Murder at the National Cathedral (33 page)

Smith looked up at a white clock with black hands. Ten past ten. How long would Clarissa Morgan wait? He kissed his mother on the forehead and said, “I’ll stay until you’re asleep. Then I’ll go home, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

He went out to the nurses’ station, where the doctor was making notations on a chart that had been created for Smith’s mother. “You’ll operate tomorrow?” Smith asked.

“Yes. I’ve already scheduled the O.R. for eight o’clock.”

“How long does this kind of surgery take?”

“A couple of hours. I think we can fix your mother up just fine, although she will have a long period of convalescence.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you very much, Doctor. I know she’s in good hands. I’ll stay with her for a while.”

When he finally did leave, Smith’s focus was on getting to his meeting with Clarissa Morgan, and he forgot about his intention to call home. He went directly to his car, sat back, and had a sudden urge for a cigarette he hadn’t had in fifteen years, told himself what happened to his mother could have been worse, and drove from the emergency-room parking lot in the direction of the National Cathedral.

*   *   *

While it had made sense in the beginning to seek refuge in the cathedral, and to choose the Jerusalem altar because it was the least likely place anyone would come at night, it now occurred to Joey Kelsch that he couldn’t just sit there for the rest of the night—for the rest of his life. He’d heard voices, some of them outside and amplified. They sounded like the police. Were they searching for him? That thought caused him to shudder. If they really searched for him, they would certainly find him, even if it took a day or two, and they would ask him lots of questions. They’d hear his voice and maybe remember the voice of the person who’d called to report Reverend Singletary’s murder.

He had to find someone, tell someone.

Bishop St. James. He was a nice man who would listen, and would protect him.

Joey stood and peeked over the altar. Outside, powerful lights came and went, piercing stained glass and throwing bizarre, grotesque patterns of color over the nave’s stone grayness. Joey decided to leave his suitcase where it was, but he did pick up the kneeling pad and slowly came around from behind the altar with it. He paused, went to the communion rail, and laid the pad from where he’d taken it, in front of a plain block of wood that represented Judas; the rail was made up of eleven other carved blocks, each bearing the figure of a saint.

He tiptoed away from the rail and down the long center aisle, passed the elaborately carved oak choir stalls, and reached the crossing—the cathedral’s center—its four gigantic sustaining piers rising up almost a hundred feet, though it seemed to Joey they went to heaven. He had always been impressed with how big the cathedral was, but at this moment it seemed to have grown tenfold, as if it had suddenly been filled with helium gas and expanded like a ponderous gray balloon. He’d never felt so tiny before, a speck upon the floor. He looked down; he was standing on the Crusader’s Cross, the cathedral’s special symbol.

He seemed so small and alone. Then, somehow, it was as if he felt a presence, but not a scary one, just a kind of all-encompassing and powerful one. He couldn’t see a face, but he knew it was there, gentle, smiling, sort of saying, “Everything will be all right, Joey. Go now and do what you must.”

He walked to the south transept and down a set of steps to the gift shop and information center, where he knew there was a pay phone. He pulled a small notepad from his rear pocket and opened it to where pieces of paper were inserted. One of them was a list of cathedral clergy and their office and home numbers. They were all there, including the bishop. His heart raced as he found a quarter in his pocket, lifted the handset, and inserted the coin. When he heard the dial tone, he squinted at the touchtone pad and carefully punched in the bishop’s home number, hoping not to make a mistake. It was his only quarter.

“Hello,” Mrs. St. James said.

Joey gulped.

“Hello, who is this?”

“Ma’am, is Bishop St. James at home?”

“No, he’s not. Who’s calling?”

“Ma’am, this is Joseph Kelsch. I go to school here.”

Had Eileen St. James been visible to him, Joey would have seen her stiffen at the mention of his name. She said, “Yes, Joseph, how nice of you to call. Where are you?”

“I’m … I really need to see the bishop right away. It’s very important.”

“I’m sure it is. Are you near the cathedral?”

“No, ma’am, I’m—” A searchlight swung past the window, its beam bathing the small black alcove in harsh light. Joey’s grip on the handset tightened, and he stopped breathing.

