Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  Father Ignatius tugged at his clerical collar, his temper rising.

  “Sometimes, my son,” he said, a hint of his Spanish accent showing through, “confession comes to you.”

  “Well, not today. Now get lost.”

  Ignatius stood and walked wordlessly toward the door. He paused before a small metal desk stacked high with bills, papers, and magazines.

  “I am doing my best not to blame you for being a disrespectful whelp. You’ve clearly had no formal religious instruction,” the priest said.

  Jeff rounded the couch, abandoning the act. “What did you just call me?”

  “I’m here to help, Jeffrey. I’m going to teach you to respect a man of the cloth.” He opened the desk drawer and roughly riffled through its contents.

  “Get out of my stuff, old man!”

  Ignatius found a foot-long wooden ruler.

  “Ah. This will do.” With unexpected speed, he scooped up Jeff’s right hand and brought the ruler down on his knuckles with a crack. Jeff yelped and shoved his injured hand down between his knees, ejecting a string of curses.

  He lunged for the priest.

  “Disrespect and profanity too.” Ignatius sidestepped the clumsy man and whacked the ruler on his temple. It broke in half with a shower of splinters.

  “You’re dead.” Jeff grabbed an old rotary phone off the desk and swung it at Ignatius, who leaned back coolly, avoiding the blow by an inch.

  Jeff’s inertia sent him sprawling past the priest, who tightly wrapped the phone cord twice around the stocky man’s neck and, with two fists full of cord, slammed Jeff into the wall.

  Ignatius pinned him there with one hand, while the other retrieved the large nickel-plated handgun from the small of his back.

  Jeff began to whimper at the sight of the barrel, now inches from his face.

  “Let me save us both some time here,” Ignatius said, his voice gravelly and controlled. “How long since your last confession?”

  “Two weeks.”

  Ignatius twisted the phone cord, tightening the loop.

  “I dunno,” he croaked. “Fifteen years maybe.”

  “That explains much. But let us just start with two weeks.”

  “I been drunk.”

  “Let’s narrow it down some more. What have you done to your wife?”

  “I’ve yelled at her.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “I roughed her up a little.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  “Because she’s always nagging me and waking me up at like seven in the morning and telling me I need to get off the disability and find a j—”

  “Wrong. The reason you hurt your wife is because you’re a pathetic little excuse for a man. Say it.”

  “Go to—”

  The priest cocked the gun.

  “Okay,” Jeff shouted, “it’s because I’m a pathetic excuse for a man!”

  “That’s right.” Father Ignatius chewed his lip in thought. “This is a tough one, Jeff. It may be beyond my abilities. Perhaps I should send you up the chain to St. Peter and let him decide your penance.”

  Andrea, standing frozen behind the couch, let out a squeak of protest.

  “Please don’t,” Jeff said weakly.

  “What about you, Andrea dear? Do you think there’s a good man in there somewhere?”

  “Yes! Please don’t hurt him.”

  “Jeffrey, your penance is as follows: You will go to early Mass every morning. You will do this indefinitely. You will go to confession every week. You will find a support group for little men with big tempers and attend it faithfully. You will love your wife as Christ loves his bride the holy Church and gave himself for her. You will not shout at her. You will not beat her. Do you hear me?”

  “Yuh-yes. Whatever happened—”

  “I’m not finished, Jeff. Listen carefully. If you lay a finger on her again, I’ll take your eyes. Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you!” he croaked.

  “Good. And remember this: You live directly between two churches. Those two churches are my eyes. And if my eyes tell me that you’re not following through on your penance, I will come back here and put a period at the end of this sentence.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good. Now, you had a question for me?”

  “It was just . . . I was going to ask whatever happened to saying a few Hail Marys?”

  Ignatius shrugged. “We do things differently these days. It’s more like a counseling session.”

  He released his grip on Jeff, who slid to the floor, grappling at the phone cord around his neck. The priest made his way to the foyer, opened the front door, and looked back at the married couple, very involved in the project of untangling Jeff.

  He made the sign of the cross. “Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis.”

  They gave him back a blank stare.

  Ignatius sighed disgustedly. “Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  “I’ll be the first to admit I’m no expert on church history, but it seems like I should have heard of this Crown.” Parker was in the backseat of the Cadillac as they headed toward downtown. “Why isn’t it famous like the Holy Grail?”

  “The Holy Grail is 99 percent myth, Protestant,” Ignatius said, craning his head back from the driver’s seat. Parker thought the old priest seemed a little more laid-back than usual. “Those stories grew up at just the right time to become syndicated in poems and adventure tales. The Crown of Marbella is the very opposite. Even before it was lost, it was lost to the world, lost in a cloud of false relics and fantastical claims. There were dozens of ‘true crowns of Christ’ in the sixteenth century, but none of them stood out.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance it’s authentic?”

  “Authentic or not, it is the rightful property of the Holy See, and we will recover it if we can. And if someone is burning churches and killing innocents in pursuit of the Crown, we will stop them with all the fire of our faith.”

