by James A Ross
Bonnefesse hesitated and then shrugged. “The name means nothing.”
“Mike Sharp?”
Bonnefesse shook his head.
“Dave Willow?”
“The sister’s patron? Yes. They had something together, I think. A long time ago.”
Tom felt his spine straighten.
“Billy tried to make trouble for him too,” Bonnefesse added.
“How?”
“Not trouble, I think. Pranks. Phone calls. Billy could get very excited.”
“Did he ever mention a Dr. Hassad or a U-Labs?”
Bonnefesse hesitated. Tom watched his eyes move up and to the right. “I don’t think so.”
“Did he hang out with … for want of a better word, foreigners?”
“Quebecois?”
“People from parts of the world where Americans are unpopular.”
“That is everywhere, no?” Bonnefesse shook his head sadly, his voice almost weary. “Billy told me once of a friend he had when he was a boy. A foreigner, as you say. The friend was older than Billy, and really just after the sister. When Billy understood he was just le barbe, he was very hurt. ‘The beard’, is that English?”
“Sort of.”
“Billy distrusted dark people after that. It limited his social life, I told him frankly.”
Tom took a deep breath. He felt like he was thumbing a skinny phone book with no idea what to do once he got past the Z’s. “How about Joe Morgan?”
“Ba, ba, ba, boom!” Bonnefesse did a drum roll on the top of the wooden table. Tom held onto his latte. “Le Super Trooper!!”
“Right. Did Billy try to make trouble for him, too?”
“Never! Billy thought he was very handsome.”
Tom lifted the paper cup to his lips. The liquid was cold. In the absence of an inspiring alternative, he decided to opt for candor. “You’re going to have to help me here, Gérard. I don’t know if you know anything useful. But is this name dropping giving you any ideas?”
Bonnefesse spread his hands.
“Let me ask you this, then. If I said there was a reason why you brought me here… why you simply didn’t tell me you knew nothing and end our conversation there in your shop. What would you say?”
“That I thought you might be interesting?”
“A reason related to Billy. I’m guessing here. But I’m asking you to guess, too. What do you know about Billy, that you really want to tell somebody? That you think somebody should know. Tell me.”
Bonnefesse looked away and then nodded. “He was happy.”
“Happy?”
“Yes. In the last few months Billy was very happy. I had never seen him such. Almost as if he were in love.”
“Go on.”
“I was jealous.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
“Of course!”
“And what did he say?”
“Lies, I think.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“He said that he was going to make a lot of money, soon. And that he was going to make everyone who was ever hurtful to him suffer badly.”
“When did he say this?”
“A month passing.”
“Did he give details?”
“No. But he was truly excited. I was happy for him. I thought maybe he had made peace with the sister.”
“That might have gotten him money. But what about the revenge part?”
“Just talk, I think. Or maybe he was going to make sport with the priest again.”
“Father Gauss?”
“Yes, I think. Billy called him the Father Gas. He said he had pictures, but I didn’t believe him. He would have showed them to me.”
“So you think this was about Billy and his sister? Or maybe Father Gauss?”
“No. Now that I tell you this, I can see it was something else. But I don’t know what.”
Tom could feel his focus begin to fragment as it did lately whenever the subject turned however obliquely to Susan.
“You are thinking of something?” asked Bonnefesse.
“About happiness. It’s a recurring theme lately.”
“I don’t think now that Billy found it. Excitement yes. But the happiness is not so loud.”
“What do you mean?”
Bonnefesse bubbled his cheeks and raised his brows in a Gallic mime. “Happiness is quiet, you know? Friends. A little shop that fills a need. Enough money, but not too much.”
Tom made a mental note to add the sex shop owner’s idea of happiness to his thickening recipe book. “Maybe if I can find what Billy was so excited about, it might lead to his killer.”
Bonnefesse’s expression was distant, but his voice was serious. “Be careful, Monsieur. Whoever killed Billy is a vicious person. No one should die like that. Not even a little prick like Billy.”
* * *
It was time to head home. Tom retrieved the rental car, suppressing an impulse to thank the window mannequin for guarding it so vigilantly, and began to weave through streets sclerotic with Friday night traffic. Near the Champs-de-Mars he pulled next to a fire hydrant and tried Gauss’ number again.
“Couvent de San Gabriel.”
“Père Gauss, s’il vous plait.”
“Attendez.”
There was a click on the line, a long wait, and then a voice in English demanded briskly, “May I help you?”
“Hi. This is Tom Morgan. Father Gauss asked me to call.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
More silence. Then, “How do you have this number?”
“Father Gauss gave it to me.”
More silence. He had the impression that he was listening to a hand palming the mouth of the receiver. Then, “I don’t understand how that could be.”
“The machine in the room I was switched to earlier today has Father Gauss’ voice on it. The body that goes with it should be there somewhere.”
More silence. Then a dial tone.
CHAPTER 20
Couvent de San Gabriel—Betty Ford North to those in the Chancery who had occasion to call upon its services—had a reputation for austerity and discretion. But the order of nuns that ran it sometimes neglected to follow Chancery guidance on the treatment of cases sent there. Monsignor Marchetti had been dispatched to make clear what was required in the matter of Father Gauss.
