned it to Dean, and he agrees. With what’s just happened to that poor boy, it’s not a good idea to stay.”
 

But what happened to Joey, I wanted to tell her, might not even be related. In fact, I was pretty certain it
wasn’t
related. Whoever had abducted Joey, it was a different shadow in the corner. It wasn’t mine.
 

“When?” I asked.
 

“Sometime tomorrow. Your uncle wants to take you back personally, but he can’t do it until then. Also, he wants to get you out before your name gets leaked to the papers.”
 

She went on to explain how Sheriff Douglas was afraid the reporters might force a connection with what happened to me down in Lanton. So far neither John’s name nor my own had come up to the press when the official statement was made. They hoped to keep it that way, at least for the time being.
 

“Christopher,” she said then, after a lengthy pause, “I’ll miss you.”
 

I looked at her but didn’t say anything at first. I noticed there was some crust around her eyes, and it took me a few moments to realize that they were dried tears. I wondered how long she’d cried after she found out her only grandchild would be leaving her so soon after they’d been reunited. For some reason beyond my understanding, she really did love me, and it made me sad because I didn’t think I could return the same amount of love.
 

“Yeah,” I whispered finally. “I’ll miss you too.”

•
 
•
 
•

L
IKE
I
’
D
HOPED
, Sarah answered the front door. She held her copy of
Billy Budd
at her side, her index finger keeping her place between the pages.
 

“Hey,” she said, stepping out onto the porch and letting the screen door close. “How are you? I heard what happened. It’s awful.”
 

“How’s your brother?”
 

“Grounded. My dad’s pretty angry. He won’t let John leave the house except for school. He’s not even allowed to work on his Firebird.”
 

I opened my mouth but wasn’t able to speak. There were so many words in my head right at that moment I just couldn’t pick which ones to say. Sarah watched me closely, her blue eyes nervous. They reminded me of how they’d looked yesterday, when she sat on the lawn chair outside my trailer, and I wondered how often that particular look in her eyes surfaced.
 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I managed after a moment. “I just wanted to say goodbye. And, you know, good luck with the baby.”
 

“Thanks,” she said.
 

“It was just—” I didn’t know how to continue without sounding cheesy. Then I realized it didn’t matter. “It was nice meeting you.”
 

“It was nice meeting you too, Chris.”
 

I tried to smile but couldn’t.
 

“Also ... I kind of lied to you earlier.”
 

She frowned. “What do you mean?”
 

“When we were up on the Lookout yesterday. I said I don’t believe in God. That ... that wasn’t true. At least, not completely true.”
 

Still frowning, she said, “Chris, what are you talking about?”
 

“I just ... I felt bad lying to you. Telling you that I don’t believe in God like I did. Because I do believe in God. I believe he’s an absent God. An indifferent God. And lying to you made me realize I’d lied to my parents. They thought I was this perfect son who respected everyone, even God. But I wasn’t even close. I partied on the weekends. I slept around on my girlfriend. I even got her pregnant and then forced her to have an abortion. And the worst part is my parents died thinking I was someone I’m not.”
 

“Why are you telling me this?”
 

“Because when it comes down to it, you can’t trust on God for anything. My parents trusted Him their entire lives, and you know where it got them? It got them murdered. I trusted Him when I was younger, and you know where it got me? It got me being stalked by a psychopath who wants to kill me too. So just keep that in mind with your baby, Sarah. Because even if you believe in God, He doesn’t give a shit. It’s just going to be you and that baby, nobody else.”
 

I stepped back, turned away.
 

“Bye, Sarah,” I said, and walked off the porch and across the lawn, toward Half Creek Road. As with Joey, I didn’t look back and just kept walking. Where I was headed, I didn’t know, but ten minutes later I found myself in front of Shepherd’s Books, the old man on the porch taking his muddy boots off the railing and leaning forward.
 

“And what can I do for you today, young man?”
 

“Today,” I said, “I was hoping you could tell me a story.”

Chapter 12

W
e sat on the second floor, where the old man lived. It was small, almost quaint, and just as dusty as the downstairs. The scent of mint and whiskey was strong. An old television was set up against the wall, with a few framed pictures placed on top. Lewis Shepherd sat in a worn recliner facing the TV. I sat on a threadbare couch that’d had piles of old newspapers and
Life
and
Time
magazines on it, which were now stacked on the floor.
 

I told him John’s version of the Beckett House’s history, highlighting what seemed to be the important parts. Then I asked, “Does any of that sound right to you?”
 

Lewis Shepherd had been staring down at the ugly throw rug almost the entire time. Now he blinked and looked up at me. He shrugged, his face apologetic, and said, “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much. I do remember it was 1953, because I had been fourteen at the time. And I remember Devin Beckett. I guess I’ll always remember him. Your friend got it wrong, though. The man wasn’t a serial killer running around the state. No, his full title was Reverend Devin Beckett.” My mouth must have dropped open, because he chuckled and said, “I know, not quite what you were expecting. But that’s who he was. Besides that ... well, like almost everyone else, I’ve managed to erase what happened from my memory. Because, truth be told, I didn’t want to remember.”
 

He paused then, and I thought that was where the conversation was going to end. Then his brow furrowed, as if he was working out an impossible equation. A second later his dry face lit up and his eyes met mine again. Clapping his hands just like he had yesterday, he hoisted himself up out of the recliner and said, “Follow me.”
 

