“Into what, Andrew?”
“Into someone who accepted life, and herself, on God’s terms.”
“And then?”
“And then she left, as abruptly as she came.”
“How long was she with the order?”
“For about six weeks.”
“She left in August of ’51?”
“Yes … Yes, that’s correct.”
Something crashed within me. “I’m sorry I was abusive,” I said.
“Don’t be sorry, you want justice.”
“I don’t know what I want. Johnny DeVnes came here independently of his sister, is that right?”
“Yes. Will Berglund sent him also. I think it was around Christmas of ’49. He was no Marcella. He was a volatile drug addict with a lot of self-hatred. He tried to buy his way in here. Dirty money he’d earned from selling drugs. He made half-hearted attempts to listen to our message, but–”
“Have you ever operated an orphanage here?” I interjected.
“No, that requires a license. We serve anonymously, Mr. Underhill.”
“Did John DeVries ever mention a woman named Margaret Cadwallader? Or a child he fathered with her out of wedlock?”
“No, mostly John talked about chemical formulas and the women he had sexual relations with, and–”
I stabbed in a darkness that was becoming increasingly brighter. “And he left his memoirs here, right, Andrew?”
Andrew hesitated. “He left a carton of personal effects, yes.”
“I want to go through it.”
“No, no. I’m sorry, you can’t. That’s absolute. John entrusted them to the order. I went through the carton and saw that there were no drugs, so I did John the decency of assuring him that his things would always be safe here. No, I can’t let you see them.”
“He’s dead, Andrew. Other lives may be at stake in this thing.”
“No. I won’t belie his trust. That’s final.”
I reached inside my coat and into my waistband and pulled out my .38. I leaned over and placed the barrel in the middle of Andrew’s forehead. “You show me that carton, or I’ll kill you,” I said.
It took him a moment to believe me. “I have work to do that requires me to acquiesce to you,” he said.
“Then you know why I have to do what I’m doing,” I said.
The carton was musty and mildewed and covered with spiderwebs. And it was heavy; reams and reams of paper weighted down with dampness. I hauled it out to my car under Andrew’s watchful eye. He gave me some sort of two-handed benediction as I locked it in my trunk.
“Shall I return it to you?” I asked.
Andrew shook his head. “No, I think you’ve let me off the hook as far as God is concerned.”
“What was that sign you made?”
“I was asking for God’s mercy on readers of dark secrets.”
“Have you read any of it?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know what it is?”
“You wouldn’t have come here if those pages contained joy.”
“Thank you,” I said. Andrew didn’t answer; he just watched me drive away.
I rented a room at a motel in Fond Du Lae and settled in to read John DeVries’s memoirs.
I emptied the musty carton onto my bed and arranged the paper into three neat piles, each one about a foot high. I gave each stack a cursory look to see if the writing was legible. It was. The black ink was smeared by dampness and age, but DeVries had a neat, concise handwriting and a narrative style that belied his drug addiction and rage; there was both chronological and thematic unity in his writing. The pages were not compiled by date, but each sheet was dated at the top. I went through all three piles and collated them according to month and year.
John DeVries’s journals covered the war years, and more than anything else they detailed his fascination with and subservience to Doc Harris, who had taken over the life of Johnny’s domineering sister; who had become his father and teacher and more; who had taken his aimless rage and given it form. “Johnny the enforcer” had only to stand by his avatar’s side and look intimidating, and by so doing gained more respect than he had ever known.
Johnny had been given the job of bringing back into line the recalcitrant burglars and buyers that Doc dealt with as middlemen: