The remainder of Mass passed in a blur of hymns, parables, and prayers. When the congregation had dispersed, Joseph followed Paul and Matthew into the changing room at the back of the church. Paul was a similar age to Joseph, but was even quieter in nature. Matthew was two years older and would soon begin his training for the priesthood under Father Quinn. Joseph didn’t see them much in Holy Innocents School, but he had grown close to them through their duties in church.
Paul left the changing room, leaving Matthew and Joseph alone. Joseph was hanging his robe in his closet when Matthew asked, “Is this about your brother?”
Joseph froze, his shoulders tensing. Matthew moved to the bench beside him. Joseph turned to face him. “Is what about my brother?” Matthew gave him a knowing look. Joseph sighed and checked the door for any sign of Father Quinn.
“He’s dealing with a parishioner. He won’t be coming in here any time soon.”
Joseph’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “I don’t know where he is. I know he’s in isolation, but I don’t know where.” Joseph ran his hands through his curly blond hair. “He’s been gone for too long, and Father Quinn is staying silent. They’re not telling me a single thing. Not even if James is okay.” All of the hope and fight in Joseph seemed to seep out of his body and spill onto the worn, heel-marked wooden floor. The changing rooms of the church were a stark contrast to the opulence that decorated the nave and altar. The room was dusty and the furniture old. A portrait of Mary, Mother of Jesus, stared at him from her place on the wall. It always brought him comfort. It reminded him of the mother he’d barely known.
Right now, the picture reminded him of how badly he was failing as a son . . . as a brother. He’d promised his mother he would care for James, protect him, love him for them both. She would be so disappointed in him now. He had let the priests take James away. They wouldn’t understand him. They wouldn’t understand his behavior. James had only ever let Joseph in, and even then it wasn’t much.
He couldn’t bear the thought of his brother being lonely, being scared. Though when Joseph thought of James, he was reminded that he had never once seen James scared. Joseph wasn’t sure if his baby brother could even feel fear. Feel anything but the hunger pangs for pain and the insatiable inhuman thirst for blood.
Matthew shifted closer. His eyes skittishly toured the room, then landed back on Joseph. “Five years ago, my roommate attacked a priest.”
“Which priest?” Joseph asked quickly.
Matthew leaned his head closer. “Father Brady.” Matthew kept his eyes on the door, then got up and made sure it was shut. He took his place on the bench once more and gestured with his hand for Joseph to sit. Joseph did. Matthew leaned forward and nervously pushed his hand through his hair. “It had started a few months before that. Christopher—that was his name—started acting weird. I thought he was reacting to being in the children’s home and in our school. He’d been pulled out of the foster-care system. It wasn’t a good fit for him, so he was sent here, to Holy Innocents. But he liked to cut himself.” Joseph stopped breathing for a few moments. Like James, he thought. Just like James.
“Christopher was quiet, a loner.” Matthew shook his head. “The priests didn’t like it. He was defiant, would never do as he was asked. Constantly punished with chores for his bad behavior. Then he started getting angry.” Matthew shrugged. “One day, Father Brady came to our room, and, without provocation, Christopher attacked him.”
“What did they do to him?” Joseph whispered, palms sweating.
Matthew sighed. “Fathers Quinn, Brady, and McCarthy came into the room and took him away. To ‘isolation.’” Matthew used air quotes on the word.
Joseph swallowed, his nerves firing like bullets cutting straight through his muscles. “How long was he gone?”
Matthew was silent, then whispered, “He never came back.”
The blood in Joseph’s veins instantly ran ice-cold. He never came back . . . “Five years ago . . .” Joseph mumbled under his breath. His tone was laced with disbelief; his heart dropped when the implication of Matthew’s story hit home.
Matthew loosened the collar of his robes. He checked the door again. “When I was growing up here, I used to hear some of the upperclassmen from school talking about an underground building, north of the property. Apparently it’s still on Holy Innocents’ grounds.”
“Where?” Joseph asked, confused. He thought he had seen most of the school grounds and never recalled seeing a building in that direction. There was nothing, just trees and seemingly endless green fields. Holy Innocents was built on Vatican-owned land on the outskirts of Boston. The home was as isolated as the city could get. Joseph had always believed it to be the perfect setting. Little interference from the outside world, yet everything was readily available to them if they needed it.