Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(27)

“Chapelwood.” The word squeaked out of my mouth. “He told you about it?”

“Only a little. Now that he’s gone, you’ll have to tell me the rest.”

I cleared my throat and took a sip of water, not knowing how much to say, or how to say it. He might think I was crazy, and then he might not help me. So I had to be careful. I started off slow.

“There used to be a big farm on the outside of town. Most of the land’s been sold off now, so these days, the man who owns the old farmhouse and the like . . . his name’s Davis. He’s a reverend, of some kind. He took the farmhouse and built it up a bunch, and turned it into his own church. And that’s what Chapelwood is.”

“What denomination does Chapelwood represent?”

I took some more water, and shrugged. “They call themselves the Disciples of Heaven, for whatever that means. There’s a bunch of different folks who go out there to worship: Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians.”

“No Catholics, I’d wager.” He said that part with a strange gleam in his eyes. Not like he was happy and trying not to laugh, but like he was real interested in the answer.

Pedro said, “No, no Catholics. They’re scared to death of Catholics.”

“They really are,” I added. “They have all these pamphlets they pass around, talking about how the pope is the Antichrist, and he’s going to end up running America if we let the church get a foothold in the states. A lot of crazy stuff, and none of it true, so far as I know.”

“It doesn’t have to be true. It only has to fall in line with what people want to believe,” the inspector said. “People want to be told that they’re afraid of all the right things. It’s easier that way. They don’t have to go to the trouble of learning anything new.”

“You don’t think much of people in general,” Pedro said. It wasn’t really a question.

The inspector shook his head, then did a little shrug. “In general, perhaps. But I’ve known enough good ones to prevent me from outright misanthropy. Like the good father, for example. May he rest in peace.”

My husband crossed himself without even thinking. I copied him, a little slower. I’m still picking up the habits, and I sometimes do the sign in the wrong order. While I was working on getting the motions right, Pedro pressed on. “But you’re a policeman, yes? You must see the devil’s work every day.”

“The devil’s work—” He snorted, then stopped himself, almost like he was changing his mind. “There’s evil enough in the average human heart . . . we really have no need for a devil. That said, there are terrible things out there. I’ve seen them myself, and have a hearty respect for them. I shouldn’t jest. I didn’t mean to jest. I apologize.”

We all got real quiet, and for a minute, I wanted to tell him everything. Maybe he wouldn’t think I was crazy after all. Maybe he’d listen, and believe me—if he’d really seen terrible things that weren’t caused by human hands. I opened my mouth, but closed it again. I didn’t know how to tell him about the spells, the stars, or the thing in my parents’ bedroom. I couldn’t find any words that would make it sound like a very bad truth, and not a made-up lie.

The inspector watched me, and I halfway wondered if he was reading my mind. He had that thoughtful look on his face, staring hard without meaning to, I think. Finally he said, “So let’s not talk of Chapelwood, if you find it upsetting.”

He was being smart and kind, and trying to change the subject for me. But I screwed it up, and blurted out: “I’ve been to it.”

“You’ve attended services there?”

Pedro put his hand on mine, offering me some of his strength, if I needed it. I let it sit there, and clenched my fist shut. “A handful of times. My daddy’s a member. He made me go.”

“Do you think the church has anything to do with why your father killed Father Coyle?”

I let go of Pedro’s hand and hugged my own arms, thinking maybe it was just the chill of leaving the windows open—but knowing better, deep down. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s a weird place, though. Weird and dark, and it stayed with me, every time. I’d smell it on my clothes and in my hair for days after we went. It smelled like . . .” I was hunting for words again, trying to pick them carefully. “Like lightning about to strike. Something like that, and something like the ocean, too. A little bit like the fish and crabs down at the grocer’s, when they get a shipment from the Gulf. I’m sorry . . . it’s hard to explain.”

He nodded anyway, as if I’d told him something useful. “Sometimes a strangely shaped problem requires a strange description, and you’re doing a wonderful job of it. I’m having quite a time, though, trying to understand it all. This is quite a scene you’ve got here in Alabama.”

“Axe murders, unnatural churches, and priest-killers,” Pedro agreed. “Our newspapers are thick with it.”

“Yes, journalists always do love a brutal death.” He wore a sad-looking smile. His eyes went far away, and he said, “But not just here. Frankly, I’m surprised the rest of the nation isn’t lapping up the blood, spreading the story from coast to coast. I’ve seen a small mention of it here and there, but hardly the circus that comes to surround . . . other stories of this type.”