The Never List

full. We had lost all track of time and only now realized it was Sunday morning. Not the ideal time to make our visit. Nevertheless, we knew it had to be now. We pulled into the last empty space, and as we steppedout of the car, we eyed one another’s filthy black attire from the night before.
    “Will they even let us in there?” asked Tracy, looking down at the mud caked on her black Converse sneakers.
    “Sure,” I replied, even as I remembered Helen Watson’s less-than-welcoming attitude before. “I don’t think they can turn you away from a church service. I think it’s the rules. We’ll sit in the back.”
    We heaved open the huge wooden doors of the church. Strains of stately organ music filtered back toward us as we slowly made our way through the vestibule into the main chapel, where we found row after row of decent, normal-looking families listening attentively to the service.
    When the last hymn ended, the congregation sat back down, and the minister gave the final benediction. As people started filing out, smiling and nodding as they greeted their friends and neighbors—and even us—I was struck by the general sense of well-being emanating from the crowd, a sense of genuine community.
    I looked up at the tall windows of the church, admiring the long streaks of light streaming beatifically through them, and remembered my first visit. I braced myself, thinking Helen Watson’s welcome would not be quite as warm.
    At last the church was empty except for the minister putting away the prayer book at the altar. We approached him with some apprehension, realizing we weren’t exactly wearing our Sunday best. He paused and turned his eyes slowly to us, examining us carefully.
    “Can I help you?” he asked, without much enthusiasm, I noted.
    “We’re looking for Helen Watson. Is she around?”
    “Oh, yes,” he said, clearly relieved to be able to get rid of us so easily. “She’s hosting the coffee and doughnuts over in the reception room. Just through those doors.”
    We followed his directions and found ourselves at the entranceto a crowded room where Helen Watson stood greeting each family as they entered. When the last parishioner passed through the door, we started walking toward her. But the instant Helen Watson spotted me, her brows knit, and she quickly but gently shut the door to the reception room behind her and motioned for us to follow her down the hall.
    She led us to a small side chapel that seemed designed for quiet prayer and reflection. She closed the door of the room behind us, standing over us with arms crossed as she waited for us to sit down.
    She began with slow, considered words. “I don’t know who you really are, or why you are coming to my church again, but I have already told you I can’t help you find this Sylvia Dunham. I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. I have nothing to say. But if you absolutely must speak to me, I would most appreciate it if you would make an appointment. At another time.” She added, glancing up at the crucifix on the wall, “And place.”
    “Excuse me, Mrs. Watson. I do apologize for bothering you here, but it is rather urgent, and we didn’t know where else to find you,” I said.
    She said nothing, waiting expectantly for me to go on.
    “Mrs. Watson”—I decided to dive in—“you will soon read in the papers that Noah Philben is wanted by the FBI.”
    I thought I detected a flash of shock underneath her icy demeanor, but whatever she was feeling, she kept it tightly under wraps.
    “What does that have to do with me?”
    “Nothing. Except your name is going to come up in some way, eventually, when the police figure out your past with him. It won’t take them long.” She raised her eyebrows, still not giving anything away. “They’re raiding his compound as we speak.”
    At those words, I noticed that Helen Watson’s shoulders dropped the slightest bit, and she took in a quick, sharp breath. She wastrying to hide it, but this news was having a visible effect on her. Tracy saw it too.
    “You’re happy about that?” Tracy asked.
    Helen Watson paused, but then answered with some reluctance, “Yes, actually I am. I never … I never had a good feeling about … that organization.”
    “Why?” asked Christine, leaning forward.
    “To put it simply, I thought it was a cult. I’m not the only one who thinks that. But then, I don’t know anything about it.” She added hurriedly, “And the last thing I want to do is be