The Burnt Island Burial Ground Part 7

"He's really rocking out." Warren had to raise his voice to be heard over Richie's silky tenor belting out, Is it me you're looking for?

They entered the kitchen, where they were welcomed by a barrage of licks from a jubilant Kipper. Lindsay threw her jacket over the back of a chair, and she and Warren walked into the living room. What greeted them there was a vision that instantly and indelibly burned itself into her brain.

Jonah lay on the sofa with a woman. Kissing. In fact, it was more than kissing. This was full-on, junior high-style making out. Even without seeing the woman's face, Lindsay immediately recognized the unmistakable Day-Glo orange bob. There could be no doubt that her father was lying on the couch, making out with Teresa Satterwhite, Warren's widowed mother. Jonah had one hand up the back of Teresa's s.h.i.+rt and the other planted squarely on her rear end.

"Dad?!" Lindsay screeched.

"What in the d.a.m.n world?" Warren said slowly. He bowed his head and raised his hand to his brow, as if trying to s.h.i.+eld his eyes from the glare of oncoming headlights.

At the sound of their voices, Teresa sprang up into a sitting position, catapulting Jonah onto the floor.

Jonah hit the carpet with a thud and let out a yelp of pain. "Ah!" He arched sideways, clutching his lower back.

They all rushed over to the spot on the floor where Jonah lay writhing in pain. Jonah had suffered from chronic lower back problems ever since he overexerted himself a few years previously on a school-building mission trip to Guatemala. When his herniated disc flared up, he was usually out of commission for days at a time.

"I'm so sorry, sugar! Are you all right?" Teresa knelt down next to him. "Is it your back again?"

"No, it's okay," Jonah said through clenched teeth. He rolled over and revealed the source of his agony-he'd landed smack on one of Kipper's ma.s.sive rawhide bones. He pulled himself into a sitting position.

Teresa rose to her feet; her long, lithe movements made it appear as if she were rising out of a yoga pose. Even in her slightly disheveled state, her well-tailored clothes and perfectly-matched jewelry lent her an air of refinement.

"Well, I know this is just terribly embarra.s.sing for all of us," Teresa said, patting her hair back into place. Lindsay felt an almost overwhelming urge to claw at the woman's face. She glanced at Warren, but his gaze seemed cemented to couch, as if he were still trying to process the events that had just occurred there.

"I suppose we owe you an explanation," Jonah said, blus.h.i.+ng deeply.

"You think?" Lindsay said. She crossed her arms. "Actually, I don't want an explanation. It's your life. Do what you want."

She walked quickly down the hall into her bedroom, closed the door, and locked it. Now that the brief moment of concern for Jonah's back had washed over, the next emotion that rolled in was blind fury. She knew she should be happy for her father. He'd spent years faithfully married to Sarabelle, pining after her even as she repeatedly cheated on him and left for months, and even years, at a stretch. It was Lindsay herself who'd finally convinced him to give up on Sarabelle, file for divorce, and move on. And at last, he'd moved on...right on top of Warren's mother.

Lindsay flopped down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. During her rebellious teenage years, drama-queen displays of door slamming and locking had been an almost-daily ritual. Even though she'd managed to keep from shouting and slamming the door this time, she felt no different than she had all those years before.

She heard the murmur of voices, followed by a gentle knocking on the door.

"Linds?" Warren said.

She rolled toward the wall and pulled a pillow over her head. She didn't want to talk. She wanted to scream. While she was potentially being stalked by a psychopath, freaking out about her engagement, preparing to move back into her house with Simmy, and having her ring sawed off her bloated, scaly finger, her father had had his hands on Warren's mother's backside. Of all the women in Mount Moriah, why Warren's mother? A woman whose effortless perfection as a homemaker always made Lindsay feel grossly inadequate? Whose "Bless your heart" and "Well, aren't you a dear?" signaled that she'd never quite measure up?

She heard Warren try the doork.n.o.b. "Come on, Linds."

"Leave me alone."

He tried a few more times to talk her into coming out, his voice growing more frustrated with each entreaty. "You can't keep going into your sh.e.l.l like this, Lindsay. You're not the only person involved here. This isn't fair."

She wanted to speak to him, to find out what he was feeling. The man she loved, who'd stood by her over the last terrible months and helped her pull through, was on the other side of the door, and she couldn't bring herself to say even a single word to him. What was wrong with her? The huge weight of her emotions seemed to have squeezed all the air from her lungs and robbed her of the ability to move. She pressed the pillow down further over her face, almost wis.h.i.+ng it would just finish the job and suffocate her. Why couldn't she get a grip? She was a minister, a spiritual guide for desperate people, an intelligent woman with a fiance.

