Help for the Haunted(120)

The half-hour limit was yet another detail that had      been agreed upon beforehand. I knew we didn’t have much time, and yet for an      extended moment, neither of us said anything. Lynch sat there, staring at me.      Without his odd bug-eyed glasses, I was not sure how well he could see, but I      wondered what I must have looked like to him. I felt much older than that girl      who had witnessed him calling into the bushes outside the convention center in      Ocala, more world-weary and wise than that girl who had walked to the end of      Butter Lane with her mother to find him and his daughter waiting for us in their      van.

Lynch had never been a heavy man, but he had lost a      considerable amount of weight since those days. The hollows under his eyes and      his sunken cheeks gave the impression of a tent collapsing from the inside. That      smooth, babyish skin of his had gone crepey around the mouth. At last, he opened      his thin lips and said quietly, “All these months in this godforsaken place, the      only visitors I’ve had have been lawyers and detectives like your friend here.      When they told me I had a visitation request this morning, you were the last      person I expected.”

I stared down at my hands on the table. “No one has      come to see you?”

“Who would, Sylvie? No one knows where my daughter      is. She was my only family. My only life, in fact.”

I closed my eyes, for just a second or two, but      long enough to conjure the memory of that conversation in the foundation with      Abigail and the way I had turned from her, racing across the lane toward home      the moment she informed me that my sister had returned. When I opened my eyes      again, I told myself to put that memory away, to stay in the here and now. “I      came,” I said, forcing my gaze upon his, “because I want to talk about that      night in the church. The conversation you had with my parents, before—”

“You don’t need me to tell you, Sylvie,” he said,      making no effort to hide his contempt. “I’ve given my account to the lawyers and      detectives, including the one you brought with you. Just ask him for the      transcript.”

I heard Rummel’s heavy shoes shift on the floor      behind me, heard him let out another of those faint sighs. In the moments after      I had made the request to see Lynch, the detective had offered the same option:      that I could just look at the transcripts. But that’s not what I wanted. What      brought me to the prison was that long-ago conversation with my mother in the      bed of our hotel room, the one where she told me I could sense the truth inside      a person if only I allowed myself. “I want to hear what happened from you,” I      told Lynch.

He did not respond immediately, or at least not      directly. Instead, Lynch told me, “I’ve had a lot of time to read in here,      Sylvie. Guess which book I spent the most time on?”

“The Bible,” I said, since the answer seemed      obvious.

“Wrong. That’s for other people in here. I’ve      decided at long last that I’ve had enough of that book. Enough for a lifetime      actually. So, no. The one that’s been keeping me company is the book about your      mom and dad. The reporter who wrote it had a few interesting things to say about      your old man, Sylvie. Have you ever read it?”

“Yes,” I told him.

The night before, after I’d found those candles in      the trash, I’d cleaned up the mess, then returned to the house. Since Rose was      up in her room, I couldn’t get the book from her closet. Instead, I scoured the      house for a second copy, finding one crammed inside the curio hutch with all      those other old books of my father’s. That fall when it was published, my father      sat quietly in his chair reading the book. The clock ticked. My mother made tea.      She kept busy flipping through those wallpaper patterns until he was done.      That’s when my father told us we were never to speak of the book or Heekin      again. All that and yet, there were those few extra editions in the hutch      anyway. For so long, I had told myself that what kept me from reading the final      pages had been the promise I made to my mother that morning on our steps when      she held the manuscript in her hands and wept. But it was something more, I      realized. I was afraid to read that final section—“Should You Really Believe the Masons?”—because I did not want to face what it might say.