The twins come down the stairs together, stumbling over one another’s feet.
“Good to see you, boys,” I say heartily.
They look at each other and smirk.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” they say, both of them at once.
My wife brings the frying pan over to the table, begins dishing eggs overcooked and sticky with cheese onto the plates. She finishes, returns the pan to the stove, comes to sit down, tightening the sash of her bathrobe.
“Jack?” I say to one of the twins.
“What?” he asks.
“You know what,” I say, making a show of pressing my palms together.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh yeah.”
He bows his head, stiffens his hands, the rest of us following.
“Our Father in Heaven,” he prays. “Thank you for my family. Please bless the food. In the name of the Lamb, amen.”
By the time I open my eyes, Jack has already grabbed his fork and started into his eggs, a long thread of cheese strung to his plate. He is a glutton. I will have to teach him to control his appetites or they will have the best of him.
“Has anyone seen the paper?” I ask.
“Jack, fetch your father the paper,” says my wife.
“Why do I always have to do it?” Jack says. “I already had to say the prayer.”
“Mark, get your father the paper,” says my wife.
“Aww, Mom,” says the other twin.
“Do as you’re told, Mark,” I say. “Don’t talk back to your mother.”
He gets up mumbling and stomps out of the room.
“Is anything wrong with the eggs?” my wife asks.
“No,” I say. “Quite the contrary. These eggs are delicious.”
“Don’t feed me that,” she says, frowning. “You haven’t even tasted them.”
I am considering how to respond in a way that will assert my authority when Mark returns with the paper, dropping it in my lap on the way past.
“There’s your stupid paper,” he says.
“Is that any way to talk to your father, Mark?” my wife asks.
Mark shrugs without looking at her. He climbs into his chair, begins to eat his eggs. I roll the rubber band off the newspaper, flatten the pages on the table. On the front page is a blurred spread of the girl’s body, the privates, neck, and eyes marked out in solid black triangles. “Murder in the Woods” the headline reads.
“I think you should apologize,” my wife says to Mark.
“No,” I say. “That’s okay. Maybe I shouldn’t have made him get it.”
My wife turns to me, looks at me hard. I gesture with my eyes down to the newspaper, turn the headline to face her way. She squints, examines it a moment, her pupils moving down the column.
“Oh my God,” she says, and folds the paper closed.
“Mom!” says our eldest.
“Dad, Mom swore!” says Jack. “Don’t swear, Mom.”
“Not far from here,” I say softly to my wife. “Just in the woods behind Barton’s field. I’ll have to go talk with the parents.”
“Dad, who are you talking about?” says our eldest.
“Nothing,” I say.
“I’m sorry I swore, Jack,” my wife says. “It just came out.”
“I think you should wash your mouth out with soap,” says Mark.
“Mark,” I say, “that’s enough.”
“Well, I do,” he says.
“How old was she?” my wife whispers.
“Fourteen, I think,” I say. I make a point of bringing my eggs onto my fork and pushing the fork into my mouth. “Yes, fourteen,” I say.
“You guys just aren’t making any sense,” says Jack.
“We’re not talking to you, Jack,” I say.
“Who are you talking about?” my eldest yells.
“Nor to you,” I say to her. “Stop asking questions and finish your breakfast.”
“Do they know who did it?” my wife asks.
“No,” I say. “But I think I might.”
“You do? How do you know?”
“Did what?”
“Didn’t I tell you to eat your breakfast?”
“I ate it already,” my eldest says.
“Go upstairs and brush your hair,” says my wife.
“It’s combed,” she says. “See?”
“It doesn’t look combed,” my wife says. “Comb it again. Go on.”
“Mom!”
I put down my fork. “Listen to your mother,” I say. “Upstairs.”
My daughter makes a show of leaving, smashing her chair back into the wall, looking at us to see what we will say, climbing the stairs slowly, backwards, looking at us the whole time.
“You boys too,” my wife says. “Go upstairs and get ready for school.”
“I’m still eating, Mom,” says Jack.
“Go,” she says. “And wash your face.”
Mark goes and Jack follows, groaning. My wife pulls Jack’s plate onto the tray of our youngest’s high chair. Our youngest takes up the plate, clatters it onto the floor. My wife gropes absently under the table for it, her eyes still on me, the baby grabbing at the clip in her hair.
“Who killed her?” my wife says.
“I shouldn’t say anything,” I say. “Clergy’s confidentiality.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I don’t know for certain,” I say. “If I tell you, I don’t want to hear it from the neighbors when I get home tonight.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll keep it to myself.”
“I think it was her brother,” I say.
“Her brother?”
“He got her pregnant. She told me herself.”
“Her own brother?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a half-brother?”
“How should I know? Would that make a difference? I think he was her full brother.”
“Lord, that is awful,” she says. “But if he is capable of incest, he’s capable of murder.”
