by Ann McMan
“I want your ass back here no later than tomorrow afternoon. You want to make another booty call? You can do it on your own dime. Understood?”
He didn’t reply.
“I’m not kidding,” she added. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll fucking be there. Jesus Christ, woman.”
“Good. So, what’s the story?”
“Well.” She could hear Ben take a drag off his cigarette. “He’s dead.”
“No shit, Sherlock. What happened?”
“Shirley said he complained about a stomachache during the night, and the nurse gave him Panadol to help him sleep. They found him on the floor of his room in the morning, rolled up in a fetal position. He’d been dead more than an hour. X-rays showed that he had twenty-eight micro-pin finishing nails in his intestines—along with a cardboard piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The nails cut up his insides pretty bad. He’d bled to death before they found him.”
“Holy shit.” Evan was incredulous. “He swallowed nails?”
“Micro pin nails,” Ben clarified. “They’re like tiny brad tacks. Usually fired from a nail gun so you don’t see them after they’re shot into trim boards.”
“Where the hell did he get those?”
“They don’t know. Shirley said there had been some carpenters on his ward, remodeling a storage closet. Miller might’ve lifted a pack of them from a tool bucket.”
“How could he even swallow those?” she asked.
“They were stuck inside some candy bars—apparently, a lot of ’em. They found a pile of wrappers on the floor beside his bed.”
Candy bars? Holy shit . . . it made sense. Miller swallowed them whole, without chewing.
“How do they know the tacks were in the candy?”
“Because,” Ben continued, “there was a paper bag on his bedside table that had a bunch more of ’em. After they found the shit inside Miller, they went back and x-rayed the candy in the bag. And all of it was full of tacks.”
“Somebody put the nails inside the candy bars?”
“They think he did it himself.” Ben coughed. “Jesus, it’s fucking cold up here.”
“You’re outside?”
“Yeah. This goddamn motel is nonsmoking.”
Evan closed her eyes. Ben and Shirley shacked up at some fleabag motel was not a mental image she needed.
She changed the subject. “Why are they calling this a suicide?”
“Beats the fuck outta me. Shirley says his family didn’t give a rat’s ass about his death, so maybe the coroner didn’t think it was worth the time or trouble to investigate it as a wrongful death. Poor bastard.”
“Yeah.” Evan had to agree. “Poor bastard.”
“That’s not all,” Ben began.
“What do you mean?”
“I did a little snooping around. Remember all that woo-woo shit Ping was going on about?”
“You mean about the hospital and all the paranormal activity?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Turns out she was right—at least about the underground tunnels. Some ass-wipe even mapped the damn things. There’s a fucking two-hour, YouTube video tour. It’s pretty goddamn creepy down there, lemme tell you.”
“Wait a minute.” Evan said in disbelief. “You went down into those tunnels?”
“Of course. Isn’t that what you pay me for? To do the dirty shit nobody else wants to touch?”
Evan thought about Shirley. Maybe Ben did deserve a little perk now and then.
“What’d you find down there?” she asked.
Ben huffed. “Rat shit. Mildew. Cast-off furniture from the ’50s. It looks like Norman Bates lives down there—with his fucking mother.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, yeah. One of those tunnels led to a set of stairs that went right up into the ward Miller was on. The door at the top had a busted padlock on it. It looked like somebody used a pair of bolt-cutters on it—and recently. The metal shavings were clean.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. The door opened into some kind of tiny-ass linen closet. There was a set of metal shelves loaded with sheets and shit in front of it, but it was easy to force out far enough to squeeze past. So if somebody did decide to wax your buddy Miller, they had a way to get inside without being seen.”
It was a lot to take in. Evan had no doubt now that Miller had been murdered.
But why?
Her mind was bouncing around like a rental car on one those goddamn back roads.
“Are you still there?” Ben asked, impatiently.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Evan took a second to try and clear her head. “Should we tell the local cops?”
“That I broke into the hospital and now have a cockamamie theory about how Miller got taken out by some fucking ghost? Sure. They’d totally believe it—not. They don’t give two fucks. And if you ask me, the crazy schlemiel is better off dead. It’s not like he was gonna get outta this place any other way.”
“I guess so.” But did she agree with Ben? Was it right not to share what they suspected about Miller’s death?
“Maybe I’ll run it by Dan, and see what he says.”
“Yeah. You do that.” She could hear Ben take another deep drag on his cigarette. “Now if we’re finished here, I’ve got some other business to take care of—and it’s costing me eighty-five bucks an hour.”
Evan blinked. “She’s charging you by the hour?”
“Not her, asshole. The motel. Jesus.”
“Sorry. Yeah. You go do . . . whatever it is you plan to do. And Ben?”
“What?”
“At least buy her dinner, man.”
“Hey? What kind of cheap bastard do you think I am? There’s a dog-n-cat delivery joint about a mile up the highway from here.”
Dog-n-cat was Ben’s offensive shorthand for Chinese takeout.
“You’re a class act, Rush. Make sure you use protection.”
He snorted. “I don’t need ‘protection.’ Her tits ain’t the only thing on her that’s been fixed.”
