His mentor at school, Father Thaddeus Joyce, had been the one to tell him about this magical spot. Thad had come here when he was a young priest. Retired now from teaching, he was in charge of the retreat. He made the rules, provided guidance for those who needed it, spent his days in meditation. When Father Patrick needed a place to go, there was only one place he considered. Only one person he wanted to talk to.
He hadn’t talked yet, though. He’d spent his days there in silence. He had craved nothing but silence since the chilling words of the confession that had sent him crashing into a roiling and tumultuous sea. It seemed so long ago. It was so distant as to feel like a dream. But Father Patrick knew it was no dream. He had though of nothing else in the days since he’d stumbled, reeling, out of his beloved cathedral. He had barely slept, hardly eaten. His world had been turned upside down, and silence was the only thing strong enough to perhaps hold that world together.
It was a well-named retreat, he knew. In her time, St. Catherine had tried her best to avoid intimacy with God. She had plunged into a busy social life, only to feel empty and unfulfilled. So she removed herself from contact with all but other holy people and those with horrible and deadly diseases. The people who came to the retreat dedicated to her memory were there to rediscover their own sense of intimacy with God. Their sense of intimacy with their own selves.
Father Patrick didn’t just need to rediscover God. He needed to know what to do.
He blew on his hands—even in the summer the mountain air was chilly and dank—and stepped inside the chapel. It was dark save for the light that came from the fifty or so white candles scattered throughout. For a moment he thought the room was empty; then he heard the rustling and a faint cough, and he saw his mentor rise from the front pew.
“Hello, Thad,” Father Patrick said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your nap.”
“For some reason,” Father Thaddeus said, “the older I get, the more I like to sleep in church.” He yawned and smiled at the younger man. “I’m glad you’ve come to talk. I miss our chats sometimes.”
“I always thought they drove you a little crazy.”
“Oh, they did, they did. No one could annoy me as much as you.”
Father Patrick smiled. But it was only a flicker of a smile and didn’t last long.
“If I may speak frankly, Pat,” the older priest said, “you look like crap.”
“I need you to speak frankly,” Father Patrick said.
Father Thaddeus stretched out his arms and yawned. “You know,” he said, “I’ve seen you angry, I’ve seen you depressed, and I’ve seen you extremely drunk. But I’ve never seen you frightened before.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this frightened before.”
“ ‘Fear is a greater evil than the evil itself.’ St. Francis de Sales. I believe that very strongly.”
“I used to believe it. I don’t think I do anymore.”
“You’ve got a lot of people concerned,” Father Thaddeus told him. And when Father Patrick looked startled, he said, “Your disappearance has been in the papers.”
“I thought you didn’t get the news up here.”
“Times have changed,” Father Thaddeus explained. “Those who want to avoid the world may certainly do so. I myself can’t seem to stay off the Internet.”
“I took a confession,” Father Patrick began. “Before I left Washington. I heard something very bad from someone very powerful.”
“And that’s what’s frightened you?”
“Somewhat. But not entirely. What frightens me most is that I think I need to do something about it. I think people have to know.”
“Ah. So you’re considering breaking a sacred covenant.”
“I’m considering many things. But so far I’ve done nothing.”
“Whatever it is you heard, whatever it is that will happen, you have nothing to fear from God. I know you well enough to know that.”
Father Patrick laughed. A harsh burst of laughter. “It’s not God I’m afraid of,” he said.
“Pat,” the older man said slowly, “I have always found you to be an extraordinarily intelligent man. And an equally moral one. Sometimes that is not a combination that goes hand in hand. It does not always provide for much peace.”
“Well, that’s what I want, Thad. Peace is exactly what I’m seeking.”
“And who except God can give you that? Has the world ever been able to satisfy the heart?”
“No,” Father Patrick breathed. “The world has never been able to do that.”
“I’ve known you a long time now, son. Long enough to know something else about you. Peace is not what you’re looking for. It never has been, and I’m sorry to say it probably never will be.”
“Then tell me,” Father Patrick whispered. “What am I looking for?”
