Carolyn unlocked the door to the church with Father Collins’ borrowed key, but when she turned to throw the bolt behind her a somber-looking man was there, appearing by stealth, it seemed, out of nowhere, as if he had tracked her path covertly, not a sentinel and probably not a pilgrim, someone she didn’t even vaguely recognize, a guy who looked like the Marlboro Man minus the ten-gallon hat. He had those tacky long truck-driver sideburns, hollow cheeks, wet blue eyes—he looked a little like a wastrel, a vagabond, and that sent a thrill through her shoulders. But then she’d always been attracted to vagabonds and to men who were contained, aloof, and confidently impervious to her wit. The problem was that her preferred sort was mellow, whereas this guy looked just plain burned out, your average boozer in a North Fork tavern, a beer drinker with Country Western issues like domestic strife and debt. Mother Mary, she thought. What’s wrong with me? Checking out material for a one-night debacle. If I fell back into slumming again. A dark mute cowboy in bad decline, emotionally bankrupt, in personal default, somebody miserable and interesting. Briefs, not boxers. Glow in the dark condoms. Everything smelling like nicotine. It was so attractively bleak and depressing. She’d slept with a guy like that only once. And he’d had trouble getting aroused. Otherwise, they never went for her. Bad guys don’t like fat legs, she figured. No guys like fat legs.
Hey, he said. I’m coming in.
No you’re not doing anything of the sort.
The man pushed through and into the vestibule. I don’t need bullshit, he told her.
He didn’t stop to address her further. She was clearly a bit player in his private drama. Whoa, she said, making use of the bullhorn. Halt right there. Immediately! But he didn’t halt, he went into the sanctuary. She wondered if this was what the sentinels prophesied. An inexplicable madman, obsessed.
She followed him in and saw with relief that he’d stopped in his tracks and stood grooming his hair, caressing it into place with his palms, that Father Collins had risen already and stood uncertainly between him and Ann, halfway down the center aisle, his hands held forth beseechingly, palms high like the pope on Easter Sunday. Tom, he said. Tom, what is it? What are you doing here?
Her, said Tom. I came here for her.
Are you okay?
I’m here for her.
Wait, said the priest. Let’s talk about this.
I didn’t come down here to talk with you.
I mean for just a minute. Let’s talk. What’s wrong? Father Collins clasped his hands at his chin. He seemed to be praying for divine intervention. Tom, he said. Now please now.
Carolyn spoke from the sanctuary door with her hands set defiantly against her hips, feeling plump and ineffectual. This is a house of God, she said. I’m going out to find Sheriff Nelson to take care of this.
You go ahead, said Tom.
He resumed his aggressive advance toward the priest, who for his part kept his hands at his chin in a posture of utter religious submission and hapless passivity. I can’t let you pass, said Father Collins. I’m sorry, Tom. I can’t.
I’m coming through, answered Tom.
The visionary rose before them now. As though she was weightless, freed from the earth, despite her phlegmatic wheeze. Her face invisible inside its cowling. Her features were shrouded, unreadable, and she still had her blanket seized around her. It’s okay, she said. Let him come.
The priest stepped aside to let Tom have the aisle but kept his hands clutched, fingers twined, as if entreating a conqueror and as a measure of self-protection. The Church loves you, he implored, as Tom went past. You’re a child of God. You have a beautiful soul. Now let’s not do anything rash.
Don’t talk to me, answered Tom.
A few feet from the visionary he put his hands against his knees and tried to peer under her sweatshirt hood and the deep mantle of her blanket’s hem, where he made out her face in shadow. Also that she was small, ill, and breathing like a lung-shot elk. That she was not much older or bigger than his daughter, that her left boot was split at the welt. He had the impression of rootless penury and smelled what he thought was rain on her clothes and a tincture of campfire smoke. I sent you one of those petitions, he said. Yesterday. On Sunday.
She didn’t answer, but on the other hand, he hadn’t asked her anything. Tom leaned in further to scrutinize her the way he’d at one time scrutinized children at the elementary school Halloween Fest when he was stumped by an effective costume. Back in the days of domestic bliss and silent desperation. Back when he could feel moderately happy to have won the Black Cat Cakewalk. Are you in there? he asked. Come out now.
