Authors: Jane Haddam
True Believers (17 page)
“That police lieutenant called,” she said. “He's coming over here in about half an hour. I couldn't put him off. He said it was important.”
“That's all right,” Dan said. “They have to do what they have to do. Can I ask you a personal question?”
“You can ask me anything you like.”
“Have you been an Episcopalian all your life?”
Mrs. Reed blinked. “I'm not an Episcopalian at all. I'm a Methodist. I've been a Methodist all my life. Does that create some bar to my employment here?”
“Not at all.”
Mrs. Reed seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, and then thought better of it. “The lieutenant was very urgent. That was why I didn't put it off, even though you weren't around for me to check. I hope you aren't put out by it.”
“I'm not put out at all.”
“Well, then. Thank you, Father Burdock. I'll get back to my typing.”
Mrs. Reed went out and shut the door behind her. When she was in her office, the door between their two rooms never remained open. Dan rubbed his forehead again and thought that it had all seemed so simple when he was in the seminary, what he wanted to do, what he had to do. It had just been a question of making a decision, and never for a moment allowing himself to look away from the decision he had made.
It hadn't occurred to him, then, that loneliness could be like a black pit on the surface of the moon, cold and dead and silent, going on forever, so that all he had to look forward to were the sounds of himself making the bed creak in the night,
and of his own voice calling out the words of the Matins prayer in an empty kitchen.
and of his own voice calling out the words of the Matins prayer in an empty kitchen.
If there was one thing the Cardinal Archbishop of Philadelphia did not like, it was having to rely on someoneâanyoneâto do things for him. He had learned to accommodate the need in small things. He could let Sister Marie Claire type his letters and take his phone calls. He could let Father Doheny handle the negotiations about the electric bill and the talks with the reporters about upcoming archdiocesan celebrations and the schedule and curricula for the parochial schools. It was things like this, things that involved money, or reputation, or the future, that he could not let go of, even when he knew he should. He knew he should let go of this. He even tried to tell himself that he would have let go of it, if he had been able to, but it was a lie, and he was not good at self-deception. There was something a monastery taught you, especially a Carmelite one. When you entered, you took on the discipline of never again looking into a mirror, but you looked at yourself, all the time. It was incumbent on the man in his position to meet with major donors. The donors expected the courtesy. It was part of what they got in return for handing over their money. Even if it hadn't been, though, he would have wanted to be there when the deal was done. He could never trust the people around him to do what was right when it needed to be done. He could never feel sure that the important things would be handled if he didn't handle them himself.
In this case, of course, the problem was that the important things might not be handled if he did handle them himself. He was not in the mood for this now. He didn't have the patience. Worst of all, his nerves seemed to be strung so badly they were about to snap. He had too much on his plate today to coddle Andrew Sean OâReilly, the King of Discount Furniture, the man who Put Philly on the Home Furnishings Map. He had two strains of music running in his head, in that way that meant nothing he could do would get rid of them. One was the “Hosannah” from Bach's B Minor Mass. The other was the jingle from Andy's furniture ads. The ads ran every fifteen
minutes all night long from the end of the eleven o'clock news to the start of the network morning shows on every local station. It was as if Andy had decided to make himself famous in the only way he knew how, by making and starring in his own movie, except that it was a movie that lasted only thirty seconds. The Cardinal Archbishop thought his head was going to split open. It hurt that badly. If he had been able to do anything he wanted to do, he would have retreated to the chapel, put the Bach on so loudly they would have been able to hear it at Avery Point, and dropped out of sight for a week. Except, of course, that that wasn't what he would do if he could do anything at all. What he would really do was to let Andy O'Reilly know exactly where he stood in the grand drama that was Western Civilization, and in the even grander drama that was the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church.
minutes all night long from the end of the eleven o'clock news to the start of the network morning shows on every local station. It was as if Andy had decided to make himself famous in the only way he knew how, by making and starring in his own movie, except that it was a movie that lasted only thirty seconds. The Cardinal Archbishop thought his head was going to split open. It hurt that badly. If he had been able to do anything he wanted to do, he would have retreated to the chapel, put the Bach on so loudly they would have been able to hear it at Avery Point, and dropped out of sight for a week. Except, of course, that that wasn't what he would do if he could do anything at all. What he would really do was to let Andy O'Reilly know exactly where he stood in the grand drama that was Western Civilization, and in the even grander drama that was the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church.
Out on the street, a wino had started to walk on the edge of the sidewalk near the parked cars. Any minute now, the Cardinal Archbishop knew, he would begin to urinate on the tires. There was a cultural statement for you. You could think what you wanted about it, but it had a lot more directnessâand a lot more honestyâthan Andy O'Reilly's ads.
