The Deadly Judas

by Mara Kalyn

  Tori wondered if they set the air conditioning to maximum at the Bishop's office. The chill that crept over the phone lines could have frosted her ear.

  “Okay. Should I work mornings or afternoons?”

  “Mornings will be fine. Until further notice. Thank-you and have a good day.” The connection broke with an unapologetic click.

  A giggle tickled the back of her throat, and expanded until she'd laughed herself to tears. Then laughter morphed into its real face; shock, grief and sorrow, until, exhausted, she slept.

  The clock tower bell struck twice. Tori sat up, confused. Was she home? No, still at the office. She removed the wet tissue stuck to her nose. Her eyes and face felt very warm and swollen.

  In the restroom, she wet a paper towel with cold water and pressed it against her face. Almost immediately, her skin cooled off.

  “That's better,” she murmured at her mirror image after a second application of the cold compress. Her eyes were still a little pink, but her skin was back to its normal colour.

  Back at her desk, Tori's thoughts turned to Doris. If her own visceral reaction to the death of a man she'd known for less than a week crushed her, Doris must be beyond devastated.

  Tori jostled the computer into life and found the telephone number for the hospital. After fifteen minutes of transfers from one department to another, the connection went dead. She growled in frustration and began over again. Finally, she reached someone who told her Doris was still in the emergency room. She retrieved her purse, made sure her mobile was in it, left St. Mark's by the rear entrance, locking it behind her. Should anyone need access to the Cathedral, Miss Prig better have a duplicate key. Meanwhile, Tori headed off to the Gare Centrale for lunch before she went to visit Doris.

  ~5~

  Accidental Spy

  ON THE WAY TO THE GARE Centrale, Tori's thoughts turned to Reverend Andrew and how his death had impacted the living. She, and more so Doris, were grief stricken by the loss of the kind, gentle man. It was a terrifying thought that anyone could begin their day, go through the usual routine, then - paff. Done. Moving on to the next plane of existence, according to some, or non-existence according to others.

  As she walked underneath the overpass that connected the park with Place du Canada, she noticed the homeless, mostly men, who squatted there, had gone. In the mornings, the area resembled a dorm for the homeless. They curled up in sleeping bags, sheltered inside cardboard box shacks, or cardboard tents. It was heart wrenching, those poor men outside in good weather and bad until it was time to find a good spot inside a metro station for the winter. They sifted through waste bins or accepted, with nods of thanks, food good Samaritans shared with them. Some took advantage of the shelters in the city, but many more were either too ashamed, proud, or psychologically damaged to take sanctuary. At noon they packed up their temporary homes and moved on to the main city streets, migrating to the shady side as the sun traveled across the sky.

  Ahead of her, she recognized Dom as he trudged down the hill half a block ahead. Curious about his destination, she strolled along behind him, slowing her pace. Across the street from the bleak life beneath the overpass, rows of lemon yellow and ruby tulips bowed in unison toward the elegant entrance of the upscale hotel.

  Where did Dom spend his afternoons? He didn't return to the corner by the Cathedral, Tori would have seen him.

  She rode an escalator to the lower level where a maze of corridors was lined with fast food restaurants, boutiques and magazine kiosks. The space was thick with people on lunch break and train passengers having a bite to eat. Tori wove her way along the main corridor that flowed into the vast waiting area, like a river into the sea. Announcements, in French and English, echoed though the cavernous space while schedules flashed orange across gigantic black boards. Tori skirted a queue of people waiting for the Ottawa train, and continued to the lunch counter, tucked away in a far corner. She snapped up the last roast beef on pumpernickel. A little round table freed up, and settling onto the yellow plastic chair, she watched the steady ebb and flow of people.

  She saw Dom enter the men's room. Afterward, a dozen men cycle through the rest room, but Dom didn't come out. Perhaps she'd missed him while she contemplated the freshness of the tomato in her sandwich. Was there another exit somewhere? If he'd been taken ill, surely someone would have called for help. Fifteen minutes later she slurped up the last drop of iced tea and got up to go.

