کتاب 07-20

20

Harper had a sidelong look at Nick. He had settled on the foot of her cot, hands folded together under his chin, to watch his grandfather. His face was a serene blank. The room was very dark, with only the low flame of that single candle to cast any light, and she had no sense Nick had any idea what Father Storey had just told her. She reminded herself that he wasn’t much of a lip-reader even in the best light.

“How do you know this?” Harper asked.

“Carol told me so herself. You will recall, the last time I spoke to the congregation, I discussed the need to find it in our hearts to forgive the thief. Later, when we were alone, Carol and I fought over that. She said I was weak and that people in camp would abandon us if we didn’t show strength. She told me I should’ve made an example out of Harold Cross. I remarked that a very terrible example had been made out of Harold Cross, one I was sure pleased her. I was being nasty and exaggerating, but she got confused and said, in a flat voice, ‘So you know.’ I felt all icy through my chest and said, ‘What do you mean?’ And she said, ‘That I used him to set an example.’

“Of course I only meant that Harold had disobeyed and got himself killed, but Carol misunderstood me and thought I was confronting her over what she had done. She said it was just as well she called a Cremation Crew on him. If she hadn’t done it, Harold would’ve been discovered eventually anyway, only there might not have been anyone close to keep him from being captured alive. She said she wasn’t ashamed of herself. She had saved me, and my grandchildren, and the entire camp. She was flushed and looked—triumphal. I said I didn’t believe Ben Patchett would be part of such a scheme and she laughed as if I had made a very good joke. She said I had no idea how hard it was, to carry on the pretense that everyone was as good and kind as I hoped they’d be, to perpetuate my childish fantasies of everyday decency and abundant forgiveness. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t think. She said in a lot of ways I was as responsible for Harold’s death as she was, that I had forced us all into a position where he had to be shot. She told me if there had been more severe punishments right at the beginning—if, for example, we’d kept him in leg irons or taken a birch to him in public—he wouldn’t have continued to put everyone at risk by sneaking out of camp. Well, before I could come up with a response, Ben Patchett was hammering at the door, saying it was time to go. Honestly, I didn’t dare try to answer her arguments, not with Ben and Carol both there. I know my daughter wouldn’t hurt me, but I wasn’t sure what Ben might—”

“How sure?” Harper asked. “If she was rattled, if she thought she might be exiled, don’t you think she could’ve been the one who clubbed you in the head?”

“Not for an instant. My daughter would never, ever try to have me killed. I am as sure of that as I am of my own name. No. I abjure the notion entirely. Tell me—while I was unconscious, did she seem in any way ambivalent about my recovery?”

Harper inhaled deeply, remembering. “No. In fact, she threatened to have me driven from the camp and my baby taken from me if you died.”

Father Storey blanched.

“She was—she has been—hysterical at the thought you might die,” Harper added and then gave her head a little shake. She was remembering what the Fireman had told her, that Carol had always been desperate to have her father all to herself, that he was, in a sense, the one true passion in her life. Love could turn to murder, of course. Harper understood that better than most, perhaps. But somehow . . . no. It didn’t feel right. Not really. Carol might set a death warrant upon Harold Cross, but not her father. Never her father.

Father Storey seemed to see this exact conclusion in Harper’s frowning expression. “You mustn’t imagine Carol felt I represented any kind of threat to her. Nor was she ashamed of what she had done. She was proud! She sensed, of course, that if the entire camp knew, it might crack us all apart, that there was a need for secrecy. But not a need for shame. No, I can’t believe my own daughter would conclude she needed to kill me to preserve my silence. It is impossible to imagine. I am sure she hoped I would come around to her way of thinking with time, accept that a little murder was necessary to protect the camp. At the very least, she hoped I would continue to be the loving, decent, charitable face of our nightly chapel services, and leave her to see to the ‘dirty details’ of looking after the community. Those were her exact words.”

It maddened Harper that she couldn’t put together what had happened to Father Storey in the woods. She felt it was all right there, everything she needed to know, but it was like meeting an acquaintance and not being able to remember the person’s name. No matter how she strained, she couldn’t see it.

So leave it, she thought. Didn’t matter. She didn’t need to figure it out. Not right now.

“Bring John,” Father Storey said gently. “Then we’ll talk with Carol. And Allie. And Nick. I’d like my family around me, now. If there are difficult things to say, we’ll get through them together. That’s what we’ve done in the past and it hasn’t failed us yet.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you think—people will understand what Carol did to Mr. Cross? Do you think they’ll forgive her?”

Harper wondered how many people would forgive Father Storey for exposing her, but didn’t say so. He saw her doubts in her face, anyway.

