“Are the trials going to continue now that Dr. Sparks is gone?”
“I don’t know for certain,” Shockley said. “But I can’t see why they shouldn’t continue.”
“And you’d still be working with Dr. Decameron?”
“I’m not sure of anything at the moment.” Shockley stood. “Your police business has caught us all off guard.”
“Our police business?” Marge said. “Is that your way of saying Dr. Sparks’s murder?”
“Yes, Detective. Exactly.” Shockley walked over to the door. “I do have business to tend to. If you both don’t mind, it’s getting late. Do call if you have further questions. If I’m not available, you can always leave them with my secretary.”
Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. They were being unceremoniously dismissed. Oliver shrugged. They both got up and thanked Shockley for his time.
“You drive or I drive?” Marge asked.
Oliver flipped her the keys. “We didn’t learn too much, did we?”
Marge opened the door, slid in the driver’s seat, and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Once Oliver was belted in, she started the motor. “We learned that Decameron replaced Berger in the Curedon trials. If Shockley’s to be believed…that he didn’t complain to Sparks about Berger…I’d like to know why Sparks yanked Berger from the trials.”
“Yeah, that’s something.”
Marge pulled the Matador out of the vast parking lot chock-full of Japanese subcompacts. She turned left, onto the lone boulevard leading to the freeway. “I wonder how Berger felt about it…being cut from Curedon.”
“Maybe it was Berger’s decision.”
“Nah, Sparks made all the decisions regarding Curedon. The rest just followed orders.”
“And Berger resented Sparks for making the switch.”
“Possibly.”
“And that’s a motivation for murder?”
“What if money was involved? Whoever worked with Sparks got a piece of the profit?”
A good point, and Marge told him so. She took the on-ramp to the 405 North. “You know, Scott, you put money together with big egos… you get a powder keg.”
“Man, ain’t that so. I’ve never seen people so full of themselves.”
“Guess you play the part of God long enough, you begin to believe your own method acting.” Marge switched over to the left-hand lane. “We also found out that Shockley preferred Decameron over Berger. That says a lot.”
“You’re right. Berger must have been a real obstacle for Gordon Shockley to prefer a gay blade like Decameron.”
“Yeah, Scotty.” Marge fidgeted. “I want to talk to you about that. You think it was wise, bringing up the gay thing?”
Oliver grinned. “Made Shockley feel real uncomfortable. You know, Marge, sometimes you just gotta go for it. I had to get to the prick, and I did. He began to talk a little after that. Plus, he lost that smug smile of his.”
“What if it gets back to Decameron?”
“So what?” Oliver picked up the old thermos and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. “But if you want me to tell Decameron what went down, I’ll do it. I’m not the least bit embarrassed. I’d call him a queer to his face. He’d probably love it.”
“I don’t know about that.” She paused. “Does anything embarrass you, Scotty?”
“A lot embarrasses me, Margie. But I’m not gonna tell you about it.”
Marge smiled. “Too embarrassed?”
Oliver smiled back. “Too embarrassed.”
13
He was waiting when Rina swung the Volvo into the parking lot. She pulled alongside his ten-year-old Toyota, paused before she opened the door. Clad in a somber brown knit dress that fell below the knee, her hair pinned and covered with a chocolate tam, she thought she looked appropriate. Her face was clean, but without a drop of makeup. Let him see all the wrinkles and worry lines.
She got out, straighted up, and brushed imaginary lint from her skirt. She tried not to stare, but did anyway.
He had aged a bit, but wore it well. Overtones of white mixed into in his amber-colored hair, the silvering at his temples. He still kept it the same way—one length and long, the ends nipping his shoulders. His green eyes were as sharp as ever, lying calmly behind hexagonal frameless glasses. His face was a bit bonier, but his shoulders had widened, his build was more mature and mannish. Even with stress stamped across his face, Abram Matthew Sparks cut a handsome figure.
He leaned against the car, looked upward, stuck his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming.”