The door to the office opened and Father Doheny stepped in. “Your Eminence? Mr. O'Reilly's here. Finally. I put him in the conference room.”
“In a minute,” the Cardinal Archbishop said.
“When I was young, laypeople weren't late for appointments with cardinals. Not even if they had a pile of money.”
“You can't be thirty years old,” the Cardinal Archbishop said. “Mr. O'Reilly has us by the short hairs, and he knows it. He's behaving accordingly. You should never overestimate human nature. Celebrate it, when it exceeds expectations, but never overestimate it.”
“In this job, I end up underestimating it, I think. I'm certainly getting a bad impression of what its normal state is.”
“âI come not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'”
“He was God. He had a better grip on some things than I do.”
“True,” the Cardinal Archbishop said. He dragged himself away from the window and rubbed his temples. There was a
small bottle of ibuprofen in the filing cabinet. He went there, got it out, and swallowed two caplets without water. The worst thing would be for him to go into the conference room in this mood, with his head pounding.
small bottle of ibuprofen in the filing cabinet. He went there, got it out, and swallowed two caplets without water. The worst thing would be for him to go into the conference room in this mood, with his head pounding.
“Have you left him alone in there?” he asked Father Doheny.
Father Doheny shook his head. “Sister is in with him, pouring him coffee and murmuring at his every word. He's one of those people. Give him a nun in a traditional habit, and he goes totally to pieces.”
“And Sister Harriet thinks we want her back in a habit because we want toâwhat's the word?”
“Disempower. We want to disempower her,” Father Doheny said. “The word isn't in Sister Marie Claire's computer dictionary, so she's decided it's a mistake. Whenever Sister Harriet uses it in a letter, Sister Marie Claire circles it in red pen.”
“And lets Sister Harriet see it?”
“Not yet, but I'm waiting.”
The Cardinal Archbishop put the ibuprofen back into the filing cabinet. “I suppose we'd better go,” he said. “It seems to me to be a terrible way to spend the afternoon. Are we going to run through that press conference?”
“Probably. You know Andy.”
“I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.”
“I wish I could understand what it is that people like Andy want,” Father Doheny said.
The Cardinal Archbishop felt his mouth twisting into a grimace. “Self-respect,” he said shortly. Then he shook his head, to soften his tone, because it wasn't Father Doheny he was disgusted with, but himself.
The conference room was on the other end of this floor, in the corner where an office would have stood, but larger than any office in the building. It had windows on two sides and a thick pile carpet on the floor. The furniture consisted of a teakwood table, matching chairs, and a long low sideboard meant to serve as a place to park coffee and refreshments during meetings of boards and committees. There was coffee there now, in a big electric samovar to keep it warm, as well as china cups and saucers from the best set in the storeroom, and two large crystal plates piled high with cookies. Sister
Marie Claire had worked for a Cardinal before. She knew what was expected when significant donors came to call.
Marie Claire had worked for a Cardinal before. She knew what was expected when significant donors came to call.
Andy OâReilly was standing next to the conference table, balancing a china coffee cup on a china saucer. Sister Marie Claire was standing, too, and Andy wouldn't feel right about sitting as long as she was. He was a short, wiry, gnarled Irishman, the kind played in the movies by James Cagney and Michael J. Pollock. He had looked forty on the day he was born, and he would look forty forever afterward. He would also never stop moving. For the Cardinal Archbishop, watching Andy O'Reilly was physically painful. He jumped around constantly. When he was sitting down, all his muscles seemed to twitch at once.
Andy saw Father Doheny and the Cardinal Archbishop come in, and put his coffee cup down on the conference table. “Your Eminence! Father! I was just talking to the Sister here about the terrible state of the parochial schools!”
Andy O'Reilly was the only person the Cardinal Archbishop had ever met who spoke in exclamation points. Sister Marie Claire made ready to go.
“Mr. O'Reilly was expressing his great concern that our parochial schools give their students a solid grounding in religion,” she said. “I've told him I couldn't agree more.”
“Quite,” the Cardinal Archbishop said.
Father Doheny went to the sideboard. “Why don't you take some coffee and cookies with you, Sister? I know you're not hungry now, but in another hour or twoâ”
“That's very kind of you, Father, but I'm due at the refectory for a late lunch at any moment. If His Eminence doesn't need anythingâ”
“I'm more than fine, Sister,” the Cardinal Archbishop said.
Sister Marie Claire bowed slightly, then floated out as they watched her.
“That's the real thing,” Andy said, when the door clicked shut behind her. “Nuns in habits, looking like nuns. Not these women with blue suits on that look like lesbian social workers. Not that they really are lesbians. If you know what I mean, Your Eminence.”
