Free Father of Lies by Brian Evenson Page A

was alone last night,” I say. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
    â€œDon’t remember me?”
    â€œCan’t you sit somewhere else?”
    He looks perplexed. “Why this rough treatment?” he asks. “You were happy enough to take my advice last night, no?”
    He sits back, stiff, examining the newspaper in his hands.
    â€œâ€˜An act of extreme cruelty . . . ,’” he reads. “‘Her neck broken.’” He turns to me. “Of course, they don’t put all the details in there. They’re saving some, things only the killer would know.” He shakes the paper straight. “‘It is unclear whether the rape occurred before or after her death. . . .’”
    He raises his head. “Any comments?”
    Lowering his head, he scans the rest of the article.
    â€œListen to this,” he says. “‘Police are confident that blood and semen samples will lead to the apprehension of the killer.’” He puts the paper down. “Think that over, Provost.”
    I turn toward the window and look out. The bus is passing out of the suburbs, past the park.
    â€œI am not condemning you,” the man says. “I am one of your greatest admirers. We’ve been through this,” he says. “Let’s move on to something new.”
    The bus turns, the back tire scraping the curb as it rounds the corner. I see an old man on his front porch, rocking, eyes missing. He waves slowly as the bus passes him. The man beside me waves absently back.
    â€œYou were right to tell your wife about the girl’s brother,” he says.
    â€œBut he didn’t kill her.”
    â€œHe’s still guilty,” he says. “Every day he was killing her. She wouldn’t have had to be sanctified except for what he did to her. The way I see it you are blameless.”
    I get up and move back a few seats, the bus driver watching me in his rearview mirror. The man follows me back, pens me in.
    â€œTell the police about the brother, Provost,” the man says. “Let them come to their own conclusions.”
    The buildings grow tall, become netted in wire and glass. The bus moves slower, but stays empty.
    â€œI can’t do it,” I say.
    â€œCan’t?” he says. “Won’t, you mean.”
    â€œHe didn’t kill her,” I say.
    â€œA technicality.”
    â€œHardly.”
    â€œIf he had been there maybe he’d have killed her. But for all the wrong reasons. It was fortunate you were there to kill her for the right ones.”
    Staring out the window, I think it over. I like the way it sounds.
    On the sidewalk, a man looks at his watch, pushes his hair out of his face. On the sidewalk behind him a man in overalls seems to be shouting at someone though there is nobody paying him any heed.
    â€œLook,” the man beside me says. “Better him than you, no?”
    The bus stops and two more people get on, two men in suits, wearing dark glasses. They pass the driver without him seeming to see them and start slowly back toward us.
    â€œGot to go,” the man next to me says. “Almost forgot. This is my stop.”
    He dashes from the seat and out the side door of the bus, the two men who have just climbed on rush down after him and out as well. I do not see him, but as the bus pulls out I see one of the other two speaking into a cellular phone, looking around as if confused. He catches a glimpse of me in the bus window and points. The bus pulls away.
    In the late afternoon, the police call me at work, ask me if, as the girl’s religious leader, I might have any information about the girl’s murder.
    â€œNo,” I say. “I don’t believe I do.”
    â€œWe were told that you might have some clue as to who the killer is.”
    â€œWho told you this?”
    The officer on the other end of the line pauses. “I’d rather not reveal my source,” he says.