Her eyes went moist. “I’m sorry, Bram.”
“So am I.”
Such pain in his voice.
He looked at her face, then at the ground. “You look exquisite as always. Married life has been good for you. How long has it been since you’ve tied the knot? Five years?”
“Five years exactly.”
“So it’s been what…around six years since we’ve last seen each other? Where has the time gone? You haven’t aged a whit.”
“Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Nothing, unfortunately.” Bram walked over and opened the passenger door. “Nothing at all.”
Rina blinked back tears. “It’s agonizing to see you in such misery.”
His eyes went to hers, then he looked away. “Better me than you.”
She knew his words were heartfelt, which made the pathos that much stronger. Longing to hug him, to comfort him as he had done for her. But she quelled the thought. It wouldn’t suit either of them. Instead, she took his hand, his fingers tapered and smooth, his palm uncalloused. A scholar’s hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. Abruptly, he pulled her to his chest, hugged her hard, burrowing his face in her tam. He was trying to control his tears, but she still felt warm droplets on the back of her neck. Embracing her as if she were his life raft as he sputtered to stay afloat.
Hastily, he broke it off and walked away. “Dear God, I’m losing it.”
“Stop being so hard on your—”
“I know, I know.”
Rina was quiet. He was red-faced, embarrassed. The car door was still open. She slipped inside the Toyota’s front seat, burying her hands into the soft folds of dress fabric. Piled in the back were stacks of university library books written in ancient exotic languages. Among them, at the bottom of one of the heaps, was an oversized tome of Talmud. Tractate Sanhedrin, Volume One. Sanhedrin dealt with the laws of the Jewish court. Without thinking, Rina removed the book and set it on top. Holy works shouldn’t ever rest under secular ones.
Bram wiped his eyes, moved into the driver’s seat. “Sorry. I forgot who I’m dealing with…with whom I’m dealing.”
Rina blushed. “Force of habit.”
“It’s fine. Anything you do is fine. Anything at all. Anything, anything. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“You’re perfectly coherent.”
“My, you’re kind.”
“You’re using Steinsaltz?”
“So much for purism.” He rolled his eyes. “What a firebrand I was back then.”
“Enthusiastic.”
“You mean obnoxious. Which I was. Yes, I’m using Steinsaltz. Besides being a remarkably clear thinker, he believes in readable print and punctuation. My eyes are going.”
Rina regarded his face. “Did you get any rest at all, Abram?”
“Actually, yes.” He pulled a crucifix out from under his shirt, kissed it gently. “I grabbed around four hours between six A.M. and noon Mass. I feel okay.”
With that, he started the car, jamming the gear into first. Speeded up as he drove through the winding mountainous road. Bram had always been a fast driver. Occasionally, the Toyota seemed to lose its grip on the asphalt. Rina clutched the door rest and hoped for the best.
She stole a quick glance his way. He was dressed in the requisite black suit and black clerical shirt. His nails had been
bitten to the quick. She looked away, eyes peering out the window.
“Considerate of you,” she said. “Wearing your cross inside your shirt when you were with Rav Schulman. Especially considerate to be thinking of him at this time in your life.”
“Yes, I’ve grown up.” He was reflective. “I don’t know why Rav Schulman put up with me way back when. Such a cocky kid. Cocky, abrasive, argumentative, rude, irritating…a veritable thesaurus of unpleasantness.”
“You’re turning your grief inward,” Rina stated. “Don’t. It doesn’t help.”
Bram was silent. Then he said, “Thanks for calling last night.”
“I wouldn’t think of doing otherwise. After everything you did for…” Rina’s eyes started to water. She hid her face in her hands. “I’m sorry.”
Bram gave her a packet of tissues. Rina dabbed away tears, tried to compose herself. “Was Rav Schulman helpful?”
“Always. The man’s a stone genius.” The priest pushed the Toyota into fourth gear. “I wish he had known my dad well enough to eulogize him. I wish he were speaking instead of me.”
