bedroom, into the hallway.
The priest’s journal was slightly too large to fit into one of my
jacket pockets. I tucked it under the waistband of my jeans, against
the small of my back.
Then I followed the dog into the hall, I found him at the foot of the
folding ladder again, gazing up at the pleated shadows and soft light
that hung in the rectory attic. He turned his expressive eyes on me,
and I knew that if he could speak, he would say, We’ve got to do
something.
This peculiar dog not only harbors a fleet of mysteries, n of only
exhibits greater cleverness than any dog should possess, but often
seems to have a well-defined sense of moral responsibility.
Before the events of which I write herein, I had sometimes
halfseriously wondered if reincarnation might be more than
superstition, because I could envision Orson as a committed teacher or
dedicated policeman or even as a wise little nun in a former life, now
reborn in a downsized body, furry, with tail.
Of course, ponderings of this nature have long qualified me as a
candidate for the Pia Klick Award for exceptional achievement in the
field of airheaded speculation. Ironically, Orson’s true origins as I
would soon come to understand them, although not supernatural, would
prove to be more astonishing than any scenario that I and Pia Klick, in
fevered collaboration, could have imagined.
Now the cry issued from above a second time, and Orson was so affected
that he let out a whine of distress too thin to carry into the attic.
Even more than the first time, the wailing voice seemed to be that of a
small child.
It was followed by another voice, too low for the words to be
distinct.
Though I was sure that this must be Father Tom, I couldn’t hear his
tone well enough to tell if it was consoling or threatening.
If I’d trusted to instinct, I would have fled the rectory right then,
gone directly home, brewed a pot of tea, spread lemon marmalade on a
scone, popped a Jackie Chan movie on the TV, and spent the next couple
of hours on the sofa, with an afghan over my lap and with my curiosity
on hold.
Instead, because pride prevented me from admitting that I had a sense
of moral responsibility less well-developed than that of my dog, I
signaled Orson to stand aside and wait. Then I went up the ladder with
the 9-millimeter Glock in my right hand and Father Tom’s stolen journal
riding uncomfortably against the small of my back.
Like a raven frantically beating its wings against a cage, dark images
from Lewis Stevenson’s descriptions of his sick dreams flapped through
my mind. The chief had fantasized about girls as young as his
granddaughter, but the cry that I’d just heard sounded as though it had
come from a child much younger than ten. If the rector of St.
Bernadette’s was in the grip of the same dementia that had afflicted
Stevenson, however, I had no reason to expect him to limit his prey to
those ten or older.
Near the top of the ladder, one hand on the flimsy, collapsible
railing, I turned my head to peer down along my flank and saw Orson
staring up from the hallway. As instructed, he had not tried to climb
after me.
He’d been solemnly obedient for the better part of an hour, having
commented on my commands with not a single sarcastic chuff or rolling
of the eyes. This restraint marked a personal best for him. In fact,
it was a personal best by a margin of at least half an hour, an
Olympic-caliber performance.
Expecting to take a kick in the head from an ecclesiastical boot, I
climbed higher nonetheless, into the attic. Evidently I’d been
sufficiently stealthy to avoid drawing Father Tom’s attention, because
he wasn’t waiting to kick my sinus bones deep into my frontal lobe.
The trapdoor lay at the center of a small clear space that was
surrounded, as far as I could discern, by a maze of cardboard cartons
of various sizes, old furniture, and other objects that I couldn’t