Cemetery Lake (18 page)

‘What was I to do, Theo?’ he asks, almost in a whisper now,

and the question seems genuine, as if he really wants me to come up with other options when there are none. ‘You know the rules.

You can argue them, and you can hate them and you can rant and rave about the injustice of it all, but you know, Theo, you know the deal.’

‘One of the Aldermans confessed to you. One of them killed

those girls!’

“That’s not what I said, and that’s not what happened!’

I stand up and open the envelope and tip it up in the same

manner I did when I found it. The articles spill out in the

same way. I brush my hand over them, fanning them out like a

deck of cards. Father Julian’s eyes are pulled to them.

‘You already knew the girls were in there. You knew they were

dead.’

‘Sit back down, Theo.’

‘These are the girls we could have saved. What was it you said to me yesterday when I told you why this case was important

to me? You said it wasn’t my fault. You were right and you were wrong. See, I thought it was completely my fault. But not now.

Now I share that burden with you.’

He reaches out and touches the articles, picking some of them

up. I watch his eyes, but they don’t scan over any of the words.

The more he shifts the clippings around, the more dust floats

up in the air. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. None of the disappearances made the front pages. There are no huge headlines or by-lines. Maybe if one of them had been a rock star or the

mayor’s daughter, things would have been different. Though

that’s about to change. Tomorrow Rachel Tyler is going to be all over the news. And the other girls too. People other than their friends and family are going to care. People are going to look at the names and faces and wonder how the hell their city became

a breeding ground for the kind of violence needed to take these

young women away, and for the kind of ignorance to let it happen without asking why.

it’s so easy for you, isn’t it, Theo? It always has been. Guys like you think they can just come in here and get what they want.’

I’m not sure what he means by guys like me. ‘You have these

great expectations that all you have to do is ask and I’ll break the confessional seal and tell all. You don’t think it hurts? Huh? You don’t think that hearing all the poison coming from these people takes its toll? Don’t you think I want to be able to pick up the phone and make the world a better place?’

‘Then why don’t you? These girls, you could have saved

them.’

At what cost? You still don’t get it, do you? You think if this was just about me I wouldn’t do it? If it was just a matter of getting fired and losing my church, I’d pull the pin for the greater good. But this isn’t about me, Theo. It’s not about you either. It’s not about those girls out there. It’s about God. About our faith.

It’s about not breaking one of the oldest rules in the church.’

There are so many angles from which to attack his argument,

but for what point? He’s right and I’m right and we both know

it. And there’s nothing we can do. He has to stand by his beliefs, and I have to stand by my anger with him for not having done

something to prevent all of this.

‘That’s how you knew Bruce was innocent. He wasn’t the one

who confessed.’

‘We can’t go down this road.’

‘What road?’

‘The one where you start twisting all the boundaries, where

you ask who didn’t confess so you can narrow down your suspect pool.’ He runs both hands through his hair, then wipes them

down the front of his cassock.

“I think I’ve already narrowed it down,’ I say, and I start to scoop the articles back up.

it wasn’t Sidney Alderman.’

Part of me wants to lean forward and pick him up by his

collar and shake him until all that I need from him falls from that locked vault inside of him where he keeps secrets. Another part is thankful. He won’t give up these secrets, and he’ll never give up mine either.

‘You’re letting a murderer get away’ There is no conviction

behind my words. It’s a last-ditch effort, and one that I don’t expect to get me anywhere.

He seems to know this, it haunts me.’

If I tell him what Sidney Alderman has done to my daughter,

will it change his views? I don’t think it will. The priest’s ideas about what Sidney Alderman is like are all outdated. He built up a friendship with the guy thirty or forty years ago, and that’s how he still sees him. I wonder what it would take — whether there is a limit to how much pain there is — for Father Julian to accept that his faith and his convictions simply aren’t worth it. Is there a number? A dozen dead girls? A hundred?

‘Sidney Alderman. Tell me where he is.’

“I don’t know’

‘Did he kill those girls?’

“I want you to go now, Theo. And I want you to remember

your promise.’

‘But you can tell me about him, right? You can at least give me some history there.’

‘Sidney Alderman is a very sad man, Theo. Like you, he has

lost his family. Surely you remember how you felt the day Emily died. Surely you can empathise.’

Of course I remember. But I didn’t go around digging up

graves.

‘What happened to him two years ago?’

“I don’t follow’

I finish putting the articles into the envelope. One of them said he retired two years ago. Is that enough? People become killers when there is a trigger. When there’s a defining moment that makes somebody snap. I figure it’s more likely Sidney Alderman would’ve snapped ten years ago when his wife died, not two years ago when he retired.

‘Somebody has to pay for this,’ I say.

‘Somebody already has.’

‘But not the right person.’ I tuck the end of the envelope back into itself. ‘The police are close. All of this, ifs unravelling. You had your chance to help, but you didn’t take it. This was your chance for redemption, Father.’

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Theo. Bruce Alderman, he was a

good man. And Sidney — well, inside he is a good man too, and one who right now is attending to his son. Respect that. Let him mourn, and let the police deal with him.’

I walk to the door and Father Julian doesn’t get up. He doesn’t make any attempt to follow me.

“I can’t do that,’ I say.

He shakes his head, but doesn’t offer any more words of

wisdom. I leave him in his office and I walk back past the pictures of Jesus and his buddies. I wonder what they would think of the priest’s decision to keep the secrets shared with him to himself, whether they’d agree with his convictions or whether they’d tell him he was a fool. I wonder if right now Father Julian is praying for guidance.