“I’m sure your father wouldn’t have wanted anyone else but you.”
“Flaws and all.” Bram’s voice held a bitter tinge. “I suppose you’re right. At least it will be from the heart. You’ve been okay, Rina?”
“Very well. I had a baby about three years ago—a daughter.”
Bram’s happiness seemed genuine. “That’s wonderful! You got your little girl. And what a lucky little girl she is to have a mother like you. I hope she looks like you.” He let out a gentle laugh. “No offense to your husband.”
“None taken. And you’ve been well?”
“Chugging along. I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long as a parish priest. But it’s a good place. We’ve grown tremendously. At the moment, we’re just about five hundred families.”
“Big congregation.”
“Very. Goes in cycles. Right now, church is in.”
“As if you’ve had nothing to do with it.”
“Not much. We’re practically the only Catholic show in town.” Bram turned onto Foothill Boulevard and headed toward the freeway. “I know several guys from Loyola—went to seminary with them in the States. They’re great about picking up slack during my absences.”
“Then you’re still traveling to Rome.”
“Yes, the Pontiff and I are very tight.”
“It’s a simple statement. You’re allowed to impress me without doing penance.”
Bram smiled. “The Vatican needs people fluent in ancient languages. It’s for their twenty-first—century synod.”
“What are you doing?”
“Comparing the simultaneous writings of various ancient accounts and events—holy or otherwise. I’m attempting to date some recently discovered texts that have shown up over the last ten-plus years. Most of the works are in Aramaic, Hebrew or Latin. Some are in Greek…Phoenician.”
He paused.
“I think several were in Ugaritic.”
“What?”
“Ugaritic. A Canaanite cousin to biblical Hebrew. As opposed to Ugric…which is related to Hungarian. Something you’d know more about than I would. Anyway, by using syntax and colloquial phrases, I can put a century on most of the ancient manuscripts. Then I analyze them to see if the writings fall within the prescribed dogma of the church. If they do, I determine how the See can best use them to its benefit.”
“Very interesting.”
“Pretty esoteric, huh?”
“I feel like I’m back with Yitzy. No wonder you two got along so well. You both spoke the same intellectual language. Left us mere mortals in the dust.”
“Hardly. Whenever you chose to grace us with your presence during one of our many long-winded diatribes, I recall you holding your own quite nicely. That is whenever we piggish males allowed you to get a word in edgewise.”
“You’re pushing seventy-five on the speedometer, Father. Can you please slow down?”
The priest hit the brakes, became somber. “Yitzy was a great teacher, Rina. Better for me than Rabbi Schulman because I wasn’t inhibited with him. I could make mistakes without feeling dumb. And, I did make mistakes. Here I was, a classic language major with a minor in biblical languages, and I couldn’t hold a candle to a high school yeshiva boy.”
“There’s nothing like learning a language as a child.”
“I found that out. Yitzy and I were about a year apart in age. His fluency in the Hebraic texts astounded me. I was humbled rather quickly. It was a pleasure to learn with him.”
“You know, Bram, I’ve always wondered why you became a parish priest as opposed to an academic. I’d always figured you’d wind up teaching at Notre Dame or some other university. You’ve got a professor’s mentality.”
The priest was quiet. Then he said, “I think Yitzy’s death knocked the intellectual fire out of me. Afterward, I wanted to do some actual good in the world, make a difference on a human level. Be a real priest.”
He smiled, but his eyes had misted.
“This sudden, terrible loss…meeting your new husband…seeing you…it evoked all sorts of old feelings. I miss Yitzchak, Rina.” He paused. “I miss you.”
A long pause. Silence except for the car’s elderly straining gears.
Rina said, “I’m not dead.”
Bram smiled. “Thank God.”
“You could call. I do have a phone.”
“It would be awkward.”
