Familiar faces lined the pews. Most of the congregation of St. Ambrose was there, listening to Father McCarrick’s sermon on the power of faith and the joy of forgiveness. The pulpit was modest and he was barely visible, just a voice from the altar.
After Mass, Father stood on the sun-soaked steps and greeted his flock. He smiled, nodded, shook hands, kissed babies, stood on his toes to hug matrons. When the crowd finally dissipated, Conley joined him.
“Finally found your way to the ʼburbs, Matt. About time.”
“Nice sermon, Father.”
“If the back rows had stayed awake, I might believe you.”
“How’s the new rectory?”
McCarrick shrugged. “Sharing isn’t easy. Mrs. Blodgett is complaining about the kitchen and she doesn’t like Father Starrett’s housekeeper.”
“Shocker. How’s everything else?”
“Metza Metz.” He rotated his hand back and forth. “Crowd’s been good. St. Amby’s whole congregation is here.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
McCarrick’s voice raised an octave and his finger pointed at the big-domed church on the other side of the lot. “St. Margaret’s crew barely makes a dent in that big ark of a church. I’d bet a jug of wine we’re beating that crowd. Maybe a trade’s in order.”
“Father, I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Well, it only makes sense we switch places—for the good of the Archdiocese.”
“Don’t start.”
He closed his eyes. “Wasn’t my idea, Matt. Mrs. Blodgett made the observation. You know how she picks up that sort of thing.”
“Remember, you’re a guest at St. Margaret’s. Be thankful for what you’ve been given.”
“Matt, I’m being thankful…but practical too.”
The last car left the parking lot. A traffic cop in a fluorescent vest was collecting orange cones. Conley held up two fingers.
“Peace, Father McCarrick.”
Father sighed, lifted his cassock over his head, and smoothed his hair with his palms.
“Ah, yes, Matt. Peace it is.”
****
Spring had brought an unusual calm to Ocean Park. The Gang Unit got a tip that the Asian Boyz were stockpiling guns, drugs, and cash in order to grow the drug trade, and Stefanos decided to check it out. Experience had taught him that tranquility was a gift that needed nurturing.
State troopers gathered the boys on the porch of their River Street home. They sat cross-legged on the deck, their dark, puzzled eyes staring at their captors. Conley called them into the hallway one by one for questioning while Stefanos and Mazzarelli searched. The boys denied the drug rumors and cursed Vithu for the carnage that had visited Ocean Park. His death had dissolved their fear and unbridled their hatred for him.
Mazzarelli clopped down the steep staircase holding a cardboard box that contained baggies of marijuana, a broken zip gun, and a bottle of homemade rice wine. He gave his report to Stefanos at the landing.
“Nothing, Captain.”
“You searched everywhere?”
“All except the prayer room.”
“I’m done too,” Conley said. “I think we got a bad tip.”
Stefanos sighed. “Okay, let ʼem go, Conley. You and I will toss the prayer room.”
The room was painted in a riotous purple. Paper prayer flags were strung around the walls on clotheslines. Candles burned, tendrils of smoke rising. Ceramic figures lined narrow tables—offerings to Buddha—along with jewelry, macramé, and knick knacks. The puffy-cheeked Buddha smiled at it all, his golden face content.
Weren’t many places to search. Conley was kneeling, checking the undersides of the prayer benches when a melancholy seized him. Blame it on the memory of Lloyd preaching in that same room, or his haunting voice—which had begun to visit often. The sadness prompted a question, which he regretted as soon as it left his mouth.
“Do you pray, Captain?”
Stefanos was inspecting the offerings, lifting statues, turning them over. He separated a collection of nesting dolls and looked inside. Had he heard the question? Conley decided he hadn’t, and was glad. He wouldn’t ask again.
“Nothing here,” Stefanos said and returned a bracelet to the card table. His eye caught sight of a long knife with a ceramic handle, and he picked it up. One side of the blade was serrated, the other curved and sharp as a razor. The handle was covered with ornate, curling snakes.
“I pray every day,” Stefanos said suddenly. Sunlight poured in through the painted windows and played off the blade. “I pray for Lloyd, for Madie and her kids, and those that are special in my life. Then I pray for me.”
