Columbia, Missouri, November 15, 1935—The Northern Synod Headquarters was originally a dilapidated, two-story house on the wooded outskirts of Columbia. Earlier that year, the members had instigated a massive building campaign. Very little of the former structure remained. The headquarters now boasted a meeting hall, two kitchens, a gymnasium, a chapel, and several offices. Only the basement was untouched. Over the ornate front entrance of the building stood an elaborate insignia. It looked something like a cross with a sideways ‘E’ hovering above.
Sammy had worked for the Synod for over two weeks. He swept the floors, cleaned the kitchen, hauled wood, and generally made himself useful. In turn, they fed him and he was allowed to sleep in the tool shed. Sammy had exaggerated a bit when he’d written that he’d actually joined the Synod. Membership was not open-invitation.
As near as he could guess, there were about fifty members of the lodge, or association, or whatever they were. A motley bunch, they came and went at all hours. Men in suits, men in coveralls, men in uniforms Sammy couldn’t identify. They arrived by automobile, by bicycle, or on foot. Most of them ignored Sammy, or treated him with aloof indifference. Whenever a dozen or more members gathered, one of them would suggest that Sammy clean the gutters, or chop wood, or whitewash the shed, or some other job that would take him outside. As for Saberhagen, he had only seen him from a distance. Strange that he could remember those eyes so well…
Sammy cut the last of the encroaching vines from the back of the hall and sat down on a stump. The chore hadn’t taken very long, but he knew better than to enter the building, not while all the muck-a-mucks were doing whatever they did. Probably buggering each other, he thought with a grin.
Sammy was contemplating giving up the job here. So far he’d learned nothing of importance. He’d never stayed in one city this long before, and he was starting to get antsy. If it weren’t for that nice minister, he would have hit the road long ago.
As Sammy rolled a cigarette, he was aware of an automobile engine approaching. Not the normal coughing and popping of a Ford, but the purr of a more expensive job. He heard it park in the clearing out front. Curiosity overcame his natural sloth, and he strolled around to take a look.
He’d guessed right; the car was new, sleek, and black. Already the driver, an unpleasant looking bruiser with a Kaiser mustache, was holding the door open for his passenger. Sammy nearly dived back behind the building when he recognized the occupant.
Saberhagen was not an imposing man. He looked to be about 5’8”, around forty years old, with a body just starting to go to fat. Dark hair, olive skin, and an expensive suit. Sammy wondered why he’d felt so upset the last time they’d crossed paths.
And then Saberhagen looked in his direction and Sammy found himself hyperventilating behind the headquarters. What was it about those eyes? He hadn’t glared at Sammy, hell, he had actually smiled and waved. What was so unsettling?
Years ago, Sammy had worked in the Chicago slaughterhouses. Suddenly, Sammy had a pretty good idea of what it felt like to be on the other end of the sledgehammer.
He stood, scratched his balls, and came to a decision. He was risking his neck being here and he hadn’t found out squat. It was time to take action. He’d eavesdrop on whatever they were doing inside.
Actually entering the hall would have been too obvious, and the building wasn’t designed for listening from the outside. But the cellar…
Sammy had never given the basement much mind, it was always chained shut, at any rate. But pipes carried sound; perhaps he could overhear something. His years on the road didn’t fail him; he had the padlock picked in under a minute.
He wrestled the storm doors open and descended the stairs. It was too dark to close the doors behind him; besides, it was kind of scary. If someone caught him he’d just say someone had left the door open and he’d decided to clean up a little.
The cellar was good-sized, almost as large as the original building. The afternoon sunlight slanted down the stairs, but didn’t do much to illuminate the dank basement. Sammy knew he shouldn’t waste time, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to progress further. He stood at the foot of the steps, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
The room was surprisingly uncluttered, but considering the recent construction, it wasn’t all that strange. Oily footprints led from an interior staircase, but Sammy couldn’t imagine what would bring any of the important people down here. A few wooden crates and boxes lined the walls. A tarp-covered workbench stuck out from under some built-in shelves. Exposed cobwebby pipes lined the ceiling.
Sammy didn’t like it down there; it reminded him of the many jail cells and lockups he’d stayed in. A heady odor of decay hung in the air. He had almost convinced himself to leave when he noticed faint markings on the bare concrete floor. He inched closer.