"Linds?" Warren called again. When he was once again met with silence, he said quietly, "How come you always have to push people away?" She heard him sigh. "I'm gonna drive Mama home. You can call me when you're ready to talk about this like adults."

She heard the m.u.f.fled sounds of their departure and saw the flash of headlights as Warren backed his car out of the driveway. A few minutes pa.s.sed, and the house fell silent. She wondered if Jonah had gone out with them. Then she heard Kipper scratching at her door. He was what she needed right now-a sympathetic friend who, blessedly, lacked the power of speech. When she opened the door to let him in, however, her father was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall. She rushed to close the door again, but he stuck his foot in to block her.

"We need to talk about this," Jonah said.

"I'm really not sure we do," Lindsay countered.

Jonah pushed the door further open. "We didn't want you to find out this way."

Lindsay remained standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, blocking him from coming into the room. "And how did you want us to find out? Maybe when we got invitations to your wedding in the mail?'"

"You're being unreasonable. Teresa is a good, Christian woman. We're happy. You should be happy for us."

"Please don't tell me how to feel right now," Lindsay said. "I get to feel shocked and betrayed and angry and, frankly, really grossed out. How long has this been going on, exactly?"

"Not long. A few months." Jonah rubbed his temples. "Teresa started attending my church with a friend of hers on and off last fall. Then she volunteered to chair the committee to organize the tent revival, so we started spending more time together. We didn't want to say anything until we knew whether or not it was serious. We were planning to tell you soon. I tried to tell you, but the time just didn't seem right."

"Well, you really have some sense of timing. This is just the c.r.a.ppy cherry on top of my c.r.a.p sundae," Lindsay replied. When she eased him out of the doorway, he didn't resist. Having shut him out, she closed the door in his face and clicked the b.u.t.ton to lock it.

Chapter 11.

During the four days that had pa.s.sed since Lindsay walked in on her father and Teresa Satterwhite, Lindsay hadn't spoken a single word to anyone. She'd realized almost immediately that she wasn't really angry about her father and Teresa's relations.h.i.+p. Freaked out, maybe, but not angry. Her real resentment stemmed from her feeling of utter hopelessness. She felt as if there was no chance that she'd ever be able to live a normal life. Seeing her father and Teresa together seemed to prove that while everyone else was happily getting on with their lives, her own life was forever tainted. She was tainted.

Since the discovery, she'd only left her room when she was sure her father had gone out. She hadn't been able to face him, or anyone else. She'd gotten other chaplains to pick up her s.h.i.+fts, and she filled her days with long naps and extended forays into the land of self-pity. She couldn't even bring herself to engage in her usual method of self-medication-long distance running. All she could do was stare at the walls and ask herself the same questions over and over-Why was she being targeted again? Was there something about her that marked her as easy prey? Other people got over traumatic experiences. Why couldn't she? She knew that her loved ones, especially Warren and her father, wanted desperately to protect her, but it seemed that neither earthly nor heavenly law could keep her safe from Leander Swoopes and the fear he had instilled in her.

For days, she overheard her father telling Simmy that she was still sick in bed and would call as soon as she felt better. Warren, too, had called and texted, but she couldn't bring herself to reach out to him.

Lindsay waited until the sound of Jonah's car faded out of her hearing and the house fell silent. She unlocked her door and padded down the hall into the kitchen, where a note from her father lay on the table: Warren stopped by while you were sleeping.

There's some chicken pot pie in the fridge.

She removed the covered ca.s.serole dish from the refrigerator and plunked it down on the counter. A sudden, hard rap on the back door jolted her to attention. Through the gla.s.s door panes and sheer, gauzy curtains, she recognized the trim outline of her friend Rob. For a moment, she debated retreating to her bedroom to hide, but decided that a move like that would probably be too pathetic and childish, even in her current state. Still, she hesitated to open the door.

"Lindsay Harding, I see you in there," Rob snapped in his distinctive Taiwanese-inflected Southern accent.

She sighed, her limited defenses defeated, and opened the door.

Rob walked past her, took a seat at the kitchen table, and gestured for her to do the same.

"I didn't hear you pull up," Lindsay said.

"That's because I parked down the street and waited for your father to leave. I knew you'd have to come out to eat or use the bathroom at some point," Rob said.

"So you've been staking out the house?"

