by Jen Blood
His jaw tensed a little while he took in the sight, but he shook his head. “If I did, they’d be walking funny about now. If they got up at all. We might talk tough, but any man who raises his hand to a woman isn’t looked at too fondly around here.”
“Even Joe Ashmont?”
“Especially Joe. Why? You think it could have been him?”
The look in his eye suggested vigilante justice wasn’t out of the question and, if called upon, would be swift. I shook my head quickly.
“I don’t think so, I was just asking. It’s all right—it looks worse than it is. I just wanted to see if you might have any ideas.”
“Sorry, no. But let me know if you find out who it was, though. I’d love to be there about the time old Diggs gets hold of him.”
I laughed. Replaced my sunglasses as Jed drove away, tossed my cigarette butt in a trash can just outside the church’s front door, took a deep breath, and went inside.
The Reverend was in his office when I arrived, downstairs in a dim and very chilly carpeted basement. His door was slightly ajar, so I knocked but didn’t wait for him to invite me in.
He’d aged since I had seen him last. For some reason, Ethan Diggins’ thinning hair and glacial smile seemed timeless all those years ago. Of all the people I’d encountered in my re-immersion in the old hometown, Daddy Diggs was the only one I had expected to find unchanged.
But, of course, everything changes.
His once-blond hair had faded to white, and was sparse around his mostly bald head, his shoulders hunched and his body smaller than I remembered it. He sat behind a massive oak desk that only served to emphasize his deterioration.
“Erin Solomon,” he said, when I stepped into his office.
“Reverend Diggins,” I said.
The office belonged to a scholar, not a zealot. One wall was filled with shelves of volumes on theology and philosophy, art, music, literature. It was a big space, and I suspected it had been his personal refuge for a long while now.
He stood behind the desk, gesturing me into an overstuffed leather chair.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
He wore glasses perched at the tip of his nose, and he didn’t look nearly as forbidding as I’d once thought him to be.
“Have you?”
“Detective Hammond suggested I might see you soon.”
“Did he tell you why I’d be coming?”
“Of course. Rebecca Ashmont, I presume. He seemed to think she might have been the key to some of the mysteries you are pursuing on Payson Isle.”
I found myself at a disadvantage—apparently Daddy Diggs had been waiting for me, while I’d only found out I was headed this way twenty minutes ago. My gaze fell to an oversized crucifix mounted behind the Reverend’s desk, complete with crown of thorns and a bloodied and very realistic looking Christ.
I looked away.
“Rebecca was part of this congregation?” I asked.
“She was.”
“I heard that you two were close,” I said, choosing the word Edie had used.
The Reverend smiled. He met my eye. “Is that pertinent to this investigation?”
“It could be—especially if she confided in you before she moved in with the Paysons. If you have an idea what happened when Isaac helped her escape from her husband… At this point, anything you could tell me about Rebecca and her son might be pertinent.”
He leaned back in his chair, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The gesture reminded me of something, but it took a minute before I could place it. He replaced his glasses, tented his fingertips, and peered at me with a sour expression. That’s when it hit me: Mr. Burns. Diggs’ dad was straight out of the Simpsons. I forced back a bubble of hysterical laughter and wondered if I’d had some kind of psychotic break.
I struggled to refocus on what the Reverend was saying.
“I’m sorry, but as I told Detective Hammond,” he said, “I don’t recall that much. She was a devout member of the congregation, and even taught Sunday School here for a time. But her attendance became sporadic, and we were unable to keep her on. She left the church shortly thereafter. There was a long interim before she joined Isaac, during which I don’t believe she left the island very often. Isaac used to visit the more isolated residents to minister to those who might otherwise be excluded from organized religion; I suspect he met Rebecca that way.”
“Do you know when she actually joined the Payson Church? I haven’t been able to get an exact date yet.”
“She was there barely a month—that’s what was so tragic about it, why I remember the details so well. We’d just realized she was out there. We were taking steps to bring her back when we received word of the fire.”
This got my attention. “Who was taking steps to bring her back? You? Joe? Did Isaac know you were coming for her?”
Too late, I realized that I was pressing too hard. The Reverend stood and nodded toward the door. “I’m sorry—I told Mr. Hammond, there are aspects of this case that I’m not comfortable discussing. The investigation has been closed for many years.” He stared pointedly at my battered face. “Perhaps it would be better—safer—if you simply let the matter lie. Rebecca Ashmont was a troubled woman, with a painful history and an unpleasant home life. She sought refuge wherever she could; Isaac Payson happened to be the last port in her storm, but I assure you he was not the first.”
“Something I’ve heard you can attest to firsthand, Reverend. Were you her port in the storm when she was a member of this church?”
His shoulders stiffened. “You and my son may have a relationship that eschews the boundaries of etiquette and good taste, but I won’t tolerate that kind of implication in a house of the Lord.”
I stood, but made no move for the door. “Do you know why the Payson fire never made sense to me, Reverend?”
He shook his head, glancing down at the desk in a failed attempt to regain his composure. “Why is that, Ms. Solomon?”
