Duncan wasn’t sure if Chris was offering a solution or defining the problem.
Still perusing the photo album, Rachel pointed to a picture of a man standing beside a large, if not stately, playhouse. Kathy, maybe six years old then, was at his side, gaping at the structure, the surprise on her face immeasurable. “This is her late step-father, Charles?”
“Yes,” Patricia said. “He built that for her.”
“Impressive,” Rachel said. “But no pictures of Jack Fortune?”
Patricia shook her head.
“You mentioned his ‘mysterious’ side,” Duncan said. “Mysterious how?”
“He was...eclectic,” Patricia explained. “You know, one of those well-dressed, anal-retentive types who strut around pretending to be the cock of the walk.”
Rachel laughed. “That’s not mysterious—it’s compulsory.”
Wearing that baffled look again, Patricia said, “Well, he did have a...an ambiance about him that was convincing. An air of nobility that I never second-guessed.” She glanced back down at the pictures, appearing both charmed and ashamed. “He made me laugh.”
Rachel leaned forward. “He was rich, in other words.”
“That too,” she said. “Yeah, he was loaded. I mean, that was the impression I got. He never worked but always seemed to have an unlimited supply of cash. All he would ever tell me was that he was ‘the epitome of rags-to-riches.’”
“So,” Rachel said, “as long as he kept getting the check, you minded your own business.”
Patricia squirmed in her chair. “No. Maybe.” She laughed. “Hell, I guess I did.”
Rachel pressed on. “How long did you date him?”
She sighed. “About two months.”
Back from the kitchen with Twinkie in hand, Chris looked shocked, and just as he was about to comment, Juanita kicked him under the table. “Keep your remarks pleasant and to the point.”
Speechless under these new conditions, Chris just gaped.
“Just two months?” Rachel said, almost haughtily. “Well, that would at least explain the lack of pictures.”
Duncan, however, silently translated his wife’s words into their true meaning: “Well, well, you wasted no time in attempting to corner him into marriage, or a sizable alimony check—you slut.”
In self-defense, Patricia said, “When I told him I was pregnant, he vanished. I mean, it’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth. I’ve never seen or heard from him since.”
“Prick,” Rachel said.
Duncan said, “Did you ever file a claim with the child support division?”
“No. All I had was his name, and that was probably bogus.”
“Jack Fortune,” Duncan guessed, “charming and debonair as he may have seemed, is probably the model for bogus wear.” He gave the face in the window an impugning glance, then looked down at Kathy playing on the floor. He whispered, “Hell, I’ll even wager that Jack Fortune isn’t human at all.”
Patricia, staring also at Kathy, said, “Jesus, I don’t want to consider that.”
*****
An hour later, still at the dining room table, Duncan and Patricia found themselves alone.
Taking what was surely going to be a short-lived opportunity, Patricia said, “You know, after Katherine disappeared from the boardwalk, I was told to make a list of all the people who’d ever been involved with her, to whatever degree. A list of potential suspects. And you were right there at the top.”
It was no mystery to Duncan why she’d named him her prime suspect, at least initially, and for two very good reasons. One, just months before Kathy’s disappearance, he’d been an influential—if not patriarchal—figure in her life. Having Patricia create such a list was just standard police work, and whether she’d included him or not, his name would have eventually made its way there in the course of the investigation. Two, she would have naturally assumed—again, at least initially, frantically—that he’d kidnapped Kathy for ransom. For his share of the money. Or maybe all of it. This she wouldn’t have divulged (and obviously hadn’t) to the authorities, as she would have implicated herself in any number of felonies, some carrying a penalty as severe as kidnapping itself. He wondered how close she’d come to telling, though, in those first twenty-four hours.
“The FBI quickly cleared you, of course,” Patricia said, “seeing how you were on the other end of the continent when Katherine disappeared.”
He shook his head. “Still, it would have been procedure for the FBI to contact me, to—”
“I told them not to,” she said.
