Adam's Woods (24 page)

"A tourniquet first, and then water. You're bleeding to death, Pastor." His voice sounded oddly formal to his ears, an address to a complete stranger.

Burroughs nodded slowly, and Eric decided on the sheet from the cot. He pulled it free, his fingers burning at the thought of touching the place where his brother's killer had slept, and ripped off a long strip. He went outside and found a stick, returned and applied the tourniquet, averting his eyes from the horrible wound when he could. He wiped his hands on the blanket and then took a gallon jug of water from the wall from among at least a dozen. A shelf below held all sorts of canned goods: vegetables and soups, baked beans, canned ham. A camp stove, with a small propane canister still attached, rested in its own space by the food. He noticed a bucket by the bed with a small amount of yellow fluid at the bottom, the evening's piss, apparently. A large, squared off stone was set into the wall by the bed, with an iron ring attached to a chain. At its far end, the chain was mangled, several links twisted and severed. The reality of what he was seeing sunk in, confirming his fears, and again he had to fight an urge to leave. He glanced over at the shotgun on the floor, and dark deeds passed through is mind. He squeezed his eyes shut until they faded. New questions had been raised with the presence of the chain. Was it simply a hiding place, or a prison?

He found a small tin cup and filled it with water. Burroughs moaned behind him, and he turned and brought the cup to the wounded man's lips. He sipped awkwardly, water dribbling down the front of his shirt to darken the smears of blood brought there by his hands. Eric got the pillow from the bed, lifted up the pastor's head, and slid it beneath.

"Thank you, Eric."

Without making eye contact, Eric said, "I don't know if I can carry you out of here, Pastor. I'm going to have to go and get some help. I'll get Paul."

Burroughs grabbed his arm with surprising strength and whispered. "No, Eric. Just give me water when I need it. I'm not leaving. I need to tell you...why. How this...happened. You deserve to know."

Eric stared at the hand gripping his forearm, at the spots and fine hair, noticed how long and slender the fingers were. Like a pianist's fingers. The whole man like someone he had never seen before.

"Okay," he said. If he wanted to die here, so be it. But he would listen to his confession. But then he pictured this man comforting his hysterical mother while concealing the one responsible, counseling her while feeding and caring for him. A numbness settled over him, the images and emotions too powerful to process all at once, and he let it spread. He gave Burroughs another sip of water and then wiped the film of sweat from his forehead, concentrated only on the mechanics of the tasks. He slid down next to the pale, dying man and listened.

"Pastor, you need to come to the farm. Right away."

"Hello, Paul. I've just arrived for a visit. Should be done in an hour or so. Can it wait until then?"

"No, Pastor. It can't. You need to come now."

He heard the excitement in Paul's voice, a tone in most that wouldn't raise an eyebrow. But for Paul to speak in anything other than a monotonous, near-mumble gave reason for pause. Burroughs agreed to drive out now and hung up the phone, sorry to abandon Beatrice Conway, a lonely shut-in that looked forward to his visits as one of the last good and dependable things in her life amidst failing health and the too recent passing of her husband.

Promising to return soon and admiring the bravery with which she faced her disappointment, Burroughs began the twenty minute drive to Paul's farm. As a pastor and privy to the difficult events of peoples' lives, sometimes a first responder if not involving injury or worse, he prayed for wisdom for whatever awaited.

Arriving at the farm, he pulled into Paul's driveway, and found Paul standing on the front steps of his house. He didn't look at Burroughs but stared at the small house across the road next to the main barn and grain silo, where his son, Isaac, lived. He got out of the car and followed the intense gaze; saw nothing unusual and approached Paul. Uneasiness settled into his gut when he received no greeting.

"Something's happened. With Isaac, Pastor."

He looked again at the house, did not see his son, but he rarely did when visiting Paul. If home, he stayed inside, venturing out only to attend to his chores or to get in his car and drive away. Burroughs had hoped that the distance between them, living in their own spaces and within their own boundaries, would help mend the gulf between them. The opposite had occurred.

Before Isaac had left to live on Paul's farm, argument had become their primary form of conversation. Isaac often baited him on some theological topic - and he too often rose to take it - until Burroughs realized that his flushed cheeks and high-pitched tone provided the response his son sought. He despised Isaac's small smile that announced his victory and despised himself more for delivering it. In quieter moments - usually when Isaac had left for a weekend or even longer, to where he couldn't guess as the boy had no friends that he knew of - he looked for his son in the stranger that shared his roof and his food, the latter at different times, and couldn't find him; he ealized he should have looked long before this for the soft spoken, polite boy that Carrie had doted on, held on her lap to read stories and sing songs to, the child that gazed at her face with adoration that had never fallen on his own. But his son had respected him, and loved him in his own way. Probably reciprocated to the degree offered. They had shared some good times: camping trips and catching trout, triumph at the first successful bicycle ride without training wheels, the alter call when Isaac had shuffled down the aisle alone to kneel at his feet.

He knew Carrie's death had been the catalyst for the change, or perhaps had only triggered something already there, waiting. But the boy watching his mother waste away to disease withered himself, and her burial carried a part of him into the ground. If Burroughs had tried harder to salvage the remnant of Isaac, things would be different now, he believed. Or he could at least claim a measure of peace with the attempt. But the grief that stole his son took its pound of flesh from him as well, created an aching hole in his heart that only throbbed more intently when he attempted to approach where it lived in either of them. A dangerous predator with unfinished business best left alone. He could have, should have, sought outside help, for himself first and then Isaac. But his pride and denial would not allow it.