  The crowd thinned, and still no Dom. Tori glanced at the clock above the center schedule board. Quarter past two. Reluctantly dragging her gaze from the men's room entrance, she pulled out her mobile phone, switched on the Internet, and found the public transit website. If she hurried, she'd make the next bus that would take her to the General Hospital and Doris.

  TORI ASKED RANDOM NURSES for directions, lost her way, and had to ask again. The poor souls who languished in the corridors looked up in expectation, or, defeated by benign neglect stared into the distance. She finally found Doris in the fourth corridor. The poor woman wore her distress like a shawl, her back rigid, bony knuckles gray, frowning as she stared straight ahead. When she saw her friend approach, Doris's face lit up, and her arms spread in welcome.

  “Dearest, you've come to save me. I haven't slept a moment since they brought me here.” Eyes brimming with tears, she said, “Can you fix it so I can go home? I'm fine, I really am.” Tori hugged the little woman and rubbed her back to reassure her.

  “I can sure try.” She winked, shushed Doris, and reached for the chart at the end of the bed. The elderly woman hadn't been given any medication today, her vital signs were normal, and discharge was recommended. Tori replaced the chart.

  “Hang on Doris, I'll be right back.” Tori marched back up the corridor to the nurse's station. “Hello, can you tell me if I can take Mrs. Doris Amadea home?” The nurse tapped the keyboard, and, without making eye contact said, “Yes. Mrs. Amadea may go home. Are you a relation?”

  “I'm a friend and co-worker.”

  “That's fine then. If you'll give me your name and telephone number, I'll just make a note in her file.”

  When her friend returned, the elderly woman clasped her hands to her chest.

  “You've been set free, Doris. Here, let me help you get down. I don't have my car in town, but I'll escort you home on the metro.” Doris attempted to scamper off the bed.

  “Whoa. Easy. Let me help. Do you have anyone to stay with you? A relative?” Doris shook her head as she straightened her blouse and skirt.

  “No, there's no one.”

  “We should have dinner together. Is there a supermarket near your home?”

  “Yes, but you don't have to baby me. I'll be fine.”

  “Let me be a friend. We witnessed something horrific together, you and me. That's a bond.”

  “You're a kind person, Tori. Thank-you.”

  “Oh, no bother. Besides, we've both got to eat. Always more fun with company.”

  They were silent in the metro car, unable to muster the energy to talk over the roar of the ventilation fans and loud buzz of conversation. At the grocery store, Tori bought a rotisserie chicken, tomatoes, a cucumber, and a head of lettuce. She planned to make a soup from the bones and drippings of the chicken for extra meals for Doris. According to her mom, nothing cures what ails like good home-made chicken soup.

  Doris lived on the second floor of a five-story apartment building with two elevators that rumbled and groaned when roused to service. The corridors were dim, the carpet stained. Tori didn't want to guess at the components of the prevailing odor.

  “This is cozy,” Tori placed the grocery bag on the kitchen counter in Doris’s apartment.

  “It's a three and a half,” Doris said. “Not too big to keep tidy, but big enough not to be claustrophobic. I like that the bedroom is separate. I don't mind the rest being open.”

  Tori looked out of the living room window, the outside coated with a greasy film of pollution. On the street, cars and trucks l
ined up when the light turned red, and jerked forward when it turned green. Across the street was a jumbled collection of apartment buildings, restaurants, and miscellaneous shops.

  Tori guessed it was what Doris could afford on her meager income. She turned to the counter that divided the tiny kitchen from the living room, and perched on the stool.

  “Here, let me make the salad.”

  Doris set a cutting board and a knife in front of Tori, and the two women prepared their evening meal. Sitting at the small round table, the two women ate their food in silence.

  “I didn't think I was this hungry,” Doris dabbed her mouth with a daisy printed napkin.

  “Me neither. I guess anxiety kills the appetite.” Tori glanced down at her waistline. “I should try it as a weight loss strategy.” She shrugged and winked at Doris. “As if I could give up eating.”

  “Where are your pots?” Tori asked after the women had cleared up the dishes. “I'll make chicken soup for you before I go. My mother swears by the magical qualities of chicken soup.”

