Blood on a Saint

by Anne Emery

Brennan could hardly tell her that he had been interrogating Boyle in relation to the murder, after finding evidence in Podgis’s apartment. After breaking in with the aid of a convicted burglar. Brennan began feeling the stress of his own furtive behaviour all over again.

  “Brennan, are you all right?”

  “Sure I’m grand.”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  “You said it. So, where would I look for background information on Ignatius?”

  “Well, obviously, Community Services would be involved with him because he would be on assistance. Welfare, by another name.”

  “Would they talk to me? I assume all information is confidential. I should hope it is!”

  “It is, of course. But if you’re just trying to find out good stuff about Ignatius, such as considering him for sainthood, they might at least talk to you. You might ask whether he has ever taken a French course in an attempt to find employment. Even that might not be available to you, but they probably wouldn’t kick you out of the office. His criminal record, though, might slow down his canonization.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Why don’t you go in and talk to Lena Vanherk at Community Services? She’s one of the workers there, and I’ve known her for years. Tell her I sent you. Hold on, I’ll get you her card.”

  She left the kitchen, spent a couple of minutes with the children in the living room, and then returned with the business card.

  †

  Not one to waste time when he wanted something done, Brennan was sitting in the office of Lena Vanherk the following day. The social worker was a kind-looking woman in her mid-fifties, with an air of intelligence and competence. Brennan explained his interest in the linguistic phenomenon that occurred during the hospital admission of Ignatius Boyle. Lena told him what he had expected to hear, that all information was confidential.

  “Sure, I understand that. Just thought I would ask. Have you any suggestions as to where I could look or how I could go about this?”

  “I may be able to help you, Father. But don’t get your hopes up.”

  His hopes went up instantly.

  “We would have the names of family members, relatives of Mr. Boyle. I could ask around and, if one of them would be willing to talk to you, I could leave your number with that person. And leave it up to her or him to get in touch with you or not. That’s the best I can do.”

  “That’s great. I appreciate it. I’ll write out my name and phone number.” She offered him a pen and pad of paper, and he wrote the information down. “We’ll wait and see what happens. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome, Father. Good luck.”

  Chapter 19

  Monty

  The Befanee Tate wrongful dismissal suit ended with a whimper, not a bang. On Tuesday, February 9, her lawyer called Monty and said Tate would withdraw the suit if Monty would agree not to go to court for an order forcing her to pay the costs the church had incurred in defending the action. It would not be worth anyone’s while to make an application to the court for costs, so Monty knew his clients would be happy just to see the case go away. But there was a condition attached, and Monty spelled it out.

  “We won’t go for costs if she agrees to come clean with respect to her story about the Virgin Mary, and makes a public statement that she was wrong about it. She doesn’t have to admit to fraud; she just has to say it wasn’t really the Mother of God after all. Because there are poor, misguided souls still shuffling around out there who want to believe it. Bring her in, and let me hear her statement.”

  So an embarrassed Louise Underhill, solicitor for the plaintiff, brought her sullen client in to Monty’s office for the final word on the St. Bernadette’s Marian apparitions. Monty and Underhill exchanged a glance; Underhill all but rolled her eyes. “We have drafted a short release for the media, saying Ms. Tate was mistaken in what she thought she experienced.”

  Monty nodded. There was nothing to be gained by quibbling over the suggestion that she really thought she had experienced something.

  Underhill handed him the printed statement, which consisted of two sentences: “Ms. Tate regrets that, in her enthusiasm for St. Bernadette and the Holy Mother, she mistakenly thought she had a genuine apparition of the Virgin. Ms. Tate apologizes for any inconvenience she may have caused.”

  Monty nearly choked over that, but he was well accustomed to keeping a poker face. He gestured for everyone to have a seat.

  “Now go ahead, Befanee,” Underhill said. “Tell Mr. Collins what happened.”

  Befanee sat with her eyes on the desk in front of her. Monty waited. Finally, it came: “When I started the job, Monsignor O’Flaherty took me all around the church and the choir school and where they have the Latin choir, and out to the statue of St. Bernadette. He asked me if I knew who she was, and I said I heard of her but couldn’t remember what she was famous for. He said she seen the Virgin Mary, and Mary told her, Bernadette, where there was all this holy water with magical powers and stuff, and people got cured. And I said that was, like, totally awesome, and he asked me if I wanted to read a book about her. And he must’a been able to tell that I don’t . . . I don’t have time in my life to read much, because then he said there’s a movie, and he showed me the poster in the office. It was a movie poster for The Song of Bernadette, and the actress got the Oscar for it. He said you could probably rent the video. But I didn’t think nothing more about it till me and Gary, my boyfriend, were at Video Difference one night and we seen the video on the shelf. The girl that played Bernadette was really beautiful. Her name was Jennifer. And then later on Gary found out that even though she won the Academy Award, she wasn’t even going to be in it at first. She was the girlfriend of this really big important Hollywood guy. He bugged the movie studio to put her in the movie and they did.”

