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“From Brother Click.”
“Did he tell you not to talk about Seymour and Cindy?”
“He just said we should pray for them.”
I bet he did, I thought.
I removed one of my Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department business cards from my wallet and made an X through the printed information on it, then wrote my cell number and Albert Hollister’s home number on the back.
“You call me if you have any other information about Seymour and Cindy,” I said. “My wife and I will do whatever we can to help you. Do you understand what I’m saying? You get away from this guy, Miss Travis. He’s a predator, pure and simple. He’ll continue to hurt you as long as you allow him to.”
“Why are you saying that? He hasn’t hurt me.”
In her eyes I could see the lights of shame and denial and self-resentment, and I tried to remember Saint Augustine’s admonition that we should never use the truth to injure. “What I’ve told you is in confidence. Reverend Click didn’t hear us. You don’t have to be afraid — not of me, not of him, not of anyone.”
She turned her face to the wind, pretending to brush at something that had caught in her eye.
“What are you majoring in?” I asked.
“Pre-veterinary, but I might have to drop out. My student loan didn’t come through.”
I wanted to wish her well and pat her on the arm, but I didn’t want to send a signal to Click that one of his youth ministers had cooperated with the investigation at his expense. I put away my notebook and said goodbye to Fay Travis and walked back toward Click, trying to keep my emotions at bay. But how do you do that when you encounter a grown man who is probably sexually exploiting a young woman who can barely scrape together enough money to pay her college tuition?
“Before we go, Reverend, did you ever visit that religious store downtown?” I asked.
“I may have, but not recently.”
“You didn’t buy one of those little crosses for Seymour Bell?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“A Mercury.”
“What color is it?”
“Midnight blue. Why?”
“No reason. Have a good day. We’ll be checking back with you later.”
“I think you’re wasting your time. I don’t think I need to have any more conversations with you, either.”
The wind changed and seemed to become colder, smelling of animal dung and dead fish in the cottonwoods down on the riverbank. I stepped closer to Sonny Click, as though we were intimates, as though I
feared my words would be smudged by the wind, their meaning lost on a man who long ago had abandoned moral nuances.
“I don’t want to offend you, Reverend, but I despise men like you. You hijack Christianity and use it to manipulate trusting souls who have no other place of refuge. If I find out you’re sexually abusing that young woman over there, I’m going to come back here and shove you into your own airplane propeller. It’s not personal. It’s just one of those situations when the shit really needs to hit the fan.”
Clete lit his cigarette with his Zippo and snapped the lid shut. A bloom of white smoke rose from his mouth and broke apart in the wind. “Dave is probably exaggerating. But on the other hand, Streak gets out of control and goes apeshit sometimes. I’d err on the side of safety, Preacher. Keep your stiff one-eye on a short leash. We know you can do it.”
THAT AFTERNOON, AT a shady roadside filling station and convenience store just south of Swan Peak, Candace Sweeney was gassing up the SUV while Troyce was inside buying a quart of chocolate milk and a bagful of Hershey bars, which he claimed thickened his blood and contributed to the healing of the wounds in his chest and face. Earlier that morning he had bought her a new pair of Acme cowboy boots, a snap-button western shirt that shimmered like pink champagne, and jeans stitched with roses on the pockets. It was a lovely afternoon, and she wanted to lie on the beach at one of the chain lakes that fed into the Swan Drainage, like other couples did on the cusp of summer in western Montana. Then she and Troyce could have dinner in a steak house built of logs and, later, dessert and drinks on the terrace, under a sky bursting with the constellations. It wasn’t a lot to ask, was it? To have a normal relationship?
Or maybe it was. Troyce treated her with respect; his words were always tender. She seemed incapable of doing wrong in his eyes. But were his tolerance and patience and understanding a disguise for indifference? This morning she had gotten up early, brushed her teeth and gargled with mouthwash and combed her hair, then gotten back in bed with him, caressing his cheek, rubbing her hand down the length of his hip, feeling her internal organs melt when his sex hardened under her touch.
“Hi, little darlin’,” he said sleepily.
“You sleep okay, baby?” she said.
