Page 48 of The Bright Lands

Lott seemed happy to change the subject. “That’s the only one I’m missing. Nobody held on to it. I have a few with your brother, though. They’re yours if you want them.”

Joel demurred. He turned to go, hesitated and looked back at Mr. Lott to say, “Do you remember what you told me that afternoon? The week after everything happened?”

“I’ve said a lot in my time.”

“It was just a few words—” Joel began, but Lott cut him off.

“I’m sure I meant every one of them.”

For years, though he had no interest in returning to Bentley, Joel sometimes imagined coming home, thanking this funny little man for saying exactly what he’d needed to hear at exactly the right moment.

“You’re too good for this town,”Lott had said back then. Simple, and yet it had saved Joel as surely as a flare fired in heavy fog. It had pointed toward a future. It had given him a reason to live: to see what life was like elsewhere.

“When you told me to get out of Bentley I think you kept me alive, Mr. Lott. That’s all.”

“When I told you what?” Lott said. The man rubbed at his mustache and looked acutely embarrassed.

“Never mind,” Joel said, after a long hesitation. He took one last look at all this Bison bric-a-brac. “Good luck to the boys on Friday.”

CLARK

She found Wesley Mores seated behind a desk in the middle school, sunk in a snowbank of papers. He jumped a mile when she rapped on his door.

“Clark,” he said. “I apologize. I’m a little on edge today.”

“We all are.”

A banner of the solar system hung above Wesley’s head, though she noticed the school’s budget was so tight that poor diminutive Pluto had been X’d over with a Sharpie. Looking at this plain man in front of her who had once been noteworthy, Clark realized that a similar demotion had been visited on Wesley: Bentley Bison, the moment they graduated, stepped down into being nothing more than men.

“Is the investigation going well, Officer?”

“It’s proceeding.” At the sight of the cross around Wesley’s neck an idea occurred to her. “Have any of the boys in your youth group given any indication that something dirty might be going on around town? It could just be something small, something gossipy. They do talk to you, yes?”

Wesley gave a little laugh. Unless Clark was much mistaken, he sounded relieved. “They do talk to me, yes, but never about anything serious.”

“No trouble they want to keep quiet? Any rumors of infidelity?”

“‘Infidelity’?” Wesley laughed again. “They talk about football and more football. But it’s funny—I think Joel Whitley was curious about the same sort of thing.”

“Is that right?”

Mores shrugged. “If I had to guess I’d say that gossip’s the only reason he came over for dinner on Sunday. He’s a funny guy. Troubled, you know.”

Clark made ahmm. She studied Wesley—stubble on his cheek, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Something odd about him. Something off. “And what did you tell Joel?”

“What I just told you.” Mores laughed again. “Those boys only talk about the game. Some might talk about some porn they’ve googled, you know. Garden variety stuff.”

“The porn is garden variety?”

Wesley blushed. “I can’t say much.”

“You can’t say much about the things they tell you? So theydotell you things?”

A silence. “I’m not sure what to tellyou.” Wesley held up his hands and said pointedly, “While you’re here, can I ask you if there’s been any progress with the fire?”

“You mean at First Baptist?” Clark rose to go. “Electrical miswiring in the steeple, last I heard.”

“Funny. That cross had been burning fine for twenty years.”