Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  Father Marx made the sign of the cross and opened the screen. There was no response. He leaned closer and nodded encouragement.

  “Yes, my son?”

  The knife entered his eye socket and penetrated his occipital lobe. Death was instantaneous. His rosary rattled as it struck the marble floor.

  CHAPTER 16

  It took long moments for the sound to sift down through the thick layers of her depression. Finally Debra recognized it. The phone had been ringing for some time. She had to answer it.

  At first she didn’t know where she was. She blinked as she looked around her. Everything was happening much too slowly. It seemed to take forever to recognize the softball trophies, the rack of vintage movies, the tree in the stand in front of the window. She was sitting on the floor in Mac’s living room and she had to answer the phone.

  At first she couldn’t seem to move at all. She told herself to get up, walk across the floor, pick up the phone, but her body didn’t seem to get the message. She concentrated hard on making her legs move and at last they obeyed her. She stood up painfully. Her legs were stiff and sore. She must have been sitting there for hours.

  She reached the phone at last, wincing at the pain in her knees. “Hello?” It was Mac.

  “Hi, Debbie. I’m on my way home. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Oh. Thank you for calling.” Debra frowned. Her voice had the quality of a recorded message.

  “Debbie? Are you all right?”

  “I’m just fine.” Debra tried to sound bright and cheery. “Hurry home and I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes.”

  Her hands were trembling as she hung up the phone. The depression was lurking in the back of her mind, threatening to come back with full force. She could feel it there, like some predatory beast, stalking its prey.

  She couldn’t give in this time. Debra shook her head hard. She had to fight it. Mac was coming home.

  The best thing to do was to keep moving. Debra knew she had to keep busy. If she occupied her mind with ordinary tasks, she could keep the beast at bay. Fix dinner for Mac. That was good. She’d concentrate on cooking and she wouldn’t have time to let the depression creep in.

  She went into the kitchen and switched on the lights. Everything was a little out of perspective. The room looked like a Salvador Dalí. The colors were too vivid. The yellow paint on the kitchen wall was so bright it made her head hurt. And the refrigerator was no longer rectangular. Its harvest gold sides tilted crazily toward the stove.

  Debra blinked hard. She remembered a friend offering her a tab of acid and describing the effects it would have. Now she was glad she had turned down the offer. No one in her right mind would want to experience this deliberately. The familiar kitchen was frightening. It reminded her of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.

  The cookbook was leaning against the flour canister. Debra reached out for it gingerly. It looked puffy and soft like a pillow, but once she opened it, the pages were fine. She would ignore everything that was wrong, and things would straighten out by themselves. They had to.

  Debra read the title out loud. “Quick Chili.” The recipe was circled in red. Vaguely she remembered buying everything she needed to make it.

  She walked to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. The shelves slanted steeply, but nothing had fallen over. That proved it was only an illusion. If the shelves were actually tilting at a thirty-degree angle, the pickle jar would tip over.

  There was the hamburger, on the second to the bottom shelf. Debra swallowed hard as she looked at it. The ground beef was bleeding. A pool of blood had congealed at the bottom of the refrigerator. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced them open again. The blood was still there.

  She told herself what to do. Touch it, Debra. See if it’s real.

  She reached out and touched the pool of blood. It was cold. Then she pulled back her finger and looked at it. The tip was red. It was real. Of course it was real. The hamburger was fresh and there was a cut in the bottom of the package.

  Debra sighed gratefully as she got a sponge and cleaned the bottom of the refrigerator. Now she had to fry the meat and onions.

  It seemed to take a long time to put the hamburger in a pan and cut up the onions. Debra deliberately avoided the clock on the kitchen wall. It might be running backward or something equally bizarre. She’d just do what she had to do and not worry about the time. Now she had to open the kidney beans.

  The electric can opener seemed to be working just fine. It whirred when she pressed the lever, and the cans opened without incident. When the hamburger was brown she poured off the grease and dumped in the beans.

