Chapter Ten

“You’re upset by the picture,” Father Fogarty observed.

I nodded.

“Do you know the man?”

“The caption says ‘Brigadier General Duffin Caine.’ ”

“Yes, that’s who it is. I found this book in a secondhand store several years ago, and I bought it because of the picture. I had been curious for a long time to know what he looked like. The Ashland Times thought they had a photo of him in their files, but when I asked them to look, they couldn’t find it. It seems that General Caine didn’t like to have his picture taken, and after the one occasion when he did permit it—for this book—he regretted it and went around buying up and destroying all the copies he could find. He evidently missed this copy somehow.”

“Why didn’t he want his photo published?” My teeth were chattering.

Father Fogarty got up again, went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of John Jameson’s and two water tumblers. He poured me a good slug and himself a better. “Down it,” he said. “There’s nothing better for the nerves than Irish whiskey. Now, in answer to your question, maybe it was one of the rules of the religion he practiced. It’s not unusual, you know. The ancient Hebrews didn’t like graven images, nor did the old-­time Mohammedans. Even today there are people in wild areas of the world who think that taking their photographs means taking their souls. However, there is also another possibility. Maybe our friend here just didn’t want to be recognized as General Duffin Caine.”

“But why?” The whiskey was helping some.

“Maybe he thought that he was going to be around for a long time and it seemed wiser that he not be associated with a man who lived so long ago.”

“But how could he be around? General Caine died and was buried years ago.”

“Nevertheless he seems to be still with us. Isn’t he the man you saw in your kitchen, and before that in your automobile?”

“I’ll agree that man resembled General Caine.”

“I’ll tell you something else. The man I saw doing his business in the church resembled the General too. The church was dark and I only caught a quick glimpse of his face when he came at me, but now that I study the photo I can see that it could’ve been the General.”

“But you told me you caught a boy who had done it.”

“And you told me that your son Duff was in your car and that he disappeared and you saw the man. And then you said the man was in your kitchen and after he vanished without a trace, your son Duff was there.”

“What are you suggesting, Father?”

“What suggests itself to you, Mrs. Caine?”

At that moment another priest came into the room. He was young, not much over thirty, and slight, with thin shoulders under his too large cassock. He had a bad complexion, extending up to the line of his receding blond hair that seemed rather long in the back for a priest. He also seemed petulant, perhaps annoyed at being summoned.

“This is my assistant, Father Peter Jackson,” said Father Fogarty. “Mrs. Caine, Father, of the famous—or should we say infamous—Caine family.”

“I don’t think one could describe Miss Hannah Caine as infamous,” said Father Jackson after greeting me coldly.

“No, she was a good woman,” Father Fogarty said. Father Jackson had been staring at the whiskey bottle. The old priest got up and put the bottle and the glasses away.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t have had your way after Aunt Hannah’s death,” I said. I was angry and sorry I had come. I didn’t want to believe what he was seemingly trying to make me believe. I told myself there was nothing remarkable in the resemblance between the man I had seen and the photograph. In an old black-­and-­white photograph, any dark-­bearded man might look like another.

“What do you mean, ‘I couldn’t have my way’?” Father Fogarty asked.

“Aunt Hannah was buried in the Caine graveyard against your wishes, wasn’t she?”

“She was not. She was buried in Cainesville Cemetery, the Protestant one, but I blessed the grave, so it’s just as snug a place for her as if she was resting in ours. The undertaker here, John Nichols, found a letter she had sent him twenty years ago requesting that she be buried in Cainesville instead of in the plot behind the farmhouse.”

“But there’s a new grave in the family yard.”

“Well, it isn’t Miss Hannah’s, I’ll guarantee you that. I saw her coffin being put into the ground right here in Cainesville.” Father Fogarty paused. “Where approximately in the yard is this new grave, do you remember?”

“Near the fence on the far side, opposite the gate.”

Father Fogarty nodded. “They’ve dug up the General again.”

“What?” Father Jackson was astounded.

“That’s why I sent for you, Father. I want you to listen to this lady’s story. Maybe it will give you a better perspective on what’s going on around here. Incidentally, let me put your mind at rest on a couple of matters, young lady. One, you’re not crazy. Two, whomever or whatever you saw in your car and your kitchen, it wasn’t the bones of General Caine, although it might have had something to do with them. I would guess there couldn’t be much left of those, since he’s been dead for more than eighty years. Now tell your story again please, for this young fella’s benefit.”

