Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  The tension in the room evaporated as they started to laugh.

  Eventually even Kay joined in. “Well!” She settled back in her chair and smiled. “Now that I’ve got that off my chest, what shall we talk about next?”

  Everyone turned to look at Mac. They were silent and expectant, waiting for him to speak. The group had made a decision. It was unspoken, but they all understood. Mac was their new leader. They had chosen him to take Dr. Elias’s place.

  Mac gave a sigh as the heavy cloak of responsibility settled around his shoulders. Then he smiled wryly. They depended on him. It was an honor. Mac just hoped he was ready to handle it.

  CHAPTER 9

  Father Marx sighed wearily as he collapsed the folding chairs that lined the church basement and stacked them against the wall. The parish basketball games were great fun for the boys, but they left him exhausted. Actually, he wasn’t even sure which side had won. He had been too busy thinking about Doug. And Jerry.

  Even though he kidded around about religion with his friends, Father Marx truly believed in the wisdom of the church. He played the role of the modern and enlightened man of God because his superiors expected it of him. The church was losing its grip, so a parish priest was expected to be a good PR man. Relate to everybody was his credo. Be what they want. Promise them anything, but give them Catholicism. He was the wise father confessor to the old guard, a buddy to the kids, and a good-natured cynic with his friends and fellow priests. Father Marx played so many roles that sometimes he wondered who he really was.

  Father Marx hadn’t thought deeply about religious issues for years. He was too busy recruiting new parishioners, raising money for building additions, and organizing youth groups. People didn’t like to see their priests somber or thoughtful. They liked a joke, an easy answer, or a friendly pat on the back. The old religion was gone. No modern priests burned the midnight oil, reading heavy books on doctrine or anguishing over a tricky question of morality. Father Marx hadn’t experienced a sleepless night since he’d left the rigors of the seminary.

  Now all that had changed. In his despair over Doug and Jerry, Father Marx fell back on his deepest beliefs. He had spent long hours on his knees beseeching God in Doug’s behalf, even though he suspected his prayers were futile. The church was very clear on the subject of suicide. A human life was sacred and to destroy it was a mortal sin. But was Doug’s death a suicide? That was a moral question of another magnitude. One could argue that Doug had been an unwilling victim of circumstance, a true innocent who had not been in control of his own mind when he’d crashed the plane. If so, there was hope that God would take mercy on his soul.

  Jerry’s eternal fate was another concern. If Jerry had deliberately driven Doug to suicide, he would be a murderer in the eyes of God. But if Jerry had harbored no ill intent, God would absolve him. Jerry had tried to live a decent life. Father Marx knew how valiantly he had fought against his perversion. Would God take his struggle into account and balance it against the evil of Jerry’s unholy lust?

  The sound of sweeping had been going on for some time. Father Marx roused himself and turned to see Paul Littletree pushing the heavy broom across the floor. The boy was small for his eleven years and there was a perpetual frightened look in his eyes. Paul lived in the borderline area surrounding Loring Park. Rent was cheap and the once-stately apartments were filled with drunks and addicts. It was a terrible place to raise a child, but Paul’s mother could barely afford the rent on her third-floor efficiency apartment. Moving to a more desirable neighborhood was out of the question.

  Paul’s mother had left the Red Lake Reservation when he was a baby. She was a fiercely proud woman who refused to accept charity. A recent state program had trained her to operate a power sewing machine. Now she worked the night shift at Munsingwear. Since there was no one to see that Paul got home safely, Father Marx always made some excuse to walk him home on basketball nights.

  “Would you like some company on your way home?” Father Marx smiled at the boy. “It’s about time for my evening walk.”

  “Oh, that’d be swell, Father!” Paul carried the broom to the closet and put it away carefully. He picked up his threadbare coat and slipped into it. Father Marx noticed that the sleeves were too short.

  “No mittens, Paul?”

  Paul jammed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “Naw. I let my mom wear ’em. These pockets are nice and warm.”