Duncan leaned back, surprised. “Wow. Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Gotti should have been as convincing.”
She smiled. “Gotti didn’t have my dimples.”
Duncan leaned in, peering into her eyes. “Still, there is a resemblance. In a dapper sort of way.”
“Wiseacre.”
Then he asked, “So, how much of the money did you burn through?”
“There’s still about eighty grand left,” she said. “I used only what I needed to get us out of the debt Charles left us in after his murder. And, of course, some of it came in handy when Katherine turned up missing. Printing her fliers, quitting my job to search for her full time, and so on. I paid off this house. Some of Mom’s medical bills. That’s it, really.”
“And the guilt?”
“Probably not as deep as yours. Your lieutenant was very persuasive when he handed me the suitcase that night. Told me how much hell you went through getting it for me. That it was our little secret, and that it would stay that way, scout’s honor.”
“Lieutenant Mo White’s a righteous man. I owe him more than my life.”
Patricia stared down into her coffee. “You lost your partner that night. I’m very sorry about that.”
Duncan nodded. “It was a foolish, foolish thing I did. But what’s done is done.”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “Does it still bother you that you never caught the person who killed my husband?”
“Of course it does.”
“Don’t let it. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”
“I tried making it up to you, the money—”
“I know, I know.”
“If I could just do it over again, I—”
“But you can’t.”
He sighed. “No, I can’t.”
9.
Silent tears streamed down Samuel Flannery’s cheeks.
Despite the mugginess outside, the doors of St. Patrick’s had been opened to their fullest, allaying a strong though unrecognizable stench that had earlier emerged on the heels of Father Kagan’s angry exodus from the church.
For a little over two hours now, the deacon had been staring at the domed ceiling, watching all of the angels’ expressions go from annoyed to utterly incensed, as his sore neck would attest.
This would be his last day at St. Patrick’s. Father Kagan had flat flipped out of his fucking mind, and Samuel refused to work alongside anyone who catered their delusions of grandeur like a Kennedy wedding.
Not that it really mattered now...
But then, what if Father Kagan was anything but delusional? Could he be in cohorts with the Devil? The idea that Lucifer would chose to beguile a man of the cloth to do his bidding was such a belabored one that, nowadays, someone like himself might be inclined to look outside the clergy simply to avoid cliché—no matter how much hard evidence pointed to the contrary.
Like the nine mightily pissed-off angels above him.
He wondered if such omens were manifesting in other churches, synagogues, holy places of worship. Then he decided that it really didn’t matter. He didn’t have to go any further than his own backyard to know that if man’s soul was ever in danger, it was now.
What could he do? He was only one man. He couldn’t run. This wasn’t a fifth-grade bully looking for a fight after school.
Of course, there was alw
ays prayer. But if his growing suspicions were right, that man had finally met his Waterloo, then any appeals weren’t likely going to be heard through the bedlam that was most assuredly ringing the Almighty’s ears.
Had he lost his conviction? Wasn’t fear borne of a lack of faith?
Earlier, the Jesus statue above the front doors had winked at him. Twice. He was sure of it. It had mocked him; had reminded him that there was nothing his little mortal self could do but stand aside and let the cortege pass.
Let go and let God, Samuel reminded himself. The wisest bumper sticker ever created.
A fireman walked into the church. A rather tall figure, he was decked to the nines in firefighting garb.
He’s either just come from a three-alarm fiasco, Samuel thought, or is on his way to one.
Then it occurred to him: Obviously, someone had mistaken the odor in or around St. Patrick’s as a gas leak (though it smelled like nothing of the sort) and dutifully reported it to the fire department.
The fireman began talking to a young lady who was kneeling in prayer. After a moment, the lady rose and hurried out the doors, appearing...unsettled.
The fireman repeated this with the remaining three people, all leaving in the same pressed manner.
Samuel continued to weep silently as he stared up at the angels. The fireman’s behavior did not interest him; only the soaring figures above. Their faces, their displeasure. Surely, their disappointment.
