Page 34 of The Devil's Advocate

It wasn’t pain or medication causing her tremors. He smiled up at her and saw the hole behind her eyes. Something had been sucked out of this woman. Life, hope, love, the very meaning of her existence had been torn from her body. That part of her now lay beside her daughter in a cold cheap casket six feet beneath the ground of the old cemetery in Buckstown.

‘I saw you at the funeral,’ she said, in a cracked voice. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember if we spoke.’

‘We spoke,’ said the Pastor. ‘But don’t worry about that. I can’t imagine your pain. What you and Francis are going through, it’s just terrible.’

Francis lifted the coffee to his lips, but hesitated, then put the cup back down.

‘I told Francis I want to help in any way I can. The money we gave to you both, that’s just the start. The group I belong to, we are committed to ensuring you and your husband want for nothing in the years ahead.’

She withdrew her hand from his and her eyes, which had been empty, flashed with fear.

‘Francis told me about the group. I’m not sure what it is exactly.’

‘It’s a … what did the professor call it? A collective?’ asked Francis.

‘Something like that. We are group of concerned citizens who have banded together to take certain steps to protect Christian folks in the county,’ said the Pastor.

‘White folks?’ asked Esther.

The Pastor fixed the smile on his lips before he gave it to her and said, ‘Yes, white folks. Skylar isn’t the only one to have been lost to these people—’

‘These people?’ asked Esther. ‘We’re all people, sir. Ordinary folk, all of us. Not one color better or worse than the other. Our daughter was murdered, and I have nothing but hate for the one who did it, and those who protected him, but we’re not prejudiced. It was one man …’

‘We all know who killed your daughter. We all know what he looks like. This is not an isolated incident, Mrs. Edwards. Esther, if I may—’

‘Mrs. Edwards is fine,’ she said, straightening up. She wasn’t shaking anymore.

‘Esther, this man gave us—’ said Francis, but didn’t get to finish the sentence.

‘I know what he gave us,’ she said, turning to Francis. ‘For that I’m thankful. You know I am, but what he’s saying ain’t true. It’s not right.’

The Pastor felt his phone vibrating in his right-hand jacket pocket. Hisotherwork phone. The burner that had to be answered immediately.

‘I’m afraid I have to go. Duty calls. I’ll see myself out, Francis. Maybe you could show Esther, I mean,Mrs. Edwards, some of the videos the professor sent to you. They can be enlightening. Thank you for the coffee.’

The Pastor made his way through the hallway, the dust sitting thick on the table bearing the mail with red banners across the envelopes. He knew he could wear Francis down, and money helped. Esther was proving more difficult than anticipated.

As he closed the front door behind him, he heard the beginnings of an argument coming from the kitchen. Their home was one of fifty creole-style one-story houses on the block. Seventy years old, and cheaply built at the time. The Pastor could still hear them as he descended the porch steps.

‘I don’t want that man in this house again. He’s a racist and—’

‘He gave us thousands and thousands of dollars, and there’s more to come. We need that money and you know what, he might be right—’

He checked his phone for missed calls, hit dial on the last one.

The number he called was another burner. It was answered immediately. The voice on the other end of the line sounded cold and strange. The accent veered slightly – moved around from rural Alabama to the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

‘You didn’t pick up. Something wrong?’ asked Randal Korn.

‘Nothing you need to worry about. What’s the emergency?’ asked the Pastor.

‘Andy Dubois’ new lawyer paid a visit to Cody Warren’s office today. He was in there for half an hour.’

The Pastor reached his black SUV, popped open the car, got inside and closed the door.

‘Are you concerned?’

‘His partner, Harry Ford, went in later and came out with a thin binder of documents.’