  “That's sweet, but I can make it another time. I like cooking, and it'll keep me busy.”

  “Are you sure? I don't mind.”

  “I'm sure. Shall we have a cup of tea? I have some biscuits to go with it.” Doris got up and plugged in the electric kettle. “You're tired too, dearest. Thank-you for looking after me. I'm more used to fussing over people, not being fussed over.”

  “I noticed,” Tori chuckled. “I’ll put the chicken carcass in the freezer?” She found a space among neat stacks of aluminum tins. “What's in those? Do you freeze your meals in advance?”

  “It's meals for the homeless who hang around the church. I heat the food in the microwave or toaster oven and hand out half a dozen on cold days. Once the weather warms, they don't want hot meals. I give two to Aurele, who sleeps in the side doorway. One for breakfast and one for lunch. Dom just stares, says thank-you and looks at the food like he doesn't know what it is. It's hard to talk to him, he doesn't make sense. He showed up maybe a month ago.”

  “I know which one you mean. The smelly one who whines.”

  “I gave him some of my late husband's shirts and pants, but I never seen him wear them.” Doris pursed her lips. “I don't give him clothes anymore.”

  “He wears the same ratty, smelly shirt and jacket when I pass him in the mornings.” Tori wrinkled her nose at the memory of the nauseating stench that rolled off the man, even at ten paces. And she remembered the brief spark of intelligence in his eyes before he turned it off.

  “Doris, is it okay if we talk about Reverend Andrew? There's something that bothers me.”

  “Poor, poor man,” Doris shook her head, eyes misting.

  “Did he have a statue of Judas? I'd never noticed one in his office.”

  Doris mentally dusted the room, sweeping the yellow duster over the shelves, wiping down the folds of metal robes and spines of books, sneezing when the dust got into her nose.

  “No, he only ever collected saints.” The memory of the priest, his lifeblood seeping between the wood slats of the floor, flooded her mind. She shuddered “Who could do that to poor Reverend Andrew?” Doris wiped her eyes with the paper napkin. “He was so kind and understanding, the sweetest man. He counseled people who came to him for help. Evan was making good progress in the counseling sessions.”

  Tori frowned, searching her memory. “Who's Evan?”

  “He's a troubled young man whose father won't accept him. Reverend Andrew being gay himself, knew what it's like. The lad told me Reverend Andrew wanted him to consult a real professional. With all these stories in the news about priests, he was probably afraid of gossip in the congregation as well.”

  Tori nodded. “Reverend Andrew understood the boy's situation on a personal level.” Tori's thoughts circled back to the problem of the statue. She'd been right to deduce that the killer brought the statue with him. In that case, he'd intended to kill the cleric all along. With an inward sigh, she finished her tea.

  “I guess I'd better go,” Tori rinsed her mug and set it on the drainer. “And you need a restful sleep in your own bed.” Tori hooked her purse on her shoulder and hugged Doris. “Take care, my friend.”

  “And you too. I'll see you next week.”

  “Only if you're feeling better.” She kissed the old woman on both cheeks, and left with a wave.

  Tori's mind gnawed on the provenance of the statue during her commute home. If the killer brought it with him and intended to kill the cleric, why? There was nothing of material value at St. Mark's, or in McAdams's office. Why kill him? Was the murder connected to Reverend Andrew's homosexuality? Was it a member of the congregation? It most certainly was not a random act and definitely not a burglary.

  SINCE THE PREVIOUS morning, thoughts of that guy had been clogging up her brain. Where had he disappeared to? And, why was she so obsessed with him? Her jaw clenched when she caught sight of him sitting on the curb, hope lighting his face each time someone walked by.

  The cop stopped traffic on all corners, and stalked across to the homeless man. The officer pointed to the cathedral. Dom stumbled to his feet and shuffled to the side door of the building, rubbing his left hip.

  While the traffic cop tended to Dom, a tide of waiting people took advantage of a free pass to scamper across the street, carrying Tori with them like a seashell on a wave. She hurried past the corner, avoiding eye contact with Dom, who now lounged by the side door.