Moments later, the fireman tapped his shoulder. “Sorry to bother you, padre.”
Samuel turned. “Is there a fire?” he said lightheartedly, wiping the tears from his face.
“Not yet,” said the fireman. The name Gamble was stenciled just above the brim of his yellow hat. He handed Samuel a hymnal, one of many located behind every pew. “I was wondering,” he said, “could you please read me psalm 212? You see, I’ve misplaced my glasses.”
Samuel glanced warily at the fireman, then took the book and opened to the requested song. Dismayed, he said, “This is some kind of, of joke. This appears to be a limerick—”
“Could you please read it aloud?”
Samuel slowly began reading. “‘There once was a man named—’” His eyes went wide.
“Once again, from the top,” Gamble said.
Samuel just gaped at the words.
“Read it!” demanded the fireman.
“‘Th-There once was a man named Flannery, the victim of much chicanery. He poked and prodded around, until it was hell that he found, without even a map and itinerary.’”
“Very nicely done,” Gamble congratulated, clapping. “You have a lovely voice. You’re a tenor, aren’t you? You were a bit shaky, but that’s perfectly understandable. After all, it is a bit unsettling when one reads one’s own obituary.”
The huge front doors of the church slammed shut.
The inner sanctum was still vibrating as Samuel began backing away. “I’ve...I’ve been expecting something like this,” he stammered. “I knew you were coming.”
Gamble laughed. “Did you, now? Why then, my learned friend, you must think I’m the Devil.”
“Who else could you be?”
“Whatever I am, it ain’t ol’ Beelzebub, bub.”
“This is it, isn’t it? The end?”
Gamble’s face scrunched with concern. “For whom?”
“All of mankind.”
“Let’s just say that you’ll never know. Not from this angle, anyway.”
Samuel stopped; just stood there, shaking badly. Staring.
Gamble slapped a knee. “Ha! You don’t know whether to shit or go blind, do you, padre?”
“I, I’m not a priest.”
“That’s commendable,” Gamble said, leaning forward. “But it won’t be enough to get your pious ass out of this pickle.”
Voice trembling, Samuel closed his eyes and began praying. “‘Our Father, Who art in heaven—’”
Gamble clucked. “You fleshsacks are curious animals, with your redundant doxologies, biased almsgiving, extraneous iconolatry.” He sighed. “From now on, let’s leave the psalming to me, hmmm? That’s my forte. For you, might I suggest a more philistine approach? Something, say, along the lines of, ‘Hey, God! Please yank my sorry ass outta this church before this crazy fucker here makes mincemeat of my balls!’”
Samuel felt a wintry breath sting the back of his neck. A presence behind him. He turned, then screamed. It was the Christ statue from above the doors, dragging its cross. Up close, Samuel could see that its expression was more weary than plaintive; its eyelids hanging drowsily upon those dark mahogany irises. No, not despondent. Just so damn tired.
As the statue crouched to finally relieve itself of that burdensome cruciform, ambient light rolled across its slick, amber back, emphasizing as it went the skin’s advanced state of crackleware motif; a patina Christ himself might have approved of, as Samuel thought it not only epitomized the weathering of time and its implications to faith, but also exquisite suffering.
Laying the cross on the floor, its gaunt, wooden physique creaked and splintered. Its hands were colorfully veined, and there were holes in both wrists. Its toes were curled slightly inward, and both feet were caked with red, flaking paint. The statue’s wooden lips pulled apart with a splintery sound. Inside its mouth a vast, starry universe twinkled invitingly. It spoke in a dry, edgy voice. “Pontius Pilate. Know where I can find him?”
“He, he killed himself,” was all Samuel could think to say, his voice merely a wheeze, scored by dry, trembling lips.
Grievous, the statue hung its head. “Ah, shit.”
Eyes wide, fingers pressed to his cheeks, Gamble began tittering like a soused old crone winning big on bridge night. “I’m so ashamed,” he said. “Tee-hee-hee-hee. So mortified! Oh, but this is all so blasphemous, so heretical!”
