Dead Souls (35 page)

Henry shut the door behind them.

"What is all of this?" Johnny asked, and was about to add
and what does it all have to do with me?
when he noticed an eerie black and white photograph on one of the display boards. He walked over to it and placed a gentle finger upon it, stomach roiling with apprehension.

My god…

It was a photo of him, and one from not too long ago either. It appeared to have been taken from a distance; Johnny had been looking to his left, and the photographer, screened on a street somewhere in Manhattan, had snapped the photo at the perfect moment, capturing his face.

Johnny struck Henry
Depford
with a questioning glare.

"There's many more where that came from, Johnny. I've got some so old, that you were just a toddler holding Mary Petrie's hand."

Johnny was stunned…and yet at the same time not entirely surprised, given the situation, which had now achieved an all-new level of complexity. He blew out a deep breath, thinking,
Ed and Mary really pulled the wool over my eyes on this one. This, coming from a God-fearing woman who would bring me to the doctor when I was a kid and say, 'Yes Johnny, it will hurt more than a pinprick. Plenty more in fact. But it is God's will, so be it'.

"And I thought Andrew Judson was the only one keeping tabs on me."

Henry grinned knowingly, obviously aware of Judson's interests in Johnny. He paced over to the bookshelf and pulled down what appeared to be a spiral-bound photo album. He handed it to Johnny.

"Andrew Judson couldn't hold a flame to what I know about you. His motivations are purely financial. Mine run much deeper than that." He motioned to the photo album. "Go 'head. Take a look."

Johnny opened the album and saw a picture of himself at about ten or eleven years old. He'd been standing in a crowd outside St. Michael's Church alongside Mary. It'd been the summertime because he was wearing blue slacks and a white
short
sleeve school shirt. Taped below the picture was a corresponding note indicating the time, date, and place the photo had been taken:
July 20
th
, 1997. Ten AM
. Johnny thumbed through the book, each page, perhaps twenty in all, displaying a single photograph of him at various ages, along with the details of its taking.

Shaking, Johnny felt scared, petrified…and yet, in some strange way, felt secure. It was as though he'd just come face to face with a guardian angel that'd been watching out for him his entire life.

He handed the photo album back to
Depford
then sat in the metal folding chair in front of the bookshelf. The cork board before him displayed a number of laminated newspaper articles, many of them yellowed with age.

One in particular caught his eye:

WELLFIELD MINISTER MURDERS FAMILY, LOCAL WOMAN, BOY

Scar throbbing like a heartbeat, Johnny stood and touched the blurry black and white photo of Benjamin Conroy.

"I was the first to arrive at the scene,"
Depford
said, unpinning the article and handing it to Johnny. "It'd been late in the day, and I was driving home after working late because a group of local thugs had had their way with some kid…who later on, turned out to be Daniel Conroy. Your brother."

Johnny stared mutely at Benjamin's photo.

"I'd passed the Conroy farmhouse,"
Depford
continued, "and noticed Bill Carlson's Red Mustang in the driveway. Now, it wasn't at all odd for Bill to loan out the car to his son Eddie—who at the time was heading into his senior year—but I did think it odd to see the car there; you see, the Conroy's kept mostly to themselves, and of course to the more generous members of Benjamin's church. And let me tell you, Bill Carlson was no advocate of Conroy's
preachings
."

Gazing no further than Benjamin's photo—
my family was murdered. my father murdered them, my father
—Johnny absorbed every last word of
Depford's
story.

"I'd had it in my mind to ring up Bill Carlson, but didn't want to cause him any alarm. If he'd been keeping an eye out for Eddie to come home, then the entire town would've been ringing my office, and I didn't want to set anyone into any sort of panic. So I'd pulled into the driveway and for a moment considered the possibility that young Eddie Carlson had been making nice with the Conroy girl, despite the improbable odds—given all the roadblocks and drawbacks of such a tryst, that didn't seem all too likely.

"So I pulled in behind the Mustang, got out…and at once knew I was going to be in for a long night."

"What'd you find?" he asked, handing the article back to Henry.

Henry hesitated, then took a deep breath and said, "Your family, Johnny. And Eddie Carlson. They'd all been brutally murdered."

Eddie felt a sudden, sharp pain in his head. Again the feather in his pocket seemed to grow warm, and his scar itched furiously.
Is this a warning?
He sat back down and ran a hand though his hair, then touched the sudden comfort of the feather through his jeans, which eased the burning in his scar. God, he was scared. Scared of Henry
Depford
. Scared of the truth held within him, the truth that upon being divulged would grip him like a dreadful fever and never let go. He wanted to avoid the pain knowing would cause, and considered for a moment fleeing the room.

But he didn't. He couldn't. He had to know.

"I was there when it happened, wasn't I?"

Henry nodded.

"How, Henry? How did he do it? And why not me?"

Henry hesitated, then licked his lips and said, "First, Johnny, what did you see up at the Conroy House today?"

September 9
^th
, 2005

12:03 AM

M
ary Petrie was driving north on I-95 at 85 miles per hour. Traffic continued to be light. She avoided being noticed by highway patrol, a stroke of good fortune credited to her 'lucky feather'. Every minute or so she would gaze over at it, with its quill tucked firmly into the tear in the seat beside her, its glossy surface wavering gently beneath the cool breeze of the air conditioner.
  

While on the GW Bridge, she discovered that the van's radio didn't work—this little quirk of fate didn't bother her at all.
God wants me to think about the task at hand. Save Johnny. Save Ed's dying soul. The bird was sent to me, and I have heeded its word.

Yes, Mary was quite certain that God was close by, guiding her.

Guiding me to
Wellfield
. And when I get there, God will tell me what to do. Tell me how to save Johnny, how to save Ed's dying soul.

