All the Dead Fathers (20 page)

35.

When Kirsten and Cuffs arrived at Villa St. George there was a seminary security officer sitting in a patrol car out front. They walked right by him to the front entrance. He didn't say anything, but she glanced back and saw that he was speaking into his radio. The entrance door was locked, and before she could press the bell Cuffs, surprisingly, produced a key.

“Where did you come up with that?” she asked.

He didn't say anything, but gave her a look which meant she'd rather not know. He unlocked the door and pulled it open and held it for her—an even bigger surprise—but then let it close behind her without coming inside himself.

She pushed the door open and went back out again, and he was already walking away. “Hey,” she said, “where are you going?”

He turned back, obviously surprised at her question. “To do the job you're paying me to do, which doesn't include having to actually
talk
to any of those … individuals. They're your friends, not mine.”

*   *   *

She went back inside and down the hall to Michael's room. She was exhausted, but she straightened up and put her game face on, and stepped into the room. All heads turned her way.

The eight remaining priests were there, just as Cuffs had said they'd be, sitting on folding chairs, most with drinks in their hands. Despite the liquor, there wasn't much chatter going on and they were even more subdued than the last time she was there. Several stood up, but she waved them back into their chairs. Michael pulled a Coke and a Sprite out of the cooler on his dresser and held them out. She took the Coke, for the caffeine—although she'd still have preferred that shot of Jack Daniels she'd been wanting.

She stood there a moment, not knowing how to get started, or whether they'd heard yet about Truczik. Finally she said, “You should know that Cuffs Radovich is back outside again, keeping watch.”

“When he left he told me to gather everyone here,” Michael said. “We know something's happened, but we don't know what.” He paused, then added, “Al Truczik's not here.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“He was playing golf,” Michael said, “like I told you. But he never—”

“I know. He's dead.”

A heavy silence settled over the room and she could tell that's what they had been fearing. “The police are on the scene,” she said. “And in addition to Cuffs, there's a security guard posted out in front of your building. You'll be safe tonight.”

“That's what you told us before,” said one of the others, the thin, light-skinned black man. “That we'd be safe. You said you and that Mr. Radovich would protect us. You said—”

“You're wrong, Father … what's your name?”

“Henshaw,” he said. “George Henshaw.”

“Anyway, Father Henshaw, I know
exactly
what I said. I told you there was safety in numbers, that you shouldn't be outside this building alone if possible. I told you I made no guarantees, but that the safest place you could be, especially at night, was right inside this building. That's what I said … and that's what I still say.”

“I'm not accusing you,” Henshaw said. “I'm just … you know…”

“You're scared,” she said, “and you should be. And Father Truczik might still be alive if he'd done what I suggested.”

“But Kirsten, he was playing golf,” Michael said. “In broad daylight, with lots of people around. And you said—”

“Right. But after the storm drove everyone inside, he let himself be talked into going back out again, alone, with no one else around. I'm not saying he's to blame. He's a victim.” She looked around the room. “But you can't do what he did. Not while the killer's still out there.”

“Al's pretty easily persuaded,” someone else said, “but I'm surprised even
he
would do something like that.” The others agreed.

“I'm not sure the police want me to tell you this,” Kirsten said, “but I'll tell you anyway. There was a phone message waiting for him when he came in, from a woman who pretended to be me.” A murmur went throught the room. “He called her back and whoever it was must have told him to meet her out on the golf course. So he went out there, in the storm, by himself, to a deserted spot. And … well … that wasn't a good idea.”

“Are you saying it was a woman?” Henshaw asked. “You really think the killer—”

“I'm not saying who the
killer
is. I'm telling you what happened. So please, be careful. And by the way, if I leave any of you a message, I'll identify myself as ‘Kirsten … from Kalamazoo.' Okay?”

Suddenly they were all talking at once, to each other and to her, getting louder and louder. Mostly they wanted to know when the police were going to catch whoever it was, and how hard were they trying.

“Hold on,” she said, “one at a time. The police insist they're working this case very hard. I know the FBI's involved. And I know the cops have some leads they're following up on.”

She went on, trying to reassure them. She didn't mention Detective Barlow's assessment that the investigators assigned to the Emmett Regan murder “didn't do shit” until the case turned into a “heater.”

She didn't tell them how Truczik died, either, but otherwise she answered all their questions as well as she could. Eventually, one by one, they left the room. Finally, when only Michael was left, she sighed and dropped into the one soft chair.

“You don't look so good,” he said.

“Just worn out.”

“I'm sure there are empty rooms where the nuns live. I can call over there and—”

“No, really, I'm tired, but too … psyched up, I guess … for sleep.” She stood up again. “Now that the storm's gone, it's actually pretty nice outside. That bench, out by the front entrance, I'm gonna go sit there a minute before I drive home. Sort of catch my breath.”

“Okay,” he said. “I'll sit with you.”

*   *   *

As soon as they stepped out the front door the security officer got out of his car and met them. “Sorry,” he said, speaking directly to Michael, “but they don't want you to leave the building, Father.”

Kirsten pointed to a park bench overlooking the lawn, not ten yards away. “We'll just be sitting over there a few minutes. Then I'm leaving.”

“I don't know,” the man said. “They told me—”

“Thank you.” She took Michael's arm and walked him to the bench, and the officer went back to his car.

The bench faced away from the building and they sat and she stared out across the lawn toward the darkness where she knew the trees started. She was tired and really wanted a few quiet minutes alone, but Michael had obviously wanted to come with her and she didn't have the heart to tell him no. The air was cool and refreshing, and smelled like freshly cut grass and wet wood. Neither of them spoke. She listened to the water dripping from the trees and the eaves of the building, then she gradually became aware of traffic sounds in the distance and rustlings and creakings from the nearby woods. And the chirp of what sounded like one lonely cricket.

