“Yes,” I say. “We weren’t supposed to know who our real mothers were.”
“Those who got out are defying the Prophet’s rules in all kinds of ways. Some have even left altogether. Remember Donna Jo, your father’s second wife? She took her children to Los Angeles to live with friends she knew in college. It seems you’re not the only lapsed Kevinian anymore, Minnow.”
“But if the Prophet were alive,” I say, “I don’t believe for a second that they wouldn’t all go running back to him.”
“Some might. But things have changed. For so long he was like a magnet, keeping it all together. But now that he’s gone, the cracks are a lot more obvious.” He shifts in his seat. “With every religion, there exist certain rules. Every God has to abide these rules, otherwise the entire thing stops working. What was the Kevinian God capable of?”
I shrug. “Anything.”
“Anything? He could punish? And reward?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Could he intervene in the lives of humans?”
“Yes.”
“Did he create the universe?”
“Yes,” I say, then pause. “Or, wait. No, he couldn’t have. He wasn’t born until the seventeen hundreds.”
“So, who created the universe, if not God?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I never asked.”
“You never asked? Nobody ever asked?”
“It didn’t occur to me. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Sorry. It’s just interesting.”
“What is?”
“He invented a religion. I’m just not sure he did a very good job.”
Chapter 47
A few days later, Dr. Wilson’s back in my cell, looking haggard, stubbled and hollow-eyed.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“I went to Deer Lodge for a couple days.”
“The prison?”
He nods. “Your father tried to kill himself. I spoke to him two days ago and told him we had reason to believe he was responsible for the Prophet’s death. He tried hanging himself that night.”
“He’s alive?
He nods.
“So, you’ve got him, then. This proves he’s guilty.”
“He’s not guilty,” Dr. Wilson says. “We’re not charging him.”
“Why?” I sputter.
“We’ve interviewed all the wives again, some of the older children. They all say he was in the house the entire night.”
“They must be lying.”
“It’s improbable they’d all have the same exact story.”
“You can’t give up,” I say. “I’ll testify that I saw him. Maybe I did. Maybe I’m remembering something.”
“But you’ve always attested that you were long gone at that point, Minnow,” he says, eyes boring into mine. I look away. “Anyway, I don’t even know if your testimony will be usable anymore.” He rubs his eyes hard. “A few of them said they saw a figure watching from the trees. Someone who looked a lot like you. Your father was . . . very certain.”
I press my eyelids closed. “You think I killed the Prophet?”
“No,” he says. “But I think you know who did. And I think it’s time that we stop running around in circles.”
I feel myself slowly unwind, like yarn from a skein, pooling on the floor. I’m so close to losing it, the control, the grip. Because I think I want to tell him. I think I want to spill it all right now and damn the consequences.
The consequences. Angel said Dr. Wilson would put me away for life if I told him what really happened. But he’s different, he’s here to help me. He’s . . . he’s a cop, I hear Angel say, as if that’s all there is to know about him.
“What motivates someone to kill?” I ask.
He smiles a tired smile. “Haven’t we already discussed this?”
“I want to know what you think.”
“I think it’s control. I think that’s why anyone does anything.”
“So, who was the most controlling person in the Community?” I ask.
“You tell me.”
“The Prophet. You know he was.”
“I can’t exactly make a case that he’d be a suspect in his own murder.”
“Why not? Why aren’t we considering suicide?”
“He had no motivation to kill himself.”
“He was mentally unbalanced. You’ve said so yourself.”
“He didn’t have the kind of mental unbalance that would’ve resulted in suicide.”
All I can think is that Dr. Wilson is going to feel really stupid when he learns the truth. Because he’s wrong. The Prophet did kill himself, in a way. He created the weapon of his own demise.
“I almost forgot. I brought you a present.” He pulls something out of his bag and places it on my bed. It’s a used paperback copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles.
“What is it?”
“I thought you’d’ve learned by now what books are.”
“I know it’s a book,” I say, insulted. “Why did you get it for me?”
“My son loves Thomas Hardy. I thought you’d like it.”
“Son?” I ask.
He nods. “Jonah.”