Chapter Eight
Christy Deeds knew when her husband was depressed. They had been married for seventeen years. She knew all of his moods, and there were many. Depression showed itself in his slumping shoulders, his eyes—especially the eyes, which seemed to fix on some faraway point—the way he held his neck. It was different than the mood that gripped him when work was particularly wearying, when the things that people did to each other grated against his soul.
Morris walked toward her, up the walkway to their front door, and he was definitely depressed. She opened the door before he reached it. “Was it bad?”
He’d already called her with a brief report, but he had left out the grisly details. “What’s left of him was.”
She opened her arms and scooped him against her. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was awful, Christy. Animals got to him.” His voice, ordinarily gravelly, was lower than usual. She had to strain to hear him.
“Can you take it easy for a while? Have a cup of coffee, decompress?”
He kissed her cheek and backed away, coming inside and shutting the door. “No, I can only stay a minute. Just want to splash some water on my face. I’ve got to go talk to Marie Hackett before she hears about it from someone else.”
“Oh, no, she doesn’t know yet?”
Morris met her gaze briefly. “I hope to God she doesn’t.”
He moved away from her like a sleepwalker, and she watched him go into the bathroom and close the door.
She had been on her way out when she saw him drive up. She had put her purse back on the entryway table, shucked her jacket and hung it back up in the closet. He didn’t need to know where she was going, or why.
She busied herself for a few minutes. When he came out, his face was freshly scrubbed, cheeks red. A few droplets of water clung to his bushy mustache. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he was striking, with riveting blue eyes and a commanding nose and that black ’stache. His purely masculine physical presence was impressive out of proportion to his size—he wasn’t especially tall or broad, but he projected strength and vitality. People respected him, she believed, as much for how he made them feel when he walked into a room as for what he said or did.
When he emerged, his eyes were minutely less sad. He had steeled himself for the task ahead, and that cut some of the edge off his depression. She knew it would be a bad night for him. “I’ve gotta go,” he said.
She hugged him again, kissed him on the lips, holding it for an extra couple of seconds. “You’ll help her,” she said. “You’re good at that. The dependable shoulder to cry on.”
“I guess.”
“I know it’s hard on you. But you do it anyway. That’s why you’re the man I love.”
“Thanks,” he said. He offered a smile, but it was forced, lifeless. He opened the door and went back to his car. Notifying people that a loved one had died was always hard on him. He genuinely liked Marie Hackett, and Mike, too, and that would make this one worse than usual. She liked them, too, enough that she was glad she didn’t have to make this visit. She stood in the doorway and watched until he was gone.
Then she put on her jacket again, grabbed her purse, and hurried to her Camry.
Eighteen minutes later, Christy Deeds pulled into a parking space outside the Church in the Woods. The church blended into its surroundings so well that someone could drive right past without knowing it was there, just off the highway. The walls were dark-brown wood with native stone accents, the roof a forest green that matched the pines almost precisely. Behind the chancel was a floor-to-ceiling window, clear, rather than stained glass. She had seen deer walking behind it during services, and on most Sundays birds flitted around, up into the trees and back down to the ground.
On the far side, an addition to the church edged toward the woods. Gilbert Calderon, the church’s pastor, lived there, in a four-room rectory added in the late 1980s. His quarters had a separate front door as well as a door leading to the office that connected church and home.
The church’s front doors were usually left open. Christy pulled on the right one, heavy and cool under her hands. It swung freely, and she stepped into weighty darkness broken only by the emergency exit lighting over the door. The building was silent. She went to the swinging doors that opened into the nave. “Hello?” she called.
Gil appeared at the far door, the one that led toward his office. “Who’s there?” he asked. He was looking right at her, and the nave was better lit than the lobby.
“Gil, it’s me. Christy.”
He smiled as he approached, up the aisle between the pews. “Christy, hi. I couldn’t see you. The light—”
“It’s not good in here,” she agreed. She didn’t point out that the nave’s light should have been falling on her, illuminating her against the dark background of the lobby area. Gil’s vision had never been good, but could it have deteriorated so much in the weeks—no, that was wrong, it had been two months, at least—since she had seen him?
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” he said. He had always seemed able to read her mind. He took her hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze. A ministerial squeeze. As ever, she was aware of the softness of his hands, so different from her husband’s.
“I’ve … I’ve been staying away.”
“I gathered that. It’s probably best.”
“That’s what I thought. But … Gil, have you heard about Mike Hackett?”
Up close, his gaze found her face, locked on it. A straight brow shadowed deep brown eyes made only somewhat less profound by thick-lensed glasses with tortoise-shell rims. His lips were thin but expressive, his chin firm with a cleft like someone had sliced it out with a pocketknife. “I heard he was missing. I spoke with Marie, earlier.”
“They found him. He’s dead, Gil. Morris said it was bad. Really bad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s with Marie now. She’ll need you.”
“I’m here for her.”
“You always are.” She twisted her hands together. She wanted him to say more, do more. She wanted her cheek to scrape against his afternoon whiskers, wanted her breasts pressed against his broad chest, wanted to breathe in his clean, male scent. But unless he offered, she didn’t dare.
He had made that abundantly clear.
She was here, putting herself in front of him. A word, a gesture, and she would be in his arms.
He just stood there, though, arms at his sides, hands clenched almost into fists. Like it was taking a physical effort not to touch her.
The thing was, he made the effort.
“You and Marie were always friends,” he said.
“That’s right. That’s … I needed to see you. I needed comfort.”
“I can pray with you.”
Not that kind of comfort, Christy wanted to say. That’s not it at all.
“Christy,” he said. “I can’t …”
“Yeah.” She shouldn’t even have come here. She tore her gaze away and hurried from the church.