“What do you mean?”
“My family came to the United States from Poland in 1939, you understand. My father had difficulty there. He was a proud meat cutter. While most of the Jewish families had changed their surnames to blend in with other Poles, my grandfather and father kept theirs. And of course I experienced little issue with my surname growing up in America. So when I converted to Catholicism in college, I thought my aging father might disown me. He always hated that the Vatican had shielded the Nazis and made that awful pact with Mussolini. But I could not deny the religious awakening I had experienced while watching the sun set over the Lower Bay near our home in Brooklyn. It might sound crazy to you, but out of the golden brilliance I saw Mary and the boy Jesus appear to me in a rowboat launched from Staten Island.” He raised his head higher, and his hood slid back enough for Sebastian to see his left eye fill with tears. “All I can recall for a reaction was a smile that seemed to fill my soul. I feared I might explode from the good feeling welling up inside me.” His voice lowered, and his eyes rested back on his lap. “Because I was raised Jewish and a convert, I feared the brothers here might hate me if they ever found out I was responsible for JC’s death. Of course Father Paolo had conveniently reminded me of that to ensure I never disclosed the truth.”
“What made you change your mind, Brother Hubert, and speak now?”
“I knew you had me cornered. But even if you hadn’t used your detective skills to wear me out until I spilled the truth, I’m sure I would have eventually come forward. I was tired of the charade. If I could go against my dearly beloved father and even my own people, as he put it, surely I can defy the abbot, especially when I know now he was in the wrong.”
Sebastian cast his eyes down to his lap. “And the father had me investigate JC’s death to keep me occupied. He’d summoned me to his private office, setting me up for a scam.”
Brother Hubert nodded. “We all know how inquisitive you are, Brother Sebastian. He wanted to keep you busy, knowing I could never tell you the truth. He later told me it was part of his plan, and not to worry if you snooped around or asked questions. If I kept my mouth shut, you’d never learn what had happened that night. I was so tortured. But when you started to, well, stalk me, I cracked, as they say. I was tired of the covering up. It was so unfair to Juan Carlos and his family. Hadn’t the Valescos suffered enough?”
Lowering his hood, Brother Hubert turned his head and faced Sebastian for the first time since coming into the transept. “My duty is to pray, and I failed. I reacted instead of placing myself in God’s hands.” He faced the candles again. “I hope he has forgiven me.”
“He’s forgiven you, Brother Hubert. Like I’m certain he’s forgiven me and JC.”
Enough experience notched Sebastian’s belt that he could tell the difference between a man who’d reacted from sheer instinct and a cold-blooded killer. Unless they met in a dark alley, and…. Sebastian cringed. He didn’t want to think of that anymore. He willed his past to recede into the distance, where it belonged. Set free to the mountains.
Besides, Brother Hubert had rescued Sebastian, the way Brother Micah wished he had. In actuality, Brother Hubert had saved Brother Augustine too. The law would understand. Brother Hubert—and Father Paolo—would most likely face criminal negligence charges and never see a day in jail, unless a testy district attorney with a grudge against the Catholic Church sought heavy penalties for obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence.
“Did you know that repent in Hebrew means return?” Brother Hubert said with a merry lilt to his tone, as if speaking to either himself or Christ on the crucifix, or a ghost from his Brooklyn childhood. “Shuwb. To return to God.”
“Lovely,” Sebastian whispered.
The quiet of the transept massaged Sebastian. His head grew heavy.
Standing with the crack of his bones reverberating off the acoustical walls, he said, “Come, Brother Hubert. Let’s retire to our cells. In the morning, we’ll both have our dragons to slay.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
SEBASTIAN said his good night to Brother Hubert outside his cell, after which he strolled five cells away and listened by the door before opening it. He found Casey asleep. A wheeze brushed the side of his pillow, where a dime-sized spot of drool pooled by his tender lips. Sebastian squatted beside him and stroked his hair.
Casey stirred. His eyelids opened, the unfolding of an angel’s wings. “Sebastian,” he whispered, “I was just dreaming about you. We were holding hands while soaring in the sky like birds.”
