The Devils Punchbowl pc-3

by Greg Iles

  other, stretch out toward infinity, a single breath apart, but never quite meeting.

  The rectory is a modest building, built of the same brick as the cathedral. A long, gray Mercedes is parked in front of it, and behind this an older Lincoln Continental. As I approach the door, a woman bursts through and rushes past me. She looks familiar, but all I really register is a graying bouffant and pancake makeup concealing a face twisted into a grimace of rage and anguish. She disappears into the Lincoln, then races down the street with a squeal of rubber.

  What’s going on here?

  I wonder.

  Father Mullen is a new priest, and young. I’'ve only met him on a couple of occasions, at civic functions. A well-educated Midwesterner, he seems somewhat bemused by the Southernness of his new flock. I wonder how he sees Jack Jessup, a clotheshorse who used to charge $1,000 to remove a mole my father would have cut off for $75.

  I find Dr. Jessup and Father Mullen in the priest’s office, the surgeon’s expensive chalk-stripe suit a marked contrast to Mullen’s black robe. I can tell by Jessup’s posture that he’s disturbed about something. He’s leaning over the priest’s desk like a naval officer at the rail of a ship about to go into battle.

  Judiciously clearing my throat, I say, “Excuse me?”

  The surgeon turns sharply, but his face softens when he recognizes me. He motions me forward, and I shake his hand.

  Behind him, Father Mullen looks as though he would rather be mortifying his flesh in a monastery than dealing with Dr. Jessup in his present state. The surgeon has intimidated more formidable men than priests.

  “What can I do for you, Dr. Jessup?” I ask.

  The surgeon’s mouth works behind his closed lips for a few moments, as though he’s being forced to chew and swallow a day-old lemon wedge. When Dr. Jessup finally speaks, I realize his voice is choked with indignation.

  “Did you see who just left?”

  “She looked familiar, but she passed me so fast, I didn't recognize her.”

  “Charlotte McQueen.”

  I blink in surprise, but it takes less time than a blink for me to

  decode the subtext of this situation. Charlotte McQueen is the mother of the boy who died when Tim ran his car off the road in college during his beer run to the county line. In fact, she’s the one who pushed the DA into making Tim do jail time. Mrs. McQueen is an influential member of the Catholic church, and I doubt she came to express her condolences.

  “I see,” I temporize. “Well, how exactly can I help, Doctor?”

  Dr. Jessup jerks his head toward Father Mullen. “I'’ll let

  him

  explain it to you.”

  The priest tries a conciliatory smile as he stands and walks around his desk, taking care to make a wide arc around Dr. Jessup. I can only imagine what must have transpired before I entered the rectory. “Mr. Mayor,” he begins in a soft voice, but then he stops and looks closely at me. “Are you all right, Mr. Cage?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your eyes are very red.”

  “I haven'’t gotten much sleep this weekend. Please go on.”

  “I'm not sure we should even be having this conversation, but Dr. Jessup feels that your input might help shed some light on the situation.”

  “What exactly is the situation?”

  “Well, as you may know, Timothy Jessup was—”

  “Just tell him what the woman said,” Dr. Jessup snaps. “Tell him what she wants.”

  Father Mullen gives the surgeon a pained look. “Dr. Jessup, I really don'’t think you need worry about Mrs. McQueen’s request. What she asked—”

  “Demanded.”

  “Yes yes, I suppose she did. Nevertheless, it’s really very rare nowadays. Only in the most extreme cases does—”

  “Stop all the mushmouth! Just tell him.”

  Father Mullen turns to me. “Well, as you probably know, Mrs. McQueen’s son Patrick died twenty-seven years ago on a highway near Oxford, Mississippi.”

  “Yes, I know. Tim Jessup served time for manslaughter as a result. How does that bear on the present?”

  “The vindictive old bitch doesn’'t want Tim to have a Church funeral,” Dr. Jessup says in a choked voice.

  Blood rises into my cheeks. “Is that true?”

  Father Mullen diplomatically retreats a step. “Not exactly. But in broad terms, yes. I don'’t believe Mrs. McQueen has ever gotten over the death of her son.”