He laid the knife down, walked out of the room, and looked over his shoulder.
“Time to go, Detective Conley. Our work here is done.”
Chapter 46
Conley poured a cup of coffee and sat in the galley. The portholes were being lashed with a freak late-season snowstorm. Warmth and darkness made the cabin feel like a womb. He sat in the galley, opened the sketchbook Thompson had given him, and flipped the pages. They’d been through so much together—tragedy, heartache, justice and injustice. He bowed his head and reflected on how blessed he was to know each and every one.
Lloyd, Stefanos, Mazzarelli…Thompson.
The dock bell rang outside, a crisp clang muffled by the howling wind and snow. He crossed the deck and undid the transom zipper on the boat cover. Mazzarelli stood, shivering, his gloved hand still on the bell line. His entire body was caked with snow. Conley waved him inside.
“Boats are for summer, Conley. But it’s pretty nice in here. Warm at least.”
“I’m not looking for a roommate, Mazzarelli.”
Mazzarelli took off his jacket and hung it on the door hook. He removed hat and gloves and laid them on the galley counter. His cheeks were rosy, eyes glassy from the cold. Conley poured him a coffee and they sat. Mazzarelli wrapped both hands around the mug before he spoke.
“We just got transferred, me and the captain. South Shore.”
“Nice. You’ll be on Cape Cod for the summer.”
“Right. Us and every college kid and pickpocket in Massachusetts.”
“Don’t be so negative, Mazzarelli.”
Mazzarelli shrugged and retrieved an envelope from his coat. “Captain wanted you to have this—a letter of commendation. In case the O-P cops try to fry you again, there’s always the staties.”
Conley opened the envelope and read. He imagined Stefanos writing the words, sitting straight at his desk, brow knit, hand scribbling thoughtfully.
“Tell him I appreciate it.”
They drank. The wind howled, a fierce shriek that rocked the boat against its bumpers.
“You doing okay, Conley? Captain told me to ask.”
He smiled. “You tell the captain I’m okay. Better days are coming. That’s my new motto.”
Mazzarelli stood, shook into his coat and put on his hat. “Hard to imagine they’d be much worse.”
“Bye, Conley. By the way, you done good.” He looked around. “Yeah, this place ain’t half bad, but you deserve better.”
Conley walked Mazzarelli to the deck, watched him disappear into the whiteout, and returned to the galley. Mazzarelli had forgotten his gloves. Outside, the bell tolled again, insistently. He grabbed the gloves, went out again, unzippered the cover. An apparition stood in front of him, covered in snow, white as an angel.
Lisa.
Snow swirled around her. She wore a dress, no coat, and the left eye of her wet face sported a shiner. Conley jumped to the dock and helped her onto the boat. Her skin was gelid and her teeth chattered, her soft shoulders trembled, and her breath smelled of alcohol.
The wind died down, the water stilled, the snow fell quietly. A surreal peacefulness consumed him. A peace that surpassed understanding.
Heʼd take it. Because she’d never left, not really.
When he opened the cabin door, she stopped and peered insid
e. They stood on the deck, huddled in almost total darkness.
“Is someone here?” she asked. “I thought I saw someone from our balcony.”
He shook his head and led her inside. “No one. Just us, babe.” He brushed snow out of her hair and tightened his arm around her shoulder. “There’s just us.”
A word about the author…
Mike Walsh attended Boston University, where he became a staffer for the Daily Free Press and earned a degree in journalism.
His first professional job was at a public relations and advertising firm, writing press releases that appeared in the Boston Globe, Boston Herald, and New England Journal of Engineering. He later became a technical writer, writing and editing jet engine manuals for General Electric Aircraft Engines. GE relocated him to Cincinnati and Florida, where he currently resides.
He’s written and studied fiction for years at BU, the University of Cincinnati, and now Jacksonville, where he won the First Coast Writers Festival short story contest and had work published in the UK’s Twisted Tongue and Askew Reviews. He’s an active member of the Bard Society, Florida’s longest-running workshop.
His five novels and dozens of short stories, most of them richly-layered mysteries, take place in New England.
Mike and his wife Jean live in Florida with their three boys.
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