Help for the Haunted(66)

“Tampa. His address there.”

“Well, that explains why you never heard back. Your uncle moved, Sylvie.”

“Moved? Where?”

“Not far from here, actually. A couple hours away.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a reporter, remember? Maybe not the best one out there, but I’ve covered every detail of your parents’ story for the paper. A number of times I even tried to talk to your uncle, but he refused. Same as your sister when I reached out to her.”

On the ride to the preserve, in his wheezing, beat-up Volkswagen, Heekin had told a story that was fast becoming familiar: Not long after my parents’ deaths, he stopped by our house only for Rose to turn him away. She said he’d been nothing but trouble for my mother and father and she didn’t want to see him again. But he had not mentioned anything about my uncle. “Why did you want to talk to him?”

Heekin shrugged. “Other than you girls, Howard was one of the few people in your parents’ circle I never once interviewed. Not while writing the book. Not after they were gone. I just thought he might know something.”

“But he was in Florida that night,” I said as the note in Rummel’s folder floated into my mind. “What could he possibly tell you?”

“I know that. I’ve read the police reports with his statement that he was home drinking, having lost his job. It was just an attempt—a desperate one on my part—to get whatever answers I could. It doesn’t matter, though. Your uncle was as firm and dismissive as your sister when it came to sending me away.”

The bird, or one just like it, landed on a nearby branch. I needed to be quiet if I wanted it to take seeds from my palm. Even so, I couldn’t keep from asking why he cared. “I know it’s your job. But . . .”

Heekin brought his hands to his sides, balling his fists to keep the seeds from dropping. “It’s my own guilt. That’s the simple answer, anyway.”

“Guilt?”

“For betraying your mother by writing certain things in that book. For whatever part I played in the demise of your family. But it’s not just that. Even if the Dunns hadn’t come forward to offer Lynch an alibi, I never believed the man was guilty.”

Twenty-two hours, I thought again. “Why? That’s the story that makes sense. He was angry at my parents about what happened to Abigail. So he had a motive. Plus, he was at the church.”

“Even if your sister and uncle refused to speak with me, Albert Lynch was willing. I’ve visited him a few times in jail for the pieces I wrote. And—”

“How did he seem?” I couldn’t help but ask, since I was the one who put him there.

“How did he seem? Like a man who has lost everything. His wife, years before. Then his daughter. And for almost a year now, his freedom.”

I looked at another tiny bird moving from branch to branch with a blurry flapping of wings. If I really had been wrong, it was hard not to feel guilty. But when I thought of Abigail, I also couldn’t help feeling that I’d protected her somehow.

“He’s a troubled man, Sylvie. That’s for sure. But a murderer? I don’t think so.”

“I’d like to see my uncle,” I said, changing the subject. “Do you think you can take me to him? Maybe he’ll talk with you if I’m there. Maybe—”

“Shhhh . . .”

This time the sound did not come from inside my ear. Heekin motioned toward a cedar branch. A bird perched there, closer than before. Rather than hold up his hands, he went still. I kept mine raised, outstretched, doing my best not to move either. I thought of those statues in the church, the way they stared off into nowhere. For a few moments, we were like them, motionless, until in a sudden flurry, the bird flew to me, landing in my palm. Its delicate body felt no heavier than the seeds in my hand. I watched its movements—quick, herky-jerky—as it picked up a seed, tilted its head back, and swallowed. It repeated the motion with a second seed before spreading its wings and flying up into the branches, singing.

Heekin looked at me and smiled. “How did that feel?”

I lowered my hands, letting the rest of the seeds drop. “Like you promised.”

“Magical, right?”

“Magical,” I told him, because it was true.

“Well, I’m glad you got to experience it. Your mother—she couldn’t get enough of those little birds. And they couldn’t get enough of her. We used to stand here for hours, feeding them and talking, then trying not to talk so they’d come.”

It took work picturing my mother with Heekin on that path in the woods, to imagine the circumstances that led to their being together in the first place. “What did you two talk about when you came here?”

“Lots of things. You girls. Sometimes, if you want the truth, we talked about your father. The way things were between them. Mainly, we discussed her desire to stop.”

“Stop?”

“Their work. She found it tiring. I’m not sure you were aware of that. The way she explained it, those feelings of hers came and went of their own accord, rather than something she could switch on and off. But your father needed her to do exactly that. In many ways, their livelihood depended on it. Her times with me here became an escape from all that. They were an escape for me, too.”