  “Of course not. No one does. But I fail to see how that would have any bearing on Tim’s funeral.”

  “Well,” Father Mullen says in the tone of a man being forced to point out the most inconvenient of truths, “according to canon law, certain persons may be prohibited from having Catholic funerals. If the person is known to be an apostate or a heretic, or is such a publicly manifest sinner that having a Church funeral would cause a scandal among the congregation, the mass may be—and occasionally is—withheld.”

  Dr. Jessup is shaking his head in disgust. “I can’t believe my ears. I’'ve been coming here for thirty-seven years, and—”

  “Just a moment, Dr. Jessup,” I say. “Father, are you seriously considering Mrs. McQueen’s request?”

  “Well, not in the way you might think. But given the situation, I don'’t feel I can simply reject it out of hand. The problem is that the congregation has become aware that a large quantity of drugs was found in Tim’s home on the night he died.”

  “The night he was

  murdered,

  ” Dr. Jessup corrects. “Isn’t that right, Penn? Wasn’t my son murdered?”

  “He was.”

  Father Mullen nods awkwardly, as though this information hardly advances Tim’s cause. “It seems that some embarrassing pictures have surfaced as well—pictures of a young lady not Mr. Jessup’s wife. They were also found in his home.”

  Dr. Jessup snorts. “You want to start going through the closets and computers and cell phones of everyone in this congregation and see how many pictures like that you find?”

  Father Mullen blanches at the prospect. “From an ecclesiastical point of view, the issues are several, and I suspect Mrs. McQueen researched them thoroughly before she came to me. Canons 1184 and 1185, to be precise. First, Tim hadn'’t been a practicing Catholic for many years. Second, he never had his child baptized into the faith nor showed any intent to do so. Third, he’s known to have made statements to members of the congregation that he stopped believing

  in God decades ago. With all respect, Dr. Jessup, Tim appears to have led a life of dissolution from the time of the drinking incident in which Patrick McQueen died up to the night of his own death, when police say he was selling drugs for a living. But most important, if Tim was indeed murdered, it’s unlikely he got a chance to repent these actions. Any or all of these issues could technically make Tim ineligible to receive the liturgy at his funeral.”

  Behind all the Churchspeak, I sense a man being tested in a way he never foresaw until tonight. “What do

  you

  think, Father?”

  “The padre thinks it’s time to punt,” Dr. Jessup says bitterly. “He wants to call the bishop.”

  “Dr. Jessup,” Father Mullen says in the soothing voice he must use at hospital bedsides, “almost no one is denied a funeral, or at least a Catholic burial, nowadays. With our modern understanding of psychology, the Church frequently gives even those who take their own lives a mass and burial. I think that in this case, it’s simply a matter of showing Mrs. McQueen that I’'ve taken her request seriously by passing it on to the bishop, who I am sure will make the appropriate decision.”

  “Translation,” says Dr. Jessup, “they don'’t want to upset any big contributors. Or the women who keep the Church going. I guess I didn't put enough of the Almighty Dollar in the plate over the years.”

  “Doctor,” the priest says with an edge of indignation, “I don'’t think that’s fair.”

  “I thought you asked me here to talk about Tim’s wake,” I say, still not quite believing the situation.

  Dr. Jessup brings a quivering fist to his mouth,
and I realize I'm seeing something I’'ve never witnessed before. Jack Jessup, a surgeon who, for as long as I can remember, appeared to be as stony and remote as a Victorian banker, is crying.

  Father Mullen starts toward him as though to commiserate, but I warn the priest off with a glance. When a man like Jack Jessup breaks down, he’s capable of anything.

  “Mr. Mayor,” Father Mullen says softly, “Dr. Jessup felt that before I called the bishop, you might be able to give me some details unknown to the public—things that might mitigate the present appearance of things.”

  Despite my desire to help, I'm hesitant to reveal anything about

  what Tim was doing. It’s not that I don'’t trust the priest. My fear is that Dr. Jessup, in his desire to amend people’s opinions of Tim, might reveal more than he should. In truth I never liked the surgeon, but he’s suffering terribly now, and if I can ameliorate that, I should. The risk of Tim not getting a Catholic funeral must be remote, but one never knows what bureaucrats will do to keep from offending those who subsidize their existence.

