“I don’t think so.”
“Where did the IV come from?” he asked, looking over at it.
“That’s a long story. A lot has changed in the last few months.”
His eyes brightened with excitement. “Is there a cure? For the ’scale?”
“No,” she said.
“No. Of course not. Or we wouldn’t still be hiding at Camp Wyndham and you wouldn’t be treating me in the infirmary.” He studied her face and his smile became something sad and worried. “Carol? What has she done?”
“Let’s keep the focus on you for now. Would you like to try a sip of water?”
“I would. I would also like to have my question answered. I believe I could manage both at the same time.”
She did not ask Nick to get the water, but went and poured some herself. Wanted the time to think. When she came back to the bed, she held the cup and waited while Father Storey struggled to get his head off the pillow to take a sip. When he was done he slumped back and smacked his lips.
“I think it would be best for Carol to speak to you herself,” Harper said. “She’ll be relieved to know you’re awake. She’s been—at her wit’s end without you. Although she’s had the support of Ben Patchett and his team of Lookouts, and that’s meant a lot. They’ve kept things going, anyway.” She thought that was a politic way to put it.
Father Storey wasn’t smiling anymore. His complexion was pale and sickly and he was starting to sweat. “No, I better see John first, Ms. Willowes. Before my daughter is notified I’m awake. Can you bring him to me? There are matters that won’t wait.” He paused and then his gaze met hers. “What was done with the person who attacked me?”
“We don’t know who attacked you. Some think it was one of the prisoners, a man named Mark Mazzuchelli. But he insists that you split up in the woods and when he left you, you were fine. I raised the possibility you might’ve been assaulted by the camp’s thief, who wanted to shut you up before you could—”
“Expose them over a few cans of Spam?” Father Storey asked. “Anyway, what do I know about the thief?”
“You told me you knew who it was.”
“Did I? I don’t . . . I don’t think I did. Although I suppose I might’ve and forgot. There are several things I don’t recall, including who decided to thump me in the head.” He pursed his lips and his brow furrowed, and then he shook his head. “No. I don’t think I ever figured out who the thief was.”
“You told me in the canoe that someone would have to leave camp. Do you remember that conversation?” Harper asked. “The night we rowed to South Mill Pond together?”
“Not really,” Father Storey said. “But I’m sure I wasn’t talking about the thief.”
“Who do you think we were talking about, then?” Harper asked.
“I imagine we were discussing my daughter,” Father Storey said, as if it should be obvious. “Carol. She called a Cremation Crew on Harold Cross. She set him up—arranged the whole thing, so when Ben Patchett shot the poor boy, it would look like he had to, to protect the camp and keep Harold from giving information to our enemies.”
20
Harper had a sidelong look at Nick. He had settled on the foot of her cot, hands folded together under his chin, to watch his grandfather. His face was a serene blank. The room was very dark, with only the low flame of that single candle to cast any light, and she had no sense Nick had any idea what Father Storey had just told her. She reminded herself that he wasn’t much of a lip-reader even in the best light.
“How do you know this?” Harper asked.
“Carol told me so herself. You will recall, the last time I spoke to the congregation, I discussed the need to find it in our hearts to forgive the thief. Later, when we were alone, Carol and I fought over that. She said I was weak and that people in camp would abandon us if we didn’t show strength. She told me I should’ve made an example out of Harold Cross. I remarked that a very terrible example had been made out of Harold Cross, one I was sure pleased her. I was being nasty and exaggerating, but she got confused and said, in a flat voice, ‘So you know.’ I felt all icy through my chest and said, ‘What do you mean?’ And she said, ‘That I used him to set an example.’
“Of course I only meant that Harold had disobeyed and got himself killed, but Carol misunderstood me and thought I was confronting her over what she had done. She said it was just as well she called a Cremation Crew on him. If she hadn’t done it, Harold would’ve been discovered eventually anyway, only there might not have been anyone close to keep him from being captured alive. She said she wasn’t ashamed of herself. She had saved me, and my grandchildren, and the entire camp. She was flushed and looked—triumphal. I said I didn’t believe Ben Patchett would be part of such a scheme and she laughed as if I had made a very good joke. She said I had no idea how hard it was, to carry on the pretense that everyone was as good and kind as I hoped they’d be, to perpetuate my childish fantasies of everyday decency and abundant forgiveness. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t think. She said in a lot of ways I was as responsible for Harold’s death as she was, that I had forced us all into a position where he had to be shot. She told me if there had been more severe punishments right at the beginning—if, for example, we’d kept him in leg irons or taken a birch to him in public—he wouldn’t have continued to put everyone at risk by sneaking out of camp. Well, before I could come up with a response, Ben Patchett was hammering at the door, saying it was time to go. Honestly, I didn’t dare try to answer her arguments, not with Ben and Carol both there. I know my daughter wouldn’t hurt me, but I wasn’t sure what Ben might—”
“How sure?” Harper asked. “If she was rattled, if she thought she might be exiled, don’t you think she could’ve been the one who clubbed you in the head?”
“Not for an instant. My daughter would never, ever try to have me killed. I am as sure of that as I am of my own name. No. I abjure the notion entirely. Tell me—while I was unconscious, did she seem in any way ambivalent about my recovery?”
Harper inhaled deeply, remembering. “No. In fact, she threatened to have me driven from the camp and my baby taken from me if you died.”
Father Storey blanched.
“She was—she has been—hysterical at the thought you might die,” Harper added and then gave her head a little shake. She was remembering what the Fireman had told her, that Carol had always been desperate to have her father all to herself, that he was, in a sense, the one true passion in her life. Love could turn to murder, of course. Harper understood that better than most, perhaps. But somehow . . . no. It didn’t feel right. Not really. Carol might set a death warrant upon Harold Cross, but not her father. Never her father.
Father Storey seemed to see this exact conclusion in Har per’s frowning expression. “You mustn’t imagine Carol felt I represented any kind of threat to her. Nor was she ashamed of what she had done. She was proud! She sensed, of course, that if the entire camp knew, it might crack us all apart, that there was a need for secrecy. But not a need for shame. No, I can’t believe my own daughter would conclude she needed to kill me to preserve my silence. It is impossible to imagine. I am sure she hoped I would come around to her way of thinking with time, accept that a little murder was necessary to protect the camp. At the very least, she hoped I would continue to be the loving, decent, charitable face of our nightly chapel services, and leave her to see to the ‘dirty details’ of looking after the community. Those were her exact words.”