Everyone around me was nodding their heads, though of course Tolliver and I didn't recognize the scripture. We listened with great attention. Was he saying that it had been time for the boys to die? No, maybe his emphasis was on "a time to mourn." That was now, for sure. The rest of his readings were from Romans, and the thread that ran through them was about maintaining your own integrity in a world bereft of it. And they were eerily appropriate.
There was no point in saying the murders were events the congregation had to accept philosophically. There was no point in saying the people of Doraville had to turn the other cheek; it wasn't the community's cheek that had been struck. Its children had been stolen. There would be no offering up of other children to be killed, no matter how much scripture was quoted.
No, Doak Garland was smarter than he appeared. He was telling the people of Doraville that they had to endure and trust in God to get them past the bad time, that God would help them in this endeavor. No one could disagree with that message. Not here, not tonight. Not with those faces at the front of the congregation, staring back. As I watched, a deputy ceremoniously added two more easels, but these were left blank. The two boys who were strangers. I felt touched.
"These are the children of our community," Doak said. He gestured to the faces. Then he pointed to the two blank easels. "And these are someone else's children, but they were killed and buried right along with ours, and we must pray for them, too."
One picture was the stern one boys always take for their high school football picture. The scowling boy, looking so very tough…I'd seen him in his grave, beaten and cut, tortured beyond his endurance, every vestige of manhood stripped from him. Suddenly the tragedy of it seemed unbearable, and as Doak Garland's voice rose in his sermon, tears flowed out of my eyes. Tolliver fished some Kleenex from his pocket and patted my face. He looked a little bewildered. I'd never reacted like this to a previous case, no matter how horrific.
We sang a hymn or two, we prayed long and loud, and one woman fainted and was helped out into the vestibule. I floated through the service on a cloud of pain medication, every now and then weeping with the emotion that could not be contained. When the usher—the hospital administrator, Barney Simpson—came by with the plate to pass for further donations toward the burials, a man two pews ahead of me turned his head as he handed his neighbor the collection plate, and I saw to my amazement that Tom Almand had come to the service. He had brought his son with him, and that hit me wrong. The counselor should have stayed home with the boy. Chuck was laboring under such a terrible burden, he shouldn't be in a place where the atmosphere was sheer grief and horror. Or did he need to be reminded that other problems were worse than his? I was no counselor. Maybe his dad knew best.
I reached across myself to squeeze Tolliver with my good hand. He looked at me inquiringly. He was restless, and I could tell he wanted to be anywhere but here. I nodded my head to indicate Tom Almand and Chuck, and after scanning the crowd with a blank face, Tolliver gave me a significant look to let me know he'd spotted them. As if he could feel our gazes, Almand turned a bit and looked straight at us. I thought he would look disgusted, or angry, or anguished. What does the father of such a child feel? I didn't have a clue, but I was fairly sure it would be a painful mixture of emotions.
Tom Almand looked blank. I couldn't even be sure he recognized me.
Okay, that was freaky. I would have added forty more dollars to the collection plate if I could have heard what Almand was thinking.
"Huh," Tolliver said, which put it in a nutshell.
Then the collection was over, and everyone settled back into receptive silence. But a stir went through the crowd when a stubby man in a bad suit rose from the front pew and went to the lectern.
"Those of you don't know me, I'm Abe Madden," he said, and there was another little ripple of movement. "I know that some of you blame me for not realizing sooner that those boys were being killed. Maybe, like some of you think, I let what I wanted get in the way of what I should. I wanted those boys to be okay, just out sowing a few wild oats. I should have been looking harder for them, asking harder questions. Some in my own department told me that." He might have been looking at the current sheriff when he said that. "Some in my department thought I was right. Well, we know now I was wrong, and I ask your forgiveness for a great mistake I made. I was your servant while I was in office, and I let you down." And he went back to his seat.
I'd never heard anything like that before. What it must have cost the man in pride to do that…I couldn't even imagine. Tolliver was less impressed. "Now he's confessed and asked for forgiveness," he whispered. "Can't anyone point fingers at him anymore; he's paid his debt."
A member of each family spoke, some briefly, some at length, but I heard very little fire and brimstone. I expected some homophobic stuff, given the nature of the murders, but I didn't hear any. The anger was directed at the rape, not at the sexual preference of the rapist. Only two family members spoke of vengeance, and then only in terms of the law catching the responsible party. There was no lynch talk, no fist shaking. Grief and relief.
The last speaker said, "At least now we know this is at an end. No more of our sons will die." At that, I saw a sudden movement in the Bernardos' pew. Manfred was gripping Xylda by the arm, and her face was turned toward his. She looked angry and urgent. But after a few seconds, she subsided.
We might as well have left then, for all I got out of the rest of the service. I was drowsy and uncomfortable, and I wanted nothing more than to lean my head on Tolliver's shoulder and fall asleep. That would clearly be the wrong thing to do, so I focused on sitting up straight and keeping my eyes open. At last the service was over, and we sang a closing hymn. Then we could go. I stepped out of the pew first since I was on the end, and a grizzled man in overalls took my hand. "Thank you, young lady," he said, and then began making his way out of the church without another word. He was the first of many people who made a point of touching me: a light hug, a grip of the hand, a pat on the shoulder. Each contact came with a "Thank you," or a "God bless you and keep you," and each time I was surprised. This had never happened to me before. I was sure it would never happen again. Doak Garland embraced me when we reached his spot at the door, his white hands light on my shoulders so he wouldn't hurt me. Barney Simpson, towering over me, reached out to give me a light pat. Parker McGraw said, "Bless you," and Bethalynn wept, her arms around her remaining son.
No one asked me a single question about how I'd found the boys. The faith of Doraville seemed to hinge on the acceptance of God's mysterious ways and the strange instruments he selects to perform his will.
I was the strange instrument, of course.
Eight
THERE were a couple of cars behind us on the long road out to Pine Landing Lake. Of course, the little hamlet of Harmony was past the lake, and there were other people in residence at the lake itself, so I told myself not to be crazy. After we turned off, the other cars continued on their way. Tolliver didn't comment one way or the other, and I didn't want to sound paranoid, so I didn't say anything.
We hadn't left on an outside light—in fact, I wasn't even sure if there was one—and I tried to mark the location of the stairs before Tolliver cut the ignition. We had a few seconds before the headlights turned off, so I hurried as much as I could to start up while I could see my way. There was a noise from the underbrush, and I said, "What the hell is that?" I had to stop and look, and then I saw a lumbering small shape scoot across the driveway and into the thicket between ours and the next vacant cabin, barely visible through the thick growth of trees and brush.