  “Gentlemen,” I say reluctantly, “I want both of you to give me your word that what I'm about to say doesn’'t go beyond these four walls.”

  Dr. Jessup’s eyes narrow. “I'’ll never repeat anything you say here. As God is my witness.”

  Father Mullen frowns at the doctor, but it’s hard to chide a man who has just lost his son. “You have my word, of course,” says the priest.

  “I want the seal of the confessional.”

  Mullen looks offended. “I'm not sure what you mean by that. You’re not Catholic, are you?”

  “You know exactly what I mean, Father. I'm sorry to insist, but I’'ve known priests and pastors who betrayed confidences, both in private conversation and in court.”

  Father Mullen shakes his head with a weary sigh. “The seal of the confessional. What we say here goes no further.”

  Dr. Jessup is watching me like the parents of defendants I prosecuted for rape or murder watched the faces of their sons’ accusers; he’s waiting for some hint that his child wasn'’t the terrible man people believe he was—some scrap of hope to cling to as time wears him down and leaves nothing but memory.

  “Father Mullen,” I say softly, “I'm ashamed to admit this, but I was Tim’s childhood friend, yet for the past few years I shared the low opinion people have of him. If we’re all honest here, I think even Dr. Jessup shared that opinion.”

  A strangled croak comes from my right, but I cannot bear to look.

  “In the next few days, people are going to say a lot of things about Tim. The newspaper may say he was using drugs the night he died. The police or the district attorney might even say Tim was planning to commit terrible crimes. I'm telling you now that those charges will be lies.”

  Dr. Jessup’s shoes creak as he steps forward and leans closer. “What do you mean? Tell us.”

  I keep my eyes on those of the priest, which are blue and clear and bright with skepticism. “Tim Jessup was a hero,” I tell him quietly. “I don'’t say that lightly. Tim died trying to save innocent people from suffering, and to protect this town from evil. That may sound archaic, Father, but I’'ve dealt with evil firsthand. I know what I'm talking about. Tim suffered terrible torment before he died. The tragedy is that his death was unnecessary. Had the rest of us been doing the work we pay lip service to doing, Tim would still be with us. I know Mrs. McQueen has suffered over her son, but Tim paid for that a long time ago. What matters most is this: Even if the truth of what Tim was trying to do never comes out, every citizen of this town is in his debt. Of that you can be sure.”

  Dr. Jessup clutches my upper arm like a drowning man clutches a life preserver.

  Father Mullen’s eyes are wide, his mouth half open. “Well I think I expected a plea for the sake of the man’s wife. Can you give me any details?”

  “I'm afraid not. There are lives at stake.”

  The surgeon’s hand is shivering on my arm. “Please, Penn. Anything.”

  I shake my head. “Father, Jacqueline Kennedy once said that the Catholic Church is at its best when dealing with death. To me, this is one of those opportunities to live up to the promise of your creed. I personally don'’t know what Tim believed about God, but I do know he believed

  in

  God. He made religious references to me the night before he died, and I know he believed he was doing God’s work when he was killed. Now, you can call the bishop if you like. But I think it’s best if Dr. Jessup and I just leave you alone with your conscience.”

  Before the priest can respond, I turn and pull the old surgeon with me to the door. Dr. Jessup is wheezing like an asthmatic, but this sound isn’t respiratory distress; it’s the throttled crying of a man who sealed himself off from emotion for most of his life and now finds himself unable to contain the hurt and stunted love within him.

  “Can you get home all right?” I ask.

  Dr. Jessup won'’t let me off so easy. When we reach the steps, he

  seizes my arm and turns me until I'm looking into his watery gray eyes, eyes that for forty years seemed to look down from an Olympian height to the mortals who came to him to cut out their tumors and inflamed gallbladders, and that now hold only pain and pleading. How the mighty are fallen.

  “Was that true? What you said about Tim? That he was trying to do something good?”

