Fire From Heaven

Suspense Stories | Feb 16, 2013 | 4 min read
40 Votes, average: 2 out of 5
Father McCullough fired into his congregation. And that's how it began.

Four weeks earlier, two detectives had knocked on his door. They were investigating his missing daughter. Father McCullough looked from one detective to the other, and back again, "Does this have to do with Cassandra?"
"I'm afraid so, yes," Burstein said.
"Did you find her?" Father Mccullough asked, dreading the answer.
"Can we talk inside?" Morrison, the other one, asked, stepping in front. "Is the time all right?"
Father McCullough studied them behind his spectacles, pulled open the door, and stepped aside. They entered the front door, boots scuffing. He steered them to the family den where they emerged out on the loft. McCullough motioned for them to sit. Burstein complied, settling into the leather sofa, but Morrison, paced near the fireplace, observing the framed picture of his wife and their three adopted children on the mantel.
"Is this your daughter here?" he asked.
"Please tell me it's not her," was the first thing out of the reverend's mouth, but God did not hear his prayers, nor answer them.
"There no easy way going about telling you this," Morrison said with a slack face, "but the dental records you provided for us—two weeks ago—they match."
Father McCullough bowed his head and wept.

They came again, last night, like death reapers. Burstein showed up at the doorstep with his partner. He initiated the talks, again, pulling out a photo paper with six different photographs of suspects in a grid alignment, and told him to pick out the one who closely resembled Jimmy Larson, the alter boy.
"I don't know who you're talking about," Father McCullough said, briefly looking over the cropped pictures. "Jimmy who?"
"Larson—he worked in your congregation for a short time, before disappearing again. He's one of the suspects who couldn't properly vie for an alibi during the hours your daughter went missing. And his cell phone records show he was in contact with your daughter… You told us you knew him."
McCullough shook his head, slowly.
"Do you see him in this line-up of photos?" Keith asked, hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees. The cushions crunched with a shift of reprisal.
"No."
"Are you sure? Take your time. Give it a second round, and if you see anyone who you think resembles or looks like Jimmy Larson, point him out, if you will."
"No, I don't know who you're talking about."
"You said you could help us out," Morrison sighed, rubbing his face, and flinched when Father McCullough exploded.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" He raged, livid. He undid his collar and stood up. "I didn't ask for none of this. Please, leave, all of you. I can't help you anymore."
"If you take a moment to look—"
He got into Morrison's face. "Who told you investigate the members of my own house of worship?"
"Okay, fine. I understand," Keith said, straightening his back, and stood up. "We'll come back some other time."
"Thank you."
Burstein closed his folder, dropped it in his briefcase, and hurried out, Morrison right behind. When the engine faded from his earshot, Father McCullough poured a glass of bourbon and drank from the glass with shaking hands.

The church bells tolled mass was in session. Father McCullough cleared his throat, opening the gold plated cover of his NIV Bible. He leafed through the pages, settling on the works of the epistles James.
"Rose dies," he began. His microphone squealed, whined, and cleared of static. "Roses die," he continued, "tree wilts, and you can't block what nature wills."
"Amen," murmured his flock of a hundred and fifty.
"How can one be saved? How can one know that his time has come and salvation awaits him at the other end? What must he do to know his heavenly spirit will rein in Paradise, forever and ever without the poisonous ilk of man?"
A cough somewhere in the aisle. A faint rustle of recycled pamphlet. The moaning wails of an infant crying for its mother's breast-milk that had run dry. The podium rasped as Father McCullough pulled a handkerchief and dried his brow. He tugged at the microphone, adjusting the level, and worked on the blank, crusty sermon which had nothing written on it.
"One must conform. One must accept Jesus Christ into his heart, and confess his name as his savior. One must do as the Bible tells him to sacrifice his firstborn and absolve the sins of many. You may not like it at first, but the death of our first-born is what leads to our redemption, as James clearly stated, faith without works is dead."
"Yes."
"Are you ready to work?"
"Yes, amen!" echoed his congregation.
"Are you ready to work the grace of God and sacrifice your one and only child just as God did for us to give us everlasting salvation?"
"Praise God! Yes!"
"Hallejuah!" someone shouted in the front row.
"Sweet mother of God have mercy—then send your child up here, to reveal god's mercy and the revelation that was granted for us all—and give me an Amen."
"AMEN!!"
Father McCullough raised his hands, and closed his eyes in prayer.
"Lord God Almighty, of this world, and of all things heaven and fallen, be the witness of this cleansing that will occur in our midst for the sign of Christ's blood and the wonder that is to be held in your name, and the testament of your eternal faithfulness of our church."
"Amen."
"Wed us not in temptation, but just has Christ have wed the church, in spirit and bondage and your blood mingled in ours and ecstasy and forgive me what I'm about to do. We pray in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen."
"Amen."
He pulled out the .38 from under his robes and set it on the podium's shelf.
"Send them up this way." Father McCullough said. "Single file."
Three separate rows full of children shuffled down the aisle and mounted the wooden platform. They composed of all walks of life: white, brown, yellow angelic faces gazed up at him, some confounded, many restless. Reverend McCullough advised them to stand in a single file line, on the stage, and counted them one by one, tapping their head with the tip of his finger. He retrieved the gun and clicked off the safety. The extra ammos strapped to his belt suddenly felt heavy.
"Which one's Jimmy's daughter?" he said, aloud.
Further down the line, a hand shot up. "I am!"
McCullough walked down the length of the stage, and bent down so he could see her eye to eye.
"So you're Vicky Larson?"
"Yes, Father."
"Please, point in the direction of your parents."
She cocked her head; brows furrowed, she wrinkled her nose. "My father's not here. He's left the state."
"I know. I was asking for your mother. Is she here with you?"
Nodding, she pointed into the stands.
In the distance, Father McCullough saw Jimmy in the crowd of masses. They were all Jimmies, every single one of them. Father McCullough cocked back and smiled, firing into his congregation.

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