Help for the Haunted(126)

“But what—”

“The church,” I said, cutting him off.

Just then, the guard announced, “Time’s up.” From      somewhere in the prison came a loud buzzing sound. I could hear the rumble of      footsteps outside the walls of that room where we sat.

“The church!” I said. “Finish telling me about the      church!”

The guard came up behind Lynch and put his hand on      the man’s arm, all but lifting him from the chair. When he was standing, Albert      leaned forward and told me, “Your father gave me the same excuse he did that day      I showed up knocking on your door. Demons had driven her away. He apologized.      Oh, believe me, he apologized. I told him I didn’t buy it. I had wanted to come      earlier in the summer, but every time I called, he insisted that he and your      mother wanted—needed—to keep Abigail longer in order      to help her. And I just let him fleece me, sending money and apparently giving      him one more story to tell in his lectures.”

“The church,” I said again. “Stick to the      church.”

“He said all the same things that night, but I      still didn’t believe him. And then your mother came inside. Your mother—she was      different, Sylvie. You should know that much by now. Maybe she and your father      were a team, but they were not the same. Somehow, and I’ll never know exactly      how, she managed to calm me down. She sat with me in a pew. She prayed with me      while your father lingered in the shadows by the altar. And then I saw the      person I had become: a man wielding a gun, making idle threats, looking for his      daughter who had never wanted to be with him in the first place.”

“So what did you do?”

“I tossed down my gun and fled the church through      the front doors. I got in my van and drove toward the highway, faster than I      should have in the snow. And then I stopped at that Texaco, where I saw that old      man in the restroom and helped rescue his wife’s dogs out in the parking lot.      That’s the truth, Sylvie. So help me, that’s the truth.”

As the guard pulled him back toward that door where      he had entered, toward the sound of all those footsteps, I sat watching,      thinking of that song my mother used to hum and trying my best to sense the      truth inside him the way she believed I could. The moment the door clanged shut,      Rummel and I were left in a vacuum of quiet. He approached and put his hand on      my shoulder again. I stared down at his heavy black shoes a moment before      getting up. The two of us were led by another guard back the way we came,      through the series of doors and gates, until we were outside in the car.

As we drove away, I stared at all the barbed wire      and thought of Dereck telling me to keep my fingers off the fence that first day      we met in the field. For all I knew, he was slaughtering turkeys at that very      moment, since Thanksgiving was only a few days away now.

“Are you okay?” the detective asked.

“Yes,” I told him.

“You know, Sylvie, when you work long enough doing      what I do, you begin to develop a sixth sense about people and whether or not      they are guilty. But I’ve learned that no matter my feelings, I have to put them      aside and look at the evidence and listen to the testimony. So that conversation      in there, you shouldn’t let it sway you too much one way or another. The facts      are the facts.”

“I understand,” I said. And then at last I told      him, “But I didn’t see Mr. Lynch that night in the church.”

The car wheels spinning on the pavement. The wind      whistling through Rummel’s partially opened window. The crackling static of his      police radio. Those were the only sounds for some time. “Are you sure?” the      detective asked finally.

“I’m sure,” I said. “So what now?”

“We need to talk to Louise Hock. Like I told you,      Lynch will be released. Since it’s gotten so late in the day, all that’s going      to have to happen tomorrow. If you like, I can pick you up myself first thing in      the morning.”

That was the plan we made. And when he dropped me      off at home, my gaze went to the empty front step. Emily Sanino was likely all      done with those gifts, for a while anyway. Rose’s truck was gone, and that      yellow glow from the basement window shone even in the daylight.