There were three doors in the hallway, two that were already ajar. Those I could see were the bedroom and bathroom, both looking as cluttered as the living room and the downstairs. But it was the third door he brought us to, the third door that was closed. He gripped the knob, hesitated a moment, then turned it. He pushed open the door and instantly the tang of mothballs and old newsprint hit my nose.
 

After flicking on the light he winked at me. “In case you’re wondering, I’m a packrat.”
 

I’d thought the pile of old newspapers and magazines on the couch had been a bit excessive; that was nothing compared to the boxes and boxes that littered the floor and that were stacked against the walls. Except the room was only half-filled with boxes; everywhere else were stacks of newspapers and magazines, so much so that it made it nearly impossible to walk through.
 

I said, “You’re kidding me, right?”
 

The old man chuckled. “Told you I was a packrat. But it’s really not as bad as it looks. I didn’t save
every
paper. Only the ones that needed saving.”
 

He stepped farther into the room and began rummaging through one of the first boxes, removing full newspapers, until he grabbed one. I barely glanced at the headline when he handed it to me. I recognized the colored photograph on the front page at once and understood just what Lewis Shepherd meant by papers that needed saving.
 

ACT OF WAR
the headline shouted, but it was the plane hanging in the air less than an inch away from the second standing World Trade Center tower that really caught the reader’s attention. Its twin was already coughing black smoke.
 

“All news is important,” he said, taking the paper back from me, “but some news is just more important than the rest. Say, which do you think people remember more—good news or bad news?”
 

“The bad?”
 

“Personally I believe people remember the good news more. Can you guess why? It’s because while the bad news can tear a person’s heart apart, that person eventually forgets. Not because it’s a normal reaction, which it isn’t, but because they force themselves to forget. Think about it this way—our minds are filled with doors. With everything that happens to us, we put those memories behind different doors. Some are good memories, and we make sure that those doors can be opened again. But other memories, the bad memories, we shove right back as far as we can and lock those doors so that they’ll stay shut forever.”
 

He looked around the room, his old eyes scanning each stack of boxes or newspapers.
 

“And I don’t think that’s good for us. Keeping all those bad memories locked inside our heads like that. We need to remember sometimes, no matter how much it hurts. So that’s why I’ve been keeping these, every time something bad happens. Because it’s not good to forget. We need to remember. We need to ...” He stepped forward, hesitated, then glanced back at me. “It happened so long ago, but I know it’s here someplace.”
 

It didn’t take him long. He looked through a half dozen boxes or so, then opened up the closet and began rummaging through the boxes in there. Finally he clapped his hands, announced, “Found it!” and stepped out with one of the oldest newspapers I’d ever seen in his hands. He stared down at it for a long time, squinting his eyes as he read the tiny print. His head went through intervals of slight shaking and nodding, until he sighed and looked up at me.
 

“I hate to say this,” he said, handing me the newspaper, “but some of it’s coming back to me now.”
 

It was
The Advertiser
, dated Thursday, August 20, 1953. I don’t know when the change came in the layout of the majority of newspapers, but by this time they were still using eight thin columns across the page. The column that caught my attention was one of the middle ones, with a black and white picture of what was obviously the Beckett House. The photographer had probably taken the shot early that morning, with hardly any light, because the house seemed even more deviant than ever in the shadows.
 

The headline read LOCAL MASSACRE SHOCKS TOWN, SIXTEEN DEAD. The article went on to detail how fifteen innocent people lost their lives in Bridgeton. The sixteenth person was Devin Beckett, a reverend of Light Hill Church, who in a seemingly strategic series of events murdered eight adults and abducted seven children, forcing the latter to a stone house in the woods where a standoff with police later ensued. Two hours of directionless negotiations led police to try to force Beckett from the house. As a result the entire house was set on fire, killing Beckett and the children inside. The children’s ages ranged from seven months to eleven years old.
 

William Grieves, a constable for Horseheads, was quoted as saying, “We are not happy with how things ended. However it was apparent that unless that man was not stopped, more lives would have been lost. We did the best we could.”
 

Only four families suffered in the massacre, the article said. Each of the families’ husbands and wives were murdered in bed, while all the children but the firstborns were drugged, gagged, and taken to the stone house. Why the firstborns of all four families were untouched was a mystery to Constable Grieves, who said, “My only guess is that God had his hand on each of them.”
 

The article went on to talk about Devin Beckett, how he had come to Bridgton early in the year and was only expected to stay until Light Hill found another permanent replacement in the wake of its former reverend, Colin Edelston, going on sabbatical. It ended mid-sentence, a small note informing the reader it continued on to page three. I turned the page, turned another page, then looked up.
 

“It’s missing,” I said.
 

“I beg your pardon?”
 

“The article continues onto the third page, but the third page is gone.”
 

Lewis Shepherd frowned. “Are you sure?”
 

I handed him the paper, which he immediately began rooting through. He flipped two pages, then four, then six, until he glanced back up at me, a deep frown creasing his face.
 

“Now where the hell did the rest of it go?”
 

He sighed, shaking his head, and set the newspaper down. “Doesn’t matter. I read enough of it to ... to open the door I had locked long ago.” Something in his raspy voice cracked, causing him to sound as if he might at any moment begin crying. I realized then that he was nothing like the petulant old man he’d seemed the other day. Just like Sarah had a front, so did Lewis Shepherd.