I’m here. Yes.
Come on out.
I can’t come out.
Why not?
I’m afraid to come out.
What are you afraid of?
I’m afraid of you.
You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m not going to kill you.
There was a pause and then Ann of Oregon said, I am anyway. Afraid of you. Especially when you mention killing me.
Take off your hood.
I can’t.
Tom tapped a boot heel against the floor and a clot of mud dropped onto the floorboards. They say you do miracles, he said.
If there are miracles it’s Our Lady who performs them.
So you don’t claim any miracles then?
It’s Our Lady who brings her grace to the world.
So you don’t claim any miracles?
No.
You don’t save people with holy water?
No. Our Lady does it. Not me.
Tom peered again beneath the hood and again saw mostly shadow. He felt the difficulty of communicating with someone whose eyes he couldn’t see and whose expressions were concealed. Well you’re her messenger, he said.
Yes.
She showed you the way to the holy water.
Yes.
So that makes you some kind of miracle worker.
No.
They’re all talking about you like you’re some kind of miracle worker.
It’s Our Lady who performs miracles. It’s Our Lady who grants peace and salvation.
Tom said, Name one for me. Name one miracle that’s happened.
She saves people.
Name somebody.
Anyone who calls to her.
Can you name somebody?
Pray to her.
I’ve tried before. It doesn’t work for me.
You have to believe, said Ann.
Tom looked over his shoulder at the priest, who hadn’t moved from his spot in the aisle—spooked deer poised on the road verge. The redhead with the bullhorn was gone already, gone, Tom knew, to find Nelson. That’s fine, he thought. I’ll deal with that later. Is everything okay? asked Father Collins. No, said Tom. It isn’t.
He turned again to Ann of Oregon and briefly caught the barest hint of her eyes assessing him. Tom had once shot a raccoon in a culvert, the animal invisible except for luminous pupils that unsettled him only a little. A penetrating moment of introspection before he’d squeezed the trigger. Ann’s shrouded presence reminded him of that. It was obvious, up close, that she was only a child, the tenor of her voice was childlike, she was just another drug-addled teenager, a wasted little runaway who’d slipped over the edge, overdosed too many times, and ended up in North Fork. I’ve got a question for you, he said.
Ask.
How’d you know about Lee Ann Bridges? How did you come by that?
The Blessed Mother told me.
She did?
Yes.
You’re playing me.
No.
You’re a scam artist.
No.
So how did you know?
The Blessed Mother. She told me.
Why would she do that?
I don’t know.
Why would she tell you?
I can’t answer.
You’re bullshitting people.
No. I’m not.
You’re jerking every
body around.
The visionary made no reply to this. Look, said Tom. You’re bullshitting people. Because if Mary’s real then all of it’s real. God, Jesus, all of it.
Yes.
So that would mean there’s a heaven and a hell. And a judgment day coming. And a devil.
Yes.
You believe in the devil?
Yes. I feel him.
The force of evil?
It’s in the world.
Something that causes bad things to happen? You believe in that? The devil?
Yes.
You’re right, said Tom. And I’m him.
The visionary fingered her rosary beads and fought more desperately to inhale. She was praying now in an aspirate whisper whenever she succeeded in drawing breath; the words he couldn’t make out.
I broke my son’s neck, Tom said. I paralyzed my son. He’s paralyzed. A quadriplegic.
Oh no, said the visionary. No.
I did it to him. I broke his neck.
I’ll pray for you.
I’m not asking for that.
What do you want then?
A miracle healing.
I told you, though. I can’t do miracles. Only Mother Mary can help you.
Tell me you’re real.
I’m real. Believe me.
Tell me you can heal my son.
The Blessed Mother is the only healer.
I want to believe that, said Tom.
These words, he saw, were the right incantation, because the visionary unexpectedly pulled back her hood and let her blanket drop. Her limpid eyes were disturbingly large, her forehead gray and slick with sweat, her cropped hair matted to her skull. She looked, to Tom, like an adolescent mental patient suffering from malaria or tuberculosis on top of being deranged. She looked anorexic and feverish. I have to sit down, she said.