Marchetti felt cold in the spare, under-heated space that was the facility’s administrative office. Sixty was still a few years away, but days and places like this seemed to age both body and soul. Sœur Dion might have been as young as forty or half as old again. Marchetti couldn’t tell. The nuns of San Gabriel clung to the traditional black habit, making estimates of age, and sometimes gender, difficult. He tried not to overestimate her level of experience with men like Gauss.
“He’s like an old union boss,” Marchetti explained, “or a tenured teacher who can’t easily be fired. The sin of disobedience is hard for such men to resist.”
The nun looked at Marchetti with neutral expression. “Is that what you wish me to address with Père Gauss? Disobedience?”
“No. I need you to determine whether our brother in Christ is guilty of more serious sin.”
Sœur Dion folded her hands on top of her bare metal desk. “I have read the dossier. It is disturbing. But the record of Père Gauss’ session with your attorney reveals a man who acquits himself well. Does it not?”
“That’s part of the problem, Sister. Your patient has a quick mind and a sharp tongue. But this isn’t a debate in one of his seminary philosophy classes. If Father Gauss has broken vows other than humility and obedience, His Eminence is determined to take action. His legal advisers say that would be difficult based only the letters and other materials you’ve seen. None of Gauss’ accusers have come forward in person, much less testified under oath.”
Sœur Dion opened her folded hands. “How do you wish me to proceed?”
I want you to wring his head like a sponge and bring
me what’s in there.
Marchetti recalled the Bishop’s warning that if he appeared to favor a specific outcome, the Sisters of San Gabriel were sure to provide the opposite. He paused to formulate an appropriately diplomatic instruction. A soft knock on the door came while he was struggling to find one.
“Entrez!”
A tall, black robed nun entered and exchanged brief words with Sœur Dion. Marchetti understood only one of them, but that was enough. Gauss.
“Trouble already?”
Sœur Dion dismissed her colleague and shut the door. “You asked to be informed if anyone tried to contact Père Gauss while he is with us. A Monsieur Morgan has called twice in the last few minutes.”
“The policeman?”
“Sœur Gabriel did not convey an occupation.”
“How did he get this number?”
“From Père Gauss, it would appear.”
“Was he told that Father Gauss is not here?”
“A lie?” Sœur Dion’s voice was firm.
“To protect your patient’s privacy.”
“The caller mentioned hearing Père Gauss’s voice on the telephone answering machine in his room when his earlier call was transferred there.”
“You’ve given Father Gauss a telephone?” Marchetti struggled to keep his voice from skipping octaves.
Sœur Dion lifted her chin. “This is a retreat house, Monsignor. It is not a prison. All of our rooms have phones… unless we have been instructed otherwise.”
“Please remove it. Father Gauss is here for prayer and reflection. He should not be distracted by calls or visitors.”
“As you wish, Monsignor.”
Marchetti tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Have you made progress?”
“No.”
“Have you gone through the file with him?”
“Père Gauss has declined.”
“The man is in no position to decline!” Marchetti heard his voice grow louder, and he throttled it back. “Does he understand that?”
Sœur Dion spread pale, long-fingered hands. “Père Gauss informed me that he had already gone through the file with the diocese’s lawyer. He said that he does not feel the need to repeat the exercise with a ‘shrink’.”
“I see.” Marchetti began to pace. “Did he say anything about the latest letter? I’d at least like to hear what he has to say about that before the lawyers see it.”
“The one from the boy who drowned?”
“Hardly a boy, but yes. Did he have a reaction?”
“Nothing overt. I showed it to him during our session this morning. He read it and then asked to go to chapel. He’s been there most of the day.”
“His Eminence is particularly interested in Father Gauss’s reaction to that letter. It would be helpful if you could get him to share his thoughts, Sister.”
“I will try, Monsignor.” She looked calmly at the bishop’s representative. “Does His Eminence wish to know… everything?”
Marchetti was firm. “He desires that I do.” The Bishop’s parting instruction had been clear. “Find out the truth, Monsignor. Then consider the needs of the Church.”
* * *
Tom had intended to brief Joe on his visit to the U-lab address that turned out to be a storefront grocery that did no business, as well as his meetings with Hassad and the mourner at Billy’s funeral. But he found Joe in no shape to absorb a briefing. The young candy striper asked Tom to steady the metal basin while she went to find a doctor. “There’s blood,” she added, inclining her head toward the contents of the pan.
After a few sanguinary heaves, Joe collapsed into the pillows, gulping air. “What did you find?” he croaked.
“It can wait.”
Joe’s face was ashen and his eyes glazed and unfocused. “All right. But I want to find that priest of yours next.”
And my lawyer wants me to get my ass back to New York to save it. “You think Father Gauss had something to do with this?”
“They’re hiding him,” Joe wheezed. “And he likes to take boys for boat rides.”
“What do you mean ‘hiding’ him?”
Joe waved toward the pile of papers beside his bed. “I got through to a Monsignor Marchetti after you left. He seems to be the gatekeeper for Gauss’s bishop. The party line is that your friend Gauss is ‘on retreat.’”
