The Night Mark(25)

“What do you hope to find there?” Pat asked, and Faye could tell he really wanted her to think about it before answering. So she thought about it and admitted she didn’t know the answer.

“I don’t want to see any ghosts, and I know Will’s not going to be there waiting for me. But it feels like I’ve had a nightmare, and if I got out there, I’ll wake up and know it was all a dream. I just... Maybe it would help me. Like it helped you.”

Pat took a steadying breath and nodded his head.

“All right. I’ll get you there. But if Ms. Shelby’s out there and catches you, you don’t know me, right?”

“Right. Promise. Never met you.”

“And you have to swear to me you’ll be careful. That lighthouse is old, and the water there is choppy as hell. It’s more dangerous out there than you can imagine. You swear you’ll be safe?”

“I swear,” she said.

“You swear you’ll stay out of the water?” he asked.

“I swear,” she said again. He gave her a long, searching look, then sighed like he knew he was wasting his time. Pat got a sheet of paper and scribbled a little map for her and walked her through the steps of how to find the road with the bridge, what turns to take and when to take them.

“Good enough?” he asked.

“Perfect,” Faye said, folding up the map and shoving it into her back pocket. “Thank you. I should go. I haven’t eaten much today, and I know I’ve taken up way too much of your time.” Faye’s head throbbed from hunger and crying so hard. She’d lost control of herself, something she rarely did. She didn’t want to lose it again in front of this kind old man.

“You made my day, young lady. Beautiful woman in my house? The neighbors are loving this. They can’t wait to find out what I’ve been up to with you in here.”

“Keeping me from having a nervous breakdown.”

“That’s not a very sexy rumor. We’ll have to do better than that.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something good. Feel free to ruin my reputation. I wasn’t using it anyway.”

“Count on it.” He helped her to her feet.

Before letting her leave, Pat pulled a small red book off his shelf and pressed it into her hands.

“Take this,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It’s a prayer book, a very special one,” Pat said.

“I’m not really religious.”

“I’m not giving it to you because I want to convert you. But I think you should have it. Please.”

“Are you going to pray for me?”

“For you. For Will. And for Hagen.”

“For Hagen?”

“Ex-husbands are people, too,” he said.

“If you say so,” she said and smiled.

He kissed her goodbye on the cheek and held her hand.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Faye,” he said. “But if you don’t find it...”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Just stay out of the water,” Pat said again. “Please.”

Faye promised him faithfully she would and then took her leave.

By the time Faye made it back to the Church Street house, she felt almost human again. She took a long shower, ate some homemade spaghetti with Miss Lizzie and another girl staying at the house that summer. Afterward she went up to her room to upload her pictures from the Marshlands.

As she suspected, most of the pictures were a bust. Maybe she could salvage a couple she’d taken off the dock for a stock photo site, but they wouldn’t do for the calendar. It was what it was. She’d get back to work tomorrow.

Although it was barely seven o’clock, Faye was already sprawled in bed wearing nothing but her black silk robe. Her summer robe, a gift from Hagen. A thoughtful gift. Pretty and practical. She could say that much for Hagen; he gave good gifts. They’d skipped dating, being engaged, but at their wedding he’d given her a band and a four-carat diamond engagement ring. Both were in her makeup bag. If she ran out of money, she’d have them to pawn.

An old Catholic prayer book, on the other hand, might be the oddest gift anyone had ever given her. She’d read it maybe. Who knew? She might find the perfect prayer for her. A prayer for a widow who had remarried too soon and had lost her late husband’s baby. Perhaps the generic “Prayer for Someone Suffering” would cover all that. Faye turned to the back where the index should be and found some handwriting in pen on a page.

The handwriting looked as old as the book, and the book, according to the title page, was printed in 1954. The ink was faded but the script neat and sturdy.

Lord, I give Thee thanks that Thou didst die upon the cross for my sins. Forgive me the blood on my hands. Forgive me the life I took and wash the blood from my hands and the stain of sin from my soul. Thou art infinite in mercy. Shower Thy mercy upon Thy son.

And the prayer was signed.

It was signed “Carrick Morgan.”

Faye sat straight up in bed.

This was Carrick Morgan’s prayer book? The lighthouse keeper?

Faye’s hands shook as she gingerly laid the book open on her lap and traced his words with her fingertip. Carrick Morgan had a beautiful signature, an old-fashioned, elegant script. She should have guessed he was Catholic, being of Irish stock. The prie-dieu in her room... Had he carved that himself? And he prayed for forgiveness and for mercy because he took someone’s life. He’d killed someone. Who? Father Pat had owned this book for years. Carrick Morgan himself must have given it to him. Pat would have known about the prayer for forgiveness, and yet he’d called Morgan the best man he’d ever known. It made no sense. None of it did. Staring at Carrick Morgan’s words in the prayer book made it impossible for Faye to sit still in her room and wait for tomorrow. It felt like an alarm was blaring somewhere and she had to go to the lighthouse to find a way to turn it off. It was growing dark, too dark for pictures. But this wasn’t about the photographs anymore.