Breck was Joseph Wayland’s grandson, and that he had some purpose to being in Starvation Lake other than locating a septic field. “You aren’t really going to hold Tex hostage, are you?”
“His name is Matthew.”
“He’s just a kid.”
“We are all children in God’s eyes. You and the rest would do well to remember that.”
“Come on. Does Tatch-?”
“Matthew is no more to you than I am, or Mr. Edwards, or anyone up on that hill. Young Matthew is but a means to an end, isn’t he?”
“You’re angry, Breck. Are you angry about your grandfather?”
“Are you even remotely aware, Mr. Carpenter, of how you are being led astray?”
“Huh?”
“Of course not. None of you are. Good day.”
He started to walk away. My phone rang in my pocket.
“How about Nilus, Breck?” I called out. “Father Nilus Moreau? You know that name?”
He slowed his gait for a step but did not stop until he climbed into a mud-stained Jeep on the road shoulder. I pulled my ringing phone out, watched Breck make a U-turn. A yellow frame around his rear license plate bore the name Strait Dodge. I knew it. Bob Strait Dodge sponsored the Strait Arrows, a men’s hockey team in Livonia, near Detroit.
“Yeah?” I said into my phone.
Luke Whistler said, “The shit has hit the fan.”
FOURTEEN
Whistler leaned against his Toronado in the road outside the sheriff’s department, his breath billowing white around his white head. I rolled up in my truck and eased the window down. The winged wheel of the Detroit Red Wings logo peeked out from inside Whistler’s vest.
“What are you doing out here?” I said.
“The cops aren’t letting us in. There’s a press conference in a few minutes.”
Catledge and another deputy were standing guard at the entrance to the department parking lot. Half a dozen cars and the Channel Eight van were parked on the shoulder, reporters standing around with their notebooks and microphones at their sides. They’d come from as far away as Traverse City and Petoskey. No reporters from Detroit yet, but I supposed they’d show up eventually if bad things kept happening.
“What do you know?” I said.
“They grabbed him coming out of the hardware. Apparently bought them out of work gloves,” Whistler said.
“In cuffs?”
“Far as I know.”
Roy “Tatch” Edwards was in police custody.
“They charge him?”
“Not sure. The sheriff’s got to be shaking him down. I guess he shouldn’t have missed that hockey game.”
I recalled what Darlene had told me at Mom’s. “Maybe the Channel Eight story forced Dingus’s hand,” I said.
“Sure. Leaky department. Connections to priests. Nobody in jail. Got to do something.”
“Speaking of priests, your guy at the archdiocese knew where the bodies are buried, all right. Two lawsuits saying our friend Nilus fathered children of local parishioners. In Midland County, 1928. Marquette County, 1956.”
“No shit. I didn’t know they even had paternity stuff in the twenties. Priests can’t use a rubber, eh? Against their religion?”
“Funny. This guy must have been a big problem for the church. I’m thinking he might’ve had other lucky parishioners in between the twenties and fifties.”
“What happened with the lawsuits?”
“Settled, of course. Terms not disclosed, but no doubt the church paid the ladies handsomely to go away.”
“Hell of a story, man.” Whistler held up a hand for a high-five. I slapped it, feeling the hard edge of his ring. “I wish I’d just done it myself. You put it online?”
“I want to get the lawsuits in hand first. They’re overnighting them.”
Whistler grinned. “On the corporate card?”
“Screw it,” I said. My phone started ringing again, reminding me I wanted to check on Mom. “Besides, don’t we have to figure out what the hell it means first? What does Nilus banging parishioners have to do with what happened to Phyllis?”
The door on the front of the sheriff’s department opened. Darlene stepped out. She placed something on a lectern set up outside with a microphone.
“Who knows?” Whistler said. “There’s got to be something there.” He turned toward the department. “Looks like the press conference is getting started.”
“I’m going to get this call,” I said, picking up my phone.
Whistler waved his notebook at me as he walked away.
“Mom?” I said into the phone.
“No, Gus.”
I almost dropped the phone. I thought of yelling for Whistler, but he was too far away. “Tatch?” I said. “Holy shit, where are you?”
“Jail, man. This is my call.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I tried Mr. Breck, but he ain’t answering.”
“What about the rest of the people out there?”
“None of them got phones. Mr. Breck made us turn them in. Said we had to isolate ourselves from the sinners in civilization.”
Shrewd, I thought. “What can I do?”
“Well, first, one thing: I never did nothing at your mom’s. You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Bea or Darlene’s mom.”
“OK.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. I mean, I’ve been in this shithole before, but then I deserved it.”
Rolling holy hadn’t done much for Tatch’s language.
“Did they charge you with something?” I said.
“Nah, this ain’t about me. This is about old Mr. Breck. Dingus already told me we’re going to be having a talk about him.”
As Tatch said it, I saw Dingus come out of the sheriff’s department and walk to the lectern, where he picked up the sheaf of papers Darlene had left. Darlene and Catledge stood just behind him. He began to speak into the mike.
“I’m across the road from the jail. Dingus just came out to address the press.”
“Aw, hell,” Tatch said. “Putting the pressure on. I should’ve just sold the damn land when I had the chance.”
“Somebody was going to buy your property? Who?”
“Yeah, Mr. Breck talked me out of it. Some law firm from Detroit.”
“Let me guess: Eagan, MacDonald and Browne.”
“Hm. Maybe so-oh, hang on, buddy.” Tatch directed himself to someone else. “Gimme just another damn minute.”