  “Two cans of stewed tomatoes.” It helped to read each step out loud. Debra opened the tomatoes and added them to the pan.

  “Two teaspoons of chili powder.” She took the measuring spoons from the nail by the sink and measured carefully. “Salt and pepper to taste.”

  Debra knew she’d better not think about this one or she’d never be able to do it. What constituted too much salt? In her confused state of mind, it was a mystery. She held the salt shaker over the pan and sprinkled automatically. It was done. Now all she had to do was let it simmer until Mac came home.

  Before she thought, she turned to look at the clock. Mac would be here in twenty minutes. The clock was running just fine. It wasn’t melting like Dalí’s. It was a normal, perfectly round kitchen clock. The minute hand was sweeping in the proper direction and all the numbers were consecutive.

  Everything was fine now! Debra sighed in relief as she glanced around the kitchen. The refrigerator had straightened, the walls were the same pale yellow they had been before, and things were familiar and safe. The cloud of depression had lifted and suddenly she felt happy again. She had worked her way out of it, all by herself!

  The cookbook lay open on the counter. Debra smiled as she paged through to find a recipe for baking powder biscuits. She really ought to do a story on Betty Crocker therapy. You could beat depression along with your eggs.

  “Kay’s just leaving for Orchestra Hall to hear the Messiah.” Mac smiled at Debbie as she took the biscuits from the oven.

  “Nora called when you were in the shower. Elena’s taking her to the Sofitel for dinner. She said it was a night-before-opening-night celebration.”

  “Nothing from Father Marx?” Mac glanced at the clock.

  Debra shook her head. “Not a word.”

  “If he doesn’t call by eight, I’ll call him. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. He acted so distracted when I talked to him last night. It’s not like him to forget to call.”

  “You’re right, Mac.” Debra set the bowls of chili on the table. “Father Marx is usually late, but he always calls or shows up. Maybe he’s still upset about his statue.”

  A half hour later, the chili was completely gone. The recipe said it served six, but Mac was a big eater. And he obviously liked her cooking.

  “No answer at the rectory.” Mac came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck. “Throw me a sponge, Debbie. I’ll wipe off the table and then I’ll try again.”

  There was no answer at eight-thirty or at nine. Debra could tell Mac was getting nervous.

  “Let’s drive over to the church,” she suggested. “We could drop in on Father Marx and then look at the Christmas decorations downtown. The stores are open until eleven tonight.”

  The minute they got on the freeway, Debra reached for the radio. It wasn’t Christmas without the music. She turned it on and the strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” filled the car. She hummed along with the Norman Luboff Choir until they reached the Highway 12 interchange. She hadn’t realized that there were four verses to “I Saw Three Ships.”

  Mac parked in front of the church and shut off the ignition. “Let’s try the parish house first. It doesn’t look like there’s anything going on at the church.”

  They rang the buzzer and stood on the steps in the cold. The wind whipped past Debra’s
face and she turned up her collar. Then she shoved her hands back into her pockets and shivered.

  “I don’t think he’s here, Mac. The lights are all off inside.”

  “Let’s try the church.”

  Debra took Mac’s arm as they walked down the icy sidewalk to the church. “Do you think we should disturb him if he’s praying?”

  “We’ll just take a quick peek inside.” Mac opened the heavy church door. “If he’s up at the altar, we’ll know he’s all right.”

  The church was dark inside. The flickering candles at the feet of the saints were the only illumination. Debra gripped Mac’s arm tightly as they walked down the aisle. The empty pews and the huge plaster statues reminded her of the setting in Murder in the Cathedral.

  “He’s not here.” Mac’s voice was unnaturally loud in the stillness. “Could he be in there?” Debra pointed to the confessional.

  “Not unless he fell asleep hearing confessions.”

  Debra saw it first—the crumpled figure on the floor by the side of the confessional. She gripped Mac’s arm and pointed. She seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

  “Sit right here, Debbie.” Mac pushed her down in a pew. “I’ll check it out and come right back.”