“Because I could never find a motive. No trigger. In Waco, the pressure from the government was the final straw; a visit from Senate investigators set Jonestown into motion. The Solar Temple had been preaching the same dogma since their inception—everyone knew what to expect. It’s the law of cause and effect, Reverend Diggins: nothing just happens. And I’m not the first one to notice this. Read any articles written on the Paysons, and you’ll find more questions than answers. No one could ever give any reason for why this fire would have been set, out of the blue, when Isaac Payson never preached a message involving the kind of violent end his congregation met.”
I took a step closer. More people were arriving upstairs—I heard hushed voices, occasional laughter. The Reverend waited for me to finish. For a moment, I thought I saw fear in his eyes.
“Were you planning to go in there to get Rebecca, Reverend? You and Joe Ashmont?”
“You believe that if Isaac thought someone was threatening to take one of his members away, it may have spurred him to take that kind of drastic action?”
I thought of the photo Hammond had shown me that morning: an unidentified figure that may or may not have been Isaac Payson, burned separately from the rest of his congregation. Had he panicked, locking his followers away from the world before anyone could take them from him? I shook my head again. Perpetual bafflement was fast losing its charm.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s possible. Something obviously happened, and I’m getting a funny feeling that Rebecca Ashmont was at the center of it all.”
He came out from behind his desk and leaned back against the edge, not far from me.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Unearthing demons long since buried, in a town that still hasn’t recovered? I fail to see how this investigation could help anyone. Yet, you persist.”
“The story the public was given about that fire was a lie. I can’t let that stand.”
“Now, you can’t let that stand? Where were you twenty-
two years ago? As I recall, the alibi you provided for your father played a crucial role in the perpetuation of that lie.”
I looked up sharply. “What do you know about that?”
A door opened and closed somewhere down the hall. The Reverend glanced at an old clock behind him, then back at me.
“I know Adam was not in that hotel room when you said he was.”
“And how do you know that?”
He smiled, his eyes never leaving mine. “Because he called and asked me to meet him here.”
Everything slowed. The Reverend could be lying, of course, but what would be the point?
“Why would he do that?” I asked. “What did he want?”
“I couldn’t tell you—he never arrived. When he called me, it wasn’t quite four a.m. He said he was on his way… I didn’t hear from him again.”
I remembered the phone ringing that night. My father had shouted at whoever was calling—it made an impression because I’d never heard him shout before. He hung up and made a call of his own. I never knew who he was calling, though. Had it been Reverend Diggins?
“Maybe he made the call, then decided he couldn’t leave me alone. You can’t know he wasn’t with me,” I said.
“Perhaps you should talk to your mother about this. You have so many questions—it’s a shame that the people best equipped to address them are your own parents, and yet the answers have continued to elude you all these years. If I didn’t know better, I would say you didn’t actually want to learn the truth at all.”
He stood and gestured to the door. “I can’t tell you anymore, I’m sorry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are people expecting me.”
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but it was clear Daddy Diggs was done talking. I went out the back way, then circled around to get back to my car. Rebecca Ashmont was the key. Rebecca and Joe.
And my mother.
I stopped short when I reached the parking lot, looking for the first available escape route.
“You can’t run—I’ve already spotted you,” Diggs said.
He was sitting on my bumper, his hair and shoulders damp from the drizzling rain. He held a cigarette in his left hand, and he didn’t look pleased. When he saw my face, he looked even less so. Juarez was sitting in the driver’s seat of his Civic, parked next to my Jetta. He looked miserable. I shot a glare his way, but Diggs intercepted my gaze.
“Don’t blame him—he didn’t say a thing. Jed called. He said Gracie’d love to have us over Tuesday night, if we’re free. And, oh yeah, did I need any help with the manhunt to find the scum sucker who kicked the crap out of you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, Solomon, I know—you’re always fine. It’ll be on your tombstone: ‘Here lies Erin Rae Solomon: She was fine.’ Jesus Christ.”
He met me halfway, his eyes softening once he got a glimpse at the damage. He tipped my chin up and tilted my face to get a better look at my bruises.
“You think Ashmont did this?”
“No,” I said, only just realizing it was the truth. “I would have known if it was him.” I nodded toward the cigarette he held. “You’re smoking.”
“Yeah, I know. It was either that or strangle someone.”
“Someone meaning me?”
He glanced at Juarez, who sank lower in his seat. “Not necessarily. Or at least you’re not the only candidate. Come on—give me a ride back to the Trib. We’ll get some food, and you can tell me what my old man has to do with this unfolding disaster.”
Sometime between meeting with the Reverend and finding Diggs on the hood of my car, my headache had returned. I was tired—more tired than I could remember being in a very long time, and my fatigue was making it damned near impossible to form a coherent thought.
I nodded my agreement and gave him my keys, then went over to Juarez and waited as he rolled down the window.
“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” I said.
