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  As terrible as that loss was, it could not justify hate. The boy wasn't evil, but stupid, too young to know how to drink, to know not to drink. Surely he didn't try to kill Evey and the baby, didn't try to hurt anyone. It was an accident, a dreadful accident.

  But weren't accidents preventable?

  Who could have stopped it? Who could have kept Evey and their baby and the boy from dying?

  The "friend" his mother had mentioned. The friend at whose house the boy had gotten drunk.

  The "friend's" parents, who had left untrustworthy children alone with alcohol.

  The dead boy's parents, for not providing the guidance and conscience the boy apparently lacked.

  That was what it came down to, wasn't it? Guidance, protection, teaching, seeing that a child was raised in the right way, the way he had been raised, the way he and Evey would have raised their own child together. And when that didn't happen, it meant misery and sorrow and loss.

  Loss.

  He wept again, wondering what his life would be now. Then he got up, went into the bathroom, washed his face, looked into the mirror.

  His beard, always heavy, and unshaven for nearly a day, smudged his cheeks and chin. The darkness traveled upward to the hollows under his eyes, becoming less roughly textured but just as gray, making the hair at his temples look silvery in comparison. He ran his hands through his thick hair, pushing it back, exposing all the flesh of his face, a moon in eclipse.

  A shower and shave made him feel better, and later that afternoon, he talked to the funeral director on the phone, and made an appointment to see him the next morning. That evening, he read the story about the accident in the newspaper, and learned that Raymond Walsh was a junior at Mayville High School, a starting back on the football team, lived with both parents (the father's name was not Walsh, so Paul assumed the mother's second marriage) and three brothers and sisters, and was considered "a fun-loving boy" by classmates. Paul did not read the data on Evey.

  That night, his first night alone in bed without her, was endless. He slept only an hour, and that a few minutes at a time. He started out on the left side of the bed, lying on his stomach the way he usually went to sleep, then rolled on his side and clutched Evey's pillow.

  Her scent was strong in the bed linens. But the soft substitute for his wife made him start to cry again, and he rolled on his back in the dead center of the queen-sized mattress, arms and legs outstretched, as if to tell himself that he and only he had ever filled its wide expanse. He made himself think that until he nearly believed it, for he knew that it would be that way from now on, and told himself that no one else would ever share his bed.

  Though he was only forty, he felt far too old to become someone else again, to learn and grow and merge with another woman, a stranger to him now. No, he told himself, telling Evey too, he would not marry again. No one could or would try to take Evey's place. "No one," he whispered into the darkness, hoping she heard. "No one."

  He wondered where she was. All his life he had believed what he heard in church every Sunday, that the dead in Christ would live. When his grandparents died, he had been sad, but it had been natural. They were old, had lived good lives, and, as far as Paul could tell, believed in the hereafter. He had believed too, and pictured them at ease in some land of eternal blessing, reunited with each other and with their own parents, never to be parted from each other or the presence of God again.

  But was Evey there now? And if so, could she watch him? Could she see that he mourned? Was she, even now, floating over the bed they shared, telling him, with words he could not hear, not to grieve, because she was with God, and in only a short time he would be with her?

  He listened, looked with wide eyes into the blackness above his bed, praying to see her ghost, an inexplicable light, to hear just the slightest whisper of her voice, something, anything to tell him that death was not all, and that she lived and waited.

  But there was nothing. After a while he smiled, and told himself that it was all right. Faith was the key.

  If he saw or heard, if his senses told him she returned, then there would be no need for faith. And without faith, God could not be real.

  Wasn't that absurd? he thought, reality negating faith. But it was what he believed, what he had to believe, so he whispered, "Stay there, Evey. Stay there. I'll come soon enough," and thinking that, he slept for a little while. When he woke, he thought about it again, and her memory and his knowing that she would wait let him sleep for a few minutes more.

  Evey was buried in a large plot at Willow Hill Memorial Park, next to the grave of Paul's father, who had died of cancer two years earlier, when Paul was thirty-eight. Nearly two hundred people came to the memorial service held a day after the funeral. All of Paul's employees from his clothing store were there, as were many friends from the church and the numerous civic and fraternal organizations he and Evey had belonged to.

  But those who brought him the most comfort were his family. His sister Rachel and her husband sat at the end of the aisle. They had left their three-year-old daughter, Jessica, with a sitter. His mother sat on his left, gently holding his hand.

  After Paul walked out of the sanctuary when Evey's memorial service was over, he did not enter the church for another three weeks. He felt too emotionally burdened to do anything beyond keeping himself well and functioning. He had no financial worries, since both he and Evey were heavily insured, and the store he ran, first with his father and for the past three years on his own, was thriving. The people of Buchanan felt a multi-generational loyalty to Blair's Men's Wear ("Serving Buchanan Since 1949"), and Paul's staff was capable of looking after the store during the few weeks following Evey's death.

  Although Paul came to the store, he merely sat in his office, staring at the papers on his desk, and occasionally shuffling them. And during those first few weeks, he attended none of the Rotary or Masonic functions, nor meetings of the church lay committees on which he served. He dropped his membership in his gun club's pistol team, and turned down the invitations of the friends with whom he had competed once a week.

