“Why not?”
Father Coffey glanced behind us at the silhouettes of those wooden statues, as though he worried someone might be listening. In a whisper, he said, “I think we should finish here, Sylvie. I need to get to the school. The nuns arranged to have the floors of the gym waxed, and the smell is so noxious they don’t think people will make it through the service on Sunday without passing out. Someday, God willing, we’ll raise enough money to build a church where students don’t dribble balls all week long. Now do you need a ride somewhere? Or is that car outside for you?”
“I thought that car was yours?”
“The Buick belongs to me. But there’s another one out there—a Jeep with the engine running and someone behind the wheel. Do you know who it is?”
“I might,” I said, because I had a hunch.
Coffey stood and exited the pew, this time making a hasty sign of the cross. As we walked out of the church, I looked back at the altar, thinking of my parents entering that building, not knowing they would never leave, thinking of Rummel who asked if anyone in their circle had reason to do them harm. When Coffey pushed open the door, I saw the Jeep and gave a small wave. “Do you still keep a spare under the flower boxes?” I asked, as he jangled his keys, locking up. It was a detail I recalled from my father’s deacon days.
“Not in a long while. I’m the only one who can open this place now.”
I saw a quick flash of silver as he slipped his keys into the pocket of his jeans and headed for the Buick. I knew he didn’t want me to follow, but I did anyway. On the backseat of his car, I could see stacks of boxes. Whatever was inside must have been heavy, since the car looked sunken in the rear.
“Just getting rid of some things from the rectory,” he said when he saw me looking. He opened the door, got inside. I worried he’d drive off without answering my earlier question. But then he said, “The reason your father never went to the bishop had to do with that girl.”
“Abigail?”
“Yes. She came to the rectory one night.”
“When?”
“At the end of her time with your family. I opened the door and there she was, looking bedraggled and troubled. In some ways, she appeared just as she had when you first brought her to church. Only now there were two wounds on her palms, like stigmata.”
I knew about those wounds. I remembered the shock and confusion I’d felt seeing blood pool on her skin without warning. “What did she want?”
“A place to spend the night. I welcomed her inside. Isn’t that a priest’s job, after all, to take in the needy? The girl spent much of the time begging me not to contact your parents or her father. Maura made her something to eat then made up the old couch in the basement. After we attended to her wounds, she went down to bed. While she slept, I lay awake, praying about the best thing to do. Times like that I missed Father Vitale. He always seemed to hear God’s voice when I didn’t, which is more often than I care to admit.”
“What did you decide to do?”
“I made up my mind to track down her father. It only seemed right.”
“And so Albert Lynch came and got her?”
“No. I never had the chance to contact him. In the morning, Maura took tea downstairs and found the couch empty. The girl had slipped out during the night.”
“I don’t understand. What does that have to do with my parents not coming to church anymore?”
“Abigail told me things, Sylvie.”
“What things?”
“Things about what went on that summer she lived with you. Things I don’t think your father wanted getting out. That’s why he went quiet. That’s why he walked away.”
“Because you threatened him?”
“He was the one who threatened me, remember? I simply let him know what I’d been told.”
“And what did Abigail tell you?”
Again, he ran his fingers back and forth beneath the rim of his turtleneck. This time, I noticed his nails were chewed, his cuticles raw. “We really do need to stop here. I’ve taken this conversation too far. You should get your answers from someone else. Now good-bye, Sylvie. Please come see me again, though not about this. I think it’s better to let the past stay where it is.”
“Who?” I asked as he pulled the door shut and started the engine. “Who should I get answers from?”
He rolled down his window. “I meant what I said before. You have a great deal of your mother in you. I can sense it. That’s probably what got me talking so much.”
“Who should I go to for answers?” I asked again, ignoring the comment.