She dropped in front of the communion rail, coughing. On her knees, straight-backed, trembling, pallid, clinging to her rosary beads. Tom knelt too, on his haunches, low, checked on the priest’s position once again, and said, I need a miracle.
He heard the door to the sanctuary swing open. Nelson came in with the comic full force of his blustery upper-body language—he’d been a poser since junior high, a pec flexer and weight-room knuckle dragger—behind him the redhead with her electric bullhorn, and finally Ed Long, the deputy.
Hey, called Tom. No guns in a church, Randy.
But it was not the proper combination, he saw, of familiarity and wit. Or it was but Nelson was suddenly impervious to that sort of plea for mercy. Tom, said Nelson. I’ve been looking for you. And he stepped into the aisle, leading with his chin, his thumbs riding on his belt buckle. Hey, said Tom. That’s pretty cool, Randy. Just like a television sheriff.
Nelson sighed and rubbed his temples, or gauged the extent of his receding hairline: okay with him if all pretense was dropped, that was the message in his stout gesticulations: I don’t like you, Cross. Cross, he said. Enough’s enough now. I’m not going to take any more of your lip. That guy at the motel called in today saying he watched you drive off with his mattress. And then after that I had Eleanor call saying One you were over there bothering her again, Two you trashed her bushes to get your canopy, Three you just about killed Heidi Johnston, Four you were out in the street mouthing off and you know what, Cross? It’s enough already. It has been for a real long time. I’m telling you I’ve had it up to here with you. Guess what, Tom? You’ve lost your grip. And nobody wants to deal with it. No one can take it anymore. I had a feeling when this girl here tracked me down and described for me what was going on, I had a feeling it was going to be you. And now—you’re under arrest.
I’m not a quote girl, put in Carolyn. I—
Excuse me, said the sheriff. You shut up now. I’m in the middle of something here. I’ve got to deal with what’s in front of me. I’ve got to take this man down.
Come take me down then, Tom said.
Just watch me, Cross. You watch me.
Father Collins stepped again into the center aisle. He had always felt there was a certain bravura in playing the pacifist intermediary and he relished his role right now. Please, he said, no violence; I mean it. Please don’t resort to violence, Sheriff. Not in this house of Our Lord, please. We can’t have violence here.
The sheriff waved him to the side brusquely. You’re in my way, move over, he said. I need to keep him in my line of sight, unobstructed, Father.
The priest moved aside, crushed, deflated, and as he did Tom stepped behind Ann of Oregon and knelt with a hand cupped over her shoulder as though she were a shield. Wait, he said. Okay Nelson, wait. Just wait a minute now. Hold on.
You’re making her look like a hostage, answered Nelson.
That isn’t what’s going on here. You know that.
You better get out from behind her, Tom. Get out from behind her right now, please. I’m only telling you once.
Tom didn’t move. He clutched her more firmly. Pray for me, he said to her. Pray for me and my son.
You get your head on straight, said Nelson. Because Ed and I are coming down there and we don’t want any trouble.
No, rasped the visionary. Wait.
She put her hand over Tom’s hand where it held fast to her shoulder. The sweat on her face looked silver and thick; beads of it fell from her chin. Her trembling was like the trembling of her visions, convulsive, graphic, otherworldly, disturbing, and finally completely mesmerizing. Even Sheriff Nelson was brought to a halt by the distressing strangeness of the scene before him, its spiritual ambience. The out-of-work logger with his long pointed sideburns and air of pathetic last-ditch hopelessness and this frail, sickly, famished-looking girl, holding his hand and quivering as if in the throes of rapture. Hail Mary, Ann wheezed desperately, and sought to follow with full of grace, but the words would not issue from her still-moving lips, her lungs had constricted too thoroughly. She clutched Tom’s hand, coughed feebly, and exerted herself to draw a breath.
She can’t breathe, said Carolyn fiercely. Let go of her shoulder you jerk.