  Father Marx pulled out the pair of gloves he had bought and handed them to Paul. “Try these on for size. They were a present from Sister Theresa and they’re much too small for me.”

  Paul slipped on the fur-lined gloves and grinned. The frightened expression almost disappeared from his face.

  “Geez, Father! They’re great! Are you sure you don’t want ’em?”

  “No sense in keeping a pair of gloves that don’t fit. You’ll be doing me a favor if you wear them, Paul. I wouldn’t want Sister Theresa to think her gift went to waste.”

  The boy turned up his collar as they left the church. Father Marx saw him shiver. The wind hit them with an icy blast and they hugged the buildings as they walked west on Hennepin. A snowplow rumbled past them in the opposite direction, blue lights flashing. It was a miserable night for a walk.

  They turned on the corner of Thirteenth and headed toward Harmon. Father Marx leaned into the wind and pulled his fur hat down over his ears. The blowing snow drove needles of cold against his cheeks. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, trying to shield Paul with his body. The boy needed a warm parka with a hood. That would be his next big project.

  Paul shivered again as they neared Loring Park. Father Marx wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from fear. The boy was wary, and he had good reason to be. This was a dangerous part of town.

  Tonight the park was deserted and peaceful. Snow covered the frozen lake and the swans had been moved for the winter. No one was out in the vast unprotected area, but danger still lurked in the bordering apartment buildings. The freezing cold drove the crime inside. The drunks and addicts had moved to a warmer arena. Some were lucky enough to afford apartments, and the rest made do with hallways and stairwells. Father Marx was alert as he followed Paul into his apartment building.

  The small lobby was dark. The bulb had burned out. Father Marx doubted that anyone would replace it. Metal mailboxes lined one wall, their hinges sprung and rusting. Paul pushed open the door to the stairwell and stepped over a man who was sleeping in the corner. There was an empty wine bottle in his hand.

  The stairs creaked as they climbed. Someone had dropped a garbage bag, and beer cans and coffee grounds littered the steps. There was the odor of decay and old cooking smells. In the summer the stench would be unbearable. Father Marx was grateful when they reached the third floor.

  “Thanks for walking me home, Father.” Paul took out his key and unlocked the door. He switched on the light and Father Marx glanced inside. There was only one room. A kitchen table with two chairs sat at one end of the space and a cot at the other. The couch in the middle pulled out to make a second bed. Paul’s mother kept the apartment immaculate. It was in sharp contrast to the filth of the hallway. “I’ll wait until I hear you lock the door.” Father Marx reached out and made the sign of the cross over Paul’s head. “Bless you, my son.”

  He stood in the dark hallway and waited until he heard the lock snap into place. When Paul threw the dead bolt, Father Marx sighed with relief. Mrs. Littletree had scraped together the money for a good lock. It was the best investment she could have made in her son’s future.

  There was a loud party in one of the apartments at the end of the hall. Father Marx heard shrill laughter and the tinny blast of a cheap stereo. As he walked down the faded, filthy carpeting, he heard a door fly open. The music was suddenly louder. He turned and saw a woman step out. She was dressed in bright red satin.

  “Lemme alone!” She pushed her companion back inside. “I gotta get some air.”

  The door
closed behind her with a slam, muffling the music. The woman leaned against the wall and reached down inside her low-cut dress to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  “Hey, sweetie! Gotta match?”

  It took Father Marx a moment to realize she was talking to him. He shook his head and turned to leave, but she weaved down the hall toward him. She was obviously drunk.

  “Watsa matter? Did the party bore ya?”

  Father Marx knew he should leave, but he stood there impassively, watching her approach. Her dress slipped down lower with every step until one huge breast slipped free.

  “Oops!” She gave a raucous laugh and grabbed at it. “It’s a free show tonight.”

  She grinned at him, adjusted her dress, and stuffed it back in again. “Where ya been, sweetie? We coulda had some fun.”

  Father Marx turned to leave, but she grabbed at his arm. Her soft body ground against him.

  “Come back inside with me. We’ll have a real good time.”