  Father Marx was dead. There was no need to feel for a pulse. Mac swallowed hard as he stared down at the priest’s body. There was blood everywhere. On Father Marx’s vestments. On the curtain of the confessional. On the marble floor. Even though he’d encountered violent death many times in his job, Mac shuddered and turned away. He felt sick. Father Marx wasn’t just another murder victim. He was a friend. And he was the fourth member of the group to die.

  Debra looked up as he came back to the pew. Her face was white and her eyes asked the question.

  “Come on, Debbie.” Mac pulled her to her feet. “I have to call the station.”

  Debra stood next to Mac as he made the call. She was cold and numb.

  Mac’s words seemed to take forever to register in her brain, but she heard snatches of the conversation. Mac said they’d wait for someone called Holt. Debra hoped Mac wouldn’t expect her to go back inside the church. She knew she could never bear it. She just wanted to go home so she could cry.

  It didn’t take long for the police to come. Debra hung back as Mac took them inside. Her feet felt frozen as she paced back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the church.

  The thought hit her suddenly, and she stopped in her tracks. Someone was killing the members of the group and she was standing here all alone in the dark. She should run back inside the church where it was safe. The murderer could come along and kill her with Mac and the police only ten feet away.

  She turned back toward the church and got as far as the door before she realized that she couldn’t go in. She was terrified. There was no way she could face the sight of Father Marx’s body again. She was caught up in the limbo between her two fears.

  Debra huddled up against the door. Suddenly the irony of the situation struck her. Dr. Elias would call it an inappropriate emotional reaction, but Debra started to laugh anyway. She knew she was heading for hysteria, but she couldn’t seem to stop the brittle laughter that bubbled up out of her throat.

  Someone pushed against the inside of the door. Debra moved to the side, still shaking with laughter. It was Mac. She tried to stop laughing, but it was impossible.

  “Debra?” Mac shook her shoulders gently.

  “I . . . I was just thinking about how the murderer could kill me when you were in the church with the police. It’s funny, Mac. Really it is. I’d be dead on the outside while you were trying to solve a murder inside.”

  “That’s enough, Debbie.” Mac put his arms around her. He could feel her body shaking as he held her. “Come on, honey. We can go home now.”

  “A smart killer could get us both right now. Two birds with one stone.” Debra’s words were muffled against the front of Mac’s coat.

  “We’re going home now, Debbie.” Mac turned her around and propelled her toward the car. “One foot in front of the other. That’s right, honey. Don’t think. Just get in the car.”

  It was better when they were inside the car, and better yet when Mac started to drive. Debra reached out to lock her door. She had to pull herself together.

  St. Steven’s was four blocks behind them before Debra calmed down enough to speak. She drew a deep breath and swallowed hard.

  “I’m all right now.” She buckled her safety belt and sat up straighter. “What did you tell the police, Mac? Do they know about the group?”

  “Not yet.” The streetlights flashed across Mac’s face as a car passed them. He looked tense and worried. “We’ll call a meeting first thing in the morning. If we go to Captain Meyers as a group, he’ll give us all police protection.”

  “But what about Kay? She can’t admit she’s in therapy. It’d be sure to leak out.”

  “Someone out there is trying to kill us! We can’t ignore that, Debbie. Nora and Kay need protection. I’ll ask for three men. One for each of you.”

  “But I’ve got you! I don’t need any other protection.”

  Mac saw the expression on Debra’s face as they turned onto the freeway. She had blind faith in him. She really believed he could protect her better than anyone else. He knew he should feel proud and honored. But Debra’s life was in danger. The stakes were too high. All he felt now was scared.

  CHAPTER 17

  At last Debbie was asleep. Her arm was resting on his chest and Mac moved it very gently. He was surprised at how much it weighed. Debbie was small. The top of her head just fit beneath his chin and she couldn’t tip the scales at much more than a hundred pounds, but when she was sleeping, her arm was dead weight.