An unfortunate choice of words. “Did he say where?”
“He wouldn’t,” Joe wheezed. “When I pressed, he coughed up the number of a lawyer named Dolan.”
“It sounds like Monsignor Marchetti was expecting your call. Or somebody’s.”
Joe attempted to shrug, but his shoulders remained flat on the pillow. “If I have to, I’ll get a warrant. But I’m betting you can find your buddy quicker.”
“Maybe,” said Tom. “He left me his phone number. I’ve left him a few messages. I think he’s at St. Gabriel’s.”
“That clinic the nuns run on the other side of the lake?”
“The number he gave me is one of theirs. The voicemail tape is him. That doesn’t mean he’s there now, but I suppose I could have a look.”
“They’re not going to let you in the front door, Tommy.”
“Do you know another way?”
“Not that you could use. Do you think Gauss left you his number because he wanted to get something off his chest?”
“It’s always been the other way around.”
“Might be different this time.”
The candy striper returned with a brace of doctors and nurses. Tom stepped into the hall to give them room. On his way out, and while Joe was heaving in the opposite direction, Tom lifted a file from the pile beside the bed. Outside, he leaned against the wall and read what his brother had earlier not wanted him to see.
According to the autopsy report, Billy was a mess. The deceased had hepatitis B and C, two different kinds of sexually transmitted disease, 375 LDL cholesterol and a blood alcohol level of .18. But none of that killed him. The cause of death was listed as drowning. When the doctors came out of Joe’s room, Tom asked if they were any closer to knowing what was wrong with Joe or how long he was going to be laid up.
Sayed walked him down the hall. “It’s not food poisoning,” he said, “or other bacterial contamination. With those, the symptoms peak a few hours after ingestion and then start to decline. Your brother’s still vomiting and it’s been almost forty hours.”
“So what is it?”
“We don’t know yet. But it’s acting like a toxin, where the symptoms don’t diminish as long as the toxin is present. The aspiration suggests ingestion. But cutaneous is possible, given his multiple head and forearm lesions.”
“You mean he swallowed something or got it in a cut?”
“Perhaps both. We’ll know better when the lab work comes back.”
“When will that be?”
“Tomorrow at the earliest. If you leave a phone number at the nurses’ station, someone will call you.”
* * *
Tom felt his fingertips skim across the steering wheel like an oracle on an Ouija Board. The truck began to move with no apparent need for direction or explanation, down Lake Boulevard past Our Lady of The Lake church, and up the tree lined drive to the cobbled semi-circle in front of the Pearce mansion.
He had not consciously intended to come here. But he was not surprised that he had. If he was going to keep helping Joe, then testing the conjectures of Billy’s Canadian friend was the logical next step. At the top of the circular drive, he sat for a moment listening to the sounds of approaching night: chirping crickets, the flutter of an occasional bat, clicks and groans from the cooling engine and the rustle of trees and bushes in the breeze off the lake. But that’s not why you’re here, is it? It was a simple question, but there was no simple answer.
Minutes passed while he sat and brooded. Then a light flickered above the front door and Susan stepped into its glare, shading her eyes with a hand. “Joe?”
Tom stepped
out of his brother’s truck and into the light. “No. It’s the handsome, lawfully prosperous Morgan brother.” Profile subject to change.
She folded her arms over her chest, frowning at her long-ago lover. Serial emotion flickered uncensored across her face: surprise, suspicion, attraction, indecision. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper.
“Why are you here?”
I don’t know. Though his mouth conjured other words, “I have something to show you.”
Susan led him through the house to a wicker-themed sun porch overlooking the lake. The last time Tom had been in that room, Susan’s mother had walked in on her daughter and boyfriend entwined on top of a bamboo love seat. Tom grimaced at the memory of leaping guiltily to his feet, smashing heads with Susan and promptly suffering a massive, unstoppable nosebleed. He had not been in this room since.
An ancient stereo scratched a stringy Pier Gynt Suite. A jacket-less book lay face down on the glass topped table beside the couch. Susan chose the wheat-backed chair nearest the French doors and sat with her arms crossed.
Nothing had been said. No eye contact made. But the connection and discomfort was .intense He slid one of the Quebec University brochures across the tabletop. “There’s a picture on the inside back cover.” His voice trembled.
She glanced at the photo and then put it down.
“Do you recognize anyone in the picture?”
“No.”
“Not the gentleman on the left?”
She picked up the brochure and looked at it again. “Dr. Hassad?”
“Do you know him?”
“No. That’s just what it says beneath the picture.”
“There was a man sitting behind you at your brother’s funeral.”
Susan lifted her chin and sighted the tip of her nose on the center of Tom’s forehead. “Suliman Twafik,” she said slowly.
“Not the man in the photo?”
Susan studied it again. “I know I shouldn’t say this… but sometimes they do all look alike. I mean the beard and everything. But Suliman is tall and this guy looks short… though he’s sitting down.”
“And who is Suliman Twafik?”
“A face from the past. Our fathers worked together when Dad was with ARAMCO. Suliman lived with us for a while as a foreign exchange student when we first moved here. He’s a couple of years older than me.”
