Most of the crowd had filed past the exit. The church seemed cavernous now, every noise echoing off the ceiling.
“Ready to leave?”
“Just a moment.”
It wasn’t until then Thomas noticed her lips moving without sound, her eyes clamped shut, brow creased. She was praying. When Lindsey opened her eyes, her body released its perpetual tension.
“Now I’m ready.”
Their footfalls sounded like distant bombs as they padded toward the exit. Inside the vestibule, Thomas spotted the a glass jar centered on an ornate table. The glass container was a third full with folded notes. Lindsey paused beside the jar and reached inside her purse. Then she shook her head and strode toward the exit. A photocopied announcement lay beside the jar. The church was holding a memorial service for Cecilia Bond this Saturday.
Father Fowler greeted them on the way out the doors. He grasped Lindsey’s hand. How many hands had Fowler shook? Thomas searched inside his pocket for hand sanitizer and found none. His heart pounded. He was the next in line, and this amped his anxiety.
“Thank you for coming, Deputy Shepherd,” Fowler said, clasping his hands over Thomas’s.
In his late-fifties, Fowler’s hair remained jet black. Darkness perched below the sharp ridge of his eyes. The man possessed a powerful grip.
“You know my name?”
“I make it a point to learn the name of anyone who comes through these doors.” He shook his pointer finger at Thomas. “But in your case, it was easy. You’re a celebrity around these parts, Deputy.”
“I didn’t realize I—”
“You caught that horrible man last April. Were it not for you, the village wouldn’t be safe.” He narrowed his eyes at Thomas. “Yet I’ve never seen you inside my church until this evening. You’ll come back, yes? It’s good to let God into your heart.”
A commotion pulled Fowler’s attention. Thomas stepped out of line and glanced at the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. A woman shook her head, sobbing, as a couple struggled to console her. Thomas recognized her. Kay Ramsey. His eyes stopped on two faces in the crowd. Garrick Tillery and his wife, Suzanne.
“No, I don’t want to live anymore,” Kay said, pulling away from the couple.
“Don’t say that,” the other woman pleaded.
“I can’t live without him. Lincoln was my life.”
Kay whirled around, almost knocking the woman to the ground. More people rushed to help.
“She shouldn’t drive in her condition,” someone said. “Don’t let her into the car until she calms down.”
“Excuse me,” Fowler said.
The priest descended the steps, his robes fanning out behind him. He looked almost mythical. When he converged on Kay Ramsey, his frame dwarfed the woman.
Thomas considered following. This morning, he sat inside Kay’s living room. He wanted to help the woman. Indecision bonded him to the concrete below his feet. Fowler snapped his fingers, and a tall woman with a sharp nose came to his side to help. Together, they ushered her inside the church.
“Everything is under control,” Father Fowler said over his shoulder. “We’ll see to Mrs. Ramsey.”
“I can’t watch this,” Lindsey said, turning away.
Before Thomas could react, Lindsey turned on her heels and hurried to the parking lot. Thomas rushed to catch up. When he reached Lindsey outside her Volvo, tears had cut dark streaks through her makeup, and the blood had drained from her face.
“What’s wrong, Mother?”
Her hand trembled as she pulled the keys from her purse. Thomas closed his hand over the keys and held her shoulders. Her head fell back, eyes peering up at the coming night as dusk bled across the sky. She’d glimpsed her future in Kay Ramsey, and it was bleak and horrific.
“I must get home to Mason,” she said, closing her eyes. “Your father shouldn’t be alone. It was a mistake to bring you here, Thomas. I apologize.”
“Stay and talk, Mother.”
“About what? About lung cancer? Or about the business your father built, shriveling to dust the moment he passes?”
“I want to help.”
“We’ll figure it out, your father and I.”
The door slammed, and the engine rumbled. Thomas watched the Volvo drive into the spreading darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dr. Mandal’s office smells of incense today. Patchouli with a hint of wood smoke, like a new age cabin on a January morning. She taps her pen against her pad as she studies Thomas, and her vision penetrates deeper than Thomas can dig.
“I had the dream again last night,” he says, scratching his arm and watching the sweet smoke curl off the stick and plume toward the ceiling.
She nods and sets the pad in her lap.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“I’m on an island. Not sure where. Somewhere warm. There’s a palm tree in the middle of the island, taller than all the others.”
“What do you do?”
“I climb the tree and shimmy up the trunk. Maybe because I’m searching for a way off the island. But I doubt it, because I’m in no rush to leave. The higher I go, the further away the top seems. When I look down, the beach is a hundred yards below and fading fast. The air is thinner here. Helps my sinuses. That’s when I spot the tree house at the top of the palm.”
Mandal blinks and writes something on her notepad.
“Go on.”
Thomas runs a hand over the two-day scruff along his cheeks.
“So I keep climbing, because I want to make it to that tree house, no matter how high I need to go. I’m not afraid to fall, just determined to see what’s inside.”
“Do you reach the tree house?”
He bobs his head.
“It’s the size of a family home when I climb inside. That makes zero sense, right?”
“Tell me about the tree house.”
“Windows surround each side. Clouds float past the glass, like translucent pieces of cotton I can touch if I open the windows. I’m too far up to see the island, only the ocean. It’s placid, no waves. Running water, electricity. A ceiling fan spills cool air over my face.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“It is.”
“How does
