The Trinity (51 page)

Chris shivers at the last sentence as he thinks about his fate if Crowley finds out about his betrayal before the police get a hold of him.

The priest concludes his sermonizing and they retire to the living room, where Crowley feeds the fire with more coal. They talk about nothing in particular, just the vague notion of a white utopia when their work has been completed.

“After Scotland is liberated, and if we are still here, we will work on England. London is chock-full of Zionists. If somehow we are gone, transferred out of here before our work is complete, then the three of us will find each other in America and start our work there,” Crowley says, showing signs of inebriation.

Brad and the priest drink constantly, well into the dark, laughing and talking loudly. Chris feigns laughter as well, still sipping his beer cautiously, resisting the temptation to abandon his fear and enjoy the feeling of being drunk.

“Well, well, gentlemen,” Crowley says as the hour approaches eleven. “We have stayed up way too late, and we have drunk way too much. Is our gear ready?” he asks of Brad.

“Yes, Father, you made sure of that after Wednesday. The bottles are full of gas and oil and stuffed with rags. You put them in three duffel bags out back, and Thor’s hammer is right here.” Brad points to the spike leaning against the fireplace.

“Excellent.” The priest rises from his armchair and stretches his arms with a yawn. “There will be a slight change of plans, gentlemen. Dundee, too, houses a synagogue. We never went there because the Tayside Police became suspicious of me. We never delivered a note to their synagogue because of that. However, we won’t be expected in Dundee, and there may be a certain amount of vigilance in Aberdeen. I drove to Dundee on my own and checked the synagogue out. It is small, and it seems to be attached to the University of Dundee. Logistically, it will be similar, except there are two windows in front. We will be able to approach it just as stealthily and scatter in the same fashion when we hear the sirens.”

Chris panics, knowing that the priest is expected in Aberdeen, fearing that somehow he knows what is waiting in the shadows on Saturday morning.

“But Father,” Chris protests after gathering his thoughts, “Brad and I only know the Aberdeen synagogue. We already practiced that one. We’ve never even seen the Dundee synagogue.” He is quite frightened. He pictures the scores of police waiting in Aberdeen tomorrow morning—waiting and waiting and waiting while a disaster is inflicted upon Dundee, while Crowley escapes.

“It doesn’t matter. We need the element of surprise on our side. No one will expect Dundee. It is perfect.” With that, Crowley walks upstairs to retire for the night, not wishing to discuss the choice of Saturday’s destination any further. Brad collapses in a pile of blankets on the floor, and Chris places his rigid and now sweaty body on the couch with eyes wide open and his heart racing.

He must do something, but he’s not sure what. He thinks of so many things, mainly of an attack on the synagogue in Dundee that goes unchecked. He pictures smoke pouring out of the synagogue. He can hear the screams of those trapped inside. He can picture Brad wielding Thor’s hammer, crudely bludgeoning those who manage to leave the building.

He thinks about trying to leave the priest’s house, running away once and for all, but that would alarm Crowley. He wouldn’t try to attack a synagogue, again giving the police nothing to pin upon him. And he would know he had been betrayed. He would wait and plan an attack later, after the passage of a certain amount of time. Chris’s safety would be in perpetual doubt.

And he also thinks about sneaking out, calling Holliday or Constable Robertson or Karen, whoever he can reach first, and warning them about the change of venue. He would then sneak back in the house and remain there until the morning.

This plan he ponders the longest, as it is the more feasible of his choices. It does pose a certain amount of risk. Brad or the priest may awaken as he sneaks in or out of the house, and he would have to explain his absence at such a late and inconvenient hour.

He rises from the couch and tiptoes towards the door. He plans to walk the short distance into Lutherkirk, find a payphone, and call the police. Brad stirs as Chris walks across the dusty floor, and, in fright, Chris flies back to the couch.

He remains awake, gripped by panic and fear and indecision. His eyes stay wide open, darting back and forth, studying the moonlight pouring through the window. The hands on his watch read two in the morning when he is struck with an epiphany, a frightening conclusion that he cannot ignore. It is the surest way to end the priest’s reign of hate. It is the surest way to ensure Chris’s security.

He rises from the couch, automatically, as if he is guided by some cosmic remote control. He goes outside, not caring that his footfalls or the opening or closing of the door will stir Brad or Father Crowley from their drunken sleep. He retrieves several of the wine bottles that the priest has carefully filled with gasoline and oil. He pours them over all the furniture in the house, over the carpet, across the blanket that covers Brad. He grabs Thor’s hammer and purposefully walks up the narrow stairs to the priest’s bedroom. He has never traveled up these stairs before, and he leans against the wall as he guides himself through the dark.

The priest is easy enough to find. There are only two rooms upstairs, and the priest’s bedroom door is open. Chris enters, spying the priest lying naked on top of his bed, the moonlight making his pale and flabby skin appear nearly luminous.

He is sleeping on his back, his hands folded peacefully across his chest. Chris studies him for a moment, almost reverently. The priest has the smallest of smiles and his chest rises and falls slowly, as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

He must feel at peace
, Chris thinks, a feeling he has chased unknowingly for years, until the priest so clearly illustrated the common man’s meandering through life.

He is at peace
, Chris thinks as he closes his eyes and raises Thor’s hammer above his head. The metal ball glistens briefly as it catches the moonlight and falls swiftly and silently, save the noise of the ball cutting through the still air of the room. The spikes crush the skull of the priest in one swing. Chris witnesses this through half-open eyes. He swings again, and this time the ball gets stuck in the mattress. Chris struggles to free it as he hears the sound of gurgling blood coming from the priest’s neck and mouth. The sound makes Chris think of a shallow and slow moving stream, with water passing over rocks smooth and round.

Chris returns downstairs. He places Thor’s hammer on the floor next to Brad, tenderly placing Brad’s hand on top of the handle. He goes back outside and retrieves another duffel bag full of wrapped wine bottles filled with gasoline. He takes them upstairs, pouring gasoline on the stairs and on the floor of the priest’s bedroom. He then goes to the front door, soaks the threshold and the wood of the door itself in gasoline. Finally, he is satisfied the house is sufficiently drenched. The smell of gasoline is overpowering, so powerful that Chris can hear Brad stir.

He stands outside and retrieves his lighter and pack of cigarettes from his left sock. He lights a cigarette and inhales it once before throwing it back in the house. It lands in the middle of the living room floor, its embers quickly igniting the gasoline soaked carpet. Chris closes the door as the blanket covering Brad becomes enflamed. He walks down the driveway and stands along the side of the road and watches as the inside of the cottage burns. He almost expects Brad to come crashing through the now burning front door, but he doesn’t. Chris can hear a stifled scream for a moment and then only the sound of the fire as it passes up the stairs.

He lights another cigarette and feels, finally, at peace.

About the Author

David LaBounty has held jobs as a miner, a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman. His work has appeared in Rattle, the Los Angeles Review, Night Train, the New Plains Review, Booth, and several other journals. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and other literary awards. He is the author of the novels
The Perfect Revolution
,
The Trinity
, and
Affluenza
and the poetry collection
moon chalk
. He lives in Michigan.