“TMI, man.” Evan closed her eyes. “I’m signing off now.”
“Later.”
The line went dead.
Evan sat holding her cell phone against her ear, staring at—nothing—for the better part of a minute.
Then she took a deep breath and called Dan.
Chapter Six
Tim waited for Stevie outside the security screening area at Terminal E. He was glad he had arrived early because her flight from Albany landed fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. That was good news—and not simply because they’d have a better shot at getting a jump on Friday night traffic heading out of town. The simple truth was that he was anxious and impatient to see her.
Stevie was more than just his goddaughter. She was a confounding and beautiful amalgamation of the best parts of Evan—Evan, who had always been his confidant and defender. But there was a big difference between them. Stevie was blissfully untainted by the darkness that sometimes clung to Evan like a second skin. Much of that darkness derived from Evan’s childhood, and the fractious nature of her on-again, off-again relationship with her mostly absentee mother. The lingering damage she sustained from the dysfunctional roller coaster ride she’d endured during her formative years colored nearly everything in Evan’s life—everything but Stevie.
And now, Julia’s sustained presence was adding even more proof that Evan’s darkest days were behind her.
It was ironic. Growing up, Evan always teased him with the nickname “Sunny,” because his family was, in her words, “so damn boring and predictable.” That never bothered him—not until his interior life became murkier and a lot less certain. But Tim never shared that change with her—or with anyone else. Instead, he poured his heart and all of his energy into nurturing the first stirrings of his calling. Once he realized he’d never be in a position to benefit from any of the “special assistance” Father Szymanski and his business associates dangled before the other boys like unholy idols, he spent mor
e time internally focused—brooding about his own mortality and purpose. In his youthful mind, the decision to pursue a vocation existed on an entirely different plane than the frightening glimpse he’d had of what surely had been taking place between Father Szymanski and some of his classmates. After he’d willfully turned his face away from those horrors, he quickly became desensitized to any evidence of impropriety in the Church. That led him to stumble blindly toward his future in a burlesque imitation of Lot, who fled his own land of decay and debauchery with his eyes shut tight.
Tim had unwittingly sworn obeisance to an unholy pact of silence—but, somehow, he understood that if ever he dared look back, he’d be immobilized for all eternity.
A useless pillar of salt.
Stevie though? Stevie wasn’t like that at all. Stevie faced her demons—and everyone else’s—with wide-eyed candor and unbridled optimism. She was confident. Opinionated. And blessedly unspoiled.
Tim prayed she’d always remain that way—even though he knew such an outcome wasn’t likely. She’d be heading off to college soon, and her world, along with her choices, would increase exponentially. In the meantime, he was determined to spend as much time with her as he could, and to treasure their sweet and playful interactions. If Evan was like the sister he’d never had, then Stevie was the closest thing he could imagine to a daughter.
One he now owed twenty bucks . . .
He felt inside his front pocket for the folded bill. He knew she’d expect him to pay up right away.
What a stupid bet. He should’ve known that Holy Cross would never beat Boston College.
A throng of tired-looking travelers began to file past him. Most of them were lugging rollaboards and carrying overstuffed bags. There were quite a few teenagers—all in a hurry. He supposed that Stevie wasn’t the only one making her way home for the holidays.
He saw a flash of lime green. It was attached to the arm of someone who was energetically waving at him. She bobbed in and out of sight as she made her way up the concourse.
He waved back.
One thing Stevie had in common with Evan was her bizarre fashion sense. In most other ways, she took after Dan. Tall. Dark hair and brilliant green eyes.
He stepped forward to greet her. She dropped her backpack and hurled herself at him.
“Hey there, Papasan.”
He hugged her back. “Howdy, shortstop.”
Stevie buried her face in his jacket. “You smell like tacos.”
“Sorry. I had a late lunch.” She bent down to retrieve her backpack, but Tim picked it up. “I’ll carry that. Do you have a checked bag?”
“Nope. Just this.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I have enough stuff at Mom’s to manage.” She gave him a wry smile. “She didn’t fool me with the whole plane ticket thing. I knew she didn’t want me to lug all my dirty laundry home.”
They were making their way toward the terminal exit.
“Maybe she just wanted you to get home sooner.”
Stevie shrugged. “Maybe.” She elbowed him. “Where’s my money, Bucko?”
Tim laughed and dug the bill out of his pocket. He passed it over to her. “I swear. You could have a great career as a bookie.”
Stevie snatched the bill from him and held it in front of her nose. “Ahhhhh. The sweet scent of victory.”
“What-ever. Do not spend that on riotous living.”
“What the heck is that?”
“Ask your mother.”
“Right. Ohhhh. Pretzels. Can we get one?”
Tim followed her gaze. “Why the hell not?” He took hold of her arm and steered them toward the vendor cart she’d spotted. It was set up next to the tenth Starbucks they’d passed since leaving Terminal E. “Are you hungry?”
“Duh.”
He chuckled. “Me, too.”
“I thought you just had tacos?”
“Yeah. And your point would be?”
“Right. Mom is cooking tonight. We should both load up.”