Rina knew that was true enough. She didn’t answer. He tapped the wheel. “What am I doing…running off at the mouth about Yitzchak because I can’t deal with my own father’s death. I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize. Would talking about it help?”
“I don’t know. Right now, I’m so confused, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
A strand of hair was tickling his cheek. Rina would have liked to tuck it behind his ear, but didn’t dare do it. The gesture would have been way too intimate. “You’re pale, Bram. Would you like me to drive?”
“No, I’m…” He sighed. “Why would anyone want to hurt my dad? He didn’t have an enemy in the world.” He tried to bite his nails. Nothing left to gnaw on. “My mom’s acting stoic. I’m worried.”
“Maybe it’s her way of grieving?”
“No. Being a priest, I’ve dealt with grief umpteen times. But this doesn’t seem normal. She’s too…detached.” He paused. “In truth, she’s acting stoned. Could be the sedatives we gave her last night. She had been hooked on them in our early years. You knew that.”
“Actually, no, I didn’t.”
“I didn’t tell you?”
“Never.”
“Must have slipped past me. Maybe it didn’t come up because she was off of them when we knew each other.” Bram rubbed his eyes. “When we were growing up, my dad was never home. And I mean never except for Sunday morning church. Then we’d go to the afternoon picnics, and he’d go back to the hospit—Now I know you’ve heard all this before.”
“It’s been a while. Refresh my memory.”
“Nothing to say except basically, she raised six kids by herself—three boys at one sitting. It was too much for her. She needed help. With her Fundamentalist beliefs, secular therapy was out. And back then, they didn’t have Christian counselors.”
“What about her church pastor?”
“No, she would never embarrass Dad like that. How could the wife of Doctor Azor Moses Sparks possibly have any problems. To the outside world, she was the model mother. Strong, solid, a firm churchgoing woman. And most of the time, while I was growing up, I viewed her that way, too. Like most mothers, she was our family anchor.”
Wasn’t that the truth. Rina nodded.
“But she had another side,” Bram continued. “Scared, frightened. Left alone in an empty bed most of the night. She had a hard time falling asleep. She turned to pills. Barbiturates. You know how they work. At first, they knock you out so you do sleep. Then,
your body acclimates. You either take them or you bounce off walls. And with six of us, she did her fair share of bouncing. On the outside, she could maintain. But there were times…her mood swings…they were sometimes very hard to deal with.”
“Why didn’t her doctor wean her off the medication?”
“What doctor? She got the pills from my father.”
Rina held back surprise.
“Actually, Dad gave them to me, told his golden boy to keep a watch on her, especially after Magdeleine was born. He was worried about postpartum depression, which she had with Michael. At the grown-up age of fifteen, I was in charge of dispensing Class Two narcotics to my mother.”
Rina remained silent.
“Anyway, she did wean herself off by the time we finished high school. I hope and pray she can handle my father’s death without a major relapse.”
“You still have siblings at home, don’t you?”
“My youngest brother and sister. But they never knew her as an addict, thank God. None of my siblings knew. Later on, Luke figured it out. Could interpret her odd behavior for what it was. Probably because of his own illicit drug use.”
“Is he still an addict?”
“Thank God, no. He’s been clean for three years. But I’m concerned about him, too. He’s fragile. His marriage is unstable. My sister-in-law is a very difficult person.”
“Dana.”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“The girl who broke your heart.”
“A very good memory.” He kissed his cross again. “Te amo, Jesu Cristo. There are things worse than celibacy.”
Rina smiled and so did he. Then he turned grave. “I know we’re all our brothers’ keepers. We are responsible for each other’s welfare. But sometimes I wonder if I’m strong enough.” He rolled his eyes again. “Now I’m whining.”
“You’re talking.”
“I’m rambling actually.”
Rina looked down. “It’s good for you to talk. Bram, I really do have a phone number.”
“I appreciate it, Rina Miriam, but it wouldn’t work, with your being married…I’d feel…He’d feel…” He waited a beat. “Did you tell your husband about us?”
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