I knocked on Father Cavenogh’s door. I wasn’t sure why I had been summoned to the headmaster-cum-priest’s office, but I was pretty sure that I was in trouble. I always did have a knack for that. Nothing serious, never broke into people’s houses or anything like that, but enough for my parents to send me away to a Catholic boarding school in the Pacific Northwest for my senior year of high school.
“Come in, Mr. Collins,” a gruff voice called.
I entered his office, trying to read his expression. He looked dour, but that didn’t mean anything; I don’t think I ever saw him smile. What was surprising was that sitting next to him was an elderly man wearing gold-embroidered robes and a mitre on his head. Had no clue who he was, but he looked important.
“I can’t believe you had the gall to come into my office looking the way you do,” yelled Father Cavenogh. “Your shoes aren’t shined, your tie is crooked, your hair is a mess, and it looks like you used your blazer as a pillow last night.”
“I’m sorry, father, please forgive me. If I knew the pope would be in attendance, I would have combed my hair.”
Father Cavenogh glared at me. “You just don’t get it, but you’ll learn soon enough. This man is Bishop DiMarceno, the head of our diocese. I requested his counsel as it is rare that I have had a pupil as incorrigible as you. Let me tell you, Mr. Collins, you’ve been a menace to this school. You aren’t taking your studies seriously, and, even worse, far worse in fact, you aren’t taking the Lord seriously. You show up late to class, disrespect your instructors, and even had the gall to doze off during mass.”
“So I take it I’m going to be expelled,” I said, trying not to smile. The school was basically a prison. It was literally surrounded by barbed wire. Ostensibly to keep intruders out, but clearly meant to keep the students in. We weren’t allowed to have cell phones or even internet access. Once a week we were allowed to write home, letters which I suspected were screened by the administration. Every hour of every day was scheduled: daily mass (in Latin, of course), classes, meals, study hall. Even on the weekends we had no free time.
Father Cavenogh laughed. “You wish. You’re in a lot more trouble than that. We found this under your mattress, in the room that you shared with Mr. Ricci,” he said, holding up a dime bag that probably contained less than a gram of weed. “Where’d you get this from?”
“From Father Worcester. He made me blow him for it. Can you imagine, blowing that fat old creep for less a gram, full of seeds and sticks and stems.”
“My son,” said Bishop DiMarceno, in a kindly voice, “please do not disparage any of my priests.”
“I’m sorry, bishop,” I said. “Father Worcester did not ask me to blow him, I’m about ten years too old for him. It’s no secret why most of the priests here have been sent to this backwater parish.”
“You think this is a big ole joke, don’t you?” said Father Cavenogh. “But you’re not going to be laughing much longer. It would be good for you to come clean, did you get the marijuana from Mr. Ricci? Before he ran away?”
I had indeed got it from Zach, my roommate. Had no idea where Zach got it from, probably from one of the day students. The school was mostly day students. You wouldn’t expect a Catholic school in the rural northwest—it wasn’t exactly a hotbed of Catholicism—but the ultra-traditional variety, sprinkled with lots of antisemitism and racism, had managed to gain a foothold here among the largely Protestant and Mormon populace. The day students were the opposite of the troubled teenagers who boarded here. Very religious, very sheltered. Most of them had been homeschooled previously and were socially awkward. Didn’t think any of them would be selling, but I didn’t know where else Zach could have got it.
“I found it on the ground,” I said. I wasn’t going to snitch on Zach, even though he had run away a week ago.
“It is a mortal sin to lie to a priest,” Father Cavenogh said. “Let me ask you another question. Did you help Zach plan his escape?”
I shook my head. “He never mentioned it to me.” This was the truth. We were friends, he was my only friend here, but one night, he left our room, never to return. I don’t know why he didn’t, perhaps he was afraid there were hidden microphones in our room, but I had no knowledge of his plan. Or where he was now. “Anyways, he’s 18, I don’t think you have any legal claim to him. Or me either. In case you didn’t know, I turned 18 two weeks ago. I’ll forgive you for not throwing me a party.”
“Very well.” Father Cavenogh took out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Please come to my office,” he said into the phone, before hanging up.
“Who’s coming,” I asked. “Is Jesus finally coming back?”
“You won’t be making jokes much longer.”
Ten minutes later, two cops entered the office.
“Place your hands behind your back,” one of them ordered.
“You’re really going to have me arrested for a little bit of weed?”
“Not only that,” said one of the cops, “but since it is on school grounds, you’re going to be charged with a felony. Punishable by up to five years in prison.”
“Fucking ridiculous,” I said.
“I’ll ask you one more time, put your hands behind your back,” the cop said.
I did. After he handcuffed me, he took out a pair of leg irons and secured them around my ankles.
“This seems a little overkill,” I said.
“Don’t want you to try to run,” the other cop said, laughing.
“I’ll see you soon,” Father Cavenogh called cheerfully as I was led out of the room.