Samuel started to run, but Gamble grabbed the back of his hair.
Sounding very concerned now, Gamble said, “Tell me, Samuel, will I go to hell for murdering you?”
Samuel twisted around. “You are hell.”
He let go of the deacon and actually began dancing in the aisle. “Ding! Ding! Ding! The closest correct answer yet! What do we have for him, Johnny?”
“An all-expense paid trip to the inferno,” replied the statue.
Samuel tried to run again, but his legs seemed apprehensive, as if his astral limbs had switched places with his physical ones.
The statue reached out with both hands and grabbed Samuel around the waist; pulled him close.
“Hay-zeus kinda looks different now that he’s off that bulky tree,” Gamble said, still dancing. “Don’t you think? Now, I was gonna follow the chain of command and use a Mary, but you Catholics here ain’t got any obelisks of the old broad taller than Napoleon.”
The statue tightened its grip and lifted Samuel over its head.
Samuel heard what he thought was a gunshot, then another—then instantly and painfully discovered that a few of his ribs had just snapped.
“Shit, I heard those suckers crack all the way over here!” Gamble laughed gleefully, standing a mere three feet away. “That must have hurt like the dickens!”
The very instant air returned to his lungs, Samuel cried, “Dear God, where are you now?”
Gamble reached up and patted Samuel on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sam ol’ boy, He’s probably just caught in traffic.”
Samuel’s heart thundered.
“Hay-zeus,” Gamble ordered in a Spanish accent, “let’s crucify this gringo. Then you and me, we’re going to party, huh? Have a few Margaritas, maybe get laid. Hey, chicks are gonna dig you, man! You’re gonna be a regular pussy magnet! But first you have to take off that ratty-ass crown. Trust me, you don’t want any thorns in those bushes!”
Samuel kicked and screamed.
Gamble snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! We can go to the Temple Shalom over on 36th and Garrett and get you hired on as the new mohel,” he said to the statue. “We’ll br
ew up our own batch of Sweet wine, glue some alligator teeth to those Mogen clamps, and turn the next Bris into a scream fest! By God, we’ll put the fun back in circumcisions!”
Then he and the statue wrestled Samuel to the cross.
Holding Samuel’s left arm down with one hand, raising the hammer in the other, the statue cried out in an ancient, despairing voice: “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”
Chuckling, Gamble said, “God hasn’t forsaken you, padre. Like I said, He’ll show eventually. But not to worry—me and Pinocchio here are willing to hear your confession.” He positioned the spike in the center of Samuel’s left wrist, then the statue drove it through.
The pain was tremendous. Samuel tried to scream, but there was no longer any air in his lungs. He quickly slipped into a breezy, almost enchanted awareness, where gradually before him emerged skeins of plaited streamers, twisting and twirling in parade fashion, donning every known and inconceivable color. And the skin of this macrocosm was resplendent in its complexity of textiles, shimmering sequins and adamantine tracers. The patterns were so intricately woven, the gossamer threads so fragile, that they could have only been treadled from an ethereal loom.
Or woven by the nimble fingers of God Himself.
Then he understood: Graveclothes. He was being fitted for death.
In a valley distant, a lonesome dinosaur cried for its mate.
No! Not a dinosaur. A train!
A pinpoint of words pierced the braided cerement. “Don’t you go south on me just yet!” said an angry voice. “Wake the fuck up!”
Gamble was slapping the deacon’s cheeks. Eyes fluttering, Samuel foundered back into semi consciousness. His ability to breathe had returned, but was short-circuiting.
With just enough available air, he screamed as another spike was driven through his right wrist.
“Deep breaths, deep breaths,” Gamble kept chanting.
Finally, Gamble squatted on Samuel’s chest as the statue prepared to deliver the last spike.
Gamble threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Kind of paradoxical, ain’t it? I mean, what with the Son of God nailing your Catholic ass to a cross and all.”
Seraphim Page 25
