“Yes,” Keely said, hugging Savich’s pant leg. “You look like a man in one of my mama’s old movies, you know, black and white before there were colors. I don’t like black and white.”
Savich smiled, just couldn’t help it, but he saw that Reverend McCamy didn’t appreciate the child’s wit. There was no change in his expression, but Savich felt something dark and brooding coming over him, something he didn’t understand. But all McCamy said was, “Elsbeth, why don’t you take the children to the kitchen and give them some lemonade.”
Sherlock said, “That sounds splendid. Let me help.”
Elsbeth nodded and walked out of the living room, the kids behind her.
“He’s scary, Aunt Sherlock,” Sam said in a low voice.
“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “Sam, what’s wrong?”
He’d stopped and was staring at the big staircase. Keely was running ahead behind Elsbeth McCamy. Sherlock leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Sam, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t like this house, Aunt Sherlock. Can’t you feel it?”
“Feel what, sweetie?”
Sam frowned a moment, kept staring at that staircase, then shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s kinda scary. His aunt must have fallen down these stairs.”
“Yes, she did.”
Sam touched his fingers to the newel post, a richly carved mahogany pineapple. “Do you think Mrs. McCamy really has some lemonade, or do you think she’ll just have Diet Coke?”
“We’ll see, now won’t we?” Sherlock said.
In the living room, Savich remained standing. It was less painful that way. Reverend McCamy wasn’t a large man, but he had presence, and that made him appear bigger than he actually was. Savich remembered the bottomless well of madness in Tammy Tuttle’s eyes and wondered if there was a hint of the same madness in Reverend Sooner McCamy’s dark eyes as well.
“You actually discussed my aunt’s death in front of children? Discussed my murdering her?”
“We thought they were watching TV,” Savich said. “We should have known better. We’re cops, Reverend McCamy, and we had to wonder about the excellent timing of her demise-six months after your marriage to your wife. No illness, just a sudden fall down the stairs and a broken neck.”
“My aunt was a very fine woman, Agent Savich. I loved her very much. She took me in when I was blind and couldn’t find my way. She listened to me, comforted me, encouraged me to follow my heart. Her death brought me great sadness. But I knew she basked in God’s sacred light. She’s with Him now, out of pain, for all eternity.”
“Perhaps so. But you were still alive, Reverend McCamy, as was your wife. And you were also much richer. I like your house. It’s a lovely property.”
“Yes, that’s a fact.” McCamy waved Savich to a sofa. “It’s interesting how the living always regard death selfishly, isn’t it? A man will grieve, then almost immediately measure what he’ll gain from it. Why don’t you sit down.”
“Perhaps that’s true. I’ll stay standing. My back isn’t very happy at the moment.”
“I’ve never had back problems.”
“I haven’t either until Saturday night. Tell me, sir, what do you think of Sam?”
His dark intense eyes rested on Savich’s face a moment before he said, “Oh, I’d forgotten that you got hurt at Katie’s house. The nurses at the hospital were really excited about having an FBI agent laid out there.”
Savich arched an eyebrow.
Reverend McCamy shrugged. “It’s a small town, and two of the nurses in the emergency room live here in Jessborough. Gossip is rife. Now, that’s an odd question, Agent Savich. What do I think of Sam? Well, he appears to be precocious, a very forthright child.”
“You mean just because he repeats what he heard adults say?”
“No, not just that.” Reverend McCamy paused a moment, stroking his thin fingers over the wool of his black jacket. “It’s that he’s somehow above the normal lies and deceptions of children.”
“I’ve heard Sam tell a few whoppers, Reverend. He’s a little boy, and that’s exactly what one would expect. But the fact that he saved himself, now that’s very impressive. He wasn’t cowed by fear-and that’s amazing for a six-year-old. I suppose you heard the story of how he slithered out of a window in the old Bleaker cabin, and took off, Beau and Clancy after him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard several versions of the tale. All of them strike to the soul.” Reverend McCamy slowly shook his head, his eyes on his fingers, which were still stroking his jacket, against the nap. He said nothing more. How strange.
Savich said, “Don’t you believe it’s quite a coincidence that Clancy was your wife’s brother and he brought Sam here?”
Reverend McCamy raised his dark eyes to rest on Savich’s face. “Coincidences are random acts that are drawn together by foolish men.”
“I gather you are not a foolish man?”
“I am a realistic man, Agent Savich, but yes, like most men, I am occasionally foolish. I believe that our Lord would have us study each random act as it touches us and try to determine how it will enhance our grace. You think my wife and I were involved with the boy’s kidnapping, Agent Savich? Just because Clancy was her brother?”
Savich said slowly, not really wanting to look in those black eyes, eyes that somehow seemed to absorb darkness from light, “What I think, Reverend, is that your wife’s brother brought Sam to Jessborough, Tennessee, for a reason. You’ll have to admit that both Clancy and Beau demonstrated a great deal of motivation. They simply didn’t stop trying to get him until they were dead. That, also, is very strange.”
Reverend McCamy merely nodded. He raised his right hand and stroked his fingers through his black hair. His hair was thick, long enough to tie at his nape, but he let it hang loose. Stroking his hair was a long-standing habit, Savich thought.
Savich wished he had another pain pill. “Why do you suppose they did that, Reverend?”
“I really have no idea, Agent Savich.”
“When Clancy was at the sheriff’s house last night, he said something unusual to Mr. Kettering. He said that he didn’t necessarily believe it. Believe what, Reverend McCamy?”
“I have no idea, Agent Savich.”
“Clancy also admitted to Mr. Kettering that someone had hired him.”
Reverend McCamy shrugged. “Then it seems that someone was paying them a great deal of money to get the child.”
“That much is obvious. But the question remains: Why is Sam so important to the one who paid them? What is it about Sam that makes him so valuable, if you will? No ransom demands, no obvious revenge motive, no pedophilia that we know of, so it must be something else. Do you know what the motive could be, Reverend McCamy?”
Reverend McCamy shrugged. “As I remarked, he is a precocious child, but I can’t personally imagine anyone going to all that trouble for a precocious child.”
“Then it must be something more.”
The reverend’s dark eyes rested on Savich’s face. “I have found that there is always something more, Agent Savich. It is a pity that men are given free will. There is endless abuse, don’t you agree?”
“Why do you say it’s a pity?”
“Free will allows men to make disastrous mistakes without end; what they should be focusing on is gaining God’s grace.”
Savich said, “I think the reason for many of men’s endless mistakes is a direct cause of their search for God’s grace. Witness the history of Ireland, England, Spain, France-men’s disastrous mistakes litter the landscape, Reverend, especially in their efforts to focus God’s grace on themselves, and to deny all other men’s claims to the contrary.”
“That is blindness, Agent Savich, and a man’s blindness can lead either to his salvation or his damnation. If a man focuses on God’s grace and His suffering for us, His creatures, his blindness will last but a moment of time. Ah, here is Mrs. McCamy with some refreshment for us, Agent Savich.”
“And how does a man do that, Reverend McCamy?”
“He places himself in the hands of the prophets placed on this earth to guide him.”
Elsbeth McCamy closed her eyes a moment at her husband’s words, and slowly nodded.