Free Father of Lies by Brian Evenson Page B

“Does it matter?”
    â€œIt might,” I say. I am about to say more when the line clicks. “Just a moment, officer. Will you hold?” I say, and switch lines.
    â€œHoney?” my wife says. “The police just called.”
    â€œI told you not to say anything.”
    â€œI’m sorry, it just came out.”
    â€œWhy would they call at all?”
    â€œSomebody thought they saw you near Barton’s field that night,” she says. “The police called about that. To see if you’d seen anything. One thing led to another.”
    â€œMe? I was never near there,” I almost shout. “I swear.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” she says. “I know that, you don’t have to tell me, darling.”
    â€œI have to go,” I say.
    â€œI didn’t mean to tell them,” she says. “It just slipped out.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I say. “I’ll tell them what they should know.”

CHAPTER 4
    Interview
    I have just finished my last evening interview and am closing the provost’s office, sending my secretary Allen home, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find my immediate ecclesiastical superior, the area rector, beside me. He regards me warmly.
    â€œRector Bates,” I say. “How pleasant to see you.”
    â€œGreetings, Provost,” he says. “Here late tonight?”
    â€œInterviews,” I say.
    â€œYou’re finished?” he asks. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind coming down to my office a moment. I’d like a word with you.”
    â€œOf course,” I say. “About what?”
    â€œPersonal,” he says. “Come down when you have a moment.”
    I lock the door to the office, lock the building doors as well. I walk to the other end of the building, to the area offices, and knock on the door that has light seeping out from under it.
    It takes a minute for the area rector to open the door. He ushers me inside, draws me around to a chair, then pulls a chair beside it for himself.
    â€œYour wife mentioned you were here,” he says. “Doing interviews. I figured now was as good a time as any.” He presses hispalms together between his knees. “I don’t know how to bring this up,” he says. “These things are never easy, and it’s even more difficult considering your position in the Church. I think of you as a personal friend, Provost. I respect you. If I felt that I could get away without asking, I wouldn’t ask,” he says.
    â€œI understand,” I say. “You can ask me anything. I’ll answer truthfully.”
    â€œThe mothers of two boys in your congregation came to see me yesterday,” he says. “They claim that you abused their sons.”
    I try to look surprised, shocked. “What? Me? What sort of abuse?”
    â€œSexual abuse of the worst kind.”
    â€œSexual abuse? Me?”
    â€œI couldn’t believe it myself when she told me. Still can’t. A Bloodite provost would never do such a thing. So I thought it would be best to ask you directly.”
    â€œI am glad you did,” I say. “May I ask who has accused me?”
    He considers a moment, then gives me the names of the mothers of two of the boys I have recently interviewed. Both boys, the spirit told me, had been abused by their uncles. In one case I was blameless. I did nothing but cleanse his body with my own so as to help him heal. In the other I was admittedly a little overeager, but the Lord has forgiven me.
    â€œThose women have had a grudge against me since I was made provost,” I say. “I’m not surprised.”
    â€œIs that so?” he says.
    â€œI would have told you, but I never thought they would go this far.”
    â€œYou deny the accusations, then?”
    â€œOf course I deny them.”
    â€œYou have never had any sort of history of abuse?”
    By history, I assume he means have I ever been