  “Yes. But don'’t ask me what it was. And please don'’t tell your wife yet. I'’ll tell you the rest of it someday, Doctor. When it’s safe. But that’s the best I can do tonight.”

  Dr. Jessup shakes his head slowly. “You said he—he suffered.”

  I look down the street, toward the corner of Washington Street. “You’re going to see that for yourself when Tim’s body comes back from Jackson. You’re a doctor, so you’ll know what you’re looking at. I wanted you to be prepared. Don’t let your wife see him.”

  “Who killed my boy?” Dr. Jessup asks in a cracked whisper. “You tell me. Tell me!”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you know, don'’t you?”

  “No, sir. And I'm afraid the police aren'’t even calling it murder yet. Not officially. The next few days are going to be hard on you and Mrs. Jessup. I hope you can take some comfort in what I told Father Mullen. I don'’t think you’ll have any more trouble about the funeral. Mullen’s just young, and I'm sure Mrs. McQueen was pretty formidable. She feels about Patrick the way you do about Tim.”

  Dr. Jessup nods. “I know that. I see it now.”

  I try to turn and walk to my car, but he clings to me, his hand like a claw on my wrist. “What are

  you

  doing? I know you’re your father’s son. Are you trying to finish what Tim started?”

  A car with blue headlights approaches on the street. After it hisses past, I say, “All I can tell you is this: If I have anything to do with it, Tim will not have died in vain. Now, I need to go.”

  “One last thing,” Dr. Jessup says. “I know your father never thought much of me. All my life I chased after things that don'’t mean a damned thing. My son needed me, and all I could do was hate him for not being what I wanted. Well, this is my punishment, I guess.” Dr. Jessup’s gaze slides off my face and climbs the but

  tresses and spires of the cathedral. “Your father was the best of us. Our crop, I mean.” The wet eyes come back to me. “And Tim thought the world of you. I wish you would say something at his wake, if you will. Even if you can’t say what you told us in there.”

  “Of course I will.”

  Just as I think I'm free, the gray eyes peer into mine with a darkness like blood behind them. “If you find out who killed my boy, Penn, you pick up the telephone. You hear me? Tell me where to find him, that’s all. I don'’t care if I spend the rest of my life behind bars and eternity in flames.”

  Dr. Jessup’s clenched hand finally loosens as the force of his passion drains from him. For a moment I fear he’s going to collapse on the steps, but then he pulls his coat around him and gets himself under control. I saw this too many times when I was a prosecutor, most often in victims’ f
amilies: fathers and brothers who would readily kill to avenge those they should have loved far better when the person was alive.

  “Tim will get justice. The best thing you can do for him now is take care of your grandson. Your wife and your daughter-in-law too. They need you.”

  With a last grimace of confusion, he shuffles past me toward the big Mercedes by the curb. As he wrestles with his key, I trot to my car on unsteady legs, hoping that Caitlin has waited for me.

  Caitlin is watching from one of her front windows as I pull up. She opens the front door with only her face showing, as though she’s just gotten out of the shower, then motions for me to come in, but I wave her out to the car. She extends a bare foot and calf, points to the foot, then disappears inside. I get out and walk halfway to her door. A moment later she comes out wearing shorts, sandals, and a white linen top, a puzzled look on her face.

  “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “We need to talk,” I whisper, “and it can’t be in our houses or cars. Is there a car at the newspaper office we can use?”

  She’s looking at me strangely, but she answers quietly. “Yes. Are you going to drive us over there?”

  When I nod, she walks back and locks her door, then comes out to my car.

  Caitlin never needs to be told anything twice, unless it’s to keep her nose out of something. She doesn’'t speak as we drive across town; she’s content to study me from the passenger seat. I look toward her a few times, but it’s difficult to do that without making eye contact, and there’s too much unsaid between us to endure that for long. It’s easier to study her legs, which are long and toned and surprisingly tawny, given her pale skin. She must have spent some time in the lower latitudes recently.

  “Antigua,” she says, reading my mind.

  “Alone?”

  “No.” After letting me suffer for a few moments, she says, “A corporate retreat.”

  “I’'ve never really understood what happens at those.”