“Joseph, please tell me where you are. I’ll have the bishop come to you right away.”

“I don’t know.… Could you tell me where he is, please, and I’ll go to him.”

Mrs. St. James realized she was going to lose contact, and decided to give him what he wanted. “The bishop is in his study in the cathedral, Joseph. He has a meeting, and he’s going to work very late. You could go see him there.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

There was a pause.

“Deposit fifteen cents for an additional three minutes.”

Joey hung up and flattened against the wall as the light once again intruded upon his safe place. He’d never been to the bishop’s study, but he knew where it was. He started to leave the alcove but the light came back again and illuminated everything. He crouched below the small booth that housed the telephone and tried to decide what to do next. Was he doing the right thing by going to see the bishop? Maybe he should just go home and forget about it—
try
to forget about it. And so he remained there, huddled and tense, and thought about it.

Clarissa Morgan’s message on the machine had confirmed the time and place for them to meet. “The Good Shepherd Chapel,” he had said, reasoning that it was sure to be open—the murder had not changed cathedral policy in that regard—and was indoors. No sense having either of them waiting outside in the drenching cold rain pouring over Washington. He was aware of the macabre aspect of meeting there, but it still struck him as a logical place. Also, he wanted to detect any sign of resistance.

Clarissa had agreed.

Now, as she sat alone in the chapel, her mind was filled with conflicting thoughts. She was growing angry at Smith for not being there. It was getting late. Was this some nasty way of getting even with her for skipping out of London on him? No, he wouldn’t be that childish. He was a grown man, and a respected attorney and professor. Something must
have happened. She’d wait, but not more than another fifteen minutes.

Simultaneously, she thought of Paul. Whenever she did, her emotions shifted between sadness and anger. He was so prone to becoming involved with the wrong people—always the wrong people. She’d pointed that out to him repeatedly, but he never listened. Oh, he placated her from time to time, told her that he was seriously considering disengaging, but he never did, and she’d reached the point where only ultimatums were left. How many of those she had issued him, the most recent when they’d flown together to Washington from London.

His announcement came as a total surprise to her the morning after his disappointing meeting at Lambeth Palace. She’d gone out early to the greengrocer’s, leaving him sleeping in her bed. When she returned, he had showered and dressed.

“I have to go back to Washington immediately, Clarissa,” he’d said.

“I thought you were going to the country today.”

“My plans have changed.”

She asked why, but he was evasive. Because she was a neat and orderly person, it was not difficult to ascertain when something in the flat was out of place. He’d obviously used the telephone while she was out. It must have been a call that prompted his sudden change in plans.

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

“I prefer that you don’t.”

They fought about it, and eventually he gave in, albeit without enthusiasm, and made two reservations. He’d remained angry until they’d settled in their seats and the flight was over the Atlantic. Then he became more agreeable once again. Clarissa recalled that his change in attitude coincided with the pretty little flight attendant’s flirting with him. Her lips tightened. He was such a fool for a pretty face and trim figure, so easily seduced by red lips and pert breasts. She
knew; she hadn’t had any problem seducing him. Then, of course, it had been a deliberate act that had nothing to do with being attracted to him, nothing to do with wanting to establish a real intimacy with this surprisingly handsome man of the cloth. But it had progressed, as those things sometimes do, until she was in love with him, madly, desperately, insanely in love with him.

The tightness of her mouth softened almost into a smile as she thought of Brett Leighton’s warning to her about that very thing. “Remember, Clarissa,” he’d said, “we simply want to know everything he’s doing in Word of Peace. We simply want to know who he’s involved with and what they’re doing. Keep it at that, Clarissa. It’s a job, one you might even find pleasant, but nothing more than a job.”

She’d laughed at Leighton that day, which made him angry. By then, she’d done his bidding before and had seduced those men he wanted seduced so that secrets and information might be transmitted over pillows damp with love. She’d already become jaded and wanted out when she took on the “Singletary assignment” as one last job. After love transcended simple lust, she wanted Paul to take her out of the game that had become distasteful, wanted him to love her, too, to commit himself to her. Which he said he would do, but he had not lived long enough to carry it off.

And so what was left?

Very little.