The van shot its way through the night, chasing its headlights through Connecticut and Rhode Island. A bit of traffic built up on the interstate around Boston, but thinned out once she headed north away from the city, where she was able to get the van moving even faster, pressing past ninety at times.

Gonna save my family
, she thought as the van crossed the Maine border, running between blurred queues of blue spruce and pine.
Gonna save my family, gonna save my…

And it was here, for the first time since leaving Manhattan, that Mary's newfound consciousness began to wane, leaving her feeling confused and unsure. She reached over to her right and grabbed the feather, trembling with sudden fear—to Mary, this was her only hope of hanging on to the false perception that had guided her this far…the false perception now struggling against the harsh surge of reality rearing its ugly head.

September 9
^th
, 2005

1:05 AM

I
t had taken Johnny nearly an hour and a half to relay his entire experience to Henry
Depford
. Henry had sat riveted as Johnny spoke, taking vigorous notes and asking frequent questions, sometimes getting up and pacing nervously about the room. As anticipated, Henry had been particularly interested in Johnny's after-death confrontations with the psycho and Judson. Twice Henry had asked if Johnny was undeniably firm of his certainty, but Johnny vehemently reassured Henry of his conviction. Henry had nodded both times, fully trusting in a piece of evidence that anyone else in their right mind would interpret as some screwball delusion.

"You're lucky to have found me, Johnny."

"You found me, Henry."

Henry leaned forward, then, whispering as though trying to hide their conversation from Mrs. D., said, "Here in
Wellfield
, like anyplace else, most things run as nature intends them to. But…and I've spent the last seventeen years studying Benjamin Conroy, his history, his studies, and I can say with the very same conviction as you, that all things surrounding Benjamin Conroy's legacy
do not
run with any sort of natural guidance. There's another force at play here, one we cannot see or feel or hear, but it is powerful and
it is there
, strongly influencing all those with a hand in its doing. Johnny…it is influencing us right now. Yes, we may have found each other—and it may very well have been by accident—but it knows we're in this together at the moment."

For a second, Henry appeared to Johnny like a raving madman, and if not for the detailed presentation in the room, Johnny might have thought him a victim of a sick and injured mind. But Johnny, despite the mass of confusion besetting him, was able to see beyond the surface—Henry
Depford
was in fact a brilliant, albeit obsessive man, who knew more about him than anyone. More than Andrew Judson. Even more than Mary Petrie. And to Johnny, madman or not, that was all that mattered right now.

Nodding, Johnny stated, "I've told you everything. Now it's your turn. What did you find when you got to the house?"

"Blood," Henry answered without hesitation. "A trail of it, leading from the house all the way to the barn out back."

"The barn…" Johnny uttered, a cold shudder marching along his spine. Nausea pitted his stomach. He closed his eyes, remembering…

A gust of hot stinking air bounding up from below…a chorus of whispering voices ascending from the whirlpool of darkness. Touching me! Penetrating me! Tasting my soul! Their souls…now free of the ghostly wooden crosses doused in blood, free of the four bodies crucified upon them, free of the pleading eyes chasing me as I drift into the gloom…

"What is it Johnny?"

Johnny shook his head. He
pinched
his cheeks and gazed at Henry. "Nothing…please, please, go on."

Henry eyed Johnny suspiciously, then continued. "I'd thought I'd heard some voices coming from the barn, and given the blood, well, I ran over to it like a bat out of hell. When I reached the barn, I allowed myself a few seconds to say a prayer, then drew my gun and spun inside.

"The first thing I saw was an odd occult-like painting on the ground. There was some charred remains in the middle of it, plus a shattered full-length mirror on a pivot stand. I saw the bloody trail which continued toward the rear of the barn. Slowly, I walked alongside it…and that was when I heard a groan. It was that of a woman. There'd been a wall of hay bales stacked up beneath the loft that'd concealed the back portion of the barn. One row had been pulled down. I walked toward the opening, paused for a moment to mentally prepare myself for the worst, then went through it."

Henry hesitated.

"Henry?" Johnny said. "What did you find?"

But Johnny already knew.
Four human bodies crucified upon wooden crosses…

"Hell…"

It's the entire family, all of them. Benjamin Conroy. Faith Conroy. And their kids, Daniel and Elizabeth. They've been…crucified. Oh God! There are four wooden crosses, each one crudely sized to fit each family member's body. There's a fifth cross. It's maybe two feet tall: just the perfect size to fit a baby…but there's no baby on this cross…it's…it's…oh god, my heart is slamming, my head is spinning, the air is thick and there's an acrid stench assaulting my nose…dear Jesus, what's going on here?

"That tiny cross," Johnny said. "It was meant for me, wasn't it?"

Henry nodded. "But Benjamin couldn't get to you, so he crucified the family dog instead."

Sickened, Johnny blew out gush of air.

Henry stared at Johnny, eyes welling with tears, and continued…

I can't move, my legs are paralyzed with fear, and it takes my tortured mind a few moments to realize that they're all still alive! Benjamin. Faith. Their kids. And the dog too. I can't possibly see how—they've sustained injuries that no human could ever live through. Stab wounds,
gougings
, harsh beatings—the damn boy has been disemboweled!
 
Yet, here they are, writhing on these wooden crosses, moaning, each and every goddamned one of them grasping at the nails driven into their hands and feet. It appears they have no idea I am here watching them, just feet away, near death myself from fear, from shock, from pure mental anguish. Oh dear lord, there…there is so…much…blood…"

Tears welled in Johnny's eyes. He asked, "Where was I, Henry?" but Henry seemed not to hear him. The man's gloomy eyes were swollen with tears and unsympathetic memories...