“Can you take a look at the pictures of these two kids?” I said.

Click cupped the photographs of Cindy Kershaw and Seymour Bell in his palm and studied them. Studied, not glanced at or simply looked at. He studied them long enough to give himself time to think about his next statement and time enough to make me believe he was doing everything in his power to help us.

“No sir, I can’t say that I’ve seen them,” he replied. “They could have sat in my congregation at one time or another, but I don’t remember them.”

He tried to return the photos to me, but I didn’t take them. Instead, I continued to look into his face without speaking.

“Wish I had more information for you, but it doesn’t look like I do,” he said.

“You’re sure about that?” I said.

“Nobody can be absolutely sure about anything, except faith in the Lord. But in this case, I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen these people.”

I removed the photos from his hand and placed them in my shirt pocket. The wind was blowing through the canyon, stiffening an air sock at the end of the mowed runway. Clete had not spoken. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth but did not light it. His gaze was fixed on the front doorway of the farmhouse. “That your daughter?” he said.

“No, she’s an assistant. In our campus ministry program,” Click said.

“We’d like to talk with her,” I said.

“She’s a mite shy. She’s had an unfortunate life. Her father was a drug addict and died in prison, and her mother became a street person in San Francisco. I created a little job for her helping out with my paperwork and such. She takes care of the yard and the plants while I’m gone, too. She’s a good kid, and I hate to see her drug into something like this.”

“Where’d she get that little wood cross around her neck?” Clete asked.

There was a beat like wheels stopping for an instant behind Sonny Click’s eyes. “A number of youth ministers wear them on the UM campus,” he said.

“Ask her to come over here, sir,” I said.

“Fay, these gentlemen are here about that tragedy at the university. I’ve told them everything we know, but they thought maybe you-”

“At this point you need to be quiet, Mr. Click,” I said.

“You don’t need to take that tone. It’s ‘Reverend,’ too, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Look, this other man here didn’t show me his identification.”

Clete took out his gold PI badge, which, like most of them, was bigger, more baroque, and more visually impressive than any state or county or federal law enforcement ID. “Have you ever visited Louisiana?” Clete said. “We’ve got the most famous faith healer in the country right there in Baton Rouge. Know what I can’t ever figure? Instead of curing people onstage, why doesn’t this guy go to emergency wards and hospitals and sanitariums where people are really in need of help? You know, rip the oxygen masks off their faces and tell them to get up and boogie? Walk over to my car with me, will you? My cigarette lighter must have fallen out on the seat.”

In the meantime, I walked to the porch, into the shade, where the girl was watching us. She wore cutoff blue jeans and a plain T-shirt and Indian moccasins with soles, the kind sold to tourists in reservation stores. She was heavyset and plain and big-breasted, with no expression at all, wearing a cross and leather cord that was exactly like the one Seymour Bell had probably worn the night of his death. She said her name was Fay Travis, and she lived in a dormitory on the university campus.

I showed her the photos of Bell and Cindy Kershaw. Then one of those strange and unexpected moments occurred, the kind that makes you feel every human being carries a secret well of sorrow whose existence he or she daily denies in order to remain functional. When she lifted her eyes to mine, I felt, rightly or wrongly, that I could see right into her soul. “You knew them?” I said.

Her eyes looked in Click’s direction. “I saw them around the campus. Maybe in the Student Union sometimes.”

“Did you see them other places?” I asked.

“You mean on campus?”

“No, I don’t mean that at all. I think you know what I mean.”

“What are you saying to me?” she asked.

“Don’t be afraid of this man.”

“I’m not. He’s good to me.”

“Don’t look at him, look at me. Reverend Sonny Click is a fraud and a bum. I think you’re a good person, Miss Travis. Don’t let this man use you. Were Cindy Kershaw and Seymour Bell here at the reverend’s house?”

I saw her swallow. I stepped into her line of vision so that she was facing me and not Sonny Click.

“At the end of the spring semester, the campus ministers met a few times for coffee at the Student Union. Brother Click was there as a guest. But I don’t remember Seymour or Cindy coming out to the house.”

“But he knew them?”

“Yes sir. He talked with them. He’s real good with young people.”

“Where did you get the wood cross?” I asked.

“From Brother Click.”

“Did he tell you not to talk about Seymour and Cindy?”

“He just said we should pray for them.”

I bet he did, I thought.

I removed one of my Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department business cards from my wallet and made an X through the printed information on it, then wrote my cell number and Albert Hollister’s home number on the back.

“You call me if you have any other information about Seymour and Cindy,” I said. “My wife and I will do whatever we can to help you. Do you understand what I’m saying? You get away from this guy, Miss Travis. He’s a predator, pure and simple. He’ll continue to hurt you as long as you allow him to.”

“Why are you saying that? He hasn’t hurt me.”

In her eyes I could see the lights of shame and denial and self-resentment, and I tried to remember Saint Augustine’s admonition that we should never use the truth to injure. “What I’ve told you is in confidence. Reverend Click didn’t hear us. You don’t have to be afraid – not of me, not of him, not of anyone.”

She turned her face to the wind, pretending to brush at something that had caught in her eye.

“What are you majoring in?” I asked.

“Pre-veterinary, but I might have to drop out. My student loan didn’t come through.”

I wanted to wish her well and pat her on the arm, but I didn’t want to send a signal to Click that one of his youth ministers had cooperated with the investigation at his expense. I put away my notebook and said goodbye to Fay Travis and walked back toward Click, trying to keep my emotions at bay. But how do you do that when you encounter a grown man who is probably sexually exploiting a young woman who can barely scrape together enough money to pay her college tuition?

“Before we go, Reverend, did you ever visit that religious store downtown?” I asked.

“I may have, but not recently.”

“You didn’t buy one of those little crosses for Seymour Bell?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Mercury.”

“What color is it?”

“Midnight blue. Why?”

“No reason. Have a good day. We’ll be checking back with you later.”

“I think you’re wasting your time. I don’t think I need to have any more conversations with you, either.”

The wind changed and seemed to become colder, smelling of animal dung and dead fish in the cottonwoods down on the riverbank. I stepped closer to Sonny Click, as though we were intimates, as though I feared my words would be smudged by the wind, their meaning lost on a man who long ago had abandoned moral nuances.

“I don’t want to offend you, Reverend, but I despise men like you. You hijack Christianity and use it to manipulate trusting souls who have no other place of refuge. If I find out you’re sexually abusing that young woman over there, I’m going to come back here and shove you into your own airplane propeller. It’s not personal. It’s just one of those situations when the shit really needs to hit the fan.”