“He’s just worried. I can understand that.” My hand was on his window, fingers curled at the edge of the glass. He put his hand over them, studying me with black, depthless eyes. “You look tired, Erin. Go home. Try to sleep this afternoon. I’ll meet you at the house—we can talk then.”
He squeezed my hand and let go, then waited until I was settled beside Diggs in the Jetta before he drove away.
As soon as I had my seatbelt on, Diggs put the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot without a word.
Chapter Seventeen
Part of the reason for Diggs’ silence became clear when we arrived at the Trib. The county sheriff’s cruiser was parked out front, a man I assumed was the sheriff seated behind the steering wheel. He smiled at sight of us, got out of the car, and approached Diggs and me.
“I don’t want the police involved, Diggs,” I whispered.
He cast an innocent eye at me, shrugged like he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, and turned his attention to the cop at his window.
“Hey, Chris. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Just stopped in town for a little lunch,” the man said, smiling. Playing along. He leaned down to peer into the car and tipped his hat at me. “You don’t remember me, I guess—Chris Finnegan. I was a couple years ahead of you in school.”
He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with glasses and a casual way about him that I imagined was supposed to set people at ease. It wasn’t working.
“I heard somebody had a couple pizzas delivered here,” Diggs said. “Hey, here’s an idea just off the top of my head.” I glared at him, but he ignored me. “Why don’t you join us, Chris? The more the merrier.”
Indeed.
◊◊◊◊◊
“You don’t have to file a report, of course,” Sheriff Finnegan informed me. We were packed in Diggs’ office, Einstein finally liberated from the car and now poised to attack the first stray piece of pepperoni or hamburg that fell to the floor. The evil trolls drumming inside my head had gotten louder and more unruly, and my mood was not improving.
“I don’t need to file a report, thanks. I told you—I ran into a door.”
Finnegan smiled. He had a slice of Wallace’s loaded, extra cheese pizza in one hand, a can of Coke in the other. He took no notes.
“A door that tagged you in the noggin twice and, based on the way you’re holding yourself, probably got in a couple of serious body blows to boot.” He finished chewing and looked at me thoughtfully. “You don’t mind me saying, that’s one mean son of a bitch of a door.”
I attempted a smile. I felt bad for lying, and worse because Finnegan was obviously just trying to do Diggs a favor. He looked at Diggs, who looked at me.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I closed my eyes. The trolls were doing the conga now, moving to some primal rhythm that was fast making my stomach roll to the beat.
“Maybe later.”
He stood, nodding toward the doorway. “Just for a minute.”
As soon as we were out the door and down the hall, he turned on me.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re acting like some fucking battered wife—you got hit by a door? What is that?”
I could feel the blood in my cheeks as a week’s worth of impotent rage reached its boiling point. I advanced on him so fast that he took a step back.
“It’s my story, Diggs—mine. It’s my book, it’s my family, it’s my fucking body. Back off. If I file a report, cops will be swarming the island. Whatever is going on, whoever it is will get spooked—”
“Or caught—”
I glared at him. “I mean it, Diggs. I’m not filing a report. I’m not making a statement. And if you don’t back the fuck off, I’ll find someplace else to hang my hat until I’m done here.”
Diggs shook his head. I’d never seen him angrier.
“Fine. Screw it—you want to kill yourself, go ahead. But if you go out there alone again—”
“I’m not going to.”
<
br /> He caught the front of my shirt in his hand and pulled me closer. My heart was beating too fast. Diggs chest rose and fell and his breath came hard. Five seconds came and went while he tried to get himself back under control.
“I’m serious, Solomon,” he said, quieter now. “You see this face? This is the face of a terrified man. And doubly so because you aren’t taking this shit seriously.”
The rage left as quickly as it had come, leaving exhaustion in its place. I leaned into him, resting the top of my head against his chest—a move that was half embrace, half defense tackle.
“I’m taking it seriously,” I mumbled.
He smoothed back my hair. “If you go out to the island again, you’ll take me or Juarez? I don’t know how much help I’d be, but Juarez has a gun and James Bond hair, so I’m pretty sure he could do some damage. And when push comes to shove, I can scream like a banshee.”
I’d seen Diggs do a hell of a lot more than scream when we were in trouble before, but I let it go. “I won’t go out to the island alone again.”
He wrapped his arms around me and held me close. “You’re really okay?”
My eyes stung. If I could have stayed that way—Diggs’ voice in my ear, my body enveloped in his—for another five years, I would have been seriously tempted to do so.
“I’m fine, Diggs.”
He laughed. Shook his head. “Liar,” he whispered.
Once Sheriff Finnegan realized I wouldn’t be making any revelations about the attack, he excused himself to hit the mean streets of Midcoast Maine once more. I bowed out shortly thereafter, intent on only one thing:
Bed.
I drove past the town landing on my way back to Diggs’ place and noted that Hammond’s boat wasn’t at its mooring. I tried his cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. The bastard was ignoring me—probably out solving the case, for all I knew. I was so tired I honestly couldn’t work up the energy to care. It was only four in the afternoon, but I’d been running on fumes for so long I was about twenty-four hours past empty.