  Dead weight. That phrase brought up all sorts of gruesome images. Mac slid out of bed, slowly, so he wouldn’t wake Debbie. There was no way he could go to sleep now. He had to decide what to do.

  Mac froze with one foot on the floor as Debbie rolled over. She reached out toward his side of the bed. For a moment Mac thought she’d awaken, but she just sighed and wrapped her arms around his pillow. She was still sound asleep.

  He inched his other leg out from under the covers, careful not to pull the blankets with him. He found his robe on the chair and slid his arms into the sleeves. His slippers were under the bed and he felt around in the dark until he located them. Then he tiptoed out of the room, holding them in his hand.

  The kitchen floor was tiled. Mac knew how cold it could get in the winter.

  He stopped in the hallway to pull on his slippers, first the left and then the right. He guessed that meant he was still left footed. When he’d been in third grade, Miss Wozniak had tested him. He’d held the pencil in his right hand, so he was right handed. He’d looked through the toy telescope with his right eye and that meant he was right eyed. He’d put on his jacket right sleeve first. That meant he was right armed. Then she had asked him to put on his gym shoes.

  Mac had been tired of the tests by this time. He’d wanted to join the rest of the kids on the playground. He’d grabbed the sneaker that was nearest and put it on. It was the left.

  “Richard Macklin? You’re inconsistent!” She had frowned and written a note on his pink health record card. “It’s a wonder you read as well as you do!”

  Mac had decided to put on his left shoe first from then on. Miss Wozniak watched him for the whole year, especially when they got ready for recess or gym. Mac had been very careful always to put on the left first, in sneakers and boots and ice skates. Miss Wozniak had covered his little pink record card with her notes. Mac supposed it was still in his file, somewhere in the basement of Whitney Elementary School.

  The thermostat was turned down for the night and Mac pushed it up a little. Reddy Kilowatt, the NSP cartoon character, advised homeowners to turn their heat down at least ten degrees at night. That worked just fine if you stayed in bed under the covers, but there was a cold draft out here in the hall.

  The cold
didn’t usually bother Mac, but tonight he was shivering. A bowl of Debbie’s chili would warm him up.

  The chili was gone. Mac sighed as he remembered polishing off the last at the table. He had eaten three enormous bowls. Debbie’s cooking was great. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have to buy bigger clothes.

  He switched on the light over the kitchen table. Some hot soup would do the trick. There was a collection of Cup O’Noodles in the bottom cupboard and Mac picked out a chicken flavor. He’d practically lived on this freeze-dried stuff before Debbie had moved in. It was quick and easy, and it filled him up. That had been his criteria for eating at home. There were also no dirty dishes, a definite plus.

  Mac boiled water in the tea kettle and poured it into the white Styrofoam cup. While he was waiting the three minutes for it to do what it was supposed to do, he went to the refrigerator for a beer.

  The top shelf was filled with bottles and cans. Mac grinned. He had kidded Debbie about buying the Newcastle Ale. He’d said he felt guilty drinking imported beer when so many good brands were made right here in Minnesota. Debbie had obviously taken him seriously. Now he had a choice between Hamm’s, Grain Belt, Cold Spring, Kato, North Star, Old Milwaukee, and New Ulm. The whole top shelf was stocked with local brands.

  Mac pulled out a Cold Spring Export and opened it. His soup was ready and he peeled off the lid. He looked at the list of ingredients as he stirred it, but he stopped reading abruptly when he came to xanthan gum. It was probably something perfectly ordinary, but he didn’t want to lose his appetite.

  The soup didn’t taste as good as he remembered. Mac finished half of it and threw the rest in the garbage. Debbie’s cooking had spoiled him for anything else.

  He had delayed long enough. Mac pulled out the silverware drawer in his old-fashioned table and took out a notebook and pen. Before he could sleep tonight, he had to make a decision. He divided a blank page into four sections, one each for Doug, Jerry, Greg, and Father Marx. Under Doug’s and Greg’s he wrote Accident/Suicide. Jerry’s and Father Marx’s were labeled Murder.