William Krueger - Blood Hollow

The clouds that had blotted out the sun cast a darkness over the sanctuary, as if a blanket had been dropped on the church. The priest stood at the back, beyond the last pew. He faced the entry to a tiny chapel that was used for small weddings or other intimate ceremonies or services. Cork could see a candle burning in the chapel, but nothing else. From the way the priest spoke, Cork figured Gooding was in there. Probably Rose, too.

“Just listen to me for a minute, Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?” The voice from the dark chapel. “Then you know?”

“I do. About Yvonne and Nina and Charlotte. About the rest.”

“Do you understand?”

“I don’t. This isn’t the way of our Lord.” The priest opened his hands, as he did when offering a benediction.

“Not our Lord, Father. Of His soldiers. Those who wage His wars, who protect His Church.”

“You?”

“We are born damned, those like me, damned to kill in the name of the church.”

Cork kept low, sliding along the front pew to the far wall where Gooding could not possibly see him. Silently, he made his way toward the chapel. He was clearly visible to the priest, but Mal Thorne gave no sign he’d seen. Cork took up a position at the end of the last pew. If Gooding could be drawn out, his back would be to Cork. Only once, Mal’s eyes flicked in Cork’s direction, acknowledging his presence. Cork held his. 38 ready in a two-handed grip.

“No one is born to kill, Jimmy.”

“Not true, Father. I was double born, raised from the dead for this purpose. Understand, though, that I’m not without compassion. Those that die don’t die stained with sin. I can’t pardon their transgressions, but I can take them away.”

“By consuming them?”

“You showed me the way a long time ago at St. Chris. The story of the sin eater, that was a blessing to me.”

“You don’t want this sin on you.”

“I’m not afraid to die, because when I stand in the light of God, all the sins committed in His service will be forgiven.”

“Jimmy, Jimmy, this isn’t the way. Not with this woman.”

“I know how tempting they can be, Father. The handmaids of Satan.”

“Because of Charlotte?”

“It was so easy for me to imagine having her. She tempted me to take my eyes off God. She played on the weakness of the flesh, Father. This harlot, too. She was sent to seduce you from your true bride, the church.”

“You’re wrong. This good woman would have nothing to do with me. The church has no better heart serving it than hers, I swear to you.”

“You’re too good, Father. You don’t see the true abomination, but I do.”

“You were always a good boy, Jimmy. You don’t want to do this.”

“Want? What I want is meaningless. I have been called.”

Cork knew that reasoning with Gooding now was out of the question. He was a man whose holy mission, at that moment, was to send Rose McKenzie to hell, and if he had to give his own life in the effort, that concerned him not at all. He’d concocted a theology that covered all the bases, that left him righteous and fearless. A man not afraid to die was the most dangerous kind.

The darkness in the church seemed to deepen. Thunder made the floor and the pews shiver.

Cork signaled Mal Thorne, motioning for him to lure Gooding out. The priest’s eyes rested on the revolver in Cork’s hands.

“You’d best leave, Father.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Don’t you understand? I was born so that it could be this way. I was raised from the dead for it.”

“Don’t do this, Jimmy.”

“I have my duty, Father. And not even you can intervene.”

The priest faltered a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its pleading. “Not here, then. Not in God’s house. You will not spill blood where the Blessed Virgin will have to see, where our Lord Jesus will have to look down on it from His cross, in this place He promised sanctuary to all His children. This thing must be taken outside. You take it out into the world where the sin is everywhere. You will do this, Jimmy. You will do this for me and for our Lord.”

The voice from the chapel didn’t reply.

“Jimmy,” the priest said sternly.

“You’re right, Father. Outside, then. But you move back.”

The priest backed away until he reached the place where the center aisle divided the rows of pews.

Rose came first, her eyes wide with fear. A strip of silver duct tape sealed her mouth, and her wrists were bound with duct tape as well. Blood stained the collar of her white blouse. Gooding held her from behind in a tight grip and pressed a hunting knife against her throat. Below the blade, a thin line of blood ran down her neck

Gooding wore black. At first Cork figured it for the color of an executioner, but then he saw the collar and realized the man was dressed as a priest. Gooding urged Rose forward, and she walked with halting steps, her chin lifted above the knife blade.

Cork had a clear shot at Gooding’s back, but he was afraid the bullet might go all the way through and hit Rose.

“Up the aisle, Father.” Gooding jerked his head, directing the priest toward the front of the church.

Mal Thorne gave way.

Gooding reached the center aisle and executed a quarter turn so that he and Rose faced Mal. Far down the aisle, at the priest’s back, stood the altar with its crucifix. Above the altar was a large stained glass window. On sunny Sunday mornings, the window blazed with light and a dazzling array of colors. At the moment, it was dark.

Cork remained crouched behind the last pew, his. 38 trained on Gooding. The deputy pressed himself tight against Rose from behind. They were thirty feet from Cork. Because there was no separation of their bodies, he had no chance at a clean shot. His hands were shaking, from tension and from fear. Sweat crawled down his forehead, stung his eyes, and he blinked desperately to clear his vision. He knew if he pulled the trigger now, Rose was at great risk of being hit. On the other hand, if the deputy were to look to his left, he would see Cork and understand how the priest had deceived him, and he would do his duty, as he saw it.

Cork prayed for an opening, just one moment of opportunity.

And that’s when it happened.

The clouds above the church parted. Light, suddenly brilliant, burst through the window behind the altar, and flooded the aisle with a blaze of gold that hit Gooding square in the face. Blinded, he let go of Rose and raised his left hand to shield his eyes. The knife in his right hand lifted from her throat.

“Rose,” the priest screamed.

She twisted from Gooding and rushed into Mal’s waiting arms.

Gooding lowered his hand and stood looking at the stained glass window, transfixed. Cork had the shot he’d prayed for, but he hesitated. Rose was with the priest now, the knife no longer at her throat. And Gooding was not moving. Maybe there was another way to end this.

But the blade was still in the man’s hand, the steel still warm where it had pressed against Rose’s flesh. She was only a few steps distant, an easy lunge, and Gooding was anything but predictable. And if what Gooding believed was true, that there were those born to protect, and damned in that birthing, then Cork knew he was one, too.

He squeezed the trigger. Twice.

The crack of the. 38 seemed to shake the walls of the sanctuary.

As if the strings that had moved him all his life had suddenly been cut, Gooding dropped to the floor.

Mal Thorne let go of Rose and started instinctively toward the fallen man.

“Wait,” Cork shouted.

He kept his revolver trained on Gooding, and he came forward. He could hear the note sung from Gooding’s chest, the high pitch that was the leak of air from a lung shot. Gooding’s hand was empty, the knife fallen near his feet. His eyes, a clear, crystal blue, stared straight up, as if they were focused on something beyond the beamed arch of the church ceiling.