  “I’m famished,” Michael proclaimed from next to Parker. “Who wants lunch? Too late for lunch, I guess. How about an early dinner? Parker, where’s a good place to eat around here?”

  “I don’t really know this side of town,” Parker answered, realizing that he, too, was intensely hungry. He hadn’t eaten since two this morning, and whatever had been left of that was expelled at the autopsy.

  “Try the NavStar, Father Ignatius,” Michael said.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a service that comes with the car. It connects you to someone who can get you tables at restaurants and that kind of thing. Just push the button.” A buzz followed. “No, that’s the window. That’s the power lock. Up on top there. No, that’s the moonroof. Nope. Nope.”

  “This is Nathan with NavStar. How may I help you?”

  Ignatius veered from his lane in surprise.

  “We’re from out of town and looking for a good place to have dinner.” Xavier spoke upward, toward the mic.

  Ignatius checked the cross street. “We are currently on Division Ave, headed—”

  “I know where you are, sir.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Global positioning transmitter in your car. What’s your price range?”

  “Midpriced,” Xavier answered.

  “I’m cross-referencing positive reviews and your location,” Nathan said. After a brief pause, “Top three choices are Paddy’s Irish Pub, Flinger’s, and Tangy Bones—a new location on Market Avenue.”

  “That’s a rib joint,” Michael said. “It’s supposed to be really good. What do you think, Parker?”

  Parker’s stomach twisted. “Can’t we just go back to your suite at the Plaza?”

  Xavier nodded. “That’s a very good idea. We can get room service and have a working dinner with some discretion. Thank you, Nathan. That will be
all.”

  “My pleasure. Have a wonderful night, and thank you for using NavStar.”

  “Let’s hit the convenience store on the way up,” Michael said. “It’s not too far out of the way.”

  Ignatius looked back with concern. “How do we know that he’s not listening?” He pointed upward.

  “He’s always listening. You’re a priest. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

  “I mean this Nathan person.”

  “I think we’re safe. Anyway, why would he care that we’re stopping at a convenience store?” Michael held his hands up and wiggled his fingers spookily. “The intrigue never ceases.”

  “All the same, perhaps we should speak in the ecclesial tongue.”

  “Do you mean Latin?” Michael asked. “Because no one speaks conversational Latin. That’s why they call it a dead language.”

  “I speak Latin.”

  “Well, I don’t. So take your pick: I can speak English, French, or Italian. My Greek is passable.”

  “I taught you Deutsch.”

  “What? When did you teach me Dutch?”

  “Deutsch. German. How is your German, Father Michael?”

  “Mas o menos.”

  “That’s Spanish.”

  “No, no. My Spanish is muy poco.”

  “Then how do you read the writings of St. Ignatius de Loyola?”

  “English translations?”

  “I cannot believe I have to report to you.”

  “Argh! This insolent boy speaks no Latin,” Michael mimicked, poorly.

  “You need to work on your accents as well. What was that supposed to be?”

  “Give me a break. I’m Canadian. We’re historically unable to shake our accent.”

  Ignatius pinched his lips together, holding his ire until it passed. “My son, I still have hope for you. St. Ignatius de Loyola was thirty-five before he learned Latin.”

  “Parker, you go in first,” Michael said. “Pretend to be a customer. Scratch that; actually be a customer.” He handed Parker a five-dollar bill. “I want a Slim Jim and a Watt energy drink.”

  They were parked at the Quality Dairy Mart on Franklin.

  “Yeah, okay, but you haven’t told me why we’re here.”

  “That’s because we’re not sure if Nathan is still listening,” he quipped.

  Xavier tried to cover his laughter with a cough. “Melanie Candor worked here,” he explained. “We have a few questions to ask her former co-workers. Do me a favor and walk around the back of the store so you can enter from the west.”

  Parker felt a prickle of excitement at being included in the Jesuits’ covert operations.

  “Got it,” he said. “So what’s the angle here?”

  Xavier shook his head slightly. “The angle?”

  “Yeah, what’s my role?”

  “It’s essential,” Michael said. “You’re the guy who buys the Slim Jim. Just keep your ears open.”

  A cold blast of wind as he rounded the building gave Parker a rush of clarity. Fatigue had been overtaking him in successively stronger waves. He entered the store to find an endcap full of various jerkys staring him in the face—no fewer than twenty varieties. He studied his options. Is Michael more a Blazing Hot kind of guy or a Smoky Original? he wondered.

  “Hello, my name is Xavier. This is Ignatius and Faber. We’d like a word with the manager on duty.”

  Parker saw Xavier quickly flash a silver badge at the slack-jawed kid behind the counter. All three men were now wearing white button-ups and polyester neckties under their black sport jackets. Parker wondered how they could possibly have changed that quickly.

  “Hold on,” the kid said. He picked up a phone and punched a few buttons. “Greg, there’s cops or something here.”

  Greg emerged from the back room, wiping his hands vigorously on his pants.

  “I’m the shift manager, Greg Barnes,” he said. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Xavier flashed the badge again. “We have a few questions about one of your former employees, one Melanie Jane Candor.”

  “One of your colleagues was already here two days ago. We couldn’t tell him much.”

