Help for the Haunted(98)

My mother tilted her head, fidgeting with the back of one of those crucifix earrings. “No. Some years ago, your father suggested it. He thought it best that we present a consistent version of ourselves to the world when we’re working.”

Not quite beneath my breath, a word slipped out: “Costumes.”

“Pardon?”

The way she said it gave me the sense that she genuinely had not heard. I looked up at her and tried explaining, “Those dresses. That jewelry. Dad’s brown suits and yellow shirts. They’re like costumes.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it, Sylvie. For me, it’s simply easier not having to wonder what to put on. There’s no time wasted shopping or standing in front of my closet debating—neither of which I care to do. Anyway, I hope to be back home in a bit. After that, let’s try to salvage what’s left of the day and do something fun.”

Once she said good-bye, I went back to flipping through those swatches, listening to her move down the hall, the front door opening and closing. All those patterns did nothing to take my mind off where she was going. When I couldn’t stand my curiosity a second longer, I shoved the book aside and stood from the table.

Outside, I caught up with my mother just as she started down the lane. When we arrived at the corner, a van was already parked there, emergency flashers blinking away.

The Forgotten Followers: A Ministry—those words were painted on the side, under a thick coat of grime. Someone had doodled on the muck too. I made out a stick-figure animal, headless, with an endlessly twirling tail, and random letters and numbers in a helter-skelter pattern: M, A, Z, 6, 13.

As we drew near, Albert Lynch gave a hesitant wave from the driver’s seat. Something about the sight of him sent a peculiar shudder through my body. My mother didn’t give even a hint of uneasiness, however, so I just followed along. The man’s smooth, babyish skin—a detail I remembered from that night in the parking lot—looked the same. But he sported a pair of bug-eyed glasses now, and a wispy mustache had sprouted above his lip. That night in Florida, Lynch had been wearing a baseball hat. Without it, I could see his bald head, so shiny it seemed polished.

Rather than open his door, Lynch disappeared between the seats into the back and slid the side door open. From what I could tell, whatever seats had once been in the back were all ripped out. Abigail lay on a thin mattress inside, looking as limp as Penny.

Slowly, the girl turned her head to see us, blinking and gazing out with a dazed expression. Her stillness lasted only a moment, however, because the second she noticed my mother, Abigail shook off the blankets wrapped mummy tight around her legs. She sat up, then pushed her body to the edge of that van, hopped out, and walked toward us with a slight but noticeable limp.

“Well, hello again,” my mother said as the girl took her hand.

A rustling came from the van. My mother and I looked to see what was going on, but the sound caused Abigail to slip behind her, hiding. Since the girl was paying no attention to me, I took the opportunity to study her. Fifteen, I guessed. Maybe sixteen. Somewhere between Rose’s age and my own. She was not a child as she had been that night in Ocala; she was taller and had breasts now, the start of them anyway—enough to give a hint of shapeliness beneath her ratty tee. That blond hair of hers, messy as ever, fell to her waist. Her feet were bare, a few toes on her left, black and blue.

“Mr. Lynch?” my mother called into the van.

I stepped closer to peer inside. Sleeping bags and pillows and books were strewn inside. A cloth painting of the cross with the sun setting behind it covered what I could see of the far wall. In front of that painting stood a cardboard box flipped upside down and littered with half-melted candles and more books. A makeshift desk, I thought, or quite possibly an altar.

After rustling around in the back of the van a bit longer, Albert emerged, arms full of rumpled clothes. He looked down at the blankets Abigail had shaken off, then looked up to say, “Did she—”

“Did she what?” my mother asked.

“Did she walk out there on her own? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she told him as Abigail stayed tucked away behind her, dragging those bruised toes against the pavement with enough force that it looked painful.

Lynch must have had plenty of practice getting in and out of that van, yet when he set those clothes aside and stepped out, he did so without accounting for the steep drop, and stumbled, nearly falling, before steadying himself. Once his feet were planted on the pavement, he came closer, bringing a cloud of stale cologne or maybe the air-freshener smell from that van along with him. “Thank you,” he said to my mother in the astonished voice I remembered. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Please, there’s no need to thank me. I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You agreed to meet me on such short notice. And you don’t realize it, but I haven’t been able to get my daughter up and out of that van in nearly a week.”

Abigail’s foot stopped grazing the pavement a moment as she peeked out from behind my mother. When her father noticed her wide blue eyes looking at him, he gave the same hesitant wave he’d given us, but the girl just flinched and ducked behind my mother again, pancaking her face so hard into my mother’s back I worried it hurt them both.

The exchange, or lack thereof, caused Albert to heave a sigh. “I suppose the best thing for me to do now is leave you to it. How long until I should come back and get her?”