“We don’t know for certain he did it,” I say. “We shouldn’t judge the boy.”
“No,” she says. “I guess not.”
She opens the paper again, reading down the column, the picture of the girl in the clearing riding beside her thumb, staring at me. The girl is faceup in the photograph, though my recollection is facedown. I left her facedown, her body anyway. They’ve moved her head back around, away from where I left it, made it look still attached, ruining the tableau.
A pretty piece of work, if I do say so myself. But she’s saved. I’ve done her a favor.
“What are you going to do?” my wife asks.
“Go to the office. I should have left already.”
“About this, I mean,” she says, tapping the girl’s face. “About the brother.”
“I can’t prove any of it.”
“You should mention the brother to the police,” she says.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say. “I imagine they’ll figure it out on their own.”
“Go to them today,” she says.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I say. “Forget I said anything.”
CHAPTER 3
Bus
I am proofreading a contract when a man chooses to sit next to me, although the bus is empty. He wears a white button-down shirt, a burgundy tie, a dark suit. He nods to me as he pulls his briefcase onto his lap, springing the catches, opening it up. He takes out the morning paper, unfolds the body of the dead girl.
“Morning,” he says.
“Pardon?” I say.
“Morning,” he says. “As in good morning.”
“Yes,” I say. “Good morning.”
“Or as in bad morning,” he says.
I shrug.
“Or as in mourning the dead,” he says, tapping the girl’s face.
“Yes,” I say. “Terrible tragedy.”
“No need to hold pretense with me,” the man says. “Don’t you recog
nize me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t place you.”
“Can it be you’ve forgotten me?” he asks. “Even after last night?”
“I was alone last night,” I say. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Don’t remember me?”
“Can’t you sit somewhere else?”
He looks perplexed. “Why this rough treatment?” he asks. “You were happy enough to take my advice last night, no?”
He sits back, stiff, examining the newspaper in his hands.
“‘An act of extreme cruelty . . . ,’” he reads. “‘Her neck broken.’” He turns to me. “Of course, they don’t put all the details in there. They’re saving some, things only the killer would know.” He shakes the paper straight. “‘It is unclear whether the rape occurred before or after her death. . . .’”
He raises his head. “Any comments?”
Lowering his head, he scans the rest of the article.
“Listen to this,” he says. “‘Police are confident that blood and semen samples will lead to the apprehension of the killer.’” He puts the paper down. “Think that over, Provost.”
I turn toward the window and look out. The bus is passing out of the suburbs, past the park.
“I am not condemning you,” the man says. “I am one of your greatest admirers. We’ve been through this,” he says. “Let’s move on to something new.”
The bus turns, the back tire scraping the curb as it rounds the corner. I see an old man on his front porch, rocking, eyes missing. He waves slowly as the bus passes him. The man beside me waves absently back.
“You were right to tell your wife about the girl’s brother,” he says.
“But he didn’t kill her.”
“He’s still guilty,” he says. “Every day he was killing her. She wouldn’t have had to be sanctified except for what he did to her. The way I see it you are blameless.”
I get up and move back a few seats, the bus driver watching me in his rearview mirror. The man follows me back, pens me in.
“Tell the police about the brother, Provost,” the man says. “Let them come to their own conclusions.”
The buildings grow tall, become netted in wire and glass. The bus moves slower, but stays empty.
“I can’t do it,” I say.
“Can’t?” he says. “Won’t, you mean.”
“He didn’t kill her,” I say.
“A technicality.”
“Hardly.”
“If he had been there maybe he’d have killed her. But for all the wrong reasons. It was fortunate you were there to kill her for the right ones.”
Staring out the window, I think it over. I like the way it sounds.
On the sidewalk, a man looks at his watch, pushes his hair out of his face. On the sidewalk behind him a man in overalls seems to be shouting at someone though there is nobody paying him any heed.
“Look,” the man beside me says. “Better him than you, no?”
The bus stops and two more people get on, two men in suits, wearing dark glasses. They pass the driver without him seeming to see them and start slowly back toward us.
“Got to go,” the man next to me says. “Almost forgot. This is my stop.”
He dashes from the seat and out the side door of the bus, the two men who have just climbed on rush down after him and out as well. I do not see him, but as the bus pulls out I see one of the other two speaking into a cellular phone, looking around as if confused. He catches a glimpse of me in the bus window and points. The bus pulls away.
In the late afternoon, the police call me at work, ask me if, as the girl’s religious leader, I might have any information about the girl’s murder.
“No,” I say. “I don’t believe I do.”
“We were told that you might have some clue as to who the killer is.”
“Who told you this?”
The officer on the other end of the line pauses. “I’d rather not reveal my source,” he says. “Does it matter?”
“It might,” I say. I am about to say more when the line clicks. “Just a moment, officer. Will you hold?” I say, and switch lines.
