Saints & Spies

by Jordan McCollum

  “Of . . . ?”

  She collected her courage. “The Book of Mormon. That is, I’m thinkin’ — I don’t know. How can I leave —?” She broke off, but couldn’t keep herself from looking to him, filling in that gap.

  “I don’t see what I have to do with it.”

  Molly jerked her head up. Could he pretend not to care?

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he continued quickly and in earnest. “I’m concerned for your soul, Molly. Really. But this is a personal decision — I mean, obviously I believe there’s only one true church on the earth.”

  She lowered her gaze again.

  Tim pressed on. “But I can’t make you believe anything. I think God’s more concerned with where your heart is and not which church ends up with your records.”

  “What are you sayin’?”

  He looked to the ceiling for help. “I’m saying . . . it’d be wrong for you to leave the church over me. But it’d be just as wrong to stay in the church for my sake, too. When it comes down to it, Molly, the choice is yours. It comes down to what you believe.”

  That was the problem. “I want to believe what they’ve told me — that Jesus can make me stronger.”

  “You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever known. Living here, working so hard to protect the rest of us from these people. You’re a Guard, for heaven’s sake.”

  Molly held onto her elbow. “You of all people should know how weak I am.”

  Tim placed his hand on her shoulder. She barely dared to meet his blue eyes filled with searching urgency.

  He was that concerned? Then he did care.

  “Molly, I have to tell you —” A knock at the door cut off Tim’s insistent whisper. Was that going to be the declaration she’d longed for? He closed his eyes and released her shoulder.

  Molly checked the peephole. “Teresa Hennessy.” She opened the door.

  “Hi, Molly. Do you have Father Tim’s cell —” Her gaze shifted to behind Molly. “Oh.” She looked from Tim to Molly and back again, disbelief flickering in her gaze. “Ohhh.”

  “Did you need something?” Tim asked.

  “Just wanted to let you know about the Gallahers. Jay —”

  “Was arrested. I heard.”

  Teresa nodded, still scrutinizing each of them in turn, obviously jumping to the worst conclusion.

  “Okay,” Tim said slowly. “I’m gonna go. See you tomorrow, Moll.”

  “Good night, Tim.”

  He edged past her and left. Teresa watched them both warily until Molly shut the door.

  Her empty apartment seemed to echo the silence. Had she expected Father Tim to smooth over all her problems? She was no closer to a decision on anything.

  Zach inhaled the musty smell of the curtains and the tangible tension backstage before a performance. Technically, he shouldn’t be here anymore, but he wasn’t leaving without saying goodbye. His gaze drifted to Molly, gorgeous even in her exaggerated stage makeup. Her family was the center of attention, with their sparkly costumes, their noisy shoes and her father’s uilleann pipes — but his green tartan kilt seemed to draw the most interest.

  Zach steeled himself. Her family might understand his song, but after he’d blown his chance to tell her last night, he had to sing. She deserved some closure, even if it was just the assurance she hadn’t imagined this, that if circumstances were different, everything would be different.

  But he had all night to wait. He shook off a wave of nerves. He had to do this.

  Two minutes to show time, Zach caught Lucy peeking around the curtain. Looking for Paul? That made two hopeless Saints. “Heads up,” he told her. “You’re the act one closer.”

  “Who am I singing with?”

  He cocked his head. “No one?”

  “You said someone was quitting because she needed backup singers.”

  “Grace? You’re her replacement. The whole act.”

  Lucy started to say his name, but stopped in time. “You didn’t say I’d solo!”

  “But — I didn’t — can you still do it?”

  She fumed a moment, fists clenched, then huffed in resignation. “Fine. You owe me.”

  He searched for something they’d performed together. “You know ‘Crazy,’ right?”

  “I know you, don’t I?”

  Zach ignored the jab and raised his voice for all the performers. “Show time!” he announced. After introing Molly’s act, Zach hopped off the stage to grab a front-row seat. No way was he watching this performance from the wings.