“Strength,” Father Thaddeus said. “Strength to do whatever it is you feel you have to do. But remember the words of St. Cyprian: ‘No one is safe by his own strength, but he is only safe by the grace and mercy of God.’ “
“Amen,” Father Patrick said. He closed his eyes to shut out the light from the flickering candles. To shut out the world that was so distant and yet so horribly near. “Amen.”
One of the most violent two-day battles of the entire Civil War was fought in Corinth, Mississippi, in October of 1862. Nearly seven thousand men lost their lives, two-thirds of them rebels under the command of General Earl Van Dorn, a native Mississippian who was forced to retreat, bloodied and defeated by the Union forces led by General William Rosencrans. Nearly a century and a half later, the town is dominated by its memory of the battle. There is a vast national cemetery, where the dead soldiers are buried—just under four thousand of them in unknown graves. There are monuments marking the battle sites. There is a reconstructed Union battery and a museum filled with remnants, artefacts, and papers documenting the devastation. Groups of reenacters converge there annually to re-create the battle in full costume and detail.
Corinth had been a strategic railroad hub then. Now, known as Mississippi’s Gateway City, it is a town dependent on its charm for its survival. Its proud motto is “Big-Town Variety, Small-Town Atmosphere.”
Carl Granville and Amanda Mays were not much interested in the town’s variety or its atmosphere. They were interested in details. Details that would lead to proof, which would lead to the identity of Gideon. Which, in turn, they hoped, would keep them alive. That was why they headed for Corinth. They were looking for something, anything, that would match the description in Carl’s head of the Mississippi town he had named Simms, the fictional town where the fictional eleven-year-old Danny had murdered his fictional unnamed baby brother.
All they had to do now was turn fiction into fact.
At least they’d gotten some sleep the night before. Finally.
On the road south of Hohenwald, after leaving the LaRues’ shrine to the King and making a quick stop at a drugstore at Amanda’s behest, they had agreed to spend the night in a motel. They chose a small, locally owned one in Chewalla, Tennessee, about ten miles outside Corinth. By the look of it, the motel seemed to be distantly affiliated with the Bates Motel. Best Rest, it was called.
Amanda paid cash for the room while Carl waited outside in the car. The sleepy desk clerk did not bother to ask her for any ID but did ask for the license number of the car. She instinctively made one up on the spot, hoping he would not go outside to check it. He didn’t. She gave him a fake name as well—Jeannette Alk, who had been her best friend all through elementary school. This was not a problem, either. The Best Rest was not the sort of motel where people gave their real names.
They were in the Bible Belt now, after all. Sin was taken seriously here. And with great pleasure.
The room was right off of the parking lot, next to the ice machine, which was out of order. All of the rooms were right off the parking lot, which had only two other cars in it. Their room was stuffy and smelled of mildew and Raid. There were a number of very large insects in the bathroom sink, some dead, but not all. A rackety window air conditioner hummed and did its best to cool the room. It was having moderate success. The temperature outside had to be over a hundred degrees. Inside it was probably only eighty-five.
In the midst of a vaguely Navaho motif, there was one straight-backed chair tucked under a Formica desk built into the wall, a television with cable, and a coin-operated queen-sized bed.
Amanda flopped down on the saggy bed, on her belly, and twisted her head to look over at him. “You can shower first,” she said.
“No, no,” Carl replied and swept his hand toward the tiny bathroom with a gentlemanly flourish. “I insist.”
“No,
I
insist. I intend to use up every last bit of hot water in the complex, so take your shot while you can.”
“Well, if you put it that way …”
“But first it’s time for your new look.” She pulled the chair out from under the desk, took it into the bathroom, and set it down in front of the sink. When she patted it firmly, he followed and sat in the chair. Amanda pulled a small paper bag out of her purse, and when he looked at her quizzically, she produced a pair of scissors and a bottle of Clairol hair coloring, mahogany, that she’d bought at the drugstore earlier that day.
“You’re too recognizable,” she said. Placing he hand on top of his head, holding it firmly in place, she began snipping away with the scissors.