At the front of the church is an alcove in which a registry

— thick and divided up into sections, the covers leather with gold script across them — rests on a pedestal. It’s sorted alphabetically, and those sections are broken down chronologically. I go through the pages, looking for more connections between the girls and

the times they went missing. I can’t find anything. There’s also a large reference map pinned on the wall; it has the cemetery

divided up into numbered sections like a street map. It’s all I need to find my next two locations.

The first one is a grave. It’s close to the back of the houses further up the street, about as far away from the church and the lake to the east as it can get while still being within the boundaries of the cemetery. I drive as close as I can before getting out and walking. There is a pathway that leads through some more trees, and suddenly I’m in an area of the cemetery that feels isolated.

I figure Alderman won’t be back anytime soon, so he’s not about to drive past my car and see that I’m here. I figure he’s sitting in a bar somewhere getting drunk, or he’s driving around, trying to work out where exactly to put my daughter. Or he’s parked up

on the side of the road, coming to his senses, wondering what

in the hell he’s doing. Maybe getting ready to bite down on a

bullet. Like father like son. Only that’s not a real possibility. Ten years ago, maybe, Alderman might have been the kind of guy to

question his actions. But not now.

The day’s getting brighter. Getting warmer. But I still feel cold inside. I walk around the gravestones, each one a story, each one a memory. Some good, some bad. These people all influenced

other people’s lives. They made differences. They met other

people and paired up and made little people while they made

futures together. Some died of old age. Others of disease. The messages on the gravestones are all similar. They’re sentiments, they’re statements, they’re final messages left to the world in the hope they will never be forgotten.

The one I want is tidy — no weeds, no long grass — but there are no flowers there either. I stand in front of it for about a minute before heading back to my car.

The second location is a large shed at the far northeast corner of the cemetery. It’s separated from the cemetery first by a wooden fence, then by a line of poplars. It’s about the same size as my house, but there are no inner walls or partitions to hold up the roof. It’s full of garden tools and sacks of grass seed and plant seed. There’s a tractor and a ride-on lawn mower and a digger.

The tools that were needed yesterday to exhume Henry Martins

were here all along, parked in a row. Instead contractors came and used their own equipment, and I wonder how different things

would be now if they hadn’t. I take a look at the place, but nothing stands out — there are so many possible murder weapons in here, if we take a week to examine each of them. This shed could be a crime scene.

There is a stack of cinderblocks beneath one of the benches.

Hanging up on a nail near the window is a coil of green rope.

I reach up and roll it between my fingers. It’s made up of hundreds of individual strands of what looks like hemp. It’s the same stuff that was connected to the bodies, and would have swelled when

it got wet. Thousands of people in this city probably use it.

I walk over to the digger. There is fresh dirt on the teeth

of the scoop. Sidney Alderman used it to bring my little girl up into the light. He probably laid her in the giant claw and drove her back here in it. I look around for Emily, but she isn’t here.

The shed could easily be the place where four young women

met their deaths. I stand in the centre and slowly turn around, covering each angle with my eyes. Two wheelbarrows. Pieces

of plywood. Buckets. Boot prints with chunks of dirt; bits and pieces of wood, tarps, ropes, workbenches. A horrible place to die. The air is musty, and I can smell oil and grass clippings.

There are cobwebs and stains and warped boards and cracks in

the glass. There are patches of rust in the roof and plastic buckets set below to catch the rain. There are shelves full of mechanical parts — levers, cogs, engine bits, most of them rusted.

I climb into the digger and start it up. The seat is uncomfortable, and has sharp splits in the vinyl where the foam bleeds through and looks like snow. I pull up a lever to slide the seat back. I’ve never driven one of these machines before, but the simplicity of the levers and pedals makes it easy enough after a few minutes’

practice. The digger vibrates as I roll forward. It bounces up and down with every small dip in the shingle road. The wheels leave deep imprints in the wet lawn.

I drive back to the grave.

Getting my daughter back is the priority, and anything that

happens in between I’ll put down to God’s will. That ought to

keep Father Julian happy.

There is an abyss. Those it waits for can stand on the precipice, some live there, and then there are those who sink into the depths as if attached to cinderblocks. I’m not sure where I stand, and that might be one of the problems with the abyss — you never

really know if you can keep dropping lower. That’s what the last two years have been like. I slid into the abyss, and what I saw down there frightened me; since then, I’ve been doing what

I can to pull myself away. Perhaps, though, all I’ve been doing is staying at the same depth, just waiting for one more moment to sink me lower.

I think that moment is here. I don’t know. I hope the fact I’m indulging in some self-evaluation means I’m aware of the slide, just as an insane man can’t be insane if he is wondering if he is.

A man who thinks he has sunk as far as he can perhaps hasn’t

sunk that far at all. The problem is, when you’re sinking and not looking for a life preserver to pull you back, then perhaps you really are gone.

I try making another call, but Sidney doesn’t answer. His phone is switched on, because it goes to voicemail after five rings. He’s probably sitting there staring at it. He’s got my dead daughter in the back of his car and that means he’s going to ignore my

calls. He’s got his own dead son whom he has to start making

arrangements for lying on a slab of steel in a cold morgue with a sheet draped over him. He has to start picking out coffins and flowers and headstone engravers. He has to pick out a suit for his son, and a funeral home, and he has to let people know so they can show up. He’s got a lot on his mind. But he has to figure out first what he’s going to do with Emily. And he’s worrying about what I’m going to do to him.

I close my eyes. I question what I’m doing, but not enough to

stop doing it. I send him a text.

I want my daughter back and you’re going to give, her to me.

We’re going to make a trade. Trust me, it’s a trade you’ll be willing to make.

I’m sitting in the digger underneath one of the bluest skies this summer. I’m parked back by the shed. It feels like I’m melting out here. It’s taken me the best part of two hours to do what I figure would have been a twenty-or thirty-minute job for one of the Alderman duo. Nobody came over to investigate the sound.