Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [153]
We arrived at the steps of an old Methodist church, a small gothic chapel in pristine condition compared to the ruined homestead just across the muddy path.
I tried the door and it opened.
I ushered the detective inside and closed the door behind us.
The silence in the nave was awesome. I could smell ancient dust on the pews. Rain ticked the windowpanes. Floorboards creaked under our weight. Walls creaked as the wind pushed through them.
I led Violet to the front pew and helped her out of the dripping poncho. I told her to sit down. She was in shock, no question, her black skirt and blouse soaking wet.
I unsnapped the hip belt of my Osprey backpack and leaned the pack against the pew. Unzipping the bottom compartment, I pulled out the compressed sleeping bag. Then I unrolled the air mattress across the floor and laid the sleeping bag on top of it.
I knelt down before Violet.
"Hey." I patted her knee. She looked at me, eyes glazed. "Violet, we need to take off your wet clothes." She shook her head, teeth chattering. "Can I help you take them off? Here, let me—"
"No!"
She tried to jerk away.
I grabbed her arms.
"Stop it!" I said. "I’m not going to hurt you! I am not. Now I know you have no reason to believe that, but you also have no choice."
She just stared at me.
I let go of her arms, untied her boots, and helped her stand. She undid the clasp on her skirt and it dropped. I peeled off her wet hose, then unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it to the end of the pew. I removed my raingear and fleece jacket. I offered her my fleece and she took it, motioning for me to turn away while she put on the soft jacket.
I guided her over to the sleeping bag. I don’t know why she trusted me. The shock, probably, her thinking fuzzy. I closed the air nozzle on the Therm-a-Rest and unzipped the mummy bag. She climbed inside and I zipped her up.
She still shivered. I lay down beside her on the cold boards.
We were quiet for awhile.
I listened to the storm raging and watched the sky entering twilight through those arched windows. I stared up into the airy ceiling of the eighty-nine-year-old church. Simple lovely architecture. Sitting up on one elbow, I gazed down into Violet’s blanched face.
"Getting warm?" I asked.
"Not yet."
My gun…her gun lay on the nearby pew. It was getting dark fast.
"Don’t be scared," I said. She watched me. I couldn’t determine the color of her eyes in the fading light. Green perhaps. Emerald.
The wind shrieking now.
"Violet, I’m not going to hurt you. I swear I won’t. You know I’m Andrew Thomas, don’t you?"
God, it felt strange to say that name aloud. It had been years.
She nodded that she knew. Her shivering had abated.
"I would never have hurt anyone in Howard’s Pub. I have to tell you that. You have to believe me. I wouldn’t have hurt Charlie either. Or you. But I had to say those things, because you put me in a difficult position.
"I don’t know what you think of me. What you’ve read or seen on the news. But I’m going to tell you this, and I’m only going to say it once. I am not what you think I am. I did not do those murders seven years ago. I did not kill my mother. You and I came to the Outer Banks for the same reason."
"Is Luther Kite the murderer?" she asked, her voice still enervated and slurring.
"He was involved with some of the murders, but I don’t know to what extent. My brother, Orson Thomas, was the real killer."
I closed my eyes. Tears welling. Rain sheeting down the glass. Dusk outside. Dusk in the chapel. This thing gnawing my guts out for seven years and now I’m on the verge of telling a petrified twenty-six-year-old cop who I’ve essentially kidnapped.
I got up and walked between pews to a window. Nothing human moving through the village, among the house skeletons, the trees still manic, the grasses waving, pools forming on the lawn, creeks flooding, the Ocracoke Light winking on across the inlet, and a knot in my stomach that waxed with the darkness.