***
I was led to a patrol car and stuffed in the back seat. I stared out the window as I left the confines the school for the first time since I arrived several months ago. I knew next to nothing about the geography of where I was at, just that it was in the middle of nowhere. When my parents dropped me off here at the start of that year, it was a three hour drive from the airport, mostly through forests. Knew that there was a monastery nearby, where several of the teachers resided, but not much else.
We drove for nearly an hour, on dirt roads winding through forests of firs and pines. This seemed to be taking longer than it should; there was no way the police station was this far. I hoped they were only trying to scare me and would not actually take me to jail.
Finally, we stopped at the end of a narrow dirt road. There was another car parked nearby, an unmarked black sedan. The two cops got out and opened the door.
“Get out,” one of them barked.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“I told you to get out, are you deaf or something?” .
Something was up. Something was very wrong.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
The two cops grabbed me and dragged me out. I tried to jerk away, but they held tight. From the unmarked sedan, I saw Father Cavenogh and the bishop get out.
“Hello, again,” Father Cavenogh said, a big grin on his face.
“What are you going to do, shoot me?” I asked.
He laughed. “Me, no I’m not. They, perhaps.”
I spat on him, all I could do.
He drove his palm into my nose. I screamed out as I heard bones crack.
“Looks like your pretty face is ruined,” he said. “But that’s going to be the least of your problems. You’re going to regret spitting on me. Take him away, gentlemen.”
The cops dragged me down a narrow dirt footpath. After about fifteen minutes, we stopped.
“Get on the ground, face down,” one of the cops ordered. I tried to head butt him, but he threw me down, his foot on my neck. I heard a gun cock.
“Are you going to administer him last rites, Father,” he asked.
“Not after he spat on me,” said Father Cavenogh. “He can go straight to hell. And what do you care about last rites, you’re Mormon, aren’t you. Don’t you believe that he’ll get his own planet or something like that?”
“Mormons and Catholics working together!” Bishop DiMarceno exclaimed. “I love this ecumenicity.”
“Please,” I begged, tears welling up. “ I’m sorry, I swear, give me one more chance, I don’t want to die. I won’t—“
A gunshot went off.
I screamed, but felt no pain. Was this what being dead was like? Then I heard laughter.
I rolled over. The four men were laughing their heads off.
“The bullet just missed your left ear,” said one of the cops. “We’re not going to kill you…not yet at least. We’re going to play a little game. You’ll have a fifteen minute head start, before we come after you. Once I remove the cuffs, you’re going to stay still for 100 seconds. Count slowly. If you get up before that, you’re dead. I was a sniper in the Marines; I won’t miss.”
***
After he removed the cuffs and shackles, I heard the group depart the way we came. I counted to 150 before getting up. I was alone.
I tried to come up with a plan. Didn’t have much going for me. No compass, no map, no food, no water. I wasn’t familiar with wilderness survival; was never a boy scout. I grew up surfing and skateboarding in Southern California, not backpacking in the northern wilderness. Had no clue how to start a fire or even identify edible berries.
I knew I had to find a place to spend the night quickly. It was about 30 degrees, and I estimated that there was about an hour of daylight left. I could either go back the way I came from, where the cops would surely be waiting to me, or into the dense woods, where I would likely get hopelessly lost, or follow the path, hoping it led to some civilization. They would expect be to stay on the path, and I needed to fool them.
I headed off the path and into the woods, letting the blood drip from my nose onto the ground. A perfect trail to follow. After a few minutes, I came to a trickling stream. I considered following it, but decided to stick to my original plan. I took a drink of the icy water before retracing my steps back to the main path.
I followed the path deeper into the forest, moving as fast as I could in my dress shoes. Thankfully, the ground was frozen hard, and I didn’t leave footprints. I held my tie to my nostrils, hoping that it would absorb the blood before it could fall to the ground.
After about fifteen minutes, I came to what looked like a small stone grotto. A stone statue of Mary stood at its entrance. There were several barrels filled with water, several coils of rope, and a large wooden stake by the grotto. For what purpose, I couldn’t guess.
I continued on the path past the grotto. I thought the monastery must be nearby. I could seek refuge there. They would surely help me. The teachers could be cruel, but they couldn’t all be evil, could they?
About half a mile later, I came to an abandoned cabin, its windows boarded up. I kicked down the door, hoping to find a rifle or at least a knife. Found neither, but there was a bottle of kerosene oil, a frying pan, and some matches.
I calculated that the posse, if they weren’t fooled by my trick, should be at the cabin in about fifteen minutes. I couldn’t keep running. I had to fight. The cops looked strong, but so was I. There was no gym at the school, but I’d been doing 300 pull-ups on a bar I jerry-rigged in my dorm, 1,000 pushups and 2,000 sit-ups every other night in my dorm room. Plus there were only two cops. If I caught one by surprise, and managed to take his gun, I would have a chance.
