The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold (31 page)

Rose pushed as hard as she could, while Fish dragged one of the shelves away from the wall. She was amazed at how much of his vitality had returned, even though he was obviously in worse shape than she was, after his imprisonment.

“How are you feeling, Fish?” she asked.

“Not good, but that’s a lot better than dead,” he answered cheerfully. “Ah! Yes, you’re right—there
are
windows.”

He pulled on something, and there was the sound of tape ripping. Suddenly the failing evening light poured into their cell from a small rectangular pane that had been hidden by black cloth and padding taped to the wall.

“But there are bars on them,” Rose observed, her sudden hope quickly dying.

He looked at her with an amused expression. “Yes, I noticed that.”

Blanche straightened herself and tried to force her eyes to see the man in the dingy light. But he remained a blur, except for the gun, which was terribly real.

“There was no need for you to come inside. You might have spared yourself this,” he said.

“I had to come,” Blanche murmured. “There wasn’t any other way.”

The man laughed. “You’re made of the same stuff as these crazy boys, I see. No wonder they gravitated towards you and your sister.”

With a sickening jolt, Blanche remembered Rose. “Where is she?”

“Do you believe in the afterlife?” The voice in the dark was mocking. “If there was an afterlife, perhaps you’d meet her there.”

Blanche heard the words, but all she saw was Rose, singing as she walked down a river of blood.

“She decided she’d rather die than see me kill the other boy. But, like the fatuous Christian martyrs, hers was ultimately a pointless sacrifice. After you give me the paten, both boys will die. And you, too, I’m afraid.”

Blanche said nothing.

“You are terrified, aren’t you?”

Blanche still was silent.

“Good.” The man stepped forward, a faint shimmer of light illuminating his creased, cold face. Blanche recognized him. “Then this will be easy.”

While Rose watched, whispering a prayer, Fish examined the chalices on the shelves. At last he selected a heavy one and pulled aside the curtains from the cellar window. “Rose, get me a rag or some kind of cloth,” he directed her in a composed voice.

She found a polishing cloth on one shelf and handed it to him. “Good enough,” he remarked, wrapping it tightly around his hand. Then he picked up the chalice, and smashed it against the basement window. The glass cracked and he pounded it again. Rose winced at the racket it made, although theoretically she knew it would be good for them to make noise.

Now Fish was picking away at the glass from the window.

“But what about the bars?” Rose persisted.

“Have a little confidence in me, okay?” He shot her an ironic glance, then cupped his hands and shouted out the window, “Help! Murder! Police!”

Mr. Freet was coming towards her. Her eyes were fixed on the gun, its muzzle enlarged by a silencer, heavy in the muted light.

“Give me the paten,” Mr. Freet was saying in a calm, reasonable voice.

The gun was flecked with black. The flecks swelled into spots, which began to fill her eyes. Blanche shook herself, and the engorged inkiness fled. She felt her head careening.

“You’re ill, I see. Come on now, give me the paten.” Mr. Freet continued slowly up the aisle, his hand outstretched.

Blanche held on to it tenaciously. “I can’t give it to you. It’s not mine to give.”

There was a harsh laugh. “You can’t keep it from me!”

For an instant, unconsciousness threatened to overpower her again, and again she forced herself to fight through the fog. Quickly making up her mind, she turned boldly towards the altar and stumbled up to it before her will could forsake her.

She lifted up the heavy golden dish, set it down on the bare surface, and let it go. She turned back to the dumbfounded Mr. Freet. “Take it from there if you want it.”

With a gravity she was not aware she possessed, Blanche stepped off of the platform and walked towards Bear. He was crouched on the ground, his chained hands hugging the pillar, his eyes sharp like a wild animal’s as he watched Mr. Freet.

“Idiot!” cursed Mr. Freet. But his attention was consumed by the paten. Keeping his gun trained on Blanche, he stepped greedily into the sanctuary towards the altar. The floor creaked warningly beneath his weight.