  At the back entrance of the church, a wind chime, hung on a low branch of the ancient maple tree, tinkled when a breeze tickled it.

  Last time she'd seen the chime, Reverend Andrew held it at eye level, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead.

  “Gift from a child,” he'd chuckled. “I saw her put it in the collection plate. Don't know what to do. I feel bad donating it to the thrift shop.”

  He'd found a home for it in the maple tree, where it winked and tinkled a joyous welcome. She brushed moisture from her eyes and let herself in.

  In the hallway, she paused at the thermostat to turn up the air conditioning, then continued to the kitchen to make coffee. In her office, she set the cup of coffee, keys, and her mobile phone on the desk, and dialed into the electronic message system. Most of the messages were condolences and inquiries about funeral services for Reverend Andrew. She transferred them to the head office voice box. No doubt Miss Prig would call any minute with a request, no, an order, to cease and desist.

  ‘The required information will be forwarded at the appropriate time’. Tori giggled at her own smug imitation of the Bishop's admin.

  By ten-thirty, tasks completed, Tori wondered what to do with herself until noon. After a few minutes, she picked up her mobile, checked her email, the news, the weather, and her social media accounts. Half an hour later she shut off her mobile. Outside the window, tourists in tee shirts and shorts strolled by, pointed mobile phones or digital cameras at the Cathedral clock tower, took pictures and moved on to the next landmark on their itineraries. Tori wandered out of her office, and into the nave of the cathedral. In the dim, silent space, daylight filtered through the stained-glass images, lay its gentle luminescence over the pews, the walls, and the altar. Bathed in peaceful silence, she sat in a pew and let serenity flow through her.

  Her mind drifted again to thoughts of the homeless man. What was he playing at? She remembered the flash of intelligent awareness in his eyes. He was not one of those poor creatures with the dull, defeated expression of a human being who'd given up on life and hope.

  She hadn't seen him exit the men's room. Perhaps too enamored of her roast beef sandwich to notice him? If she followed him, and the homeless guise was a pretense, he might recognize her from the street. If he saw her as a threat, he could be dangerous. She needed to know more about him.

  A sniff and a shuffle broke the silence. A young man sat in a front side pew, his head bowed, shoulders shaking.

  He was sobbing, she was sure of it. Should she try to cons
ole him, or leave him to work through his problem himself? How could she ever forgive herself if she ignored him and it ended badly. He lifted his head when he sensed her presence next to him and wiped his eyes with the hem of his tee-shirt.

  “My name is Tori. Can I help in any way?” the young man shook his head and stared at the altar.

  “Okay. I'll come back later, in case you change your mind.” She touched his shoulder lightly. “Are you sure you'll be okay?”

  He nodded again without looking at her. Still unsure if she should insist, Tori decided he knew best how to deal with his emotions. A mother is a mother, she thought. If he'd been her son, she would have wanted someone to reach out to him. At the door to the corridor, she glanced back. The young man sat straighter now, stared at the altar. Perhaps praying.

  On the way to her office, she heard a burst of female laughter rising from the thrift shop in the basement. With a sigh, she continued to her office, sat in front of the computer, and watched the Diocese logo float across the black screen. Bored, she turned to face the window. Rays of sun, like invisible paint brushes, left streaks, and splotches of pale gold on the stone walls of Windsor Station across the street. Her eyes followed the living painting until the sun moved on to another canvas.

  With a little less than an hour before she could leave, and nothing to do, Tori's thoughts drifted back to the laughter she'd heard earlier. She'd been to the thrift shop a few times, during her work days in the neighboring building. The first time she'd seen Reverend Andrew he was joking with the ladies who worked in the shop. He'd struck her as a jovial man who could be as mischievous as a boy. Since she was at loose ends anyway, why not browse down there? A better occupation for her mental health than entertaining conspiracy theories about a homeless man.

  The shop, located under the nave, was accessible by a creaky wooden staircase. Tori pressed her hand against the wall for support, not trusting the rickety handrail. She wrinkled her nose against the blend of lilac air freshener and stale musty air.