It was getting later.

Wetter Yet

George St. James ended his phone conversation with his wife and said to those with whom he was meeting, “Thank God. That was Eileen. She received a call from Joey Kelsch a few minutes ago.”

“Wonderful,” said one of the chapter members. “Where is he?”

“The boy wouldn’t tell her. He insists upon seeing me. She told him I was working here late. I suspect he’ll be by soon.”

Canon Wilfred Nickelson, who’d been packing personal belongings in the choir room, had stopped off to leave a forwarding address with the bishop and clear up a few other details, and heard St. James make his announcement. “You say he’ll be here soon?” Nickelson asked.

“Unless he decides not to come.”

“Excuse me,” Nickelson said. “Sorry to have interrupted.”

“You know, Wilfred, we will miss you,” St. James said. Nickelson’s announcement of his hasty departure had only added to St. James’s generally depressed mood of late. It had been suggested that a big going-away party be held for Nickelson, but a thunderous lack of interest on the part of the cathedral staff caused St. James to offer a modest one, which Nickelson had declined. But the call from Eileen had lifted his spirits. At least the problem of a missing student would soon be over. He suddenly found it easier to forgive his choirmaster.

Nickelson appeared to be flustered by the kind words. He was well aware that his short notice had not sat well with St. James or with others in the cathedral. He said, “Thank you, Bishop. I’ll miss you, too.”

As Nickelson left the study, Annabel’s African king turned off Wisconsin and drove into the cathedral close. She had expected to arrive at a virtually deserted cathedral at this hour. Instead, there were MPD cars everywhere, and lights played over plantings on the grounds.

Annabel paid the driver and stood on the steps of the south transept, wondering where Mac would have arranged to meet Morgan. The time would have helped determine that. The cathedral was locked after dark unless a special religious event was taking place. He might have opted for an outside rendezvous. No, not in this weather. She pulled her raincoat collar up around her neck and wished she’d had the good sense to bring a hat and umbrella.

Mac would probably—and she knew she was trying to project herself into his mind—would probably have suggested meeting in the Good Shepherd Chapel because of the easy, twenty-four-hour access to it. It dawned on her that she would not have to circumvent the cathedral to reach the outside door off the garth. Because of all the activity, every door to the cathedral was open. She could take an interior route.

As she was about to go through the south entrance, she
spotted Chief of Homicide Finnerty coming out of the Herb Cottage, a gift shop selling herbs harvested from the cathedral gardens. “Chief,” she shouted, coming down the stairs.

“Mrs. Smith. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for my husband. What’s going on?”

“Searching for a missing boy.”

“What missing boy?”

“Joseph Kelsch. Mac didn’t tell you?”

“No. I haven’t seen him.”

A uniformed officer came out of his squad car and ran up to them. “Chief, the kid is okay. Headquarters just got a call. The kid called the bishop’s house and has arranged to meet him tonight.”

“Jesus,” Finnerty said. “We spend the night getting soaked out here and the kid calls up? Terrific.”

Annabel looked at him incredulously. “Isn’t it wonderful he’s been found?” she said.

“Yeah, usual runaway stuff and I’ve got a whole squad out here catching pneumonia.”

“By the way, why are
you
here?” Annabel said. “I thought you were in charge of Homicide.”

Finnerty put his hands on his hips and looked at her as though she’d mispronounced a simple word. “Mrs. Smith, because of the reverend getting it, I’ve picked up this cathedral as permanent duty. Anything happens here, they call me no matter what—murder, a kid sneaking off to a dirty movie without telling his parents, a pickpocket working communion, I get it, and I’ll be glad when I don’t. Excuse me, I want to pull my men off and go see the bishop.”

Annabel watched the little detective swagger away, barking orders as he walked. She went up the stairs, entered the cathedral, and tried to get her bearings. She knew where the Good Shepherd Chapel was, but was confused for the moment about how to get there. She considered returning to the outside, but the incessant sound of rain changed her mind. She started across the dimly lighted nave, the squishing
sound of water being squeezed out of the crepe soles of her shoes coming back at her loudly, as though tiny microphones in the laces were picking it up and amplifying it through speakers in her ears.