  The lights went dark for their entrance. First the uilleann pipe droned, and then the lights raised on the four dancers. The tune began, and the quartet pivoted and began their dance.

  Despite keeping her arms rigid and her smile fixed, Molly’s dancing was more than a well-executed tap routine. She leapt and clicked and spun like she was born to move that way. Too soon, the quartet returned to their starting positions, and the music wound down. Good thing the kids were next — no adult would follow that performance. But the kids’ acts mostly went well, and the hapless magic show . . . well, it went. For the last number, Zach took his place at the piano, and even he couldn’t tell Lucy’d only had thirty minutes to practice the Patsy Cline standard.

  At intermission, he found Lucy backstage with Molly, already in her street clothes, though still wearing her stage makeup.

  “Hey, you didn’t ruin the show.” Zach clapped a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. Molly instantly focused on his hand; Zach pulled away.

  Oblivious, Lucy turned to him. “Wish I could say the same for you.”

  “That doesn’t count for our deal.” Molly’s smile said she was straining to keep their conversation light. “You promised to sing.”“I can’t go on after you.” Zach teased.

  “I had to,” Lucy grumbled.

  “Did you volunteer to open?” Zach muttered back.

  “I didn’t volunteer at all.”

  Molly shifted uncomfortably, searching the backstage crowd for an escape. “As long as it isn’t ‘Molly Malone.’” She slipped away to talk to her parents, and Kathleen made a curtain call.

  “Don’t let her leave before I go on,” he charged Lucy. “Get her in the front row.”

  After an awesome puppet show — “The Old Testament in Three Minutes” — Zach broke down the O’Learys’ set through the next acts. If he’d been with Lucy, they would’ve kept a snarky commentary running about the blonde from the movie night and her continual key changes.

  He was next. Zach peeked through the curtain. The two women sat on the front row.

  Nerves set into Zach’s stomach. His anxiety had nothing to do with singing — and everything to do with what he was singing.

  Kathleen led the applause for the second-to-last act. “Now, for our finale. You know him, you love him — some of you more than others — Father Tim, singing ‘Moll Dub’!”

  Zach took the stage. “Thanks, Kathleen — but it’s actually called ‘Moll Dubh.’” He emphasized the second word, pronounced more like “doov.” The way Kathleen said it probably wouldn’t translate as “Dark Molly.”

  He stepped back from the mic, took a deep breath that didn’t faze his nerves, and searched the front row for Molly. But her seat and Lucy’s were empty. Lucy let her leave?

  Was he making a declaration to no one?

  Molly waved to her parents pulling out of the snowy car park. Huddled against the cold, she hurried back to the building. At the doors, she passed Emily, the tone-deaf blonde — leaving with Brian, without a hint of a limp. He didn’t notice Molly’s gawking. Lucy caught her two paces inside the building.

  “Was that Brian leavin’ with that blonde?” Molly asked.

  Lucy sighed. “Paul’s crazy ex. Brian loved her song. Quote, ‘Catholic girls are hot.’”

  “Did I tell you he laughed when I said our relationship wasn’t goin’ anywhere? And said he wanted to marry me or someone just like me?”


  Lucy joined in her laughter, and regret laced through Molly. How had she let Tim, a man she couldn’t have, cost her a friendship with Lucy, who truly understood what she was going through? Besides, whatever Lucy and Tim had had, it’d been over for years. Right?

  “Lucy, I have to ask — I heard you say you loved Tim, and he loved you.”

  “Like a brother,” Lucy insisted. “That’s all. Promise.”

  Molly nodded slowly. That would explain the odd rivalry between Lucy and Tim.

  “Oh, his song!” Lucy grabbed Molly’s wrist and dragged her back.

  Tim was onstage, singing in Irish — and he had an incredible voice: clear, ringing and warm, better served by a recording studio than a cafeteria. The song was familiar, but not “Molly Malone.” She’d thank him later. Molly and Lucy crept to their chairs. Despite their stealth efforts, their movement attracted Tim’s gaze. His eyes met hers and held — a gasp seized in her chest.

