“And what’s your name, young lady?”
He probably means that to be complimentary, but I have to control the urge to bristle. It’s a diminishment; I’m not that damn young. “Gwen,” I say. I don’t volunteer a last name.
“Well, Gwen, you can talk to me about what’s troubling you, and we can pray about it. Would that be all right?”
I wait until I’ve heard the door shut to the outer office. His son’s gone now. It’s just the two of us. I relax my posture, open it, tilt my head up, and look him right in the eyes. The scared little wife is gone, and I see him sit back in his chair in surprise. “You might not want to pray with me after we talk, I’m afraid. I spoke with you on the phone early today. About Remy Landry. You hung up on me.”
He looks like I’ve punched him, and his eyes go so wide I can see white all around. He’s scared. That’s a surprise. Somehow I’d expected him to be aggressive. He rallies and makes a run at that a few seconds later as he stands. “You need to go,” he says. “Right now, ma’am. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got nothing to say about that.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him, and when he tries to head for the exit, I scoot my heavy chair back until it blocks his path and, as a bonus, holds the door firmly shut. “Not until we have a conversation about Remy. If you want to get home to your dinner, let’s do this quickly.”
“Who are you?” he barks, and his hands are in fists now. I watch him carefully. I stay seated. It’s not likely he’s going to come at me, but he’s trying to loom and intimidate. He’s not very good at it. “You got no business here in the house of the Lord, coming in here with lies!”
I produce my private investigator identification and show it to him. “I’ve been hired by Remy’s family,” I tell him. “And that gives me business with you, because Remy was a member of your congregation. Why wouldn’t you want to help us find him, Pastor?”
He doesn’t like that. It’s his turn to bristle, and also to retreat. I sit calmly and let him decide what he wants to do. His glare doesn’t disturb me at all.
“I’ll call the police,” he says, and makes for his desk. “You’re trespassing.”
I don’t answer. I just watch. He picks up the receiver, punches in a couple of numbers, and then eases the receiver back onto the cradle without completing his call. That tells me quite a lot. “You really need to leave,” he tells me. “Right now. I’m asking you.” His moral authority is melting like butter in the summer.
“Remy Landry was a member of your church,” I say. “And you owe it to that young man who put his trust in you. He’s been missing three years. His parents deserve answers.”
“I don’t know where that boy might have gone! Why, he might have just run away. You don’t know what these kids get up to these days, all the drink and drugs . . .” His voice trails off because I’m not responding. And I can hear the hollow core of what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t believe it himself. “You’re not going to find anything here to help. I’m sorry for his folks, I truly am. But I don’t know anything. I’d have told the police if I did.”
“Are you sure about that?” I lean forward, hands clasped. “Because it sounds to me like you have something you need to get off your chest, Pastor. Do the right thing. You want to, I can see that. You know how much his family is suffering. And you know God doesn’t want that to continue when you have the power to help them.”
He sinks down in his chair as if I’ve cut his legs out from under him. “I don’t know,” he says. It sounds weak now. “I don’t know where he is.”
“But you do know something,” I say. “Maybe about the girl he met at this church. Carol.”
It’s like I’ve stuck a red-hot pin in him. If he was scared before, he’s definitely terrified at the sound of that name on my lips. Enough that his lips part, but he doesn’t have an answer for me.
“You know who I’m talking about, Pastor. She’s very conservative. No makeup. Long hair that she doesn’t cut. Very plain clothes.” I take a leap of faith. “You’re protecting her, aren’t you? You think if you talk to me about Remy, you expose her to danger.”
He lowers his hands and takes in a deep breath. “Who are you?”
“Gwen Proctor,” I tell him. I can see the name means nothing to him. Good. “Like I said: I’m just someone hired by Remy’s family to find out what’s happened to him. You’ve got a son, sir. I know you understand what kind of true horror they’re going through right now not knowing where he is, what he’s suffering, or even if he’s never coming back. You understand that they can’t move on. And I know that Remy was a good kid. You talking about drinking and drugs and how maybe he went off on his own—you know that isn’t true. You’re smearing his good name when you say it.”
He’s looking down now, and his hands are clasped together so tightly it looks like it hurts. But he still doesn’t answer.
“Pastor Wallace, you were that boy’s shepherd,” I say. “And Carol’s too. So if there’s anything you can tell me that can help me understand where to look for him—”
“Forget Carol,” he says. “Please. I’m begging you to leave her alone. You could put her in so much danger just by mentioning her.”
He seems truly anguished. It’s not an act. He’s pallid and sweating, and I want to ease up on him, but if I do I won’t get anywhere.
“Remy mentioned to his mom that he was going to try to help her out. What happened? Did he run into people who were after Carol?” No answer. But I think I’m on the right track. Things are clicking together. “Was she on the run from an ex-boyfriend, is that it?”
Some of the tension bleeds out of him, and he sits up straighter. I’m playing a game of blindman’s bluff, and I just got colder. “You’re right,” he says. “She was having boyfriend troubles. Remy never should have gotten involved. But that didn’t have anything to do with his disappearance.”
He’s lying again. I switch gears. “She told Remy she had boyfriend troubles,” I say. The key to this game is sounding like you know what you’re talking about, especially when you don’t. “But you knew better, didn’t you? And you still do. Carol was never on the run from a relationship. It was bigger than that.”
Warmer. Red hot. He looks so stunned that I know I’ve got my finger right on it, and he’s clearly really frightened of what else I might know.
“Just let me talk to her,” I tell him. “I’ll keep her identity a secret, I’ll leave her completely out of my reports. Nobody will ever hear her name. It won’t even go in my notes.” When he convulsively shakes his head, I realize I’m going to have to give a little. So I say, “Pastor Wallace . . . I understand what it’s like to be running and hiding from people who want to hurt you. My husband was Melvin Royal. The serial killer. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
That name, he knows. His body language changes, but I’m not clear on what he’s feeling at that moment. “You—you’re the one who killed him.”