I told it again, although more briefly this time. Father Jackson didn’t seem very impressed.

“It could be the result of suggestion, maybe even auto-­suggestion,” he said, shrugging.

“You think I wanted to see the man?” I asked angrily.

“It’s not necessarily a question of wanting to. Hallucinations can be prompted by fears as well as desires.”

“I don’t think I want to discuss this anymore, Father Fogarty.” I rose again.

“Sit down, sit down,” said the old priest impatiently. “Father Jackson didn’t say it was a hallucination.”

“I don’t know what else it could’ve been, unless the man was really there,” said Father Jackson.

“Be quiet,” his pastor ordered. “No matter what it was, we have to consider what caused it. Now I happen to believe that it’s quite possible for someone of the soundest mind to see something that other people can’t see.”

“Like visions of Mary,” put in Father Jackson.

Father Fogarty turned on him. “Would you please have the courtesy to let me finish what I have to say?” The young priest threw up his hands and slouched in his chair. “Now then, I do believe it’s possible for such a person to have a celestial vision, and that might include a vision of Mary. Also it needn’t be caused by any suggestion, auto or otherwise.”

“What causes it then?” Father Jackson inquired.

“The holy will of God.”

“You seem to be taking a different tack than you did the last time we discussed Mrs. Scaravelli.”

“I never denied that Mrs. Scaravelli might have had a genuine vision,” said the old man irritably. “Note that I said ‘might.’ ” He turned to me. “However, it so happens that Mrs. Scaravelli is—or was—a friend of Mrs. Reddy’s. And I’ve already told you what Mrs. Reddy is.”

“Are you sure of your facts?” asked Father Jackson. “You’ve never actually had a conversation with Mrs. Reddy, have you, in which she admitted being what you think she is.”

Father Fogarty struggled to his feet, clenching his fists. “I’ve never had a conversation with the Lord Jesus Christ either,” he roared, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t know He exists! I’ve never met the Queen of England either, or the President of the United States—”

“All right, all right, never mind.” Father Jackson slumped further in his chair and closed his eyes.

Trembling, Father Fogarty turned back to me. “Now since we know what Mrs. Reddy is, we can assume that her associate Mrs. Scaravelli is, or was, the same thing. And now you know why I’ve been reluctant to have Mrs. Scaravelli’s story publicized. There seems to be no doubt that she was cured of cancer, so it’s quite possible that she had an authentic vision too. The point is, what caused these things to happen? Also, what caused you to see the General on two occasions, Mrs. Caine?”

“This is where I came in,” said Father Jackson, rising.

“Sit down! I want you to investigate this case.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Father . . .”

“I’m not able to get around, so you’ll have to do it. There may be some connection between Mrs. Caine’s case and ours.”

“That’s ridiculous, Father.”

“So you say. Check on it and find out.”

“What do you want me to do—perform an exorcism on her son?”

“Over my dead body,” I said.

“From what you’ve told me, it could come to that,” said Father Fogarty. “However, there are many preliminaries before we could do anything like that.”

“And there are other priests in the diocese more qualified to handle it,” said Father Jackson. “Call the Bishop and have someone assigned.”

“The bishop will want more evidence than we have now. We’re not in the good graces of our Bishop Driscoll at the moment,” Father Fogarty told me. “He blames me for encouraging the likes of Mrs. Scaravelli. He also thinks it was a mistake to build this shrine in the first place. But do you want to know why I did it? It was because of Mrs. Reddy and her kind. Like your Aunt Hannah, I wanted to do something to counteract the evil that was going on around here.” He got up. “Well, I’ll leave you in Father Jackson’s hands, Mrs. Caine. By the way, the church is open now if you want to go in and say a prayer. You could be in danger too, you know. It’s not only your son.”

He made his creaky way to the door, then paused and said, more to himself than to either of us, “Maybe the whole thing was a mistake. Maybe he wanted it here so he could pervert it to his own purposes.”

He went out and Father Jackson twirled his forefinger at the side of his head.

“What was he talking about? Who wanted what here?”

Father Jackson smiled for the first time, revealing a badly made partial denture. “The devil,” he said. “Now he’s thinking that the devil prompted him to build the shrine.”

“And you don’t believe in the existence of the devil?”

“Let’s say I believe in the existence of evil. Hitler, Nero, Herod Atinpas, Joe Stalin maybe.”

“But not a supernatural being?”