“Sounds like a wonderful dream.” Sebastian slipped off his scapular, tunic, and boxer shorts and nudged Casey closer to the wall. After sliding under the bedcovers, he helped Casey squirm out of his tunic and tossed it alongside his on the floor. Although he grew aroused, he lacked the focus to push Casey onto his back, to show him he wanted to make love. Feeling his warm flesh against him proved enough.
Sebastian slept beside Casey peacefully, and before Brother George’s rap on the doors he slinked to his cell, where he sat at his desk and plotted his next plan of action. After Vigils, he confronted Father Paolo in his private office. The abbot gazed at him over his wire-framed eyeglasses, his veiny fingers knotted together atop the polished desk.
“So now that you know everything,” he said once Sebastian had recounted what had transpired between him and Brother Hubert in the transept, “what do you plan on doing? Brother Hubert has already confessed. He’s asked for God’s mercy, which I’m sure he’ll receive. He did nothing more than defend himself and our brothers here. What else is there?”
“Juan Carlos and his family.”
“And how do you plan on addressing that?”
“Oddly, by upholding your original command.” Sebastian understood the abbot’s wide eyes to say, Whatever do you mean? He licked his lips and answered the abbot’s implicit inquiry. “You are right about Brother Hubert. In the eyes of the law, his—and your—biggest crime would be obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence. All that, in reality, contributed to JC’s death. Brother Hubert will have to live with that for the rest of his life, much like I will for having mistakenly killed Manuel Valesco. People panic, and horrible consequences can result. I’ve seen worse. I don’t condone his actions or mine. But I don’t see why we should carry this out any further. In this case, the truth would only harm more people. Perhaps there is a higher justice. Maybe God’s mercy is enough.”
“And….”
“And I want JC’s family to believe he came to Mt. Ouray seeking to live among us as a brother. It would warm his mother’s heart. My gift to JC’s family. I don’t want anyone to ever know JC came here for revenge. Not for my sake, but for his family’s.”
“Whether we speak the truth or not,” the father said, his Portuguese accent thickening, “there’s a hefty civil lawsuit in all this, yes? We’ve already been sued a while back because of an unforeseen death on our property.”
Sebastian inhaled. “I never met with Manny Valesco’s wife and children—other than JC here, obviously—but I heard a lot. They aren’t that type of people. After the incident, they never filed a lawsuit against the city. Most of the outcry came from activist groups. Mrs. Valesco was a part-time receptionist and full-time mom. Manny worked at a meat packing plant. He was ten years younger than her and had probably done his share of partying, but basically he was a good, hardworking man. From all accounts, JC was much like his father. Decent and unafraid to earn a living. But rage had consumed him. The violence around him, like vapors, blinded him. He’d given up everything because of the frenzy stirred by people he’d never met, by forces he couldn’t even see, and made it the venture of his lifetime to exact revenge. In a strange way, he’s a victim of big-city swaggering as much as his father and me. Mrs. Valesco would prefer to believe her son suffered in a similar manner as Jesus during his long trek along Via Dolorosa. That would be more valuable to her than money, I’m sure of it.”
“Don’t you
think there’ll be questions?”
“There’d be questions regardless. But like you once said, we’ll have answers. We’ll stick by your story, Father Paolo.” Sebastian, wanting to make his position clear, stood and leaned toward the father with his palms flat on the cold desktop. “Brother Lucien and I will fetch JC’s body before the snowmelt. We can rappel into the gully and retrieve it. I have some experience.”
Father Paolo’s neck disappeared into his shoulders. “You think that’s wise?”
“No less than your plan to cover up JC’s death.” Sebastian waited for Father Paolo to return his averted eyes to him before he stretched to his full six-foot-two stature, leaving two palm prints on the desk, and continued. “We’ll lay him out in the chapel and call the authorities. We’ll tell them we found him and brought him inside, hoping to revive him. We’ll say a young man from Philadelphia had written us last summer wanting to come here, to prove himself before God. He insisted on journeying at the height of winter to experience pure suffering, like Jesus had during his walk to Golgotha. We’ll insist that, despite our advisement against it, we suspect the young man in our chapel might be him. Officials will learn that he was. And they’ll convey our story about his noble intentions to his family, perhaps the world. Everyone will look glowing and wonderful, including you, Father Paolo.”