They ordered their pretzels. Stevie got extra mustard on hers. Tim was surprised when she used his twenty to pay for them.
“I’d have gotten those for us.”
“Forget about it.” She collected her change from the mustached vendor. He looked a lot like Luigi from Super Mario Bros. “You can share the wealth when we stop at Wawa.”
“We’re stopping at Wawa?”
Stevie looked at him sideways before taking a big bite of her soft pretzel. The smear of mustard left a yellow trail along her upper lip. “Don’t you wanna get something that’s actually edible for later? I thought I’d get a couple of Shorties.”
Tim thought about it. Evan actually was a great cook, although her choices tended toward the exotic. Lately, she’d been on an Ethiopian kick, and the last few meals he’d had with her had been somewhat . . . eclectic.
“Good idea. We’ll pick up some Doritos, too.”
They resumed walking toward the exit.
“She’ll be pissed,” Stevie observed.
“What else is new?” Tim held the door open for her.
“Wonder if we should pick up something for Julia, too?”
Tim laughed. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
It took them fifteen minutes to navigate their way to his car and begin to corkscrew their way out of the airport. Stevie used the time to devour the rest of her pretzel. When she finished, she looked around for a place to stash the wad of waxed paper. Tim pointed to a plastic ShopRite bag hanging from the back of her headrest. It was overflowing with discarded food wrappers.
Stevie made a face. “This car is gross.”
“I intentionally saved all of that so you’d have something to complain about.”
“Sure you did.”
Once they had cleared the airport campus and were headed toward Route 1, Stevie tucked her legs beneath her and rotated on her seat to face him—not an easy maneuver in his Subaru.
“So, what else going on with you?” she asked. “Besides eating too much junk food.”
Tim was surprised by her tone. It was . . . serious. Not conversational. He panicked for a moment and wondered if Evan had said something to her about his . . . dilemma.
“What do you mean?” He tried to keep his voice neutral.
“What do you think I mean? You just seem different.”
“I do?”
She nodded.
“Different—how?”
Stevie wiped at some dust that had collected on his dashboard. She always nagged him about taking better care of his car. That had become especially important to her since he’d begun giving her driving lessons during her stays at home. “You’re skinny,” she said. “And you don’t look like yourself.”
“I don’t?”
“Nope. Where’s your collar thing?”
Tim reflexively raised a hand to his throat. “I just didn’t put it on today.”
“Seriously? Mom says you practically sleep in it.”
“She’s nuts. I don’t sleep in it.”
“You know what I mean. How come you’re not wearing it?”
Tim stole a glance at her. The expression on her face surprised him. She was looking at him intently—really looking at him.
From the mouths of babes. . .
He knew he was busted. Why did he always have to be so damn transparent?
“I’m . . . struggling with some stuff right now.”
“What kind of stuff?”
Jeez, kid. Cut to the chase much?
“It’s complicated.” He thought about how he’d used that same phrase with Evan the night of the aurora. It sounded even lamer right now.
Apparently, Stevie thought so, too. “Maybe if you talk about it, it’ll get less complicated. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”
“Who taught you that?”
She smiled at him. “You did.”
Tim stared through the windshield at the line of cars in front of them. Don’t cry in f
ront of the kid. Don’t cry in front of the kid.
“Is it something about the Church?” Stevie wasn’t going to give this inquisition up.
Tim exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “What makes you ask that?”
She shrugged. “I figured it either had to be that or something about sex.”
“What?” Tim looked at her with a shocked expression.
She laughed. “It could happen. You’re still a guy.”
“You say that like it’s supposed to mean something.”
“Trust me. Mom thinks that sending me to an all-girls school was supposed to protect me from being ‘ravaged by the male species.’” She made air quotes. “Yeah. Not so much.”
“Now I’m the one who wants to ask you what’s different.”
“Nice try, Papasan. It’s your turn to spill the beans.”
Tim deliberated. If part of his resolution was to tell the truth and stop hiding from his past, why not start that process now? Besides, Stevie would find out eventually . . . especially after he took up residence on their living room couch.
“Okay. I’ve been thinking about leaving the Church.”
Stevie’s eyes grew wide. “St. Rita’s? Why? Are you moving?”
“Not exactly. But, yes. Leaving St. Rita’s . . . and the priesthood.”
“No way. Did something happen? Are you okay?”
He reached out to touch her hand. “I’m okay. And yes, something happened. But it was a long time ago, and I’m finally ready to come to terms with it.”
Stevie took his hand between both of hers. “Can you talk about it? Do you want to?”
“I’m working on being able to talk about it. But it’s a process.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “I promise to tell you everything as soon as I can. Okay?”
She nodded. “Does Mom know?”
“Yeah. Mostly.”
“How about Julia?”
“No. But I thought I’d tell her tonight.” He tugged on her hand. “I was going to tell you, too. It’s just that it’s like having to confront a problem I never thought I’d have.”
“Okay.” She seemed to think about what he’d said. “So, I guess this is like the priest equivalent of having marital problems?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and the Church. I mean . . . you’re kind of married to the Church, right?”