He smiled again. “Not a commander-­in-­chief with thousands of imps to do his bidding, no.”

“Therefore you also don’t believe in such things as demonic possession.”

“No. I think there is nothing in the recorded history of such things that can’t be explained by hysteria or some other mental aberration or, as I said before, by the power of suggestion. You seem an intelligent woman, Mrs. Caine. Do you believe in the possibility of possession by devils?”

“Of course not.” He was buttering me up to get rid of me, I thought.

“Why did you come here then?”

“Because Duff said he had been here and I thought maybe Father Fogarty could help him. Help both of us.”

“Well, maybe I can help you. I’ll try.”

“What can you do if you think it’s all in my head?”

“I’m not sure all of it is in your head, and perhaps none of it is. What you saw may have a very simple physical explanation. For instance, maybe there’s someone around here who looks like General Caine. Did you know that General Caine was said to be a great lecher, so there could be hundreds of his descendants in this area. And, as for your son, there’s nothing very unusual in a boy’s behavior changing suddenly. Probably the new environment had a lot to do with it. The fact that he’s a stranger here and feels the need to prove himself, that sort of thing.”

“You make me feel much better, Father.”

“I’m glad. And you mustn’t be concerned either by what Father Fogarty said about Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Scaravelli. Both of them are harmless, although somewhat looney.”

“I know Mrs. Reddy is a bit strange.”

“So is the other one. She’s a local charwoman who has no children and no relatives, as far as I know.”

“Poor thing.”

“If you’re thinking she’s exactly the sort of person to want to add a little excitement to her life by seeing visions, that thought has occurred to me too. And, as for her cancer cure, I’m not sure the local doctors are that reliable as authorities on cancer.”

I went to the door. “Do you want me to call you if anything else happens?”

“Of course.”

He didn’t. He didn’t want to become involved in the problems of a menopausal woman and her delinquent son, especially since they were out-­of-­towners and not even Catholics.

On my way to the car, I decided to have a look at the church. It was mostly curiosity, a desire to see the place where Duff—if it had been Duff—had committed the outrage.

It wasn’t a very large church, possibly of a size to accommodate three or four hundred people. The furnishings and decorations were fairly plain—no pads on the kneelers, for example—and the wall paintings of the Stations of the Cross were small and amateurishly done. The altar furnishings were simple too—no statues or paintings behind the plain wooden altar, no carpet on the floor.

The shrine was in a small chapel which, in contrast to the rest of the church, was garishly decorated with woven tapestries depicting the life of Mary and a large seven- or eight-­foot statue of Mary at the back. It was of marble, not very well carved, but impressive, considering its surroundings. I imagine it was imported, and probably represented the major portion of Aunt Hannah’s contribution.

In front of the statue were a half dozen stands of vigil candles, all but a few of them lighted. There were no displays of discarded crutches, leg braces and wheelchairs, such as one sees at Lourdes and other Marian shrines. Evidently Mrs. Scaravelli’s miracle was the first one to happen here, or else the first one a recipient wanted publicized.

There were eight to ten people kneeling at prie-­dieux in the chapel, most of them elderly women. The one young woman present seemed especially fervent in her devotions. She was saying her rosary with her eyes fixed on the statue, and her gaze never wavered as I knelt at the prie-­dieu next to her.

It was the first time I had knelt in a church in more than twenty years, although I had visited a few old ones during our vacation in Europe in 1974. At that time, I had no reason to pray. My life wasn’t particularly happy, but there was nothing much I wanted either, other than relief from occasional boredom.

This time—and I was a bit ashamed of myself for it—I prayed. My doubts about my former religion hadn’t been swept away, but I was afraid to take any chances. I prayed that what Father Fogarty had suggested not be true, but that if there were such things as devils, they be kept away from me and my family.

After a few minutes I decided I was being ridiculous. If there was such a being as the Mother of God, she could hardly be expected to respond to someone who had no faith in her. I got up from the prie-­dieu abruptly, but then was instantly fearful that I would see the General again as a punishment for my lack of faith.

I left the chapel and started down the aisle toward the front door. Almost immediately there were footsteps behind me and I turned and saw the young woman who had been praying so devoutly. She beckoned to me as she hurried toward me. My first thought was that I had dropped something, although I had my purse and gloves.

She was younger than I had first thought, in her early twenties maybe, but thin, really emaciated-­looking in a cheap print dress that was too large for her. Her dark eyes were bright, almost feverish as she took my arm.

