“Pretty dark that night?”
“As Satan’s heart.”
“Raining?”
“Buckets.”
“And you saw Mr. Storey go into the river? Personally?”
“I’d parked my car so my headlights were pointing toward Mrs. Turnbull’s minivan, so even with the rain there was some light down there. Though most of the beam went above her car. She was hung up on a tree branch on a steep section of the bank. It was leaning-at least thirty or forty degrees would be my guess-”
“Mine, too. I saw the river this morning. That bank is like a slide. The other side, where the tree was, there was more vegetation over there.”
“Exactly. Well, Mr. Storey was already easing his way down toward Mrs. Turnbull when I first saw him. He was only a couple of yards away from the minivan when his feet went out from under him and he slid down the bank.”
“You saw that?”
“Sure. The whole thing happened in the blink of an eye. I didn’t see him go into the river. There was no light down that far.”
“But he slipped, and then he slid? That’s definite?”
“Absolutely.”
“He was on the mud side of the car, not the tree side?”
“Correct.”
“Did he call for help?”
“He did not. We-the Wolf sisters and me-guessed he was in the water before he knew what happened. He could’ve been downstream a hundred yards by the time he inhaled. Or tried to inhale. It’s awfully easy to hit your head in raging water like that.”
“You think he’s dead, Reverend?”
“In my heart? Yes, I do. I prayed for his soul that night before I left the riverbank. I felt death around me while I prayed.” He gritted his teeth as though a fleck of ice cube had come to rest right on top of a cavity. “You don’t, do you? Think he’s dead.”
“I’m not convinced, no.” What I didn’t add was that if Sterling Storey was dead, my whole trip to Georgia would dissolve into futility. I wasn’t in the South seeking justice; I was in the South seeking understanding. Sterling was going to be my unlikely professor.
I placed my empty tea glass two steps below my fat butt.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“I pray for Mr. Storey daily. Please tell his wife that. He sacrificed himself doing a Christian act of mercy.”
“I will pass that along. She’ll be comforted, I’m sure.”
“Thank you.”
I think he could tell I didn’t mean the part about Gibbs being comforted. I sat silently for most of a minute reviewing my questions and the reverend’s answers, looking for omissions. I couldn’t find any.
“If your church has a bathroom, I’d love to make a pit stop. Then I’ll be on my way. I’m grateful for your generous help. And for the fine tea. Meigs looks like a pleasant town; the people are friendly.”
“It is and they are. You’re going to go see the Wolf twins now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I like to hear everyone’s stories.”
“They won’t be home before supper. Go then. They’ll feed you well. Your patience will be rewarded.”
“I appreciate the tip.”
“You’re a Christian, Mr. Purdy?”
“I am.”
“Doing Christian deeds?”
“I try.”
“That’s all the Lord asks.”
“Is it?” Usually my faith in God was strong enough that such a question would never have occurred to me. But I was in Georgia on a wild-goose chase, and the question appeared on my lips and escaped before I could trap it.
The reverend looked at me in a kindly manner as though he could read the doubt in my eyes, as though he could tell that my faith was suffering.
I didn’t ask him why, if I was doing all the Lord asked, I’d just had a heart attack and how come my wife had left me and taken my son away from me a week before Thanksgiving. Why didn’t I ask the reverend? I supposed I didn’t want to hear him speak about faith and about God acting in mysterious ways. And I didn’t know whether or not I would have felt any better when we were done.
But my faith was weak right then, and I doubted it.
Reverend Prior must have sensed that misgivings were clouding my vision. He said, “Don’t make the mistake of measuring God’s love by the yardstick of your own life, Mr. Purdy.”
“What else do I have?” I asked.
He was busy pulling his canvas gloves back onto his hands. I wondered if he was planning to answer me.
“If you question God’s plan when life is spitting in your face, you must be willing to accept Him without question when He blesses you with a child who snowboards and doesn’t want you to be a dork.” Prior bent down and lifted the leaf rake. “Come by for services if you stay in the area. You’re welcome here, Mr. Purdy. There is abundant love here.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s nothing. The bathroom is right through there.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Julie Franconia didn’t usually get to set these things up the way she wanted. Far from it. She didn’t have that much experience, but the few times she’d tried something like this, it had seemed that her fantasies usually got lost in the jungle of some man’s choosing. That’s the way it was the first time with him, too.
But this time his message said that she got to pick the time, the place, the setup. He just wanted to “control the mood.” The last time with him was the best ever. He’d taken her over the moon. The mood? He could have the mood.
That’s not all he could have. From the moment she’d spotted him at the RCA Dome, she’d been dying to make him hers. It had turned out better than she could have hoped.
She fit the headphones on her head and snapped the tape into the Walkman.
Beethoven.
An otherworldly voice-over said, “You have twenty minutes to get to the campsite. That’s all. Go, baby.”
Her heart was swollen. Anticipation. Pure anticipation.
Beneath her hiking clothes she was all silk. Everywhere.
Everywhere.
She knew the spot; she’d picked it carefully. Morgan Monroe State Park, north of Bloomington. A favorite trail. She wouldn’t have any trouble getting there in the dusk light. Getting the tent up? She could do it in three minutes.
The piano concerto ended, and some old rock ’n’ roll filled her ears. She thought maybe it was the Animals, but she wasn’t sure. That was before her time.
Before his, too.
“Okay, babe, get the tent up. Hurry. I can’t wait. I’m close by; can you feel me? Can you? I’m watching.”
She threaded the fiberglass poles. One, two, three. The tent was up.
“Into the woods, to the west, ten steps. Go on now.”
Her hiking boots sank half an inch into the marshy soil. She smiled as she saw the picnic basket.
“Now set everything up in the tent. Everything.”
She did.
Wine and chocolate. Two cans of whipped cream. A disposable camera. It didn’t take too long to set things up.
The music changed. The Doors.
Jim Morrison sang,This is the end, my friend, the end.
And it was.
When the police found Julie’s body, they concluded that she was a hiker who had been pulled off the trail and shot by a madman.
Her body wasn’t in a tent.