Father of Lies by Brian Evenson

formally charged. “Never,” I say.
    â€œLook me in the eyes to tell me,” he says.
    I turn my head to look at him, find that he has opened his eyes wide, is staring me steadily down. It is theatrics, I know, the same tactics I use at times in my own interviews, but still I cannot help but feel the weight of his gaze. I dislike it. It makes me feel cornered, like an animal.
    â€œI didn’t do it,” I say, holding my eyes steady.
    â€œYou wouldn’t lie, would you?” he asks. “You know it is damnation to deceive the Lord over a matter of such magnitude, especially considering your ecclesiastical position.”
    â€œI am an honest man,” I say.
    â€œLook me in the eyes and tell me again,” he says.
    I look him straight in the eyes without flinching. “I have never abused anyone,” I lie. “Sexually or otherwise.”
    He sits regarding me for several minutes.
    â€œI believe you,” he finally says. “That’s all the proof I need. I would never have believed ill of you in any case. I was convinced of your innocence from the first.”
    â€œI am innocent,” I say.
    â€œYou’re the sort of man who could be an apostolic elder some day. That’s what I’ve always thought. A shame how people accuse men of your caliber,” he says. “Pure viciousness. You will have all the support I can muster.”
    â€œI bet those boys were never abused by anyone.”
    â€œNo,” he says. “One of the women has a medical report which documents it. It would make you sick to read it. At least one of the two boys was viciously raped. You didn’t do it, but somebody did.”
    â€œAwful,” I say. “Who would do such a thing?”
    â€œYes,” he says. “Whoever did it deserves to be killed.”
    â€œSomebody in the neighborhood, perhaps?”
    â€œCould be,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe a relative.” He crosses his legs. “I will tell the boys’ mothers that I have thoroughly investigated the situation and find you blameless.”
    â€œIf the women won’t let it drop, will you let me know?” I ask.
    â€œI will,” he says. “I’ll discourage them, try to convince them of their mistake. If they keep it up, I’ll have to classify their behavior as unchristianlike conduct. We can excommunicate them for that. But I hope, for their sakes, they’ll repent before it goes that far.”
    He stands up and thrusts his hand forward.
    â€œKeep up the good work,” he says.
    â€œI will,” I say, shaking his hand. “You can count on me.”

CHAPTER 5
    Funeral
    I meet the dead girl’s parents in my office at the church just before the funeral service. I shake hands all around, offering condolences to each member of the family.
    â€œThese are always the most difficult deaths to accept,” I say. “Funerals for the young. It was not her time, but somebody chose to take her away from this life. You can be sure that the guilty will be punished by God.”
    The father nods, the rest of them too—even the brother, I see, expert at not revealing his guilt. He is a slippery character.
    â€œThe matter of the murder is in God’s hands,” I say. “You have to get past this. You cannot live on hate. You must live on love. There are questions likely never to be resolved for you about your daughter’s death, questions for which neither you nor I will ever know the answer. You must let go.”
    The girl’s mother, face tear run, nods. The children and the father remain sullen.
    â€œFunerals should be a happy time,” I say. “Even in circumstances such as these. Do not forget that your daughter is with God. That’s something to be happy about.”
    We pray together and I stand holding the door open, shaking their hands as they file past. I stop the brother, grip his hand