Page 18 of The Devil's Advocate

The man glanced at the Pastor’s hand, then accepted the greeting. His palms and fingers were rough and dry from heavy work.

‘It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I—’ but before the man could say any more, the Pastor cut him off.

‘We don’t use names in our meetings. You can call me the Pastor. You already know the professor, here. We think it’s safer this way. We sweep this room regularly for listening devices, and it’s secure, but to make sure we don’t make a slip on the phone, or at a meeting elsewhere, we never use real names in conversation. The FBI have ears everywhere.’

The man nodded.

‘I am very sorry for the loss of your daughter,’ said the Pastor. ‘She was such a life force in this community. We are all feeling that sense of loss quite deeply. Of course, that doesn’t compare to the pain you and your wife are experiencing. Please, take a seat.’

The man was Francis Edwards. He released his grip and sent that big hand of his running over his face. The Pastor noticed Francis’ eyes were red and wet. His breathing labored. As if he was on the verge of breaking down, and every second was a battle to keep that pain inside.

He took a seat in the circle of chairs, the Pastor and Gruber sat opposite.

‘I want to thank you for coming here tonight. The professor told me he had met you in Calhoon’s. You were hitting the bottle pretty hard that night. I understand. Alcohol can be a balm, but it soon becomes a crutch. And once it has a grip on you, it’s hard to let it go. The best thing is to talk about how you feel.’

‘I’m grateful I met Professor Gru— I mean,the professor, that night. We …’ said Francis, halting before he said any more. He bowed his head. His big Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his neck. He cleared his throat, swallowed as he tried to fight down the emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

He settled himself, rubbing his palms together, over and over, as if he was dry-washing his hands.

‘We talked about Skylar. It, uh, it was the first time I really spoke to someone about it. The sheriff said I should talk to a doc, or a shrink, but I wasn’t brought up that way. You understand?’

A smile spread over the Pastor’s features as he nodded. Francis had used his daughter’s name, which irritated him somewhat, but he wasn’t about to remonstrate with a bereaved parent.

‘I understand all too well. It’s good that you were able to share. It helps. But we can do a lot more than just talk, can’t we, Professor?’ said the Pastor.

Gruber nodded as he got to his feet. He approached one of the filing cabinets, pulled out a drawer and lifted clear a large manila envelope. It was five inches thick and unsealed. He gave the envelope to Francis.

‘We are given to believe you haven’t been able to work since your daughter’s murder. You drive long haul, right?’ said the Pastor.

Francis looked inside the envelope. His hand shot to his forehead, as if he was struck by what he’d seen inside. It was then that he began to cry. He couldn’t keep it at bay any longer and his shoulders looked as though they were pumping the tears out of him.

‘There’s twenty-five thousand in that envelope. We raised it among the six of us. I know you’re struggling, and we want to do what we can. There will be more soon,’ said the Pastor.

‘No, please, this is already way too much.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Look, you know the professor. And now we’ve met. There are four more of us in the church. We all have connections to authorities, together with influence and power. And we care about the people of this state. What happened to your daughter was inevitable, in some ways.’

Wiping his face, Francis fixed the Pastor with a questioning look.

‘I know how special she was to you. To all of us in this town. She was our homecoming queen not so long ago. I used to see her sitting in Gus’s Diner, drinking milkshakes and laughing with her friends. Trust me when I say, if it wasn’t her, it would have been someone else. Look there, you see that flag? That’s the original flag of the White Camellia. It hung in a church in Louisiana one hundred and fifty years ago. The men and women who stood beneath that flag knew the horrors that would be inflicted on our way of life if we didn’t keep those people in check. You understand? Your daughter wasn’t killed by a white man. A white man wouldn’t do that. We have to look after our families.’

Francis stared at the Pastor, something like disbelief on his face. And confusion.

‘I don’t want any more white parents to sit where you are right now, weeping for their murdered child. We will help you and your wife, but you’ve got to wake up and understand you are in a fight for your survival, just like every other white man.’

Francis said nothing.

‘Now, go on home. We will speak tomorrow. I know the trial is coming up, and there’s a lot to discuss.’

A moment of silence before Francis got to his feet, thanked both of them and left.

Gruber and the Pastor waited until they heard the door closing downstairs.

‘I’m not sure about him,’ said Gruber. ‘We have less than a week until the reckoning. He’s not ready for this. Let me—’

‘I told you, he is the one. And he will be ready. We have six days. That’s plenty—’

‘No, there’s too much at stake. I’m telling you it’s not enough time—’