He tried to console himself, when watching Isaac drive away from the farm with eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring first his wave and then later Burroughs' own expressionless face, that he had done much good: he had guided others through their grief, helped to salvage marriages, steered tottering sheep away from the temptation of a destructive lifestyle or called a lost one back through the ruins of consequence. But none of it made up for losing his son, when he lay alone in his bed, touching the cold place where Carrie used to lay down next to him.

"Pastor?"

"Paul, I'm sorry. Is Isaac sick?" He doubted it. Paul and Isaac had become friends since Isaac had taken on the job of farm hand. Paul knew about their strained relationship, but could cross the no-man's land between them while fostering a like and respect for both. But Paul wouldn't have called him out here for fever and chills.

"He came in about an hour ago. From the woods, I think. He had something all over his clothes, and on his hands. I thought it was paint. I went over to talk to him, and he seemed...gone. Somewhere else. Saying something over and over but I couldn't hear. And then I smelled it and realized it was blood, not paint. I asked him if he was hurt, and he seemed to notice I was there for the first time...and the blood too. He looked surprised. Said, no, he was fine, and then started talking again, like whispering. Almost like praying, Pastor. I didn't know if I should call an ambulance, or the police...and then I thought that I should call you."

The last statement came out almost as an apology. But he could hear and see the concern, the fear in Paul. He was tall, his wide frame augmented from years of throwing hay bales and the ceaseless physical demands of running a farm. His face might be described as homely - eyes too close together and a smile that appeared as a grimace - but surely one of the most decent men Burroughs had ever known. And he was glad that if he personally couldn't be a friend to his son, this man could. Paul's shy demeanor and sparse time to spend away from the farm all but guaranteed his loneliness, so that Isaac, a thorn in Burrough's side, became Paul's blessing.

"That's fine, Paul. I'm glad you did." But he wasn't glad. Didn't want to go across the street and knock on the door and face his son. Didn't want to see him in this state, or see him at all. He was sure there was an explanation for the blood, if it were even blood. At the moment it seemed trivial. When the phone rang and Paul went inside to answer, and then returned several shades paler with an inability to speak, Burroughs felt himself growing impatient. When he did speak, he wished Paul had never found his voice.

"John Obert just called, looking for you, Pastor. He said that Adam Kane was killed. In the woods behind their house. Someone opened him up with a hunting knife."

Even then it took several heartbeats to register, his shock at the news so great that he forgot about Isaac. Forgot about the blood. Not until he glanced up at Paul again and saw him staring once more at the house across the street. And it surprised him, then, when the horror washed over him, to discover how very much he loved his son.

What he did next began all that would come after. He turned to Paul, to tell him to call the police, and said, "Don't tell anyone Paul. Until we're sure. Keep an eye on the house. If he tries to go anywhere, stop him. If you can't do that, follow him. I have to go."

He knew from the relief in Paul's face that he had correctly gauged his loyalty. To his son more than to himself, perhaps, but it didn't matter. He allowed Paul the hope he wanted, and before he could reconsider got in his car and drove away, avoiding a glance at the house lest Isaac should open a curtain. He didn't want to see, didn't want to believe, either.

By the time he had reached Lincoln corners and had placed his hand on Maggie Kane, so that the violence of the grief convulsing her body became something palpable traveling through his arm and spreading into the dark places where he hid from the truth, he had decided to take his suspicions to the police, outside and talking to Perry Rice who had carried Eric home and then summoned them.

Arnie Fisk stood in the room against a wall, and Burroughs felt his eyes, felt them searching for that dark place, perhaps the inner struggle finding an outlet in posture or expression. He had never been good at hiding. Fisk had always been good at finding things out. Then Arnie hadn't been so bad, or maybe was but Burroughs not as well acquainted with him. Not yet. But later he believed that some men simply shouldn't have power over others, and recognized the truth that it was precisely these sort of men that gained it. Because they expressly sought that power. But he had been blinded by his grief and a need to confide in someone. Arnie was there. Arnie was a Deacon in the church, contentious and petulant sometimes, but dependable. He ran a successful business. He cared about the town and the people in it, was a Fisk from a long line of Fisks with a crowded section of plots in the cemetery on the hill.

Outside, leaving Wanda Rice in charge of Maggie's hitching sobs and moans, each a lash of accusation, and moving away from the mounting police presence as the state cruisers and then the ambulance that would carry Adam away arrived, he told Arnie about Isaac. So he wouldn't have to be the one to betray his son. They sat in Burroughs' car, and Arnie stared out of the window for a long time before saying, "Let's go see him."

Arnie donated the lumber for the cabin. Paul donated the land. Burroughs was sure that he had donated his soul in exchange for the secret. At first, anyway. And it was good, he thought, that presiding over Adam's funeral and then counseling George and Maggie Kane had been the first tasks to face. Because if he could hide their son's murderer in the woods and still function as a pastor, as their Pastor, he could do this. If delivering Isaac Burroughs to the sword could have brought Adam Kane up from the ground, he would not have hesitated; he believed that all would be raised on the last day, but this was not that day.

He simply forced it from his mind, as he had his son's and his own grief over mother and wife, and focused on the business at hand. And his empathy and the truths he gently delivered were no less sincere.

And so his son had received a trial before a jury, however unconventional. He had entered a guilty plea, lucid and cognizant of his actions. They had sentenced him to life imprisonment, and would never extend parole; Pennsylvania employed the death penalty, but rarely carried it out, and neither would they. What, really, he rationalized, was the difference between a maximum security prison run by the state and the same run by responsible citizens fully aware of the heinousness of the crime and prepared to exact justice.