“I have a message for you,” she said.

“From whom? I don’t think I know you.”

“I don’t know you either, but I was told to give you a message.” We were outside the church now and she was still clutching my arm. “It’s from Our Lady.”

“I see.” Gently I tried to disengage her fingers, but she held on all the harder.

“The message is: ‘Don’t worry about your son. Everything is going to be all right.’ ”

“Thank you very much.” I couldn’t get her fingers loose and I began to wonder if I should call for help.

“I come here every day and I get messages all the time for people.”

“I see.”

“I don’t ask for anything for myself, that’s the reason. I used to ask that I get a boyfriend, but I don’t do that anymore. I know now I’m just supposed to come here and help other people. I’ve got something else for you.”

She let go of my arm and reached into her shabby shoulder bag. After some fumbling, she produced what looked like an aspirin bottle. There was a liquid in it.

“This is holy water, blessed by Our Lady,” she said handing it to me.

“I see.” Although I was free now, I was curious. “How does she bless the water?”

“I bring several bottles down here every day and put them behind her statue. Then the next day I collect the old ones and put new ones.”

“Well, thank you. What should I do with the water?”

“Sprinkle it around. It will keep him away.”

“Keep who away?” I was frightened now.

“You know.” She smiled knowingly. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Scaravelli’s. I go to see her every day. I take holy water to her too. She doesn’t like to come here much anymore because Father Fogarty doesn’t like her.”

“Did Mrs. Scaravelli tell you I would be here?”

“She thought you might be.” The girl patted my arm. “You mustn’t be afraid of Mrs. Scaravelli. Mrs. Scaravelli doesn’t have anything to do with those people anymore.”

“What people?”

“You know.” She smiled and backed away.

“What people!”

She waved to me and reentered the church. I stood on the steps a moment longer, undecided about what to do with the aspirin bottle. Then I went to the car and put it on the shelf above the dashboard, thinking I would dispose of it when I got home.

There has to be a logical explanation for the girl’s knowledge, I told myself. Her information about me—the fact that I have a son whom I’m worried about—had to have come from somewhere other than a supernatural source, and the most likely informant, it seemed to me, was Mrs. Reddy.

It seemed obvious that the girl was unbalanced, and if she was typical of the kind of people being attracted to the shrine now, I didn’t blame Father Fogarty for being upset. Then another frightening thought came to me. I hadn’t said anything to Mrs. Reddy about the man I had seen. How could she have known I wanted to keep someone away?

Because she was involved in the man’s appearances obviously. It was the only logical answer. She had sent the man to me, or at least she knew about his coming. Maybe she wanted to frighten us away from the farm, in spite of the fact that she seemed to be trying to encourage us to stay. Maybe the property was more valuable than we thought and she wanted to be able to buy it cheaply. Maybe there was oil on the place, or natural gas. Hadn’t I read somewhere about rich oil deposits in this part of Ohio? Or maybe it was mineral deposits.

Trying to comfort myself in this manner, I drove around the countryside for a while, wasting gas. I just didn’t want to go home. I stopped at a hamburger stand somewhere and ate half a greasy sandwich, and then drove around some more. About four o’clock, I realized I couldn’t keep putting it off, so I went back to the farm.

Duff was at home and presumably in his room, but Stephanie was still missing. Franny was home too, having just arrived on the bus.

“You might’ve picked me up if you were in Cainesville,” she complained.

“I intended to, but I was detained longer than I expected.”

“What were you doing?”

“Oh, lots of things. For one thing, I visited a church.”

“A church!” Her incredulity made me ashamed for a moment of the way I had raised her. But then I thought, why should it bother me? She’s a good girl and surely will remain so despite the fact that she’s never had any religious training.

“Was it nice?” she asked.

“Very nice. I’ll take you sometime.”

Jack came into the room then and grinned when Franny told him where I had been. That infuriated me and I refused to answer any questions about it. I had planned to tell him about my talk with the priests, but now I was too angry to do it.

It was time to be starting dinner and I went into the kitchen with some trepidation, but the room was empty. I made sure of it, turning on the lights and inspecting the pantry and all the dark corners.

I was terrified of spending another night in the house, especially after what Father Fogarty had said about the activities of Mrs. Reddy and her daughter. I was also growing increasingly concerned about Stephanie, and I was trying to decide whether or not to phone the police when it became no longer necessary to make a decision. The doorbell rang and I went to the front door to find two sheriff’s deputies calling on us.