Lies, the tongue of the devil. Those in power lied, but not everyone for the same reasons. Some lied to make people or situations appear worse. Others lied to exaggerate greatness. For the sake of everyone in the abbey, including JC, Sebastian would speak the language of power. Lies.
“You’ll praise JC for his piousness,” he went on, his eyes fixed on the diminutive abbot slumped in his Victorian chair. “You had originally compared him to the old ladies of Vila de Seda. You’ll maintain that venerable opinion whenever speaking with the authorities or his family. Everyone will think of him as a Christian martyr.”
“And what about you? What will you do once everything has settled, Brother Sebastian?”
“I’M LEAVING as soon as the road opens.”
“Where will you go?” Casey asked Sebastian while they spent their afternoon siestas in the library, discussing the future.
“I have a friend who’s a PI in Las Vegas. Perhaps I’ll do something like that. Might take a while to build up a reputation. I like the idea of working on my own, out from under all the politics. Start over again. I’ll get a cell phone, a new bank account. Father Paolo and I settled the finances in a magnanimous manner, rest assured. I’m taking with me about an eighth of the two hundred seventy thousand I brought along.” He snickered. “If all else fails, I can always get a job making necklaces.”
“I’m afraid of it out there.”
“It’s not much different than in here, so I learned,” Sebastian said toward his twiddling thumbs on the tabletop.
“But in a way it’s easier for us to be ourselves here, as weird as it might sound. You’re the real reason why I chose to come back to Mt. Ouray,” Casey whispered.
Breathless warmth pinched Sebastian’s heart. He nearly clasped his chest to steady himself. “I’m glad you came back.”
“But now you’re leaving.”
“I can’t imagine staying after everything that’s happened.”
“You mean what’s happened with JC or between us?”
Sebastian peered toward the San Juan Range, the snowcapped peaks glowing orange in the setting sun. How Sebastian loved the twilight hours. Bending of day to night, and then back again from night to day. A perfect egalitarian sharing of supremacy.
Spring inched closer over Mt. Ouray Abbey each day. April’s arrival had awakened the landscape. The branches of the spruce and aspens had shaken off their snowy armor, and the expanse of green against the snow-covered floor and surrounding mountains added a sense of renewal and hope.
He no longer blamed himself for what had happened in Philadelphia. Coming to Mt. Ouray had exacerbated the guilt, in a way, emphasizing the sense that he had run from something. But now he felt cleansed, refreshed of culpability. He’d taken a man’s life, but had given his son immortality.
“Neither you nor JC have anything to do with my decision to leave here,” he said to the trees outside. “It’s me. If I remain here, I’ll feel like a hypocrite.”
“I don’t feel like a hypocrite.”
“You’re not one.”
“My mother and stepdad thought I was crazy for joining the Trappists,” Casey said with a gentle snicker. “Maybe they were right.”
“We all have different reasons for wanting to come to places like Mt. Ouray,” Sebastian said. “Most are genuine, I suspect. For the rest of us”—he returned his eyes to Casey—“it’s part of life’s journey.”
It was Casey’s turn to look toward the mountains for inspiration. Brown eyes far away, beyond the abbey grounds, high upon twelve-thousand-foot Mt. Ouray. “It’s scary out there,” he murmured.
“I know it is, but I’ve seen worse than you have.”
“I can’t imagine life here without you. But the idea of leaving… I’m afraid.”
“Are you saying you’d rather stay safe here without me than face the uncertainty of the world with me?”
Sebastian watched Casey, waiting for him to answer. Casey remained focused outside. He did not speak, nor did he show any sign of being conscious of their present space. Inhaling, Sebastian allowed his gaze to drift along with Casey’s, and they continued to stare out the window without words.