"Anna did a s.h.i.+ft this morning, but she didn't manage to catch you out. You know there's a cop car out there, too?"

"Yeah, I noticed it when I took Kipper out."

"Good to know that you're not spending all your time lying around the house, watching reruns, and eating cold chicken pot pie," Rob said, gesturing to the dish.

"Look, I just need some time to myself. I haven't been feeling well," Lindsay said, staring at the table. "Maybe I'm coming down with what you and Geneva had."

"Since you're not projectile vomiting out of your ears, I highly doubt it. I just ate my first solid food since Sunday. It was a cracker, and I'm not 100% sure it's agreeing with me. I pulled myself off my deathbed to come over here and talk to you."

Lindsay raised her eyes to look at his face. His usually tan complexion was a sallow yellow, and his jet black hair hung limply across his forehead. The almond-shaped eyes that usually twinkled with mischief looked dull and l.u.s.terless behind his metal-framed gla.s.ses.

"You do look like death warmed over," Lindsay agreed. "Actually, not even warmed. More like microwaved on low for about 30 seconds."

"Well, by the look and smell of you, I'm not sure you're really in a position to judge. Have you changed your clothes today?"

"Me being a slob isn't exactly breaking news," Lindsay snapped. "Did you come over here to play fas.h.i.+on police?"

"No. I came over here to try to stop you from pressing the self-destruct b.u.t.ton again."

"What do you mean?" Lindsay asked, avoiding his gaze.

"Look at you. Hiding in your dad's house like a refugee. Not returning my phone calls. I heard you've been getting people to cover your s.h.i.+fts this week so you don't have to come in. You used to do this kind of thing all the time, remember? After you didn't get into Yale for divinity school, after Tim broke off your engagement. I thought CPE helped you, and the crisis therapy you had after the thing with Swoopes. You've been doing so well for so long."

None of Rob's usual impishness was present in his tone. Instead, his words held concern and pity. In addition to being her friend and boss, Rob was also the chaplaincy program's Clinical Pastoral Education supervisor. Through CPE, Lindsay, like all professional chaplains, had been trained to draw insights from her interpersonal experiences and patient interactions to improve her ability to deliver care. And like most chaplains, she'd found the process of exhaustive introspection distinctly uncomfortable. Still, she had to admit that it had helped her to overcome her natural tendency to flee whenever she faced a setback. Prior to becoming a chaplain, any kind of uncertainty, unwelcome responsibility, or potential failure had caused her to run away, sometimes in dramatic fas.h.i.+on. After her former fiance, Tim Farnsworth, had dumped her, for example, she'd quit her degree program and her job, broken her lease, run up a mountain of credit card debt and left the state where they'd been living. She realized now that she'd invented a new kind of escape-escaping within herself.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked peevishly, still not willing to engage in any kind of psychoa.n.a.lysis. "Just pretend everything's fine?"

"I know everything isn't fine. John and Anna told me about the creepy guy coming to your house. Anyone would be freaked out by that."

"What if he comes back for me? He's still out there," Lindsay said, her voice sounding strained. She knew she didn't need to tell Rob she meant Leander Swoopes.

"Have you ever thought about the alternative?" Rob asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you shot him, right? Five bullets from almost point-blank range. But you missed, and he survived the shooting. What if he hadn't? What if you'd blown his face open with bullets? Shredded his body to b.l.o.o.d.y ribbons?"

"Stop it," Lindsay demanded, shutting her eyes tightly. "What's wrong with you?"

"No, listen to me," Rob said, scooting his chair closer to hers. "What if you'd killed him? It was self-defense, right? n.o.body would've blamed you. But would you feel relieved that he was dead?"

"Yes." She shook her head. "Maybe. Look, I don't know."

"Linds, I do know. I know you. If you'd ended his life, sc.u.mbag though he was, it would've wrecked you. You feel guilty for things that have nothing to do with you. You obsess about things that aren't your fault at all. Did you ever wonder if maybe G.o.d made all those bullets miss their mark for a reason? I know it's hard to live with uncertainty, knowing maybe Swoopes is out there somewhere. I've heard you tell patients all the time that uncertainty can be even harder than knowing a bad outcome. But did you ever stop to think how Swoopes was injured just bad enough so that you and Simmy and your mom could get away? How strange is that? I know this fear you feel is terrible, but maybe G.o.d spared you from something worse. The guilt of taking someone's life could've swallowed you."

There was a long silence, broken by the sound of Kipper slurping noisily from his water bowl.