  His return to church services came hard. Before the service began, he sat beside his mother and thought of nothing but Evey. Every organ note, every face that smiled at him in sympathy, everything he saw and heard made her absence palpable, a vast hole scooped from within his spirit.

  Still, he knew he had to be there. It made no sense to turn your back on the sole thing that could give you comfort after a loss. The Church meant Jesus and immortality and Evey happy and alive in a place in which he would someday join her. The trick would be, for that short hour in the sanctuary, to bury the memories of the past beneath Christ's promise for the future. When the first hymn began, he rose, concentrated on the music, and hesitantly sang the bass line. He mechanically read the responsive reading and the affirmation of faith, sang the Gloria Patri, listened as the choir sang their anthem, and placed his envelope in the offering plate, trying to ignore the emotions that nearly choked him, the loss that had never seemed more terrible.

  Then it was time for a baptism, and with that ceremony Paul Blair's life took on purpose, and a new order.

  Chapter 4

  It was not the usual infant baptism today, but that of a four-year-old, Peter Hurst. Bill Geyer, the head pastor, had told Paul about the family before Evey died. They were new in the area, and had moved to Buchanan from Alabama, just a few weeks after Mr. Hurst had married the second Mrs. Hurst. Though the man and his son had not been religious before, Miriam, the second wife, was a devout Evangelical Christian, and had made Clyde Hurst promise that their son would be baptized soon after they joined the Buchanan County Bible Church.

  Clyde looked uncomfortable standing at the front of the sanctuary in a too tight shirt, but his wife looked as though she belonged there, holding the little boy's hand and fixedly watching the pastor's face. The little boy looked even more ill at ease than did his father.

  Peter was dark haired but fair skinned, a
nd slightly built. His features were so small and delicate that Paul could scarcely make out the lineaments of his face from where he sat. He could only see that the boy was not smiling.

  Pastor Geyer led the boy to the white marble baptismal font, and three times touched drops of water to his head, intoning, "'In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.'"

  Then he put his hand on the boy's thin shoulder, and led him down the few steps, and into the midst of the congregation. "I would like," he said, "to present to you Peter Robert Hurst. Please join me in welcoming him into our fellowship of worship with the words printed in your bulletin."

  Paul read the words with the others:

  "'With the help of God, we will so order our lives that we may help to preserve this child through the dangers of infancy and childhood, defend him through the temptations of his youth, and lead him to shun the darkness and seek the light of Thy presence and the way that leads to eternal life.'"

  The rest of the service passed unheard by Paul Blair, who stood up when he was supposed to, bowed his head when the others prayed, sang the words printed in the hymnal. But his mind was fixed on the vow he had made when Bill Geyer brought the boy into their midst.

  He had just made a promise he had made hundreds of times before, but had never once fulfilled. He, and the entire congregation, had vowed to watch over and protect this child until he was grown. It was that simple and that awesome.

  And, realizing that fact, the first thought that came to him was: What if someone had watched over Raymond Walsh?

  What if someone had stopped him from getting into his car?

  What if someone had kept him from drinking that night?

  What if someone had kept the vow they made when Raymond Walsh was a baby, held in a preacher's arms, ready to be shaped and molded into a Christian or a suicidal killer?

  No one could keep that promise for all children, but for some children, the children you have vowed to guide and protect, perhaps you could.

  How many baptisms were there in this church every year? he thought excitedly. One or two a month, between twelve and twenty-four in a year then. So many children to care for.

  But it could be done. They would be in Sunday School every week, they could be seen and…what was the word?

  Evaluated.

  Not all children would need help, of course. Some would come from families strong in faith, and some would be wise or fortunate enough to avoid temptation. But the others -- the others might need to be helped.

  Paul looked again at the vow in the bulletin. Preserve. Defend. Lead. They were things that could be done, that he had vowed to do, and he rejoiced at the enormity of the task awaiting him, at the purpose his life could hold, at the grand memorial to Evey's life his own life could become.

  He would watch and protect Peter, and the children to come, and those who had already been baptized in his sight.

  He sang the last hymn with gusto. It was How Firm a Foundation, and he saw its choice as a sign. They had all promised that day to give Peter Robert Hurst a firm foundation, and Paul Blair, at least, would keep his promise.

  That afternoon, Paul took a blank book that Evey had once received as a gift, but had never used. The first page he left blank, but on the second he wrote:

  Peter Robert Hurst, baptized 5/18/95

  Parents: Clyde and Miriam Hurst

  Address: 187 Stone Terrace Ave., Buchanan.

  He read the data several times until he knew it by heart. Then he closed the book and put it in the drawer of the bedside table, on top of Evey's reading glasses and a small piece of needlepoint on which she had been working.

  He decided he would do more than watch over one child at a time. He had, after all, made the same vow for all the children who were now in the church, growing older, many of them no doubt needing direction. He had made that vow, and he would keep it.

  The next day he left the store at 3:00 and drove to the church, where he told Pastor Geyer that he wanted to get involved in youth work.

