The Psalmist (21 page)

 

Chapter 36

L
UKE WATCHED
H
UN
TER'S
Camry pulling in the drive to the church, tires crunching in the snow. She took the shortest route to his office, walking with her purposeful stride through the snow, wearing the oversized army jacket, jeans, and work boots that had become her uniform. Luke went out into Aggie's office to meet her and usher her in.

Hunter took a seat, pulled a folded piece of paper from her jacket and opened it on his desk. “I received this overnight,” she said.

“Okay.” Luke looked at a printout of the e-­mail he had sent her. Hunter was breathing heavily, her face pink from the cold.

“I've got techs working a trace. Looks like we might have an angel here trying to help us.”

“Hmm,” Luke said. He nodded and handed it back. “Pretty concise.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Luke could feel her watching him.

“And do you know who they are?”

“Two of them.” she said. “Two of them may be victims of our serial killer. We're trying to verify that now.”

“Huh.” Luke nodded again. “I wouldn't spend too much time trying to find out where the e-­mail came from, by the way.”

“Oh?”

His eyes finally drifted back to hers.

“What are you talking about?” she said. “
You
sent it?”

“It was supposed to be anonymous. I tried to reach you first. A ­couple of times.”

Her face reddened. “I know, my cell was off. I apologize. I screwed up.”

“That's okay.”

“Why?” she said. “What's going on?”

“Jackson Pynne came to see me here last night,” he said. “He gave me those names. That's why I was trying to reach you. I didn't really want to give that information to anyone else.”

“I appreciate it. I'm sorry,” she said. “What else did he tell you?”

“He told me that he knew Kwan Park. He said he was trying to help her get away from the organization she worked for. He mentioned a name. Trumble, I think it was.”

“Yeah,” she said. “August Trumble.”

“You know who that is?”

“Now I do.”

“That's who Kwan Park worked for.”

“Yes.” Her eyes seemed to brighten. “He's the common denominator in all these killings. It's about to become a federal case. I expect Dave Crowe of the FBI will be out to talk with you later. I wanted to give you a heads-­up.”

“How later?” Luke said.

“I'm not sure, why?”

“Because—­actually, I'm going out of town this afternoon.
We
are. Just over to Charlotte's parents' in D.C.”

“Charlotte?”

“My wife.”

“Right.”

A
S PREDIC
TED, BY
high noon much of the snow was melting across Tidewater County, running down the curbs and blacktops, dripping from drainpipes. An afternoon rain shower was expected to wash away the rest of it.

Luke turned off his laptop and packed his sermon notebook into a knapsack, where he also had a change of clothes and toiletries.

He clicked off his desk lamp, surprised to see Aggie standing in the doorway, wearing her stylish new two-­button pinstripe pants suit.

“There's a call from a Mr. Jackson Pynne?” she said. “Should I tell him you're gone for the day?”

“Oh. No,” he said. “Thanks, Aggie. I'll take it.”

He sat back at his desk, genuinely pleased to hear from Pynne.

“Hello,” he said. “Jackson?”

But the voice on the other end wasn't Jackson Pynne's. It was a heavy, deeper voice, with what sounded like a mid-­Atlantic accent. “Sorry to disappoint you there, Preacher. This is not Jackson Pynne. Although I'm hoping you might help me find him.”

“Who's calling?”

“This is a friend of Jackson Pynne. Like I say, I'm trying to reach him.”

Luke listened to the man breathe, a raspy sound. “Well,” he said, trying to remain good-­natured, “I'm afraid I can't help you there.”

“Actually, I think you can.” An edge now in his voice. “Because I know that Jackson visited you last night. There at the church. And I'm sure, if you give it some thought, you could probably give me an approximation of where he might be.”

“Who is this?” Luke said.

“This is not a business you want to get involved in, Preacher, you understand me? And you also don't want to go to the police. You understand? It's important that we keep this communication just between the two of us for now. You hear me? Because I know where you live. And where your wife lives.”

Luke was silent.

“You just think about that and I'll call you back, on your cell next time.”

“How do you know my cell number?”

“I don't. But you're going to tell me.”

“I don't think so.”

