He was stunned.
She looked directly at him, calm as before. “That was you, wasn’t it?” she asked. “You brought her to my door.”
He knew he was blushing. And he could feel the tremors in his legs and in his hand. He said nothing.
“I know it was you,” she said in a low confidential voice. “I knew when you said good-bye to her that way, upstairs here, when you said, ‘I love you, darling dear.’ I knew it from other things, from what people call demeanor—the way you moved, the way you walked, the sound of your voice. Oh, it wasn’t the same, no, but there’s a … a cadence to a person’s voice, a personal cadence. It was you.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know precisely what to do or what to say, only that he could not ever admit this to her. He could not be drawn into any sort of admission, now or ever; and yet he hated the idea of lying to her, hated it with his whole being.
“Susie knows, too,” said Pastor George. “But she doesn’t have to come here and ask you about it. She knows, and for her now, that’s enough. You’re her hero. You’re her secret friend. She can tell your brother, Jim, that she knows because he’s a priest and can never tell anyone what he’s heard from her in Confession. And so she doesn’t have to tell anyone else ever who you are. I don’t either. Neither of us has to tell. But I had to come here. I had to say it. I don’t know why I had to come here, why I had to ask you but I do. Maybe because I’m a pastor, a believer, somebody for whom the mysterious is just, well, very real.” Her voice was even, almost emotionless.
He held her gaze without saying a word.
“The police have it all wrong, don’t they?” she asked. “They’ve been searching up and down the coast for some Yeti or Sasquatch when in fact the Man Wolf changes into what he is, and changes back. The Man Wolf is a werewolf. I don’t know how he does it. But they haven’t a clue.”
The blood was pounding in his cheeks. He looked down. He reached for his cup of coffee but his hand was shaking far too badly to manage it, and he laid his hand gently on the arm of the sofa. Slowly, he looked at her again.
“I just had to know if I was right,” she said. “I had to know that it wasn’t all vague suspicions on my part, that it was you. Believe me, I bear you no ill will. I can’t judge something or someone like you. I know you saved Susie. She’d be dead by now if you hadn’t saved her. And when Susie needed you, here at this house, you were here for her and you connected her with the man who could help her heal. I bear you no ill will.”
Images more than thoughts were rushing through Reuben’s mind, jumbled and jarring images of the Yule fire, of the Forest Gentry, of the horrific immolation of the two Morphenkinder, of that miserable man who’d kidnapped Susie, of his bloodied broken body as Reuben had held it in his paws. Then his mind went black. He’d looked off again and now he focused once more on Pastor George. His head was throbbing but he had to keep looking into her eyes.
She was simply looking at him, her face broad and placid and agreeable.
She picked up her cup of coffee and drank. “That’s good coffee,” she said under her breath. Then she set the cup down again, and looked into the fire.
“I want only the best things in this world for Susie,” said Reuben, his voice quavering as he struggled to keep it under control.
“I know,” she said. She nodded, eyes still on the flames. “I want the same. I want the best things in this world for everybody. I don’t ever want to cause any being harm.” The words seemed chosen carefully and they were spoken slowly. “I’ll tell you. The most radical thing about a conversion to God is the determination to love, to really love in His name.”
“I think you’re right,” said Reuben.
“Well, that’s what your brother Jim says too.”
When she looked at him again, she smiled. “I wish you every good thing in the world, Mr. Golding.” She rose to her feet. “I want to thank you for letting me come here.”
He rose with her and he walked with her slowly to the door.
“Please understand, I had to know,” she said. “It was as if my sanity depended upon it.”
“I do understand,” he said.
He threw his arm around her as he walked her out onto the terrace. The wind was fierce, and the droplets of rain were like bits of steel biting into his face and hands.
He opened the door of her car for her.
“Take care, Pastor George,” he said. He could hear the tremor in his voice, but hoped that she could not. “And please stay in touch. Please write me when you can. And send me news of Susie.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Golding.” This time her smile was bright and easy. “I’ll keep you always in my prayers.”
He stood watching as she drove down the hill to the gates.
It was an hour later that he told all this to Felix and Margon.
They were sitting in the kitchen, having their afternoon tea. They liked tea much more than coffee, it seemed, and every afternoon at four, of late, they had their afternoon tea.
They were surprisingly unconcerned, and each commended Reuben on how he had handled it.
“You did the very best thing that you could,” said Felix.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” asked Reuben. “She’ll keep it to herself. She has to. Nobody will believe her if …”
Neither of them answered and then Margon said,
“She’ll keep it to herself until somebody she knows and loves suffers some unspeakable violence, some terrible evil. And then you will hear from her. She will come to you for justice. She will call you and tell you about what’s happened to her friend or her relative or someone in her flock, and she’ll tell you who has done the terrible violence if she knows; and she won’t ask you to do anything. She’ll simply tell you the story, and leave it at that. And that’s how it begins, the calls here and there from those who know and who want us to help. Nobody will ever explain why they are telling you their tale of woe. But they will call or come and they will tell you. She will be the first perhaps; or Susie Blakely may be the first. Who knows? Maybe Galton will be the first, or the sheriff of the county, or someone you can’t recall ever meeting. Again, who knows? But it will start to happen, and when it does, you must handle it just the way you handled her this afternoon. Admit nothing. Volunteer nothing. Offer nothing. Simply take the information and bring it to us. And we will decide, together, you and Felix and I, what should be done.”