“Honey?” my wife says. “The police just called.”
“I told you not to say anything.”
“I’m sorry, it just came out.”
“Why would they call at all?”
“Somebody thought they saw you near Barton’s field that night,” she says. “The police called about that. To see if you’d seen anything. One thing led to another.”
“Me? I was never near there,” I almost shout. “I swear.”
“What’s wrong?” she says. “I know that, you don’t have to tell me, darling.”
“I have to go,” I say.
“I didn’t mean to tell them,” she says. “It just slipped out.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll tell them what they should know.”
CHAPTER 4
Interview
I have just finished my last evening interview and am closing the provost’s office, sending my secretary Allen home, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find my immediate ecclesiastical superior, the area rector, beside me. He regards me warmly.
“Rector Bates,” I say. “How pleasant to see you.”
“Greetings, Provost,” he says. “Here late tonight?”
“Interviews,” I say.
“You’re finished?” he asks. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind coming down to my office a moment. I’d like a word with you.”
“Of course,” I say. “About what?”
“Personal,” he says. “Come down when you have a moment.”
I lock the door to the office, lock the building doors as well. I walk to the other end of the building, to the area offices, and knock on the door that has light seeping out from under it.
It takes a minute for the area rector to open the door. He ushers me inside, draws me around to a chair, then pulls a chair beside it for himself.
“Your wife mentioned you were here,” he says. “Doing interviews. I figured now was as good a time as any.” He presses his palms together between his knees. “I don’t know how to bring this up,” he says. “These things are never easy, and it’s even more difficult considering your position in the Church. I think of you as a personal friend, Provost. I respect you. If I felt that I could get away without asking, I wouldn’t ask,” he says.
“I understand,” I say. “You can ask me anything. I’ll answer truthfully.”
“The mothers of two boys in your congregation came to see me yesterday,” he says. “They claim that you abused their sons.”
I try to look surprised, shocked. “What? Me? What sort of abuse?”
“Sexual abuse of the worst kind.”
“Sexual abuse? Me?”
“I couldn’t believe it myself when she told me. Still can’t. A Bloodite provost would never do such a thing. So I thought it would be best to ask you directly.”
“I am glad you did,” I say. “May I ask who has accused me?”
He considers a moment, then gives me the names of the mothers of two of the boys I have recently interviewed. Both boys, the spirit told me, had been abused by their uncles. In one case I was blameless. I did nothing but cleanse his body with my own so as to help him heal. In the other I was admittedly a little overeager, but the Lord has forgiven me.
“Those women have had a grudge against me since I was made provost,” I say. “I’m not surprised.”
“Is that so?” he says.
“I would have told you, but I never thought they would go this far.”
“You deny the accusations, then?”
“Of course I deny them.”
“You have never had any sort of history of abuse?”
By history, I assume he means have I ever been formally charged. “Never,” I say.
“Look me in the eyes to tell me,” he says.
I turn my head to look at him, find that he has opened his eyes w
ide, is staring me steadily down. It is theatrics, I know, the same tactics I use at times in my own interviews, but still I cannot help but feel the weight of his gaze. I dislike it. It makes me feel cornered, like an animal.
“I didn’t do it,” I say, holding my eyes steady.
“You wouldn’t lie, would you?” he asks. “You know it is damnation to deceive the Lord over a matter of such magnitude, especially considering your ecclesiastical position.”
“I am an honest man,” I say.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me again,” he says.
I look him straight in the eyes without flinching. “I have never abused anyone,” I lie. “Sexually or otherwise.”
He sits regarding me for several minutes.
“I believe you,” he finally says. “That’s all the proof I need. I would never have believed ill of you in any case. I was convinced of your innocence from the first.”
“I am innocent,” I say.
“You’re the sort of man who could be an apostolic elder some day. That’s what I’ve always thought. A shame how people accuse men of your caliber,” he says. “Pure viciousness. You will have all the support I can muster.”
“I bet those boys were never abused by anyone.”
“No,” he says. “One of the women has a medical report which documents it. It would make you sick to read it. At least one of the two boys was viciously raped. You didn’t do it, but somebody did.”
“Awful,” I say. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Yes,” he says. “Whoever did it deserves to be killed.”
“Somebody in the neighborhood, perhaps?”
“Could be,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe a relative.” He crosses his legs. “I will tell the boys’ mothers that I have thoroughly investigated the situation and find you blameless.”
“If the women won’t let it drop, will you let me know?” I ask.
“I will,” he says. “I’ll discourage them, try to convince them of their mistake. If they keep it up, I’ll have to classify their behavior as unchristianlike conduct. We can excommunicate them for that. But I hope, for their sakes, they’ll repent before it goes that far.”
He stands up and thrusts his hand forward.
“Keep up the good work,” he says.
“I will,” I say, shaking his hand. “You can count on me.”
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