Paul Cleave - Cemetery Lake

“I don’t know.”

“Look at me, I’m starting to ramble.”

“No, please, it’s all important.”

“Back then. . Stewart,” she says, managing to use Father Julian’s first name, “was a young man, and he was very, very striking. Almost insanely handsome. I think women were going to church just to see him, not to hear what he had to say. He had this-well, this magnetism-and it was more than just his looks. Everybody liked him; he was very charming, very likeable. But he was also lonely, really lonely, and seemingly vulnerable, and somehow that made him even more appealing. One day that loneliness became too much for him, for me, and we, we. . Well, you know the rest. Anyway, he would always be quiet after we. . you know, after we were together in that way. He was intense too, and even though he knew he was making a mistake, neither of us could help ourselves. He would tell me that when he was around me it was like somebody else was taking over, like he was a different man. I think he was a good man trapped in the wrong profession.”

“Did you ever tell him that?”

She smiles again. “More than once. But he said the priesthood was a calling, that he could help people, that he could do more good with a collar than without one. It was hard to watch. He was so dedicated to the church, it pained him every time we were together. In the end, I finished it, I had to. I didn’t want to, but what choice did I have? It was tearing him apart. A month after we stopped seeing each other, I found out I was pregnant.”

“What happened when you told him?”

“He wanted to do the right thing, only the right thing didn’t fall in line with his big picture of right things. It was like every day he was fighting a personal war within himself. I think that war was there his entire life. He was never going to leave the priesthood to be with me, and he couldn’t stay being a priest if others found out. So we both agreed to keep it quiet. I also stopped going to church.” She dabs her knuckles into the bottoms of her eyes and pulls away some tears before taking another sip of water.

“Did Michael know?”

“He knew. I had to tell him. Can you imagine if he hadn’t known? Every day he would wonder. He would think maybe I was sleeping with so many people that I didn’t know who Rachel’s dad was. I told him, and he wasn’t angry or disappointed. He was relieved, for some reason. I’m not sure why exactly. I think maybe knowing a priest had got me pregnant was much better than thinking I’d slept with some drug addict or criminal. Purer, or something. If that makes sense.”

It does, in a weird kind of way. “Did you keep in touch with Father Julian?”

“In the beginning, of course, but after I met Michael I didn’t really want to involve Stewart in my life anymore. He seemed to understand. Then the day Rachel turned sixteen he stopped the payments and I didn’t ask him why, because I knew. Sixteen was the cutoff date. I never saw him over those years. If it wasn’t for my mother, well. .”

“He presided over your mother’s funeral?”

“My mother had continued to go to his church. It’s what she would have wanted.”

“Your mother didn’t know who the father was?”

“I refused to tell her.”

“So Father Julian, he saw Rachel that day?”

She takes another sip of water, and when she pulls the glass back she seems to be studying the edge, looking for some microscopic flaw.

“He saw her. Then a week later she goes missing. That’s the connection, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. If I had told Rachel he was her father, would things be different now? Is that the reason she’s dead? Because I took her to my mother’s funeral?”

I know what answer she wants to hear, but I can’t offer it to her.

“Do you know if Father Julian ever had any other children?” I ask.

“It’s my fault,” she says, and she starts to cry.

I clutch my glass of water, unsure whether to sit next to her, whether to put a hand on her shoulder and try to comfort her. “None of this is your fault,” I say, and it sounds generic because that’s exactly what it is. “But please, this is important. Did Father Julian have any other children?”

She leans back and stares at me. Tears are streaking her makeup. “Other children? I. . I never really thought about it. He could have, I suppose. But I doubt it.”

“How did he get the money to send you?”

“I. . I don’t know. But Father Julian is. . I mean was a good man. He would have done what it took.”

I pull the rest of the photographs out of my pocket and hand them over to her. “There are names on the back,” I say.

She looks through them, but doesn’t recognize any of them.

“There is no way these can all be his children,” she says, but I think she knows there is a way. I think she can see the resemblances too.

“These payments he made to you, they were credited directly into your account?”

“Of course. It was the only way.”

“Do you still have any of the statements?”

“I. . I suppose I do,” she says, and I’m sure she does. I’m sure Patricia Tyler is the sort never to have thrown away anything from the last thirty years.

“Would you mind finding me one?”

“Why?”

“Because if I can get his bank account number, then if he did father any other children I can find their names.”

“Do you think. .” She pauses, unwilling or unsure how to continue. “Do you think all these girls who died. . Do you really think they’re related?”

I hold her gaze. She stares right at me and I tell her yes. She pulls her hand to her mouth as if to hold it closed from whatever she wants to say next.

“Then you already know who these girls are,” she says. “They’ve been identified.”

“Not all of them.”

“What?”

“There are five girls in these pictures.”

“Five? Oh,” she says, and she gets it immediately. She gets that there is one more girl out there who I need to find. “I know where the bank statements are,” she says, and she disappears for a few minutes before returning with one from five years ago.

“It’s the last payment he made,” she tells me.

I look at the statement. It doesn’t have Julian’s name on it. Just his account number, along with the word Rachel .

“Can I take this?” I ask.

“Of course.”

I finish off my water and she walks me to the door. “The police, are they close to finding who killed him?” she asks.

“They’re getting there.”

“But you’re getting there quicker, aren’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Can you promise me something?” she asks.

“I’ll do my best,” I say, already knowing what she is going to ask.

“Promise me you’ll find him before something happens to that other girl. Promise me that when you find him, you’ll make him pay for what he has done. For Rachel. For the others. For all of us. Make him pay. Promise me you’ll make it so he can never hurt another girl ever again.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Your help,” I say.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

It’s still early Saturday morning. I should have called Landry or Schroder, but instead I’ve driven to the hospital. I need to work my own way, especially if I’m to get the opportunity to dig Sidney Alderman out of his wife’s grave. There’s no way I can do that if I’m in custody answering questions about how I know what I know.

Visiting hours on a Saturday morning mean the corridors are full of disoriented-looking family members and friends. The air has the sickly smell of disinfectant and vomit, but you get used to it pretty quick. Emma’s father pushes me in the chest with his knuckle and I fall back a few steps. I don’t put up a fight. He advances toward me. A few people look over, but no one does anything. “I should have killed you,” he says.