Page 40 of Bitter Falls

He lowers his hands and takes in a deep breath. “Whoareyou?”

“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 toldRemyshe 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.”

Thatname, 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.”

“Yes. I didn’t have a choice.” When I say it, there’s a split second of it flashing before my eyes: Melvin coming at me. Bracing my shaking hand on Sam’s shoulder and taking aim. Seeing him end, forever. It’s not as traumatic as it used to be, but it still holds power. “The point is, I’ve been hunted by his admirers, and by the people who hate him, and by others who just get their kicks out of hitting people when they’re down. I understand vulnerability in a way very few people do. So when I tell you I will protect Carol’s identity, I promise you this: I willprotect it with my life.Just as you have.”

He takes his time thinking about it. I let him. And I finally see him come to the correct—but difficult—decision. The fight goes out of him, and his shoulders sag. “I’ll ask,” he says. “If she won’t see you, then that’s the end of it. All right?”

“Ask her now,” I say.

“No ma’am. I’ll go to her, but you can’t come with me. I’m not going to risk her life like that.”

I don’t move away from the door. “Then call her. Let me talk to her on the phone.”

“She doesn’t have a phone.” He’s wavering, but starting to get his backbone assembled. “If she wants to talk, I’ll arrange for a meeting somewhere safe. But if shedoesn’tagree, and she probably won’t, then you need to accept that and forget all about this.”

“Would you?” I ask him calmly. “If Jeremy went missing, and someone could tell you where he’d gone? Could you possibly walk away and forget?”

He looks away, but I see the muscles corded along his jaw. He’s not going to give me any more.

So I move my chair back to where it was; there are still divots in the thin carpeting to mark the spot. I place my business card in the exact center of his old desk. And I say, “Thanks for your help, Pastor. I’m not the enemy here. If this young woman’s in trouble, I’m on her side, and I would never put her knowingly in danger. If that computer is current enough to have an internet connection, look me up. I’ll put myself on the line for her. That’s a promise.”

I know that he marks the gun I’m wearing as I straighten up; I see the flash of awareness that I could have pulled it, threatened him into spilling her location. The fact I didn’t has to be a point in my favor.

We don’t shake hands. I just leave. I head straight to my car, get in, and call J. B. Hall. She picks up on the second ring. “Gwen? Everything okay?”

“Yes. I made contact with the preacher, and I may have something. You can look at landline phone records, right?”

“Not officially.”

“But realistically?”

“Maybe.”

“I need the destination number of the next call that comes out of Gospel Witness Church. And an address or location, if that’s possible.”

Because the pastor’s comment that Carol didn’t have a phone had come too fast and too emphatically, and the last thing he’d done before I left was dart a quick, unintentional glance at his clunky desk phone. Simple to put together. He is going to warn her.

J. B. says she’ll pull some favors, and I back my rental car out of the church’s parking lot. I don’t go very far, just a block down, and I take a spot in a convenience store space that faces the street. The pastor’s car—a big, white, boxy thing that must be twenty years old—emerges. The pastor uses turn signals; I approve, makes it easier for me. He passes me, and I maneuver out of the lot and onto the busy street in his wake. His car’s going to be easy to follow. It stands out like a shaggy dog in a road full of sleek cats.

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