Free The Tempest by James Lilliefors Page B

day for no evident reason, the result of cruel or random violence, indiscriminate disease, other ­people’s carelessness. “Why does God let them happen?” was for many ­people the defining question, the simplest and most persuasive argument against the existence of God. There were good answers in Scripture, but not the sorts of answers ­people wanted to hear. The good answers required patience, and the long, slow learning of a new language, a language of faith. There were better questions , too. Better than, “Why does God let them happen?” But that was a question that never went away; and on nights like this, when the tragedy felt personal, Luke even found himself, against his better judgment, trying to answer it.
    He surfed through the local news again, seeing that there was a short item now on the Channel 14 website: “Tidewater PD Investigates Fatal Fall.”
    An unidentified woman died tonight in an apparent accidental fall from the bluff at Widow’s Point in Tidewater County. The woman was discovered on the beach by a ­couple walking their dog at around 8:30. Details are pending.
    The bulletin was followed already by a ­couple of anonymous posters: “RIP.” And: “Sad story. Supoosely the lady’d been drinking?” Which drew another reply: “SUPOOSELY? WHOSE been drinking?”
    Luke glanced again at the darkness where Susan had fallen, thinking about the famous passage from James 4:14, comparing life to “a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” Maybe that would be his sermon.
    Realizing he hadn’t checked e-­mails for several hours, Luke called up his AOL account. Perhaps Susan Champlain had responded during the day, he thought. But she hadn’t.
    He logged on to his church account, checked e-­mails and spam, for something else to do.
    And there it was, in spam: an e-­mail from SWilkins79. Sent to him at 2:47 P.M. that afternoon.
    Wilkins was Susan Champlain’s maiden name.
    Luke’s heart began to race. He clicked open the e-­mail, and read the brief message she had sent him: Pastor Bowers, I’ll call this aft. Thanx for listening. These are the pix. Please keep in STRICT confidence until we can talk. SC.
    There were three photo attachments with the e-­mail, which was probably why it had been kicked into spam.
    Luke clicked on the first: side view of a large, paint-­chipped Victorian house. The second was a mangy field of weeds; in the distance a chain-­link fence and a basketball hoop, beyond it some buildings.
    The third he recognized right away: it was the image she’d shown him from her phone. The empty wooden room, two men talking, a mirror, a slant of sunlight.
    Moments later, the screen door squeaked, startling him. Sneakers’s toenails clicked enthusiastically onto the porch. Just behind him was Charlotte in her silk bathrobe and flip-­flops. She hadn’t turned on any lights.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she whispered. Her nose twitched and she made a face, detecting the bourbon. “Come to bed.”
    â€œCan’t sleep.”
    Charlotte leaned down so her face was touching his. Her skin felt warm and smooth.
    â€œThat’s the photo,” she said.
    â€œYeah. She sent it to me at church this afternoon. I just now found it.”
    â€œHow about that.” She straightened up, breathing in the air. Luke looked down at the line of surf again, to the darkness at Widow’s Point. “You better send it to Hunter,” she said.
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    He looked at the clock on the bottom of the screen. “Probably too late to call her now.”
    But, of course, it wasn’t.

 
    Chapter Nine
    A my Hunter looked more disheveled than usual Thursday morning, wearing a wrinkled blue men’s shirt, tails out, faded jeans, work boots, her dark medium-­length hair sticking up in back. A can of Diet Coke was on her desk, two