But Tom felt the small burning force of Ann’s fingers and began to hope that her touch alone might induce some kind of redemption. He thought it possible that the girl was entranced and in the grip of some weird holy fit that might be favorable for him somehow, that by virtue of mere proximity and touch he could reap a transformative benefit. So Tom held fast. He focused on Ann’s hand. He felt the tremulous connection between them and prayed for something to come of it. Ann’s hand was aflame, unexpectedly powerful, and calloused from all her outdoor work. Through her fingertips he could feel the beating of her heart as rapid, it seemed, as a bird’s. Maybe, he thought, this is finally it. After all my suffering. Salvation.
I swear, said Carolyn. She’s going to suffocate. It’s her asthma, okay? So let her go. Ann, she said. Are you doing okay? Let go of her shoulder you ape.
She’s gagging, choking, said Father Collins. Tom, this is an emergency.
Carolyn thought of the vial of pepper spray dangling in her cleavage. Now, she decided, is the time to exploit my talent for verbal trickery and deceit, now is the time for creative action and intelligent intervention. This beer-drinking yokel is no match for me, I’ll turn him every which way easily. Pulling the spray vial into view she said, See this thing? This little jobby here? It’s Ann’s asthma inhaler, okay? It’s what keeps her breathing at times like this. Sort of like nitroglycerin pills for people who’ve had big heart attacks. I carry it for her because she forgets, it’s sort of my job to remember to bring it. And now—now she needs it, okay? Can’t you see what the deal is here? She needs it or it’s like she’s strangling.
She pulled the vial free of her neck—a talisman dangling its braided leather cord—and advanced with a wary step. Hold up, said Nelson. You stay right there. But Carolyn ignored him and kept on moving. She walked down the aisle with the vial held before her as if it were a cross and Tom Cross a vampire. I said hold up, Nelson repeated. Let her go
, said Father Collins. Maybe she can solve this peacefully.
Thank you, said Carolyn. She needs her inhaler.
No, wheezed Ann. Carolyn.
I’ve got your inhaler.
No. Stay away.
Don’t be scared. Here I am.
No, gasped Ann. Please.
Carolyn stopped short of the communion rail and glanced overhead at the corpus of Christ suspended from his crucifix above the tabernacle. She felt a strange glee, a pang of wicked triumph. Poor Jesus was helpless to do anything, nailed up so painfully, but she, Carolyn, with her vial of pepper spray, was about to make front-page news.
Okay, I’m here, she said.
She looked at Tom Cross. There were tears in his eyes. She hadn’t expected that sort of weakness. Not from a guy so infused with machismo. The poor wretch appeared to be falling apart, succumbing, maybe, to Ann’s magnetism. Carolyn looked at Ann’s small hand resting on top of his big dirty fingers, Ann’s pretty hand quivering with passion as if driven by a piston in her forearm. Got hold of another one, Carolyn thought. She’s hypnotized another victim.
Ann, she said. I’ve got your inhaler.
No, answered Ann. Stay away. Stay back.
What’s wrong with you?
I can see your aura.
Take your inhaler.
I see you now.
Here I come, said Carolyn.
She moved in for the kill feeling thoroughly focused, imbued with physical courage. Her plan for the winter ran through her head: breakfast in Bandon with sunglasses on, the California coast with its cinematic sunsets, LA carwash, San Diego Freeway, Meh-hee-co on one million dollars a day with a marijuana buzz. Carolyn put her forefinger against the nozzle and checked the direction of the aperture. Okay, she said. Asthma inhaler. Open wide, Ann.
Hail Holy Queen, Ann pleaded.
Hail Holy Queen, said Tom.
Carolyn—head twisted back, eyes squeezed shut, hearing from her throat an involuntary growl—showered Tom’s face with the pepper spray. She misted his nose, eyes, and mouth so thoroughly that he quickly let go of the visionary’s shoulder, drew both hands across his face, and fell to the floor by the communion rail, where he curled into a large fetal ball, a man-sized baby, a snail, helpless, and Carolyn heard him whimpering a name. Tommy, Tommy, he kept repeating. In between gagging. Tommy.