Luke listened to his breathing again. “That's your choice. But I'm sure you don't want to cause anyone to get hurt, do you? Now, go ahead and tell me your cell phone number and we'll end this on a civil note.”

He did, and the line went dead.

Luke sat in his unlit office afterward, squinting at the bright sunlight out the window, the snow melting in the woods, wondering if this might just be a prank. Was the sheriff trying to warn him away from Jackson Pynne? Or were his and Charlotte's lives really in danger? There was something darkly credible in the caller's voice.

Luke closed the door all the way. He sat at his desk, lowered his head and prayed, at length, for guidance and for protection. As he was finishing, he realized that Aggie was tapping on the door. “Are you all right, Pastor?”

 

Chapter 37

A
S
C
HARLOT
TE DROVE
them to Washington, Luke told her all he had learned from his Google searches about August Trumble. He didn't mention the telephone call, but carried his cell phone in his right front pants pocket, ready for the promised follow-­up, feeling a rush of emotion each time he thought about it.

Sneakers spent most of the drive sitting in back, panting steadily. Luke envied him a little.

“You know what—­I think my father might've
known
August Trumble,” Charlotte said at one point.

“Oh,” Luke said. Charlotte did this sometimes—­she came up with some astonishing tidbit of information that couldn't be true—­but in fact often was. “No,” he said, “I don't think so.”

“Or met him.”

“I guess it's possible. Unless you're thinking of someone else.”

Charlotte went quiet, passing a fast-­moving semi. “Didn't August Trumble go to Yale?”

“Well, yes. He did, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah, I think my father knew him,” she said. “You could ask.” She turned, offering up a nice, hopeful look. “That would give you fellas something to talk about, wouldn't it?”

“Besides our future,” he said. “Yours and mine, that is.”

“Yes,” she said. “Besides that.”

T
HE
C
ARR
INGTONS LIVED
in a rambling, 1906 Tudor-­style home in the suburb of Chevy Chase, Maryland, less than a mile from the D.C. line. It was an old-­moneyed neighborhood of oaks and elm trees and narrow winding streets, with lots of Lexuses and Mercedes parked by the curbs.

Both Judy and Lowell Carrington were retired, although Charlotte's father “dabbled” in real estate, as he put it, which in fact had become a thriving second career. In his first career he had been an economics professor at Georgetown, and served as a White House adviser during the Reagan and Bush 41 administrations. He was a tall, genteel man who seemed in no hurry to cede any ground to the new generations; his untamed white hair suggested the stereotype of a mad scientist or eccentric filmmaker, although he was in fact very grounded and very conservative.

As they arrived in her old neighborhood, Charlotte became perkier—­and then a little giddy—­as if the narrow, tree-­crowded streets were the secret path back to her childhood, not just to her parents' house.

There was a pattern to these get-­togethers—­beginning with cocktail hour in the ornate living room, during which Charlotte would become loose and animated in ways he never saw at home. Eventually she would volunteer to help her mother with something in the kitchen or else go off to look at her mother's latest art purchases, strategically separating the sexes.

Sneakers, meanwhile, was exiled to the basement, because of Judy Carrington's various allergies, where the dog slept, watched television, and occasionally made vocal pleas for attention.

Lowell Carrington was a man who could talk with ease about nearly anything, from golf to health care to French restaurants to the latest conflicts in the Middle East—­although, inevitably, it seemed, conversation eventually swung to Luke and Charlotte's “plans” for the future. Charlotte and her father seldom if ever had substantive talks anymore, their opinions too often at odds for civilized discourse. But with Luke, her father was less cautious, considering him a conduit to the rooms of his daughter's inner world where he couldn't go by himself.

This time it took only a few minutes before he asked, “So, have you and Sharley given any more thought to buying a place?” Her father was the only one who called Charlotte “Sharley.”

“A little,” Luke said.

“I know Sharley's mentioned it a few times recently.”

“Hmm.” Luke was all but certain that Charlotte had not said anything to her father recently about buying a place. “We just don't know that this is the right time for it,” he said, offering a variation of his standard answer.

Charlotte's father got to his feet, his long body unfolding. “Of course, ­people say that their whole lives, don't they?” He smiled deferentially. “And before long they find they're stuck. Another glass of wine?”