  Tim kept singing. Molly was still good with Irish, and she should’ve understood the meaning — something about a bird — but she was too caught up in staring back. Halfway through the refrain, the Irish words translated themselves in her mind. Could he be saying this? Dark Molly of the glen has my heart.

  The way he was looking at her, there was no question. He was singing about her — to her — she was Moll Dubh. She had his heart. Her ribs turned to ice around her lungs, but all she could do was watch Tim.

  Molly blinked, and his song was over, the houselights up, the stage empty. She stood, craning her neck to search for him. Finally, Doyle Murphy stepped aside, revealing Tim, his back to her.

  As if he could sense her gaze, Tim wheeled around. Molly could only imagine her expression: shock, joy — horror. She had her declaration, and it was all she’d ever have.

  She backed away. Tim — Father Tim — started toward her, but a row of chairs stopped him.

  Molly ran. To the hall. Out of the building. Through the falling snow. She didn’t stop until she let herself into the office, not bothering to switch on the lights. She wanted — needed — to be alone.

  Molly pulled out her mobile and looked up the lyrics to “Moll Dubh.”

  She’s Dark Molly of the valley, she’s Dark Molly of the spring

  She’s Dark Molly more ruddy than the red rose

  And if I had to choose from the young maids of the world

  Dark Molly of the glen would be my fancy

  Me without a wife, I won’t be all my life

  And Dark Molly in youth just blooming

  Lifeless the song of the bird that sings alone

  On a mound by the edge of the moorland

  Dark Molly of the glen has my heart in her keeping

  She never had reproach nor shame

  So mannerly and honestly she said to me this morning,

  “Depart from me and do not come again!”

  She’d thought she wanted this. But there was no more naïve denial, no pretending that because they didn’t voice their feelings, they hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Molly yanked out the top desk drawer, but Lucy’s Book of Mormon was at home. The organizer held only the plastic ring from Tim’s barmbrack. How could she have let herself hope?

  That’d been it all along. She’d clung to a ridiculous hope Tim could be with her, and everything would be right.

  Molly rolled the ring between her fingers a final time before dropping it into the waste bin. She hugged her knees to her chest. Tears fell, but she didn’t care that she’d streak stage makeup on her face and jeans.

  She wished she’d never met Timothy O’Rourke. Father Timothy O’Rourke.

  A knock came at the door. Molly sucked in a breath. Did she dare answer?

  Zach waited outside the parish office in the brutal cold. Molly’s car was in the lot, and the office curtains glowed blue. She’d all but run away from him, and he followed as soon as he could — not as soon as he wanted. Now she wouldn’t open the door.

  He wished he could comfort her, tell her now — kiss her and make this all real. Why hadn’t he just taken the five extra seconds to tell her the truth last night?

  Like that had ever been realistic. What could he say? “Surprise! I love you, and it’s okay because, P. S., everything you think you know about me is a lie”? Right. He wouldn’t ever be allowed to tell her the truth, and telling her would only hurt her more. Even the impulse to tell her was selfish.

  She loved someone who didn’t exist. She wouldn’t leap into Zach Saint’s arms — someone who’d lied to her and mocked her church for months. If he loved her, he had to leave her alone. That was as much closure as either of them could hope for.

  Zach finally turned away and trudged into the parking lot’s ankle-deep snow. Did he always have to be such an idiot?

  Headlights swung into the lot and headed for him. Zach instantly tensed, ready to run or draw. Then he recognized the driver: Sellars.

  Here it was. His time was up, and he was being pulled out. Some goodbye he’d given Molly. Sellars pulled up to him and gestured for Zach to hop in. Zach leaned down.

  “On our way,” Sellars said into his phone. He tapped the screen and pocketed it. “Murphy’s holed up. His favorite priest is coming to talk him down.”

  “Who, Fitzgerald?”

  Sellars pressed his fingertips to his temple. “Just get in.”