  “I’m a priest.” Father Marx’s voice was hard. “Go back to your friends now. I have to leave.”

  “Ah, come on!” She licked her lipstick-smeared lips and fluttered long fake eyelashes. “You got desires, ain’t ya? I never did a priest before. It’d be a real kick!”

  He wanted to push her away roughly. Turn and run down the stairs. Flee to the sanctuary of the church. But he couldn’t seem to move as she reached for him. Her fingers slid under his coat, searching. Then she gave a triumphant laugh.

  “Ya don’t even have to pay me, sweetie. I ain’t felt nothin’ this big all night.”

  He saw her face through a red haze of rage. The mouth slack, lips parted in a grotesque parody of delight. Her fingers groped and clutched, pinching at the heat of him, sharp knowing claws that repulsed even as they drew him down to his lust-filled nightmare.

  “GET AWAY FROM ME!”

  His voice was a bellow of denial, and he pushed her back with all his might.

  Her painted face was a mask of injured reproach as she staggered against the opposite wall and crumpled to the dingy carpet. Then she laughed and pulled up her dress.

  “Ya like it rough, sweetie? I’ll letcha hit me a couple of times.”

  The voice of the Lord was loud in his ears. “Punish this harlot for her sinful ways.” The voice commanded obedience, but Father Marx resisted.

  He turned and ran, pursued by her laughter. Down the stairs, out the door, into the freezing night.

  Bile rose in his throat, bitter and scalding. He retched in the street. Dark spots of gall spattered against the pure white snow. The voice of the Lord was a delusion. A false prophet. A product of his sickness, as Dr. Elias had told him.

  At last he straightened and walked back the way he had come. His head was bowed and he did not feel the cold. There were no answers in the silent streets, no divine voices to guide him in the blowing wind. Dr. Elias was right. He had almost given way to temptation. He knew he was weak. Not worthy of the office he held.

  It was past eleven when he unlocked the door to the church. His body was stiff from the cold. He longed to crawl into his narrow bed and ease his pain, but his soul was too troubled for sleep.

  Father Marx genuflected before the altar. He raised his eyes to the statue of the Blessed Virgin and knelt at the prayer rail. Her plaster face was impassive. Did she approve of his action tonight? Would the Holy Mother bless him for his restraint?

  The sacristy was so silent he imagined he could hear the Sacred Heart beating. Votive candles flickered dimly at the Blessed Virgin’s feet. The dark shadows they cast were moving, reaching out to him with blind, searching fingers.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.”

  The statue was changing. Father Marx shuddered as the face of the prostitute appeared, layered over the divine features like a demonic projection. He saw the red-smeared lips, the long false eyelashes that veiled knowing eyes. Her painted body was shifting. Robes parted to reveal rosy, voluptuous flesh. Then she was moving, leaning toward him in obscene delight.

  He reached back and grasped the heavy silver cross. Raised it high above his head. His arms were strong now, trembling with his holy duty. The wrath with which a vengeful God had smote the Philistines was strong in him, His servant.

  “Vade retro, satanas!”

  It was a battle cry, hoarse and powerful. He smashed the cross, like a sword, against her sinful flesh.

  He struck again. And again. Righteous blows against evil. The statue toppled, then crumpled, until it lay in silent ruin at his feet.

  Father Marx sobbed with exertion. Great gulps of air filled his lungs and he dropped to his knees in the rubble, hiding his face in his hands.

  He knelt there for hours, lips moving in silent supplication. He prayed until the Blessed Virgin released him and lifted him up from his madness.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Hi! This is Greg Davenport. I’m sorry I’m not home right now but . . . oh, no!”

  Greg made a face and started at the beginning again. The user guide said never to say you weren’t home. It was an open invitation to burglars. He flicked the switch to record and started again.

  “Greg Davenport is unable to come to the phone at this moment, but he’d appreciate it if you’d leave your name and number at the sound of the tone.”

  Why on earth had he done that whole spiel in the third person? It made him sound like a stuffy English butler. Perhaps he should try to be funny.

