we shot from the dock, then turned, parallel to the
shore. His energy struck me as I watched him work the
paddle, turning his face into the sunshine and basking
in it, moving the craft without any visible effort.
"Now," he invited. "The reason that you are here
is ..."
"Was he blackmailing you? Reuben?"
Heywood kept paddling. "Yes. The accusation was
false. But I was frightened. I wish I hadn't been. Still, I
was."
"Marcus didn't want to tell me. He seemed quite
frantic."
"Marcus is very protective of me."
I could see both of Heywood's hands from where I
sat. There was no mark on either of them.
But there wouldn't have to be. As he'd said, Marcus
was very protective.
"And the other night? When he came to Heddlepenny
House, was Reuben up to his old tricks? Or
was it really, as Marcus says, a pastoral visit?"
He tipped his head slightly, in apparent contrition.
"I told Marcus that so he wouldn't worry. Tate wanted
money."
"Surely that didn't surprise you?"
His shoulders moved in a sigh. "I had hoped that
my tactic with Reuben Tate had finally borne fruit. But
I was disappointed."
"What tactic?"
A little silence. Then: "I'm an old man. I don't care
what people say anymore. Nor did I ever, really. But
Marcus--he cares very much."
Not an answer. I began thinking that Heywood
Sondergard, for all the simple, beaming goodness of his
public persona, might be a slick character.
He dipped the paddle again. "Still, there's little
enough love in the world as it is. I won't condemn any
variety of it, even by denying a story that isn't true.
Not anymore."
"But Marcus might. For your sake or his."
He feathered the paddle expertly, replied with subtle
skill. "Marcus is a young man. From my point of
view, anyway. He has never had much to do with
women at any time in his life. Except, of course, with
his mother."
Suggesting, I thought, that Marcus could have been
the actual blackmail target instead of Heywood. But
not admitting it. Blowing smoke at me was what he
was doing. On the shore a deer drank placidly: young
male, fuzzy nubs of antlers.
"He has a woman friend now," Heywood went
on. "Lovely woman. Lives in Portland. But I fear she
may be growing impatient. We all feel time passing as
we get older."
"Why don't you tell him to go?"
If you know he's ruining his chances, I meant.
Heywood heard the implied criticism, replied easily
to it.
"It's not that simple. Marcus has a sense of duty.
And what would he do? There aren't," he added
gently, "a lot of employment opportunities for a man
who has spent his whole adult life as an itinerant Bible
thumper, banjo player, and freelance do-gooder."
Correct; I just hadn't thought of it.
"No, if I wanted to send Marcus out into the
world without me, I should have started thirty years
ago. As it is, he's stuck with me until I die."
The thought hung in the bright air. "And then?"
The kayak shot skimmingly on the water. "I made
provision," he admitted, "once I realized how I'd crippled
the boy. Without me there's no musical duo, and
Marcus is no solo artist, he knows that. Even that
small source of income will be closed to him when I'm
gone. But ..."
He turned the kayak back toward shore. "I arranged
a sizable life-insurance benefit. He'll land on his
feet."
The water was crystalline, minnows flashing as we
went over them. "And," he added, "despite the lady's
impatience, I believe she thinks half a million--and
Marcus, of course--are worth the wait."
"Practical move," I said, considering it with my
financial head. A stake like that, properly invested, was
just about right. Interesting too the way he'd dangled
diversionary bait in front of me, so that suddenly we
were talking about Marcus instead of about Reuben. I
aimed my next question carefully.
"Do you think he resents it? Marcus, I mean.
That you acted in certain ways when he was young,
and that's turned out to have influenced his whole
life?"
But not carefully enough. His answering laugh was
hearty and knowing. "You're asking whether my son is
psychologically damaged enough to commit a murder
in a particularly hideous fashion?"
That was fair. "Actually, yes."
"Well, he's not. Marcus couldn't kill anyone. Take
it from a man who really knows him. But why don't
you suspect me? Too old?"
Suddenly I liked the Reverend Sondergard a lot despite
the way he was evading me, or maybe even because
of it. He was smart, a clever talker, impossible to
offend, and no fool. Because you don't have a wound
on your hand, I wanted to tell him.
But Marcus did have. Or might have; I still didn't
know what the mark was.