“You
have
done this before, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Do you think I’d mess around with your looks if I didn’t know what I was doing? Of
course
I’ve done this before.”
“You’re lying, aren’t you?”
“Sure.” She flashed him a broad grin. “Now just face forward. And no sneaking peeks in the mirror.”
As his hair began to fall away, he began to relax, to enjoy the light touch of her hands on his shoulder, on his neck, on the side of his head. He started drifting away, running through the list of what they had to do, of all the thinks they needed to remember. He felt as though it had been years since this whole thing had begun; he could barely recall when he’d last walked the streets of New York, carefree and easy. He thought about his apartment and the work he’d been doing before Maggie Peterson had come into his life. The friends he hadn’t seen or talked to …
“Hey, watch it!” she said. Her words jolted him out of his reverie. “Sit still. You came very close to doing an excellent Van Gogh impersonation.” She saw that he’d gone pale and the back of his neck was cold and clammy. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I-I was just thinking”—he stammered over the words—“I needed to call …”
“Call who?” she asked incredulously.
Still rattled, Carl looked at her, embarrassed. And sad. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. I was sitting here thinking I needed to check my phone machine at home, to see if I had any business calls. As if I still had business. Or a phone machine. Or a
home
.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I keep thinking the same thing.”
She finished cutting in silence. When she was done, she said, “Now remember that most of the hot water belongs to me.” Tossing him the bottle of Clairol hair coloring, she added, “And don’t forget this.” She left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
The shower revived him somewhat. The water was plenty hot, if a bit rusty at first and smelling vaguely of sulfur. The watery needles felt good on his sore muscles, and he let them rain down on his shoulders. When he stepped out of the shower, he dried himself off, then scrubbed the mahogany coloring into what was left of his hair. He stayed behind closed doors and forced himself to wait exactly half an hour—that was how long before the hair coloring took full effect—before moving to the mirror. He peered at the stranger staring back at him. The new Carl Granville had short hair, cut straight and close to the scalp. It was a dark brown color, one that didn’t quite look as if it came from nature. But he had to admit it didn’t look bad. And even he would have trouble recognizing himself at first glance.
He went into the room, the towel around his waist, and gasped aloud when he looked up at Amanda. He was not the only one who had just undergone a transformation. Her long, thick, beautiful red hair was a thing of the past, chopped off close to the scalp. She had also dyed it a dark, inky black. “They had my picture on TV, too,” she said. “I thought, better safe than sorry.” He still said nothing. “Well?” she asked. And as he stared at her with his mouth open, she burst into tears.
“Hey,” he said, “come on. I was just surprised. It looks really good. Honest.”
“Oh, God,” she wailed. “After everything that’s happened, what makes me cry? Cutting my hair! How can I be such a
girl
?”
He reached out to comfort her. It seemed like the right thing to do. But she brushed past him and marched into the bathroom. As he heard the water start to run, he ran his hand through his own new hair, plopped down on the bed, and with renewed energy began to study a map of the area, drawing circles around towns that were situated within a thirty-mile radius. He watched the latest headline news on the Apex News Network. The FBI was now receiving nearly three hundred calls per hour from people who were absolutely positive they had spotted him. Thus far, thirty-one of the fifty states had been heard from—including Hawaii and Alaska. The Bureau was, according to sources, attempting to check out the details of each and every lead.
Carl could not get used to seeing his picture flashed up there on the tube. Nor could he get used to the idea that every law enforcement official in the country was after him and would not hesitate to shoot him on sight. None of it seemed real. Unable to watch anymore, he flicked it off.
“Better?” he asked Amanda when she finally came padding barefoot out of the shower, flushed and pink, one towel wrapped around her, the other around her hair.
“Better,” she said sheepishly. But her gaze was on the mound of red hair that filled up the wastebasket in the corner.
“Well, which do you want first? The good news or the bad news?”
“Let’s have the bad first,” she answered bleakly.
“They’re now confirming that you did not die in the fire. You are officially missing and possible under my spell.”