  Zach obeyed, and in minutes he was at the white stucco apartment building. He should have known. Murphy’s place.

  Molly’s building.

  “All right,” Sellars called as they got out of the car, “we got him.” He pointed to Zach.

  “No go,” said a plainclothes cop, probably the ranking local officer on the scene. “Murphy’s got a hostage.”

  Zach’s stomach fell like he was on a roller coaster. Could it be Molly? The office computer might have been left on, and Murphy was at the talent show tonight. He could’ve snatched her any time.

  If it was Molly, she’d figure out he wasn’t a priest pretty quick — and he wouldn’t lose his job for telling her. She wouldn’t be too happy with him, but maybe she could forgive him if he saved her. He just had to save her.

  He would save her.

  “He’s going in,” Sellars insisted, jerking a thumb in Zach’s direction. Was the ASAC throwing him to the wolves here, or did he finally think Zach could do his job?

  The cop raised an eyebrow, probably less at Zach’s collar and more at the gun and holster he was strapping on his belt.

  “What do we know about the hostage?” Zach asked. “Male, female? Sure it’s only one?”

  The cop glanced at the building. “Your guys chased him in.”

  “Are we sure it’s not just his family?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, get those agents over here.” Zach pulled on an FBI jacket and made sure it concealed his weapon.

  Finally, a short guy with huge arms approached. “You wanted to see us?” One of the first agents on the scene. He, too, eyed the collar.

  “Did you get a good look at the hostage? Is it his wife or kid?”

  “Never made it in.” The agent lifted a massive shoulder. “Murphy only said ‘she.’”

  That ruled out Ian at least. “Could be anyone — or no one?”

  “He said he’d kill her if we went in. Didn’t want to try him.”

  Zach nodded. “How desperate is he? Is this the hill he wants to die on?”

  The agent thought a moment. “He threatened her life twice if we didn’t back off. He’s in the corner — unless he wants to climb down the fire escape, there’s nowhere else for him to go.”

  Not good. Zach waved the other agent away and took the burner phone from his pocket. He offered a silent prayer Molly would answer.

  The phone rang three times and went to voice mail. Could she be the hostage? “Molly.” What could he say? “Don’t go home. Get somewhere safe right now and stay there.” He hit end. />
  Sellars clapped a hand on Zach’s shoulder. “You’re a go. Get in there.” He shoved a McDonald’s bag at Zach. “It’s what he ordered.”

  Zach approached the building, and an FBI hostage negotiator fell in step with him. “You ever done this before, Reverend?”

  Zach resisted the urge to correct his title — his cover’s title. “Something like this.” He kept his tone light. He’d been in armed standoffs before — okay, once — but he’d never been in a hostage situation.

  And nothing where the hostage meant this much to him.

  Zach and the negotiator reached Murphy’s floor and slowed. They made their way down the hall, keeping to one gray wall. The hostage negotiator pushed Murphy’s door open, but neither of them dared move into view — and the line of fire — without warning the guy first.

  The other agent tapped the fast food bag. “Bringing food establishes a psychological dependence on us.” Like Zach needed the clarification. The negotiator turned to the door. “Doyle? Can you send someone for your food?”

  Murphy scoffed. “Right, so you can pull something? You bring it to me.”

  “I’ll take it,” Zach whispered.

  The negotiator shook his head. “Too dangerous, Reverend. He could take you —”

  Zach flashed his badge. “Did you think the jacket was standard issue at the seminary?”

  “We’re sinking that low, huh?” The other agent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, remember, make him see the light at the end of the tunnel. There has to be a kernel of truth in everything you say. Make his crimes sound small, but don’t pretend he can get off completely; he’ll know that’s a lie. If anything goes wrong, we’ll go tactical in a heartbeat. SWAT’s on the stairs.”

  “Is there a signal?”

  “‘Rabbit.’” The negotiator raised his voice to call into Murphy’s apartment. “We got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Doyle, it’s me, Father Tim.”

  “Back off, Father, this doesn’t concern you.”