“You think it will be the end of our camp?” he said.

After a moment, she replied . . . not with an answer, but with a question of her own. “Do you remember all the talk about Martha Quinn’s island?”

“Yes.”

“It’s real. We know where it is. I’d like to go there. There’s a medical facility where I can safely deliver my baby. I know some others would like to go as well. I think . . . after it gets around about Harold Cross . . . and that you’ve recovered . . . I think, yes, camp might break up. The night you were attacked, you told me someone was going to have to be exiled from camp. Sent away for good. I didn’t know you meant Carol. I suppose”—she drew a deep, steadying lungful of air. She was about to suggest an idea she found perfectly loathsome—“she could come with me. With us. Those who will leave, if we’re allowed to go.”

“Of course you would be allowed to go,” he said. “And perhaps it might be better to keep Carol here after all. In some form of confinement. I would stay behind as well, to look after her. To help her back to her best self, if at all possible.”

“Father,” Harper said.

“Tom.”

“Tom. Maybe we should wait for another day to talk to your daughter. You’re very weak right now. I think you should rest.”

He said, “I’ll rest better when I’ve seen my granddaughter and John. And yes, my daughter. I love Carol very dearly. I understand if you can’t—if you hate her. But know at least that whatever she’s guilty of, whatever her crimes, she always believed she was doing it in the name of caring for the people she loves.”

Harper thought Carol had a sick need to make others conform—to yield—that had nothing to do with love at all, but Tom Storey could no more see that in his daughter than Nick could hear.

She didn’t bother to say so, though. If Tom really meant to deal with her tonight, there was plenty of unpleasantness to come, and she didn’t care to add to it. So: John first. Send word for Allie. Allie would bring Carol. Whatever Father Storey had to face, he wouldn’t face it alone.

She turned to Nick and spoke with her hands. “I am going to get the Fireman. Keep Papa company. He needs you. He can have sips of water, small, not many. Do you see? Is my words right?”

Nick nodded and his hands replied, “I got it. Go on.”

Harper began to move. She was glad to move, wanted her body to catch up to the speed of her thoughts. She ducked through the moss-colored curtain.

Michael was on watch, as he had promised he would be. He had set his Ranger Rick aside for once and had his .22 rifle across his knees, was rubbing some oil or polish into the butt with a rag.

“Michael,” she said.

“Yes’m?”

“He’s awake. Father Storey.”

Michael jumped up, grabbing his rifle to keep it from falling on the floor. “You’re pulling my leg. No way.”

She had to smile, couldn’t help it. The simple surprise in his face—the wide-eyed innocence—made him look more of a boy than ever. His guileless expression brought to mind her four-year-old nephew, although in truth they looked nothing alike.

“He is. He’s awake and he’s talking.”

“Does he—” Michael’s Adam’s apple jogged up and down in his throat. “Does he remember who attacked him?”

“No. But I think it’ll come back to him soon enough. He’s much keener than I would’ve expected or hoped for. Listen, he wants me to get John. When John’s here, he wants us to bring Carol. And Allie, of course. He wants his whole family around him. And I want you there, too.”

“Well—I don’t know that I have any place—” he faltered.

“This might be a difficult reunion. I’d like you there in case . . . people get carried away by their emotions.”

“You think they might fight about the things Mother Carol has been up to?” he asked.

“You don’t have any idea, Michael. It’s not what she’s done while Father Storey’s been unconscious. It’s what she did before he got his head bashed in. If people knew, she never would’ve been put in charge of anything. Her or Ben Patchett, either.” She thought of Ben Patchett pumping a bullet into Harold Cross and all at once could taste the sweet-acrid flavor of bile in the back of her throat. “Fucking Ben Patchett,” she said.

Michael frowned. “I don’t think Mr. Patchett is too bad a guy. Maybe he got a little carried away once when those outlaws got dragged into camp, but I can kind of understand—”

“He’s a criminal,” Harper said. “He shot a defenseless boy.”

“Harold Cross? Oh, Ms. Willowes, he had to do that.”

“Did he? Did he really?”

There was such innocence and wonder and bafflement in Michael’s expression, she couldn’t help herself, had to lean forward and kiss his freckled brow. His shoulders jumped in surprise.

“You remind me of my nephew,” she said. “Little Connor Willowes—Connor Jr. I’m not sure why. You both have kind eyes, I guess. Do you think you can be brave a while longer, Michael? Can you do that for me?”

He swallowed. “I hope so.”

“Good. Don’t let anyone in to see him until I get back. I’m trusting you to look after him.”

Michael nodded. He was very pale behind his copper beard. “I know what I have to do. Don’t you worry, ma’am. I’ll take care of Father Storey.”