Angel Fire - Lisa Unger [70]
He realized that his uncle was sitting in the pew in front of him but hadn’t said a word since they had been alone. “Uncle, will you be all right?”
The pause was pregnant with sorrow, and when the priest spoke, his words were taut with tears. “Yes. But it is not for myself that I am afraid.”
“Of course.”
The priest rose and left Juno alone in the church. In the silence Juno contemplated Lydia and Jeffrey. The rising temperature in the church told Juno that it was nearing noon. Jeffrey’s tone had been quiet and professional but the sound of Lydia’s name on his tongue was liquid with love. In the way Jeffrey’s lips touched those three syllables, Juno could feel his passion for her, taste Jeffrey’s painful restraint.
At wedding services, Juno often played guitar. Seated on his wooden stool, he perched at the altar, to the right of Father Alonzo. He could hear the bride and groom exchange their vows, and could sense almost instantly who married for money, for fear, for lack of any better opportunities. On only a few occasions had he heard the sound of fierce, tremulous love in the voices of both being joined before the eyes of God. Only rarely had he heard the melodic pitch of two souls bound long before they had reached the church to exchange their earthly vows.
He detected such a bond between Lydia and Jeffrey. But the chorus of her fears was louder.
Lydia dragged on her cigarette, face like stone, eyes staring at the road in front of her. She drew smoke into her lungs, its drug soothing her, cooling her agitation like ice water in her veins. Jeffrey rolled down his window as he watched her slender arm move from the steering wheel to her lips. It was a graceful, sensuous movement—more so because it was unconscious.
“I want to stop by the station and see what they’ve come up with on that list of park visitors. I want to cross-check it against that list of volunteers,” Lydia said, again driving too fast up the winding road away from the church.
“And I want to go talk to that slow kid,” said Jeffrey, forever politically correct.
“So, what do you think?” she asked him.
“I’m not sure. That priest has something to hide, though.”
“I picked up on that, too. You think he’s involved?” she answered, her words punctuated by a sharp exhalation of smoke.
“He drives a green minivan, he made the crosses that were found at each scene, he had knowledge of and proximity to all the victims. If he wasn’t a priest, I might have taken him in,” Jeffrey said, only half joking. “I don’t think he’s involved directly. But I think he knows something. I’m going to have Morrow put some men on the church, have them lurk about, make people uncomfortable, and see what shakes loose. We also need to get a tech out to that minivan.”
“Jeffrey?”
“Yeah?”
“How long are you going to stay?”
“As long as I need to.”
A leaden silence fell between them. He waited for her to say something to clarify the meaning of her question. But she just reached for the ashtray and stubbed out her cigarette.
“Why?” he asked finally. “Do you want me to get a room somewhere?”
“No,” she said quickly, sharply, glancing over at him. “Of course not. Don’t you dare.”
“Then why?”
“I was just wondering,” she said, quickly lighting another cigarette with one hand. After she took a drag, she added, “I just don’t think I can get through this without you.”
“Well, you won’t have to. In fact, you never have to get through anything without me, if you don’t want to. As you well know.”
He stared out the window as he said this, and she looked over at him, her heart tight in her chest. He put his hand on her knee and she did not remove it. Why are you more afraid of him than