“Quite,” the Cardinal Archbishop said again.
Father Doheny was beginning to look nervous, and the Cardinal Archbishop didn't blame him. Even with the ibuprofen,
even with his headache receding into memory, he was still being too stiff, and the last thing he wanted was to be too stiff to the kind of donor who wanted most desperately to be able to feel that he was in on the inner workings of his archdiocese. He gave himself a mental order to unlinkâdid those ever work?âand gestured to Andy to sit down. Then he sat down himself.
even with his headache receding into memory, he was still being too stiff, and the last thing he wanted was to be too stiff to the kind of donor who wanted most desperately to be able to feel that he was in on the inner workings of his archdiocese. He gave himself a mental order to unlinkâdid those ever work?âand gestured to Andy to sit down. Then he sat down himself.
“Well,” he said.
Andy got himself a cup of coffee and a saucer full of cookies, stacked high. He had to be one of those people who could eat endlessly without gaining weight.
“Look,” he said, sitting down and spreading out his things on the table. “I'm glad you got in touch with me. You know? I had no idea things were in the bad state they're in. It always sounds in the papers like you've got the whole thing taped.”
“We've got
some
of it taped,” Father Doheny said.
some
of it taped,” Father Doheny said.
“There are different problems that need to be solved,” the Cardinal Archbishop said. “One was, of course, the legal and ethical situation pertaining to the actions of the priests involved in the criminal behaviorâ”
“It wasn't criminal behavior then, was it?” Andy said. “Back in what, 1960 or whenever it was. It wasn't criminal behavior then.”
“I think it was criminal behavior,” Father Doheny said. “I think it was just handled differently at the time than we would handle it now.”
“And nobody is ever going to know if those people were telling the truth,” Andy said. “It's easy, I think, to file a lawsuit against a big institution like the Church. It pays, too. What did the archdiocese end up paying out? Millions of dollars, wasn't it?”
“Twenty six and a half million dollars over a period of ten years,” the Cardinal Archbishop said.
Andy banged his fist on the table, triumphant. “There, then. What did I say? And they could all have been lying. They could have made it all up. And they probably did. That whole bunch of them going to that gay church and getting their names in the papers. The Episcopalians have always had it in for the Catholics. I know you've got to honor the deals the old Archbishop made, Your Eminence, but if you ask me, his biggest mistake was caving in on the question of guilt. He
should have stood his ground. They couldn't have proved a thing. Not after all that time.”
should have stood his ground. They couldn't have proved a thing. Not after all that time.”
The Cardinal Archbishop had a sudden vision of himself, sitting in a high-ceilinged room in an office building in the Vatican, only an hour after the Holy Father had told him he was going to receive this appointment, watching two blackcassocked priests lay out for him the extent of the evidence that existed to prove that the priests accused were indeed guilty, and guilty over and over again.
His headache seemed to be coming back, fighting with the ibuprofen for pride of place in his skull. He said, “I'm afraid stonewalling on guilt would not have been possible. There was more actual evidence than you realize. Much more than was ever allowed to come out.”
“But how could there have been?” Andy demanded. “After all this time.”
“There was evidence
from
the time. Doctor's reports. Andâletters.”
from
the time. Doctor's reports. Andâletters.”
“Letters?”
“From three of the priests involved to some of the boys,” Father Doheny said.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Andy said.
The Cardinal Archbishop rubbed his temples. He did it very carefully, because part of him was convinced that if he did it the wrong way, it would make his reemerging headache worse. “The only mistake the old Archbishop made,” he said, “was in agreeing to financial arrangements the Archbishop was not equipped to handle. Those arrangements are now in place, and we cannot, for a number of reasons, change them. The result is that the archdiocese desperately needs money, and not the kind of money we generally need. To be specific, we need something on the order of a million dollars a year, over and above our usual intake.”
Andy Reilly blanched. “A million dollars a year? For how long? Can't the Vatican put in some of that?”
“If Rome wasn't putting in some of what we need,” the Cardinal Archbishop said, “we would need twice as much. And we need it for ten years.”
“Jesus Christ,” Andy said again.
The Cardinal Archbishop felt a sudden rush of meanspirited satisfaction. Andy O'Reilly had been caught up short.
This was entirely out of his league, and he was scared to death. The satisfaction receded almost immediately, to be replaced by a hot shame he was sure must have shown on his face. He hadn't become a priest to despise his parishioners. Andy O'Reilly was out of his chair and pacing around.
This was entirely out of his league, and he was scared to death. The satisfaction receded almost immediately, to be replaced by a hot shame he was sure must have shown on his face. He hadn't become a priest to despise his parishioners. Andy O'Reilly was out of his chair and pacing around.
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