Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(68)

Lizbeth wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a short hug. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do. It’s easier to hope that she’s only being manipulated, and not that she’s given up or that she doesn’t love you.” Lizbeth’s earnestness was back on display, and she reconsidered it immediately. “I mean, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out quite right.”

“Sure it did,” Ruth said. “You said it exactly right, and that’s exactly how it is. I just . . . I want to go home, all right? I just want to go home.”

I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. “You know, your father says you can have his house. He and your mother are moving into Chapelwood, and leaving it vacant. He alleges that it’s some sort of apology.”

“If he really wants to give it to me, that’s fine,” she said with a sniff. She tugged at George’s arm, and began walking toward his car. “I’ve got a box of matches in my purse.”





Reverend Adam James Davis, Minister, the Disciples of Heaven




CHAPELWOOD ESTATE, ALABAMA OCTOBER 3, 1921


The order is righted. I knew it would be, but the specifics eluded me—in part because of young Mr. Kincaid’s treachery, though I’m loath to admit it. I preferred to think that he was a gnat in the air, something annoying but ultimately harmless . . . something bound to be squashed in a very short time, by virtue of its own ridiculous behavior.

Or does that carry it too far? I’m not sure. The sentiment remains, regardless.

It doesn’t matter anyway, not anymore. It might not’ve mattered in the first place at all—who can say? Not Leonard. He only read the messages. He did not manage them, or deploy them. He barely even transcribed them, and when he did, he was not always correct or successful.

I know that now. His methods were good, but not perfect.

In time, if he’d been more patient, he might have led us to perfection.

But I put too much pressure on him, and assigned him too much importance. I entrusted him with too much—that’s one more mistake I made—but ultimately, I must be fair to myself: It was right to bring him into the fold. It’s a pity he did not stay. Had he remained with us all this time, we might be closer yet to our goal.

I say that . . . but.

Here, where I am being true, and fair, and right—to myself, and everyone else . . . I must confess that I cannot be certain.

Some things are certain, yes: We receive the messages, we hear the voices, we see the smoke. We close our eyes, and we touch the nearest edge of that damnable wall that separates us from divinity. We reach out, with our inefficient chisels and our small hammers, and we chip, chip, chip away, knowing that heaven awaits us on the other side.

It awaits us, and us alone.

? ? ?

Leonard Kincaid brought us closer than we’d ever been. He refined the language we used to communicate with Our Lord, I will give him that. I will grant that he showed uncanny intelligence, and a natural propensity toward the tasks we required of him. I admit freely that he was useful to us, and that he might have been great among us.

That’s especially easy for me to say, now that I’ve seen his handiwork. He always behaved like such a benign, nervous man, afraid to blow his own nose. Who knew he had murder in him?

I should’ve known it. I know good and well that everyone has murder inside, given the right stimulus.

Now . . . now I would like to think that he may join us yet. Not in any full capacity—not with the glory of a disciple whose faith stayed strong and never wavered, no. But his help was such a blessing, I honestly hope that there is some room for him in the Land of Glory beyond that aggravating wall between life and death, God and man.

Because Satan was wrong, you know. It is better by far to serve in heaven than to reign in hell.

As Leonard should have known already.

? ? ?

He’s gone now, I’ve seen to that—in what might be described (if I flatter myself) as an artful fashion. I was pleased with my handiwork, at any rate. I feel confident that, likewise, heaven approves. And if he’s waiting for us on the other side, so much the better—but I’m thinking too hard about things yet to come. I mustn’t let it distract me from the present, where great things are happening.

We are finally thirteen, in accordance with the pattern. Twelve disciples and one prophet leading the way. I will do my best to prove worthy of this leadership role. I will do my best to serve the Lord.

? ? ?

Edwin Stephenson was the final piece, which I frankly did not expect.

I appreciated his zeal, of course, and I was pleased by his dedication to the cause, but I did not imagine that he was really “disciple” material. For in all reality, the man is a little thug. With time, penitence, and prayer, I thought he might rise through the ranks to “deacon,” but he’s certainly proved himself more useful than that. I’m well aware that it was not mere rage that sent him after the priest; yes, he was furious about his daughter—but he’d been furious about his daughter since the day she was born, and she was not a son. But no, that wasn’t what sent him to Saint Paul’s. Coyle’s murder was officially an act of rage, as the courts concluded, but it was also an act of devotion—and an act of very fine timing for Chapelwood.

Stephenson told me in confidence how he saw that the time was right, that the pattern had revealed itself to him in a divine and sudden fashion. He knew, he told me, that this was his destiny—that the wheel had turned to align events in his favor. And it was that choice of words, “the wheel has turned,” that made me consider that he might be correct.