Blanche almost didn’t see what happened next. With a roar, Bear swung his foot around and swept Mr. Freet’s legs out from underneath him. He fell forward heavily, his gun arm crashing through the rotted boards of the floor. Bear leaped towards him as far as the handcuffs would allow and kicked at him furiously. Mr. Freet struggled in the hole, twisted on his side and fired. Three bullets tore up through the floor, blasting splinters of moldy wood into the air. Bear shouted and fell, his arm erupting in a spray of blood. Almost before she realized what she was doing, Blanche seized the brass candle lighter from against the wall and aimed a blow at Mr. Freet. He fell back again, and she heard the boards below him give way. Freet disappeared through the floor as abruptly as if the ground had opened to swallow him alive.

It seemed that Fish and Rose were shouting at the window a long time before someone took notice. A Hispanic man in painter’s coveralls rushed down the alley towards them.

“What is the shouting for?” he asked them.

“We’re trapped in this cellar. Call 911. Tell the police that there’s a murder about to be committed in St. Lawrence Roman Catholic Church. They better get over there right away!”

“St. Lawrence,” the man repeated. “Right.” He ran back to the street and shouted something in Spanish. Fish turned to Rose with a dire expression, his eyes doubtful.

“Let’s pray they get there in time,” he remarked.

Blanche and Bear clung to each other in the darkness of the church beside the gaping hole. She couldn’t move, and Bear was still handcuffed, his arm bleeding profusely. But he had regained his human form, and was speaking coherent, soothing words. “All shall be well—didn’t I say that? Blanche, it’s all right.”

But the last vestiges of her strength had collapsed, and she was sobbing openly.

“Peace. All shall be well,” he said again, kissing her forehead. She leaned against his shoulder and tried to calm herself.

“God was here,” she said at last.

Bear put his lips against her tangled hair. “I know,” he said. “He lives in weakness.”

Suddenly there was the sound of a ricocheting bullet. A piece of pulpy wood hanging over the gap was thrown into the air.

 Bear shoved Blanche onto the other side of the altar rail before she realized what had happened. “Run!” he ordered her. “Get the police!”

She bolted down the aisle, and heard Bear’s voice as she went, “Cut it out, Freet. You’re only digging yourself further into the pit.”

Another shot came, and a voice emanated from the grim hole. “Tell the girl to come back, Arthur. I’ve got you in range, now. And you know you can’t go anywhere with those handcuffs on.”

Blanche froze in the center of the aisle.

“You don’t have many bullets left, do you?” Bear said coolly. “I’ve been counting.”

“I have one more,” Mr. Freet’s voice said. “And I’m ready to use it.”

“Look, Freet,” Bear said patiently. “Even if you shot me, you still wouldn’t be able to get out of the cellar before Blanche got the police. And why should you add on another murder? On the other hand, if you let me live, you’ll get off with fewer charges. You’d be better off taking whatever chance you can get.”

Faintly, Blanche heard the sound of sirens in the background. Police. But they wouldn’t be coming here, would they?

“It’s over, Freet. You’d be better off quitting now,” Bear went on. He looked up at Blanche, and he seemed suddenly very far away from her. The gap of eternity had opened up between them. Her throat contracted.

“You don’t understand, Arthur. It would be very satisfying to shoot you.”

“A costly satisfaction,” Bear said.

“Or I could shoot myself,” Mr. Freet added.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Bear said.

“Of course not. You’re such a moralist. But it would solve a lot of problems for me. I’ve broken some bones, and I can’t possibly get away before the police come. Wouldn’t you rather I shot myself than you?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t. I’m not fond of you, Freet, but I won’t wish hell upon you.”

“You would if you knew everything I’ve done,” Mr. Freet’s voice cackled.

“I know enough,” Bear said evenly, although Blanche saw he was struggling to hold his composure. “I can guess the rest.”

“And none of that makes you want to send me to hell?” Mr. Freet said derisively.

“What I want doesn’t matter,” Bear said with the same calm voice.

“So you’d prefer I shot you?” Freet asked.

Bear shrugged.

“No!” Blanche cried. She couldn’t be so intellectual about this.

Mr. Freet’s laughter echoed weirdly on the walls, a disembodied voice coming from the cellar. “She’s more sensible than you are, Arthur.”

“She doesn’t want to see me die,” Bear said, almost unconcerned. He was not looking at Blanche. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

“Do you know why I strangled Fr. Raymond after I shot him?” Mr. Freet’s voice asked.