  ~ * ~

  Together they felt that Paul could work with the Youth Fellowship, and teach children from kindergarten through third grade. Older children would have been easier to manage, but Paul liked the idea of getting to know the children as early in their lives as possible. That way, he felt he could most easily establish a lasting relationship with them, and earn their trust and respect.

  Working with the Youth Fellowship was easier. They met from 6:30 to 7:30 every Sunday evening, and Paul got punch and cookies ready in the kitchen while Bill Geyer led the discussions. One night a month was game night. Paul was usually a referee, overseeing the shuffleboard or darts games, but sometimes he played board games with the students, most of them from twelve to sixteen years old. They admitted during the discussions that some of their classmates thought they were “freaks” for attending YF.

  Paul never said it, but he thought how wonderful it was that there were still a few freakish kids out there. They were the ones who would hold the hope for tomorrow.

  He tried to stay away from his home as much as possible, for it seemed unbearably empty. Everywhere he looked he saw Evey. So he volunteered more time than before to the Rotary and the Masons, and was in his store nearly every one of the forty-eight hours a week it was open, often staying hours after closing.

  When he finally went home, he either fell into bed exhausted, worked on his Sunday school lessons, or immersed himself in some other variety of civic philanthropy. And, of course, he continued to write the babies' names in the blank book, and to enter as well the names of those older children whom he had vowed to protect.

  In Sunday school and in the church, he watched those children, talking to them, supporting them, and keeping track of what was happening within each family.

  The service groups and church committees to which he belonged were ideal rumor mills, and he quickly became aware of which families were having troubles, passing the information on to Bill Geyer or to the associate pastor, Joel Richardson. Often intervention helped.

  Other times it was too late, as when Dorothy Sloan divorced her husband Frank, and moved to Indiana with their little girl Shelley. He sadly let the three-year-old go, no longer able to watch over her. After all, he could not follow children around the country.

  The ones who made his task difficult were those who had their children baptized, then never returned to church, as though the ceremony alone was enough to secure their child's soul, and no further training need be done. Paul observed those children surreptitiously.

  Summer was a good time, since many of the children were outside, and he drove past their houses at a casual speed, never slowing for fear of being noticed. He often saw them at play, and thought they looked content, but even if he saw them badgering their playmates, taking toys that were not theirs, striking other children, what could he do about it? If he approached them, he might appear to be a pervert, for what non-churchgoer would recognize him as the kindly Sunday school teacher?

  No, it was better to watch from afar, and intervene only in the most dire emergency, praying that the need would never arise. The real dangers came in adolescence, when the natural rebellion of youth threatened to turn them from the path of Christ. He could not keep them on the proper path by force, but perhaps, by kindly counsel and good example, he could guide them back to the way they should walk. They were his flock, and he would feed them and tend them.

  He did not yet realize that he would have to kill the wolves as well.

  Chapter 5

  Paul first became concerned about five-year-old Peter Hurst the following fall, after he spoke to him during the few minutes between Sunday school and church, when little Peter was standing in the hall apparently waiting for his parents.

  For a few seconds after Paul said hello, Peter continued to look down at his penny loafers, then raised his head until he was looking in Paul's general direction. It was almost, Paul thought, as though the boy were blind.

&n
bsp; "And what did you learn in Sunday school today, Pete?" Paul asked.

  The words came slowly and brokenly. "I...Jesus...he...that boy too."

  "What? You mean Jesus was a boy too? Did you learn about when Jesus was a little boy?"

  Peter still did not look up at Paul. "No...he do...that boy. He do too."

  It was like baby talk, but there was a more mature purpose in it, as though the boy wanted to be understood, but lacked the knowledge of how to put words together in their proper order, and even the knowledge of what words to choose. The longer Paul tried to derive the meaning, the more confused he became, and the more frustrated the boy seemed. He did not look up at Paul again.

  He had just patted the boy on the shoulder and said goodbye when Clyde and Miriam Hurst came down the hall. They were regular churchgoers. Miriam sang in the choir, and Clyde was a frequent usher. In his occasional conversations with them, they seemed like most members of the church, conservative in outlook and staunch in their beliefs.

  Miriam was unsmiling as usual, but Clyde gave him a crooked grin, said good morning, and offered his hand. Miriam said good morning as well, but gave no greeting to her son. "Come on," she said, and took his hand in her own, then proceeded toward the service downstairs with such haste that the little boy had to scurry to keep up.

  At a lay committee meeting later in the week, Paul asked Glenda Foreman, who taught the kindergartners, if there was anything wrong with Peter Hurst. Glenda, who was head of guidance at Cumberland Middle School, knew exactly what he meant, and told him that she thought it could be several things.

  "Probably a learning disability. Sort of like an oral dyslexia or something similar."

  "Is it treatable?" Paul asked.

  "Oh sure. Or he could just have a hearing problem, or be very immature. Sometimes instability at home can cause these kinds of symptoms. They'll find out. I've seen kids worse than Peter who turned out to be brilliant once they got a diagnosis and some treatment."