She raised her head and the sky was black and filled with stars. “Nice night,” she said.

“Yes.” He looked around. “Do you think your man … Cuffs … is out there somewhere?”

“He's watching us right now, I'm sure of it. Like Santa Claus.”

“Or like God,” Michael said.

“I suppose.”

“I prefer the God idea to Santa Claus, because God doesn't care if we've been bad or—”

“Do you
really
think that?” She felt suddenly angry, and heard the edge of it in her voice. “That God doesn't
care
if we hurt people, or kill them, or … whatever?”

“God cares about that.”

“Well, you were just about to say that he doesn't care if we've been bad or good.”

“I guess I meant he still loves us.”

“Yeah, well, either he cares and it makes him mad, or he doesn't give a damn. You can't have it both ways.”

“Why not?” Michael said.

“Because that's the way it is, and because…” She didn't
know
why not. “How did we get into this? I should get going and—”

“Wait,” he said. “Don't drop it.”

“Drop what?”

“The subject. Just because it's big, and it makes you—makes us
both
—nervous. That's what we've been doing all along, for two years now. Dropping what makes us nervous. Like how you feel about what I did. Ever since I got sued, and you found out, we've never talked about it. Not really.”

She was way too tired to get into this, but turned to him anyway. “Fine,” she said. “Great. We'll talk about it right now. It happened.” She couldn't stop herself. “You were a priest. A young girl needed help. She trusted you. And you betrayed her and everything you supposedly stood for.” She took a breath. “And later you betrayed
me,
too, by not telling me. I looked up to you. I thought you were … you know … like a saint or something. You should have told me.” She stood up and stared out at the night, trying to catch her breath.

“I tried, Kirsten, many times. Not right away. I mean, I didn't see any reason to tell you down there in Florida when I went down to … when you had that problem. Why burden you with something so big right then? And we didn't even know each other all that well. Then later, when time passed and we got to be friends and…” He stopped and she turned to look at him, but he sat staring down at his fists, resting on his knees. “You were my niece, almost like a daughter to me, and I was afraid you'd hate me. Then the longer I kept it to myself, the harder it … Anyway, I always dropped it.” When she didn't answer, he said, “I know I should have told you, but I didn't.”

She almost walked away, then sat down again, but not looking at him. “You were a man of God,” she said. “Did you really think God didn't
care
about what you did with that girl?”

“Back then I wasn't thinking much of anything. I mostly don't even remember my thoughts. But of course I know he
did
care. A lot. It must have made him sad … if God gets sad.”

“What do you mean, ‘if'? You're the one who's supposed to
know
about God. Besides, in school we learned that God is perfect. So he can't get sad.”

“Maybe not. I don't know.”

His refusal to argue was frustrating, and she sat and listened awhile to the water dripping, and to the cricket. Finally she was too tired, too drained, to keep going. She stood up again and looked down at him. “There,” she said, “we talked about it. And I can't see that it's changed anything. What happened is all in the past, and … Anyway, things can never be like they were before.”

“No,” he said. He looked up at her, then turned and stared out into the dark. “I wish they could, but I guess not.”

Her anger was fading quietly into a deep sadness, and she suddenly had the feeling that if he stood up and turned toward her she wouldn't be able to keep from hugging him. She hoped he
would
stand up. She
wanted
to hug him.

But he didn't move, and she turned away and walked to her car.

36.

It was only ten o'clock, but there was no point in driving home, so Kirsten checked into a Days Inn a few miles from the seminary. She called Dugan in Asheville. She was anxious to hear his voice, but it was probably for the best that he wasn't in. She might have said too much, and she didn't want him leaving the conference and coming back here.

Well, she'd be thrilled if he
did,
actually, but … She left a cheerful message and said she'd try to reach him the next day, because she was tired now and going to bed. She said she hoped he didn't get a hernia splashing around in the hotel pool with his “team,” and hung up.

*   *   *

On Saturday morning she woke up early and had a huge, greasy, comfort-food breakfast in the hotel restaurant, then went back to her room. She was sifting through the possibilities as to who the killer might be when her cell phone rang. It was Michael. For a moment she was afraid he might try to continue the conversation from the night before. But that wasn't it. He called to say they'd just been told by the cardinal's man—the “vicar for priests,” Michael called him—that if they thought they'd feel safer somewhere else, for the time being they'd be allowed to live outside Villa St. George. They would have to check in by phone on a daily basis and be able to be reached easily.

“It's funny,” Michael said, “before this, we all wanted to get out of here. But now, under these circumstances, everything's changed.”

He told her the cardinal was promising additional twenty-four-hour security at the retreat house, with the whole seminary being put on “heightened alert.” Also, no media would be allowed anywhere on the grounds—in itself reason enough to stay. And finally, none of the priests had relatives anxious to take them in even under ordinary circumstances, and the risk that a serial killer might be a step behind was a bit too much to ask.

“So you're all staying there?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Good, and … uh … Michael, let's stay in touch.” She hung up.

So far, she hadn't said anything to anyone but Sergeant Wardell—and then, last night, to Cuffs—about the killer selecting victims in an order that spelled out her name. For one thing, there was no guarantee that the pattern would continue. And she didn't see how raising the issue with the priests would make them any safer. It might even make some of them relax their guard, while it would scare the hell out of both Michael, the only
N
on the list, and Anthony Ernest, the only one of the two
E
s who was staying at Villa St. George.