“I'm fine.”

He walked to the wall cabinet that functioned as a bar and slowly fixed himself a scotch and ice. Their living room resembled an offbeat museum—­antique French chairs roped off along one wall, classical busts on the glass-­fronted bookshelf and pedestal table, original paintings by Robert Rauschenberg, Frank Stella, and Damien Hirst. Charlotte's mother was the art collector. Lowell Carrington had once conspiratorially confessed to Luke that he considered her collection “high-­priced yard-­sale-­quality art,” adding that he nevertheless “respected its value” as an investment.

“You know, we have a rental place down in Turks and Caicos,” he said, his tone faux casual. “It's going to come available in late April for a ­couple of weeks. South Caicos, directly on the water. Lovely place, really. I haven't said anything yet to Sharley, but, I mean, it'll just be sitting there. Jude and I aren't able to go this year. She has museum business and I'm in the middle of this tax deal.”

“Ah,” Luke said.

“So, I mean, it'd be a good opportunity, just the two of you, to get away.”

“Well, that's very generous,” Luke said. He pulled out his cell phone and checked, just to make sure he hadn't missed a call. “Of course, April tends to be a very busy time at the church. Lent, Easter.”

Lowell's expression hardened. He seemed to have the idea that Luke and Charlotte just needed a little time alone to discuss their future, and then they'd be able to make the necessary decisions and changes. He was well aware of a pastor's salary and had offered more than once to help Luke switch his calling to real estate.

“Well, we'll certainly consider it,” he said cheerily.

“You have an assistant pastor, I imagine, who can take care of the ser­vice and things like that?”

“Yes, although I already had her take over for me for a ­couple of weeks in the fall. When we went on the missionary trip.”

“A
woman
?”

“Yes, the assistant pastor is a woman. Melissa Walker.”

He smiled privately. “I didn't know that.”

“Yes, in fact she took over when I took the trip to Kenya last fall.”

“Oh, yes.” He grimaced slightly, as if the taste of his drink wasn't quite right. Luke suspected it was his mention of “missionary” work in Africa. The Carringtons' idea of charity was tithing. Going into the streets and helping ­people in a troubled nation seemed show-­offy.

“So what in God's name happened out there at your church, anyway?” he asked, lowering his voice as if broaching a forbidden subject. “Was it homicide?”

“It's under investigation. I can't really say much about it.”

A peculiar sound came from his throat. “We're family here, Luke.”

“No, what I mean is, I can't tell you much because I don't
know
much.”

“Oh, I see.” Lowell sipped his drink. “Sharley tells me they've got some young kid running the investigation.”

“No.” Luke smiled, at Charlotte's mischief. “She's in her thirties, I think. Trained with the FBI. Head of the state police homicide unit for the region. Has two master's degrees.”

“Well. You and I both know what that and sixty-­five cents'll buy you nowadays.”

He winked and went into his laugh, an out-­of-­character, bawdy nasal guffaw.

The women came in with their drinks then.

“What's so funny?” Judy Carrington showed her crooked, surprised smile. She often seemed self-­consciously on the other side of things.

“We were just having a debate over the future of the Tea Party,” Luke explained.

Judy stared at him for a moment before breaking into a smile. “You were
not
.”

Luke smiled. She didn't get him, but at least she recognized when he was kidding.

“Did you tell him about our place down in Caicos, dear?”

“I just did.”

Charlotte looked at Luke and rolled her eyes.

T
HE DINNER PHASE
began with a prayer. Luke asked for blessings for the food and their family and offered thanks for their health and good fortune. The Carringtons bowed their heads, both with uneasy looks on their faces, and half whispered “Amen” before reaching for their forks and knives.

Dinner conversation centered on the Carringtons' travels and on Judy's growing art acquisitions. For a time Lowell tried to talk about his investment properties, but no one carried the other side of the conversation except Luke. Judy smiled strangely as Luke complimented her on the meal. She was a sweet woman but difficult to talk with, particularly after she'd had several drinks.