  “That would have been a detective with the police,” Michael said. “We’re with an agency that has a bit broader scope.”

  “Wow,” Greg said, impressed. “I’ll do my best. Shoot.”

  “How would you describe the late Miss Candor in one word?” asked Xavier.

  The clerk snickered, and Greg shot him a sharp glance.

  “Pleasant,” Greg said. “Very pleasant. She was working her way through art school with this job, and she put in a ton of hours each week. But I never knew her to have a negative attitude like some people.” He paused and locked eyes with the young clerk. “And she never called in sick. A model employee, I’d say.”

  “Did she ever speak of having a religious affiliation or a commitment to a particular faith?”

  “Not really. Not that I remember.”

  “So you didn’t know that she was Catholic,” Michael said.

  “Nope. I didn’t know that.”

  “Because she wasn’t,” Ignatius mumbled.

  “She never spoke of a former time in her life when she may have been more involved in matters of faith?” Xavier asked.

  “You know, we didn’t really have a lot of deep discussions, Melanie and I. A lot of my job is done in my office. Scheduling and such, handling the business end of things.”

  “What about you, young man?” Ignatius asked the young slacker behind the counter. “Did Melanie ever speak to you about her religious beliefs?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Thank you for your time.”

  As they turned to leave, Parker grabbed Michael’s beefy arm. “Excuse me, you men look like you know your snack meats. Do you think I’d like a blazing hot or a smoky original Slim Jim?”

  “They’re both good,” Michael answered, “but the important thing is pairing it with the right energy drink. I’d make sure you got a can of Watt. The low-carb kind. It’s really easy to forget the energy drink.”

  THIRTEEN

  THE GRAND PLAZA WAS A FIVE-STAR, TURN-OF-THE-CENTURY hotel in the English style, with some significant updates, namely a huge, reflective glass tower that had been appended to the original structure in the early eighties. Peaking at an angle like an enormous chisel, the building had once defined the Grand Rapids skyline, but a recent upwelling of new skyscrapers had left it somewhat obscured.

  They left the car with the valet and entered through the swanky lobby.

  “Wait here a minute,” Michael commanded. “I’m going to see if we’ve got any messages from the Big Man.” He headed to the desk.

  Parker felt another wave of exhaustion coming over him. The room was very warm, and the plush surroundings weren’t helping; everything looked soft and comfortable. He toyed with the idea of calling a cab and heading home but abandoned it when he looked at his cell phone for the first time all day and found it dead. He kicked himself for not plugging it in before crawling into bed that morning.

  A sudden jolt of adrenaline tore up Parker’s spine and awakened him with a start. Standing at the check-in desk next to Father Michael—a Texas Rangers ball cap pulled low over his eyes and a single rolling suitcase at his feet—was Joshua Holton. Parker squinted and shook his head violently. When he opened his eyes, Holton was still there, receiving a key and directions to his room.

  A sense of panic closed in on him. What could Holton be doing there? If he was visiting town, why wouldn’t he have told Parker in advance? What was with the stupid disguise, and where was his staff? It made no sense. Joshua Holton never came to the Midwest unless he had sold out an arena. For some reason, Parker was sure that this could not be a positive development. Then again, for all he knew, perhaps Holton frequently slipped out on his own, hiding his famous mug and toothy grin beneath a ball cap.

  “Okay, let’s head up,” Michael said, walking past and wre
nching Parker from his stupor.

  The Jesuits Militant had hired a suite on the twenty-third floor of the tower—the kind of lavish accommodations that Parker was just getting used to as his star was rising. He was tired, confused, and parched. He took a short bottle of water from the minifridge and cracked it open.

  “You owe the holy Church four dollars,” Ignatius told him.

  They ordered room service at Michael’s insistence. Parker chose salmon on a bed of greens, as it was the only entrée on the menu that he was sure wouldn’t remind him of the medical examiner’s office and the autopsy that he hadn’t actually witnessed, but felt like he had.

  While they waited for the food to arrive, Xavier and Ignatius unlocked a large garment bag and unloaded eight wide, foam poster boards full of photos, notes, diagrams, and the like, setting them up around the room with quiet efficiency. Before long, the suite looked an awful lot like the Blackjack Killer Command Center at police headquarters—except that each board also included possible connections between the events and individuals involved and the Crown of Marbella.

  Parker slumped on the settee while the priests arranged their visual aids, adding with Sharpies what little new information they’d acquired during the day. The next thing he knew, Ignatius was shaking him awake and thrusting a plate of perfectly cooked salmon at him.

  Michael made the sign of the cross and recited, “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

  They wordlessly wolfed down their dinners, all of them ravenous, but none more than Parker. He finished his food before the others and went looking for a vending machine, which he didn’t find. The Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons where his family used to stay on road trips always had vending machines. A candy bar always tasted better in a hotel room, while enjoying cable television, another rare treat.

  When he returned to the room, the empty dishes were stacked on a cart in the hall. Michael let Parker in and invited him to have a seat. The furniture had been rearranged into an arc, completing the circle begun by the photos and charts.