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Having played a prosecuting attorney in a story about a factory owner whose operation emitted a poisonous cloud that killedevery resident of a small town with a population of 543, having destroyed him in cross-examination and shredded his claim that satanists had done it, Rebecca knew what demeanor to adopt and the right tone to strike, so she began the interrogation.
“Pastor Turnbuckle—”
“Larry. Call me Larry or Pastor Larry. I do not believe in clerical formalism.”
“Yes, I see. All right then. Pastor Larry, late on a summer night twenty-one years ago, my friends and I happened to see you running pell-mell through the graveyard, in a panic.”
“Oh, dear woman, it could not have been me. Running would be undignified for one in my line of work, and I have never owned a pair of Nikes or other shoes manufactured for that activity.”
“Pastor, I’m not saying you were running for exercise. You were in a panic, late at night, evidently runningfromsomething and—”
“Furthermore, I am sorry to say that my constitution does not allow me to run.”
“Constitution?”
“I have an enlarged heart, mitral valve prolapse, moderate stenosis of the pulmonary valve, angina, and a strange symptom the cause of which no cardiologist has yet been able to determine. In addition, I have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, periodic bouts of pleurisy, and a rare condition that can cause a dangerous overproduction of phlegm if I exert myself too much.”
“How terrible for you,” Rebecca said with a subtle note of scorn. “It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”
“It is indeed. But the love of the Lord sustains even when it doesn’t cure.”
“Can I assume you have a doctor who can confirm that you suffer from these conditions?”
The reverend’s dreamy smile acquired a sly edge. He failed to answer her question. “Oh, I refuse to suffer. I embrace my pain and limitations, because it is the journey that God wishes me to take.”
Bobby and Spencer were gaping at the reverend. During two days in Maple Grove, they had had an extraordinary number of occasions requiring them to gape.
Drilling forward, Rebecca said, “On that summer night, you made your way to the church and went down to the basement. When you came out of there, you seemed even more greatly distressed than when you had been running through the graveyard. What caused that distress, Pastor Larry?”
“But that couldn’t have been me running, as weak as I am. And if ever I exited the basement in distress, it was because in those days the heating system included an unstable boiler. I was always concerned that it would blow up.”
“Did it ever blow up?”
“Thank the Lord, no.”
“Larry, what were those half-formed men in the basement, ten creatures connected like paper dolls?”
“I have no idea what you mean. What a strange question. You seem troubled, child. Have you consulted a therapist?”
Bobby said, “We all saw them that night.”
Pastor Larry had a diagnosis. “Mass psychosis. Will you pray with me right now for your mutual recovery?”
Scowling and scooting forward on the sofa, Rebecca said, “That isn’t going to happen, Larry. One way or another, we’re going to dig the truth out of you.”
The reverend’s fey smile became beseeching as he turned his attention to Spencer and changed the subject. “Forgive me, son, but I can’t help being dismayed that you’re wearing a hat here in the rectory. I regret to say I find it disrespectful. Would you please remove your hat?”
“No,” said Spencer.
“I would be most grateful.”
“No.”
“In your heart, son, you know it’s the right thing to do.”
“No.”
“The Lord himself wants you to remove your hat.”