Camouflage(66)
She finished praying before she said, “Yes,” with her eyes still canted upward. “You came to my apartment.”
“And we didn’t have a chance to finish our talk.”
“Mr. Runyon. A detective.”
“I’d like to finish now, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, not here,” she said. “Not in church.”
“Outside, then. Would that be all right?”
“I’m not done talking to my savior, Jesus Christ.”
“When you are. I’ll wait outside for you.”
She didn’t answer him. Closed her eyes, bowed her head again.
He left her, went out into the warmish afternoon. There was a small garden alongside the church, with a wooden bench and a fountain—a quiet place. But he wouldn’t have a clear view of the entrance if he waited there. There’d be at least one other way out of the church, but he didn’t think she’d use it. She wasn’t trying to hide and she wouldn’t run away.
Fifteen minutes before she appeared. Runyon stood as she came down the steps in her rolling, hip-swinging gait. She wore the black coat and hat now; they made her seem even larger, more shapeless.
He said, “We can talk over there in the garden.”
“I have to eat something. I’ll be sick if I don’t eat.”
“Do you want to go home instead? Or to a restaurant?”
“No. I’d rather stay here, close to Jesus.”
She made no objection when Runyon put a light hand on her elbow, guided her into the garden. The bench creaked and tilted when she sat on one end. Immediately she opened her voluminous purse, brought out three candy bars: Hershey milk chocolate, Butterfinger, a triangular package of Toblerone. She tore the wrapper off the Hershey bar first, balled it, returned it to the purse, and then filled her mouth with half the candy in a series of quick, avid bites. Watching this made him wince. He felt her pain, he pitied her, but that wasn’t going to stop him from adding more hurt to her already-battered emotional state.
“You like chocolate, don’t you, Gwen.”
She murmured something that sounded like “Comfort food.”
“Chocolate milk, candy bars. What else?”
“Ice cream. Double chocolate fudge.”
“And chocolate-chip cookies.”
No response. She was busy devouring the rest of the Hershey bar.
Runyon said, “Fresh-baked Toll House cookies. I’ll bet they’re another of your favorites.”
“They used to be. Not anymore.”
“Not since Thursday afternoon.”
He watched her open the Toblerone, shove in three wedges of the chocolate, honey, and almond nougat candy. She chewed ravenously, some of the gooey mess oozing out at the corners of her mouth. As soon as she swallowed she reached into her purse again, picked out a Kleenex, and used it to wipe the residue away.
“Tell me about Thursday afternoon,” he said.
It was a little time before she answered. “Taking a life is a cardinal sin. I begged Jesus to forgive me and he has; he told me so.” The rest of the Toblerone vanished. “But I can’t forgive myself. Thou shalt not kill. Francine was wicked, but she was my sister. Thou shalt not kill. Jesus forgave me, but I don’t think he’ll let me into heaven. I’m afraid my immortal soul will burn in the fires of hell.” All of this in an emotionless voice blurred by the glot of candy.
“Why did you go to see Francine?”
“The fires of hell,” she said again, and her features squeezed together and for a few seconds Runyon thought she might break down. But the Butterfinger saved that from happening.
He repeated his question while she peeled off the wrapper.
“Why?” she said. “Because of what you told me.”
“That she’d been hurting Bobby Darby.”
“I kept thinking about that. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. All the things she did to me, to Tracy when we were little … all those terrible things. I couldn’t let her keep on hurting another of God’s children.”
“But you didn’t go there to kill her.”
“Oh no. No.” Half the Butterfinger in one bite. Chewing, she said, “Just to talk to her, tell her she mustn’t hurt that little boy anymore. Ask her to pray with me. I remembered the man’s name, the man you said she was living with in sin—Robert Darby. I looked up his address and I drove over there to see her. I didn’t want to, not ever again, I’ve always been afraid of her, but I went anyway.” Another dab at her mouth with the Kleenex. “I shouldn’t have. The Devil had crept inside me that day and I didn’t know it.”
Runyon said nothing. No need to prompt her anymore. It was as if she were back in church, confessing to her savior—a confession he thought she would be compelled to make again and again, to anyone who would listen, for the rest of her life.