"I'm just trying to understand it all," I said. "I
know Reuben threatened you. It was you, not Marcus?
Since you raised the question, really; I want to be absolutely
clear about it."
A nod. "It was me."
"And that drove you out of town. You don't care
anymore, but Marcus still wants it kept quiet. You
both think Reuben had to do with the death of your
wife, but neither of you can prove it. And you still
haven't explained what you meant about the tactic you
mentioned, why you and Reuben kept ending up in the
same places."
Another silence, longer. "It's true that when I decided
to leave back then, he threatened to follow."
Suddenly I understood. "So the hunter became the
hunted. I suppose you had a connection here at the
post office, to keep you current of his forwarding address."
Wade had done it too, but he had stopped there.
Going on with it was a brilliant turnabout, the one
thing Tate would never have expected. To be pursued
...
"What I still don't see, though, is the reason."
He dug his paddle in. The kayak tilted startlingly. I
leaned the other way from reflex, crossed my arms over
my chest.
The craft settled. When he spoke again his tone
was harsh. "No, of course you don't. Why would you?
I'm an old guy who sings Jesus music. I'm surprised
you even noticed."
He pushed us toward the beach. "He'd killed my
wife, scared my son, mortified my spirit. But yet I was a
man of religion." He said it resignedly, as if it were
some chronic, incurable disease.
"So I prayed over it. What could I do when confronted
with an evil like that? What was my task that
had been set for me? What," he intoned, "was my
duty?"
A flock of mallards rose from a cove all at once,
the sound of their beating wings huge in the bright
noonday silence.
"I wanted his soul," Heywood Sondergard said. "I
wanted his immortal soul. And I was determined to
have it." He set the kayak parallel to the dock.
"So you and Marcus followed him. What did he
think of it?" I tried to imagine. "It must've driven him
nuts."
Heywood chuckled. Somewhere an outboard
roared, then fell into a low, steady rumble. Across the
lake, a kid ran off the end of a pier, landed in the water
with a splash, shouted at the cold.
"At first he would try to attack us. Throw things,
try to start fires under the Winnebago, that kind of
behavior."
Heywood sounded almost indulgent. "Then he began
trying to avoid us. To Reuben, we were the conscience
he never had."
"So the other night, why did he ... ?"
"Visit, and threaten? I suppose back on his home
territory he felt stronger. He thought he might get the
upper hand again. But he didn't. I refused his demand,
laughed at his threat, and told him we were going to
follow him till the day he died."
At the memory, Heywood sounded pleased. "And
you know what? I think Reuben finally believed me.
He looked ... frightened."
"And you figured what, that he'd break down
someday? Throw himself on your mercy and beg forgiveness?
Embrace salvation?"
Heywood waved a hand as if acknowledging the
unlikeliness of any such thing. The kayak slid in
against the dock pilings.
"I didn't know. I only knew I had to try what I
could, that if he were saved it would have made it all
worth it."
He set the paddles on the dock. "That a change of
heart was the only thing that could make any of it
worth it."
A car was pulling up to the camps. "My ride,"
Heywood said.
I had a last question but didn't know how to put it.
The killer almost surely didn't know about the skin
shred in Weasel Bodine's mouth, and if I tipped that
domino over I didn't know what might happen. Besides,
I'd promised Bob Arnold not to mention it.
I could ask one thing, though: "Was Wesley Bodine
ever a member of the youth group you had at the
church?"
He didn't have to think about it. "I don't remember
anyone by that name. And I would; I knew all the
youngsters quite well."
"I see. Well, thanks for talking to me. You cleared
up a lot of things I'd worried over. And I don't suspect
Marcus anymore," I added, putting just the right touch
of shamefaced apology into it. "I'm afraid my imagination
must just've kind of gotten away from me."
As I'd told Marcus, I'd met some great liars in the
city. What I hadn't said was how much I'd learned:
watching, listening. Or how much I'd practiced the art
myself.
Heywood had told the truth about not knowing
Wesley Bodine. Now he smiled forgivingly, turned to
walk toward the car.
"Oh, and by the way," I said casually, "if Marcus
ever wants a cosmetic surgeon to check his hand--for
that scar or birthmark or whatever it is--my ex