Yes! There was something drawn on the floor in chalk. To Sammy, it looked like a giant star inside a circle. It covered nearly the entire floor, centering around a loose slab (probably some sort of drain for the basement). On the slab, someone had scribbled the Northern Synod’s insignia: sideways E over the X.
And what was this? Something else was painted—no, this was no design, just a stain. A dark stain. Like someone had spilled an almost-empty can of paint. Or dragged something covered in dark liquid. The stains started at the interior stairs, crossed the floor, and stopped at the workbench.
Sammy’s protective voice was urging him to saunter off, that discretion was the better part of valor, that curiosity led to dead cats. But those guys back in town were depending on him. He crossed to the bench and pulled back the tarp.
The man was young, bearded, and probably had two or three bullets in his torso. He lay on his stomach, his back soaked in blood, his face turned towards Sammy in a voiceless scream.
Sammy would have thought he was the type of guy to run like hell in a situation like that. Instead, he calmly reached into the man’s back pocket and retrieved the wallet. An identification card told Sammy that the corpse was Alanzo, Rev. Gowen’s former parishioner. Sammy replaced the wallet, covered the body, and left the cellar, pausing to replace the chain. Then he ran like hell.
I must have lain there for an hour after Charlie fell asleep, my hands behind my head, a dopey grin on my face.
Wow. So that’s why Dad was always trying to get me to ask out a girl. That’s why other guys paid so much attention to their clothes and attitude.
Beside me, Charlie slept, her bare back to me. She snored, lightly. I found this adorable. I wanted to wake her up and thank her. Again. I wanted to snuggle her, to kiss her, to hold her, to…
I wanted to call up L.J. and brag. I wanted to compose a sonnet. I wanted to kick someone’s ass. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so energized.
Just a day ago, Saberhagen had forced me to look through the gates of hell. And now Charlie had shown me the way to heaven. It took a lot of self-control for me not to climb on top of her right then.
Glory.
Too bad it took nearly dying to achieve such bliss. I kissed her cheek and fell into a restful slumber.
The sun was already shining when I awoke. I was disappointed to see Charlie was already up and half-dressed, stretching to fasten her bra. I quickly got up and wrapped my arms around her, hoping to interrupt the action. She wriggled free.
“You know, Charlie, checkout isn’t till noon.”
She’d already re-bandaged herself. She reached down to pick up her sweater. “Get a move on, Romeo. I have to work this afternoon. Plus, someone keeps trying to kill you.”
I tried not to sound whiney. “Can’t you call in sick?”
She showed her teeth. “Plenty of time for that later. Plenty. But not now.” She kissed me on the lips, then fished my wallet out of my discarded pants and emptied it of the cash. “I’ll go check out while you’re dressing. Meet me at the car.” She gestured toward the takeout box with Gowen’s ruined diary. “Don’t forget that.”
I glanced at the sopping volume with little hope. “What’s the point?”
“I have a friend who works in the rare books department. They do amazing restoration work.” She kissed me again and left.
I quickly dressed. Before leaving, I risked opening Gowen’s diary. Every page had congealed together. Trying to pry apart the leaves would only destroy any chance of Charlie’s friend resurrecting the thing.
On the very last page, I could just make out one line. My heart stopped for a moment. It was another Bible verse. The book of Job! I began to sweat as I opened the nightstand and pulled out the Gideon. I rapidly located Job, chapter two, verse eight.
And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal; and he sat down among the ashes.
I replaced the book back in the food container and left to join Charlie at the office. If I ever talked to Rev. Gowen again, I’d have a thing or two to say about being specific.
That morning, I drove Charlie’s car the two hours back to Columbia while she slept on my shoulder. I tried not to think about poor Steph or Gowen or the issues with the underworld. For now, Saberhagen was someone else’s problem.
Idiot! Do you really think spending the night with Charlie (an amazing night, but still) was worth the danger you put her in? Don’t go back to Columbia! Go to the airport, buy two one-way tickets to Fiji. Beg, whine, threaten to marry her, but don’t take her back toward Saberhagen!
I rolled down the window and let the humid, post-storm air fill the car. I massaged Charlie’s thigh, enjoying my new physical privileges. Everything was going to be okay.