During dessert a loud, guttural sound startled everyone. Charlotte's mother looked at Luke as if he had slapped her. The sound resembled the bark of a sea lion at first, Luke thought; then it morphed into what seemed to be random notes on a French horn, then it sounded as if the sea lion and the horn were mating.

“What on earth?” Judy Carrington said.

“Oh,” Charlotte said.

“Our son,” said Luke, pushing back his chair.

The cries came again, louder and even more bizarre.

“Jesus,” said Lowell Carrington.

“He just wants to join the fun,” Luke said. “Nothing another chewy won't fix. Excuse me. Thank you, Judy, for a wonderful meal.”

Luke took Sneakers for a short walk in the small yard behind the Carringtons' house, which was wet with melted snow. Then he sat with him on the basement floor for several minutes, rubbing his belly with a towel as they watched the old Mary Tyler Moore show on MeTV.

“I know,” Luke said. “I don't always like it here, either. Sometimes in life, though, we have to put up with what we don't enjoy. It builds patience and character and keeps our wives happy. Anyway, we'll be finished in a little while and then we'll go for another walk, okay? All three of us this time.”

Another brief segregation followed dinner, as Charlotte helped her mother clean up and load dishes. Charlotte was comfortable around her mother, able to laugh and talk easily about personal things. With her father she summoned a sociable, daughterly demeanor but was more guarded. They were still fighting old wars.

Sitting with him in the living room, Luke saw his chance to raise the subject of August Trumble.

“You know,” he said, “Sharley—­Charlotte—­mentioned earlier that she thought you may have known August Trumble at one time.”

“August Trumble. August
Trumble
,” Carrington said, sounding out the words as he got more comfortable in his chair. “Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while. Quite the troubled genius, wasn't he?”

“But you knew him?”

“No.”

“Oh. I thought Charlotte said you knew him.”

“Nope.” He sipped his scotch, as if no further explanation were necessary. Then he said, “Oh, we both went to Yale. But at different times. I believe I was an undergraduate while he was in graduate school. Don't think I ever saw him. Tom Griffin knew him.”

“Tom . . . ?”

“Griffin. One of our neighbors.”

“I don't think I know him.”

“You don't. He lives right up the street.” Luke made a note to pass this name along to Amy Hunter. “Of course, Trumble kind of went off the rails some years ago, didn't he?”

“That's what they say.”

Lowell raised his glass in a toastlike gesture. Luke was surprised he hadn't asked why he was interested. “Anyway, I think it's time Sharley became a little more settled,” Carrington said, “now that she has some momentum with her writing. And you know what?” He twirled his drink. “On this one, I think she actually agrees with her old man.”

“On which one is that?”

“Settling down. Buying a place.”

He gave Luke a pointed look.

“Actually, moving about has its merits, too,” Luke said, just for the sake of argument. “I mean, when we moved to the shore five years ago, she became interested in its history, in particular in Frederick Douglass, who was one of the Eastern Shore's great residents.” Lowell Carrington squinted disagreeably, as if waiting for heartburn to pass. “That's how she got started on her current book. Quite a project. Jefferson and Douglass.”

“Well,” Lowell said, with a sinking note of skepticism. “So if your next church assignment takes you out to Kansas, she writes the history of winter wheat in America?”

“Or, perhaps a biography of Fatty Arbuckle,” Luke said cheerfully. “He was a Kansan.”

Charlotte's father looked down and wiggled his glass. “No,” he said. “No. I see her work as more important than that. A little more important than whichever way the
wind
blows.”

“I do, too,” Luke said. Unable to resist, he added, “Although, of course, the wind can takes us to some interesting places. As I sometimes tell ­people in the congregation, we shouldn't try to control too much in our lives.”

“We should try to control whatever we
can
in our lives,” Lowell said, as if speaking to a student. “What we
can
control we
should
control.”

“Ah.”

“You don't, life passes you by. And then what do you have?”

“I don't know. Existential angst?”

Lowell Carrington surprised Luke by smiling broadly. “You're a good man, Lucas. And you're smart enough not to take me too seriously.” He leaned over and gave him a playful jab in the shoulder. Luke looked up and saw Mrs. Carrington, standing in the doorway, holding her drink, a crooked smile on her face.