“Peculiar?” Joe thought about it. “No. Not in the sense of weird or bizarre. But I don’t think there are many like you around.”
Diederik fidgeted and finally went to seek out the broom and dustpan. He swept the already-clean area around Chuy’s workstation, and then the English muffins came downstairs borne by Chuy, along with a thermos of juice. Diederik fell on the muffins like he was starving, and he drank all the juice. He sat in one of the antique chairs very neatly and promptly fell asleep.
“Where’s Rasta?” Joe asked abruptly. The men exchanged startled glances.
“He was in here with me when you two came in!” Chuy leaped to his feet and began looking around. “You don’t think he got out when I went upstairs?”
“Maybe Mr. Snuggly sneaked in,” Joe said. Rasta and Mr. Snuggly had a long-running feud, though more often than not Rasta barked and danced around when Mr. Snuggly came near. He’d never hidden before.
Joe called, “Rasta! Here, boy!” with a kind of hushed urgency. He didn’t want to wake the boy.
They heard a pitiful whine.
“Look,” Chuy said, pointing to an old desk about ten feet away. A tiny face peered from behind the furniture, ears back.
“He’s scared,” Joe said, recognizing the look and attitude.
“Of what?”
Joe reached out a hand to touch Chuy’s arm. When Chuy looked down at him, Joe nodded toward the sleeping boy. “Him.”
They were thoughtful for a while. No one came into the store to disturb them, and the phone didn’t ring. None of the old people from the hotel stopped by, which was something of a relief. Visits from the newcomers formed an increasingly frequent (and not always welcome) part of the day. The boy slept on. From time to time, he twitched in his sleep or his hand went to his face as if something about it bothered him.
“He’s like the Rev,” Joe said finally, so quietly Chuy had to strain to hear him.
“But the Rev is the only one left.”
“He thought so. What if he was wrong?”
“So the boy is about to…” Chuy’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” breathed Joe. “Go look on the computer.” Chuy left most of the electronic work to Joe, but he could search for a calendar as well as anyone.
“Full moon in three nights,” he said. “What can we do to get ready?”
Joe shrugged. “We can stay upstairs and bolt the door,” he said. They fell silent and looked at Diederik.
18
Olivia was in the chapel. She could count on one hand the times she’d entered the old building. She realized now that she hadn’t been missing anything. The chapel had been built from thick planks, perhaps hand-cut, she speculated, looking at them now. It was a very basic rectangular building with a pitched roof and a steeple slapped on top. It was painted white inside and out, but it was just about due another coat. Inside, the wood floors had been painted, too, a dark gray. The benches that served as the pews were sturdy but a bit splintery. There was electricity, of a very basic sort, though the Rev didn’t often turn the bare bulb on. There was an altar. There was no stained glass, no beautiful vestments or altar cloths, no candles or incense. But there were three paintings, the old one above the altar that had always been there, and two Grandma Moses — style oils depicting two stories from the Bible: Daniel in the lions’ den, and Noah and the ark. The new paintings were donations from Bobo. The owner, whom Bobo had told the Rev was the artist himself, had never redeemed the artworks, and Bobo had thought they would suit the Rev.
Bobo had been right.
The Rev had been gazing at them in a fascinated way when Olivia had entered.
Now the Reverend Emilio Sheehan was sitting on a bench facing Olivia, and they were staring at each other. The Rev, small and dark and wiry, was as tough as shoe leather. Though Olivia considered herself just as formidable, she was a little anxious. She could not remember ever having a one-on-one conversation with the Rev.
But she knew he didn’t do small talk, and she was not good at it, either, so she went straight to the point.
“I know everyone likes Fiji better,” she said. “And I know she’s a better person than me.”
The Rev cocked his head to one side and waited. His dark eyes were bright in the gloomy interior of the chapel.
“But I have my own strengths and weaknesses,” she said.
He nodded. “You’re a fighter,” he said.
She took a deep breath. “My father is one of the richest men in America.”
The Rev’s expression didn’t change. “And?” he said. The syllable came out cracked and harsh, like the croaking of raven.
“And you know what this man did to me when I was a little girl?”
The Rev seemed, almost undetectably, to brace himself to hear something distasteful. “Fucked you?”
“Nope. That would have been straightforward. He let my mom do things with me. Rent me out to her little boyfriends. He pretended he didn’t know.” Her lips twisted in disgust. “She charged them to have sex with me. It was like Monopoly money to her. I was like the little shoe or the iron.” Her shoulders compacted, her body hunched in on itself. She appeared about half her size.
The Monopoly references did not seem to register with the Rev. “She living? Able to pay?”
“Now there’s a question that makes sense,” Olivia said. “No, she’s not. She was the first person I killed.”
“What did you do with her?” The Rev asked this question with an almost professional interest.
“I took her boat out,” she said. “I tossed her in the ocean. I hope the fishes ate her.”
“Something surely did,” the Rev said. He approved of that.
She said, greatly daring, “Is that what you do with the bodies?”
“No,” the Rev said, after a laden pause. “Not unless it’s at the full moon, some instance of self-defense. I’m no cannibal.”
“Gotcha,” she said, puzzled by his words, but getting that he was offended. “My point is — I kill people who need killing, and it doesn’t seem to bother me. I could say my parents made me that way, but that sounds like I think I need an excuse. I don’t.”
“Dead insides,” the Rev said, by way of diagnosis.
“Exactly.” She seemed relieved to find someone who understood. “I have to wonder how you can be a reverend, and yet you do these things?”
“Hide the bodies of killers? Dispense justice to those who threaten the peace of this place?”
In a nutshell, Olivia thought. She nodded.
“Because that’s why I’m here,” he said. “I can’t say no different than that. The God of Moses and Abraham put me here to preserve and protect Midnight. That’s my job. And I’ll do it to the best of my ability.” He gave her a sharp nod in return, to tell her the subject was closed.
“I’m trying to help Manfred solve his problem,” she said. “But so far, we haven’t gotten anywhere. Do you have any advice?”
“Use every resource available,” he told her. “You haven’t done that yet. That’s quieter. But if that don’t work, go in strong and hard.” And the way he leaned back after he spoke, Olivia knew that was all he was going to say. She thought of a dozen other questions, but she’d reached his limit.
“All right, then,” she said. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“Then that’s all you need to worry about, Olivia.” The Rev extended his hand, holding it over her head but not touching it. In his creaking, cracking voice, he said, “God over the serpents and animals and creatures of the land and water, bless this thy servant, Olivia. Give her strength and courage to complete her purpose. Amen.”
Feeling oddly better, as if she’d been given a blank check, Olivia rose to her feet and left the chapel.