A MORNING MIST rose from the Canaan River and shrouded the town’s buildings.
Victor Jenkins hurried along the sidewalk, talking aloud to himself as he rehearsed what he would say to that woman detective and her superior. They’d get an earful. All night he’d waited, and still he’d not seen his son. The cops had told him he would not be able to see Brad until noon today. They told him at eighteen, Brad was an adult. Victor had insisted that either they release Brad or he’d hire a lawyer. One or the other. Not that he had the money for a lawyer. He didn’t. The cops had said Brad had to request his own lawyer and so far he had not.
Victor had finally gone home to shower and to be with Fran.
This morning when he’d called the station, nothing had changed. Brad was still being held, and could be held for two more days without being legally charged. God was testing Victor. Testing his faith. Testing his resolve.
At the Church of Brotherly Love, on the corner, Victor slipped inside the side door across from the rectory, and stood inside. The silence was profound and he immediately felt at peace and certain all would work out well. The church smelled of melted wax and burned wicks from the lit votive candles, and of the sweet pine scent of the fir boughs that ringed the altar.
He stepped toward the bank of votive candles off to the side of the altar. Even his soft footsteps echoed in the empty space of the church.
As he did at the start of each weekday morning, he lit a candle and knelt and prayed.
He prayed now for his son. He prayed, as he did daily, for forgiveness of all his own and many sins and transgressions. He asked the Lord with sincerest humility to be forgiven all his trespasses. And he knew he was forgiven; he felt the Lord’s forgiveness lighten and buoy him. Why the Lord had chosen to involve his son in this unholy violence, he did not know, and tried not to question. Already, he was ashamed for the way he had behaved in the foyer of his house when the detectives had come to ask questions. He should have listened with respect to their position in the community and with empathy for the heavy responsibility of their profession. He should have acted with grace and tried to understand what was happening as he welcomed them into his home. But. It was not always so easy to behave in a godly manner, to behave as the Lord would have him behave.
And the police. Still, to this day, all these years later, they sparked in him that old fear. He knew he was forgiven. Still. If the Lord worked in mysterious ways, so, too, did the devil.
Yes. He knew what had befallen his son was trial, a test of all their faith: he and his wife’s and his son’s. They must all demonstrate unwavering faith now. He knew how faith could transform a person, lift a person out of the muck, if one embraced it.
He prayed for his son to find the faith that had until now been absent in the boy.
He prayed again for forgiveness. Because in the back of his mind a seed had been planted: that what was happening now was linked to his sins of the past.
Forgiven or not.
OUTSIDE, HE FELT calmer and promised the Lord he would act on behalf of his son with forcefulness and grace. He’d speak his mind, but speak it without malice or disrespect. With God at his side. On his side.
He picked up his pace on the sidewalk.
Up ahead, a figure walked toward him, an apparition in the mist. It strode with confidence, arrogance, the mist spiraling about it, making way for it.
As the figure approached, Victor saw it was a man, his long black raincoat, worn open, flapping as he strode, the collar pulled up to the side of his face in the way of a vampire.
Victor’s eyelashes beaded with condensation.
The man in the black raincoat came upon him. As he passed by Victor, he smiled broadly. “Coach. How are you?”
Victor blinked. He stopped and turned to watch as the man made his way down the street and disappeared around the corner.
Jon Merryfield.
Victor rushed toward the police station.
NORTH MET VICTOR in the hallway. Victor had expected the woman detective. She’d have been easier to persuade, he imagined.
North put his hand out for Victor to shake. Victor willed himself to shake it and give an agreeable smile. “May I see my son?” he said, bringing a tone of respect to his voice.
“Follow me.” North led Victor to a door. “You have a half hour.”
“My son didn’t do it,” he blurted, as if someone else had spoken. He was simply unable to control himself.
“A half hour.” North opened the door.
Brad sat at the table, hands cuffed on his lap. His face was slack, the skin beneath his eyes swollen. He’d aged ten years in two days and no longer resembled the son in whom Victor had placed all his hope.