I doused the cabin in kerosene and lit a match. It would give away my location, but it would also be a distraction. The dry wood caught fire immediately and I hurried off into the woods, taking the frying pan with me. I’d seen people get knocked out with them in cartoons, and hoped that they were as effective in real life.
I hid in some bushes, about a twenty feet from the cabin. A few minutes later I heard the sound of dogs barking in the distance. This wasn’t good. But I decided to stay put. Soon, I saw the posse heading down the path. There were about ten cops now, guns drawn, along with several bloodhounds following my scent. I was dead. But I was going to go out fighting.
“Bastard set the cabin alight,” said one of the cops. I saw one of the dogs straining on his leash, pulling towards my direction, but the cops seemed focused on the fire.
I charged from the bushes, frying pan raised. The cops turned towards me, a look of shock on their faces. I saw them pull out their tasers. I was a few feet away from one of the cops when the first barbs from the taser hit me. Adrenaline pumping I kept going, smashing the frying pan over the cop’s head. He fell to the ground, and I fell after him, trying to take his gun. I felt more barbs hit me, but I kept fighting. I felt the cops beating on me with their nightsticks, felt pepper spray fill my nostrils, but I kept fighting like a mad man. Kept fighting until I was knocked unconscious.
***
When I regained consciousness I was back at the grotto, where the cops, Father Cavenogh, Bishop DiMarceno, and about ten other priests and monks were waiting. I recognized some of them: Father Worcester, the mathematics teacher; Brother Rukowski, the Latin instructor; Brother Reyes, the choir director.
“Welcome back,” said Father Cavenogh. “We’re going to have lots of fun tonight.”
I was bound tightly. No way I was going to escape. “Just shoot me and be done with it,” I said.
Father Cavenogh laughed. “Oh no, we wouldn’t do that. That would be much too quick. You remember from your history classes how the church used to deal with heretics? I doubt it, you never paid attention.”
I looked at the wooden stake, suddenly I knew what was going to happen.
“Let’s get this show on the road, gentlemen,” Father Cavenogh said.
The cops quickly bound me to the stake, before they raised it up. Bundles of sticks were placed at the base of the pole.
“Your soul is going to be prepared for the eternal fires of Hell,” said the smiling Father Cavenogh.
I struggled against the ropes that bound me, but they held tight. As the crowd chanted in Latin, the bishop lit the sticks.
“There’s a heavy wind tonight,” said Father Cavenogh. “It’s going to be a long night for you. You’re going to roast slow.” He lit a match and threw it on the sticks.
“Please,” I cried. “I promise, I swear that I’ll be good.”
Father Cavenogh just laughed. The smoke started rising, and I began coughing as I inhaled the black smoke.
“Please father,” I begged. “Look at our names. Cavenogh, Collins, we’re both Irish, please father, I’m begging you.”
Father Cavenogh laughed again. “I killed my own sister, bashed her head open with a baseball bat. She was a wicked woman, a harlot, a Jezebel. The only blood I care about is that of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”
The flames crept higher. I could feel the leather of my shoes start to burn. Then a spark caught on my flannel pants. The strong wind blew it out, but more sparks rising and catching. I screamed as I felt the flesh of my legs begin to burn.
“I think he learned his lesson,” said Bishop DiMarceno. “Let us extend him Grace.”
“He doesn’t deserve it,” said Father Cavenogh.
“My son, no one is worthy of Grace,” said Bishop DiMarceno. “We are all sinners, worthy of eternal damnation.”
The barrels of water were thrown on the fire, and I was untied and led down from the scaffolding. My throat felt like it was on fire and my legs still felt like they were burning, but I was alive. But my night was not over. It had just begun.
I saw two cops dragging Zach into the clearing, his hands and legs bound with rope. His clothes were tattered, his face swollen and badly bruised. He looked at me, a look of utter despair in his eyes. I watched as the cops ripped off his clothes before Father Cavenogh walked over to him and stroked his face.
“You look cold Zachy, don’t worry, we are going to get you nice and toasty soon. Sad to see your face like that, you had such a pretty face. But I think we’ll still have fun with you.”
I tried to look away, but one of the cops forced me to look as Father Cavenogh and the rest of the party took turns doing unspeakable things to my friend. Then his bloody body was tied to the wooden stake. It was raised, and the bonfire rekindled. I strained against the ropes that bound me, trying to save him, but they held tight. Father Cavenogh was right, the heavy wind caused him to roast slowly. He screamed for what seemed like hours, but no one came, and no one extended him grace. Finally, his charred body was brought down.
Father Cavenogh walked over to me, laughing. “Hope you enjoyed your evening, Mr. Collins. I’m sorry to see you still alive, but the bishop’s wisdom is unmatched. Christmas break will be coming up in a few weeks. Bet you’re going to tell your family all about this night. Go ahead. I guarantee no one will believe you. No one believes kids like you.”