BROTHERS EUSEBIUS and Lucien gripped the rope while Sebastian rappelled into the gully. Howling wind screamed in Sebastian’s ears as he lowered himself inchmeal, careful to avoid letting any more snow fall on top of JC’s body. A snowdrift had already covered most of him. Sebastian could see part of his head and left leg sticking above the snow.
Eerie peacefulness enshrouded Sebastian once he made his way down. He stood beside the body, inhaling the cool air, listening to the wrens and warblers in the imposing pine trees. Animal droppings and tracks indicated the woodland creatures had become curious about the strange object semiburied in the snow. When Sebastian reached to uncover JC, he realized his body was still too frozen for any creatures to devour.
He untied the rope and secured it onto JC so Brothers Eusebius and Lucien could haul him up. Sebastian’s determination allowed him to focus on the gruesome task. Ten minutes and a few close calls later, JC’s body was brought up from the gully and resting by Brother Lucien’s feet. Brother Eusebius untied the rope and tossed the frayed end back to Sebastian. He knotted the rope around his torso and groin and signaled for the brothers to tow him up in the same fashion they had JC. Next, they carried JC’s corpse into the chapel, where a coffin they’d fabricated out of three wine crates (thanks to the ladies’ auxiliary) waited for him.
The brothers filed in one by one, observing his body laid out like a venerated saint. Smoke from dozens of incense cones wrapped JC in a haze and masked the odor of his thawing body. In lieu of lunch, they recited the traditional Catholic funeral rite. They held candles throughout the service, chanting in low voices the Office of the Dead with a solemn recitation of “Requiescat in pace.” Sun streaking through the stained glass windows highlighted smoke from the incense cones. Father Paolo played Dvorak on his cello for an underscoring of respect—and repentance.
Abbey rumor had exposed Brother Hubert’s role in JC’s death and why JC had traveled to Mt. Ouray. The compassion shown to Brother Hubert confirmed they held no harsh judgments. After the funeral, the brothers laid gentle hands on Brother Hubert’s shoulders, as if they were consoling a mourning relative.
With Sebastian beside him, Father Paolo telephoned the San Miguel County Police. A callback ten minutes later informed them a forest service helicopter would arrive around three, for speedier recovery of the body.
Meanwhile, Sebastian sat in his cell and examined the contents of Brother Augustine’s suitcase. Brother Hubert had handed it to him the day after his confession.
“I suppose this will help tie up any loose ends,” he’d said before walking away.
Sebastian handled the halved Virgin Mary figurine and Brother Micah’s fillet knife—a weapon intended to pierce his heart. Then an idea came to him. He hid away the “souvenirs” and dashed outside, where he peered around under the library’s arched windows.
“Do you remember the exact location where you spotted JC from the library?” he asked Casey, who he had grabbed from his cell along the way.
“Over there.” Casey, squinting into the sun, pointed twenty yards to his right.
They stomped about like they had when they’d first searched for the figure Casey had spotted lying in the snow, circling in a denser and denser area. About a foot of snow still remained on the ground in some places, but in many spots, the grass and rocks showed through where the ground lay exposed to the sun. The echoing silence of the past several months seemed absorbed by the open sky. Mt. Ouray’s peak rose above the canopy of trees, a chiseled masterpiece holding up Heaven.
All of a sudden Sebastian stopped short. There. The sun captured it. A spray of metal. He trudged over and lifted it.
“My goodness,” Casey said, eyeing the object alongside Sebastian.
“What I suspected we might find.”
The weapon JC had intended to use to seek revenge for his father’s death. Sebastian held in his very hands the means of his own execution. The second such instrument of death in a mere capful of minutes. He recognized the gun as a common Austrian-made Glock, easily bought on the black market from gun thieves and favored by gangs. Even the PPD used them. But the pistol represented more than death. It signified a simultaneous beginning and end—orchestrated by a blind, autocratic brokering machine that possessed a godlike muscle. Deep inside, he imagined how different events might have unfolded.
The Rule of Sebastian Page 25