  “Oh, boy, did you call at the wrong time! Whatever made you think I’d be home at this hour? Well, don’t feel bad . . . you’re the seventh person who’s made the same mistake tonight. Just leave your—”

  BEEP!

  The tone cut him off and Greg swore. He had already wasted fifteen minutes with this stupid machine and he had to get to the studio. He’d just leave that number and the hell with it.

  “This is Greg. I’m at the studio. Call me at 555-6347.”

  Ten seconds of silence passed before the beep. Greg didn’t care. He switched the machine to the answer mode and slammed the door behind him. He was late and there was a lot of work to do tonight.

  It was snowing again and the streets were icy. The Jag skidded as Greg swung out of the driveway. Towering snowbanks flanked Eighth Street. They had just finished plowing. At least the streets were clear.

  Greg turned right on Hiawatha and put some Scott Joplin music on the car stereo. The “Maple Leaf Rag” was playing as he cut over to take West River Parkway. Huge old homes lined the wide street that ran parallel to the Mississippi River. The people who lived in this area had money.

  A green sign for Minnehaha Park came up on his right. Greg slowed the car and turned in at the second set of gates. He took his remote sensor from the glove box and pressed it. The metal gates slid open. He drove through and entered his father’s estate.

  For years Greg could not bear to drive past the place. The burned-out shell of the old mansion haunted his dreams. With Dr. Elias’s help he had conquered his guilt, and last year he had converted the old carriage house into a modern sound studio. It was the sole building on two acres of prime riverfront land.

  Greg used his key to disarm the security system. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, smiling as he switched on the lights. His new studio had state-of-the-art technology. It was the envy of everyone in the field.

  A beautiful Steinway grand commanded a place of honor in the main room. Greg sometimes preferred to work in the old-fashioned way, plunking out melodies and transcribing them by hand in musical notation. This made him an oddity among his peers. With the recent advances in microchip design, most modern songwriters worked on synthesizers.

  Greg turned on the lights in the soundproof control booth and sat down in the swivel chair behind the computer console. He accessed a file and checked the score on Kid Xeno’s new number. There was a problem with the intro.

  Sound filled the room and Greg listened intently. A few m
inor changes in instrumentation would help. He punched out the codes and listened again. Yes, that was better. Then he stopped and laughed aloud. What would poor Beethoven say if he could see this setup?

  Dr. Elias drew on his pipe and shivered. He could feel the chill of the grave in his bones. The thermostat was set at a constant seventy-six degrees, but tonight Dr. Elias had pushed it up higher. He needed the comfort of a warm room.

  The disease was progressing normally, although normal was a poor choice of words. There was nothing normal about what was happening to his body.

  He had logged the symptoms as they’d appeared: shortness of breath, tremors in the extremities. The pain had grown from an occasional sharp stab to a slow, steady twisting. His appetite had decreased and his weight loss totaled eleven and a quarter pounds. His cheekbones protruded sharply from the thin, jaundiced flesh of his face. He barely recognized himself in the mirror.

  There were psychological symptoms as well, the same alienation that accompanied psychosis. He felt separated from the people out there beyond his windows. They lived their complacent lives, thinking seldom, if ever, about their own mortality. They were spared the knowledge of when death would happen, where, and precisely how. They could pretend it would never happen to them. It was easy to avoid the subject. It wasn’t the sort of thing one brought up at the corner bar or in polite conversation at the dinner table. Death was a great, terrible secret that only happened to other people.

  He smoked his father’s meerschaum carefully, holding it by the amber stem. The smoke wreathed his head and floated up toward the ceiling. Death had come suddenly for his father, at the hands of the Fascists. It would come slowly for him.

  The topic of death was popular with speculative minds. No theory could be proven erroneous. Dr. Elias leaned back in his chair and tried to remember what was written on the subject.

  Freud believed that it was impossible to imagine one’s own death. Karl Menninger agreed. But neither of them went as far as Goethe, who proposed that this very inability was proof of immortality.