At last, Lindsay said, "When did you get so smart?"

"I've always been this smart," Rob said. "You've just been distracted all this time by how s.e.xy I am."

"That may be the grossest thing you've ever said."

"Speaking of things that are gross," Rob said, "I heard about the thing with your dad and Warren's mom."

"Who told you about that?" For a moment, Lindsay wondered if perhaps everyone in Mount Moriah had known about the relations.h.i.+p except for her.

"Warren. He called me," Rob replied.

"You and Warren talked on the phone?" Lindsay's mouth hung open in astonishment. She couldn't remember the two men pa.s.sing a civil word between them, much less having a casual phone call.

"He was worried about you. That's what it's come to. Deputy Dogooder has climbed down off his high horse to talk to me." Rob smiled at her. "Please, Linds. I know you're scared, but the Lindsay we know can take on the world. She beats up the bad guys. She gets into car chases, and outsmarts criminals, and kicks them in the gonads. And there's no way that the Old Lindsay would have just forgotten about the whole weird thing with Otis Boughtflower confessing to killing someone."

Lindsay had been slumped over the table, but at the mention of Boughtflower's name, she perked up. "He didn't say he killed anyone. Just that he hid a body." She paused. "Wait. How do you know that?"

"You put it into your case notes, which I sign off on every week."

"Oh." She paused. "Wait. I thought you've been off work. Didn't you say you came here directly from your deathbed?"

"I've been in a few times to check on things. The work needs to get done because it's important. The work you do is important. You are important." Rob reached out and took hold of Lindsay's hand. "Please come back to us, Linds. Your friends need you. Your patients need you. And also, when you're depressed like this, it doesn't feel right to make fun of how weird your hair looks right now."

"What are you doing here, girl? I thought you were coming down with that stomach thing." Geneva Williams put her hands on her tiny hips. As usual, she was going through her rounds with her huge, white faux leather handbag slung over her shoulder. With her tight halo of grey curls, round gla.s.ses, and long pleated skirt, she looked very much like the mother of seven and grandmother of fifteen that she, in fact, was. She stood in the middle of the Geriatric Unit hallway, facing Lindsay, who had been scouring the hospital trying to find her.

"It was a false alarm," Lindsay said, with a sheepishness she hoped Geneva wouldn't detect. "Thanks for covering my s.h.i.+ft. Since I'm feeling better, I thought I'd come in and see if you wanted to finish up early and go home."

Rob had sat at the kitchen table with Lindsay for more than an hour, letting her vent about the situation with her father and her upcoming move back into her own house with Simmy. She avoided the subjects of her engagement and the possibility of Leander Swoopes's return entirely. She thought Rob would press her to talk about these more troubling issues, but he allowed her to control the flow of the conversation. Even though she recognized this rapport-building tactic from the chaplaincy playbook, she didn't mind. She was grateful that, for once, Rob had decided to act more like her mentor and less like her annoying little brother. In the end, the conversation had convinced her that she needed to at least try to reengage with the world outside her childhood bedroom.

"Well, I'm not going to say no to that offer," Geneva replied. "My stomach still isn't right, truth be told, although you won't hear me moaning up and down the halls like Rob."

They walked over to the nurses' station together, where Angel stood talking on the phone. "What are you doing up here, anyway? I thought I was signed up to be covering mainly emergencies and the ICUs today?" Lindsay said.

"Angel paged me. She said one of her ornerier patients requested 'the tiny, curly-headed little chaplain'." She gestured to Otis Boughtflower's room. "She thought he meant me."

Angel, who'd been listening in on their conversation, hung up the phone and said, "I thought wrong. I didn't realize he was sweet on you, especially after he kicked you out of his room that first time." She laughed. "He's been asking about you ever since they brought him back up here from the ICU yesterday."

"So I guess he's doing better, since they discharged him back to the ward?" Lindsay said.

"Well, no," Angel said. "He filled out a DNR so that if he stops breathing again, they won't try to intubate him. Next time he goes down, that's it. There was really no point in keeping him in the ICU if he doesn't want anything done."

"I'm surprised they didn't try to send him home," Geneva said.

Angel sighed. "As long as he wants to stay, and his insurance keeps paying, they'll keep him. But I really think we're looking at a matter of days, if not hours."

Geneva clicked her tongue. "Well, I hope he's made his peace with his Maker. You know who he is, right?"

"Otis Boughtflower, the king of socks," Lindsay replied.

Geneva flattened her lips into a thin line.