“I consider that a religious oath.”
“I won’t swear needlessly, but you have my word.”
I gave him some of it, leaving out names. The growing possibility that something had happened to Karen at the party and that Felix Barnard had learned about it, tried to profit, and died because of greed.
A tremor of rage took hold of his face. He forced himself placid. An unsettling calm, almost like death.
“I knew there was something about that man,” he said. “Polite—too polite. I never completely trusted him. How did he die?”
I told him. “That’s why we have to be careful, Reverend. If covering up was worth killing for then, it still is.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. But there was no fear in him, only a cold, quiet acquiescence. I’d asked a lot of him. Thinking of the picture in his kitchen—Dinah’s Abduction by Shechem—I wondered if I was putting too much faith in him.
“And them?” he said, looking at the Sheas’ house.
“No direct involvement, so far, other than the fact that they may have hired Karen to work at the party. And we still haven’t been able to verify that.”
“I can’t believe that. Their evasiveness. Look what just happened. If she’s innocent, why didn’t she call the police on me? And their shop’s been closed for two days, no sign of him. So maybe he knows something’s up and has left town. Isn’t flight the first sign of guilt?”
“How do you know about the shop, Reverend?”
He didn’t answer.
“More surveillance?”
His smile was grim.
“What made you decide to watch them now?”
“Talking to you on the phone the other day. I could tell from your voice that you were on to something. Is your patient ready to meet me yet?”
“My patient’s in mourning. Death in the family.”
“Oh, no.” He put his hands on the steering wheel and sank down. “I’m so sorry. Was he—or she—close to the deceased? Can you at least tell me the sex of the person you’ve been talking to, so I can pray accordingly?”
“A woman.”
“I thought so,” he said. “A woman’s compassion . . . poor thing. Hopefully the time will come when she’ll be able to step away from her grief.”
“Hopefully.”
“Of course you can’t rush her. Those things can’t be rushed.”
He turned and gripped my hand. “When she is able to—whenever it is—call me. Maybe I can help. Maybe we can help each other.”
I nodded and got out of the car.
Through the passenger window, he said, “You’re a good man. Forgive me for not believing your intentions.”
“Nothing to forgive.”
“Are you religious, doctor?”
“In my own way.”
“What way is that?”
“I don’t believe the world’s random.”
“A major leap of faith,” he said. “I try to renew it in my own mind, every day. Some days are easier than others.”
CHAPTER
37
“Everything’s surreal,” said Lucy.
It was 9 A.M. and I’d finally reached her at the Brentwood house.
“In what way?”
“One moment I’ll be talking to him and it feels so real. Then I’ll wake up and realize I’ve been dreaming and the truth hits me. . . . I guess that’s normal.”
“Very much so.”
“I’ve been doing nothing but sleeping. Can’t help it, I feel drugged. Every time I try to get up, I just want to crawl right back. Should I force myself to stay awake?”
“No, let nature take its course.”
“God, I miss him!”
She started to cry.
“I’m not angry at him, he couldn’t help it. Getting hold of such strong stuff, not knowing. . . . When he was hungry for it, he couldn’t think about anything else.”
More tears.
“Such pain . . . what a waste. My heart feels as if it’s really breaking—I don’t know if I’ll ever feel totally good again.”
“Everything takes time, Lucy.”
“I can’t do hypnosis, can’t focus on anything—I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
“Later. We’ll do it later. All I can do now is cry and sleep—I don’t even want to talk. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Lucy.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mocked herself. “Sorry for the world. For Carrie Fielding and the others. And Puck. And Karen. I haven’t forgotten her. I won’t forget.”