  “So? Then what?”

  “So me and Gary got thinking. If I said I seen the Virgin Mary and did a really good job about it, I might get on TV. And if I looked good and got famous, it would help my modelling career, and maybe even lead to an acting job.”

  “That’s why you made the whole thing up.”

  “But I was planning to give all kinds of money to good causes when I started making money! And it’s weird! Like truth is weirder than . . . whatever it is they say, because those ladies got cured. And the old guy learned French. So maybe she was really there. Mary. Maybe I was chosen to do this!”

  “No she wasn’t. And no you weren’t. But anyway, give your statement to the press, that you were mistaken. And that’s the end of it. Goodbye.”

  Monty made a call to St. Bernadette’s to let the priests know the nuisance suit had gone away, but there was nobody home. He would tell them later. Soon there would be no more Befanee, no more pilgrims, no more Bernie Bear souvenirs.

  †

  From the fantasy world of Befanee Tate to the grandiose fantasies of Jordyn Snider’s pen pal inside the prison walls. Two minutes after Monty had put the phone down, it rang, and it was Harold Lowther on the line, from Corrections Canada.

  “Two candidates for your letter writer. Wayne Earl Stokes. He’s in Renous for a sex killing. His second. Prior offences include an escal­ating series of sexual assaults. But he’s still inside, and was inside on the date of the murder. Clayton Byner, however, is out on parole from Dorchester. He was in for aggravated sexual assault. Long criminal record. One of the letters said the guy’s case was on the TV news? There was a big story about him being denied parole a while back, so that may have been when she saw him on the news. But he managed to pull the wool over the parole board’s eyes this time. Wouldn’t be the first time a clever psychopath put on a winning performance.”

  “This guy was out? Clayton Byner?”

  “Yeah, he was out on parole in Dartmouth. Still is. So either one of these guys is a likely suspect as your letter writer. If it was Stokes, it didn’t
go beyond a paper romance. If it was Byner, he might have linked up with Jordyn Snider when he got out. Including maybe the night she was killed. So you’ll want to turn those letters over to the police.”

  “I will indeed. Thanks very much, Harold.”

  “Any time.”

  Monty would copy the letters and give the originals to the police. He would have to wait and see what might develop from that.

  For now, though, the settlement of the lawsuit by Befanee Tate put Monty in a good frame of mind. He looked at the rest of the office work he had set aside for the afternoon and decided to set it aside again, for tomorrow. He knew Maura was home. She had returned to teaching at the law school after her year of maternity leave, but she had set up a part-time schedule so she could be home with the baby on and off during the week. Monty thought it would be fun for Normie if he went over to the house, picked up Dominic, and walked him to the choir school to meet her after her last class. She loved to show off her baby brother at school.

  So Monty drove to Dresden Row, parked and went to the house, greeted his wife, and was greeted in turn without any verbal abuse whatsoever. He got Dominic ready for his outing. He zipped the child into the bright red jacket that Normie loved; pinned to the sleeves were little woolen mittens with pictures of wolf cubs on them. Monty handed Dominic his currently favoured toy, a spotted wooden dog on red wheels, which Maura had had as a child in Cape Breton. Monty buckled him into his stroller, and they set off.

  “Going to school in your stroller to see your big sister.”

  The little fellow made a series of S sounds, then turned them into a song, and pushed on the front of the stroller to get moving.

  “Let’s hope Normie doesn’t have to stay in after school because she was sassy to the teacher, or because she has to sing the soprano parts of the Stabat Mater, eh, Dominic?”

  “Baby sing!”

  “Good singing, Dominic. You’ll have your choice someday. The Rebecca Cohn Auditorium or the Flying Stag blues bar. Up to you.”

  “Da! Walk!”

  “What? Walk? Where? Why?”

  “Dom walk!”

  “Don’t you think it would be smarter to stay strapped in your stroller than have you straying all over the street?”

  He carried on with the foolish talk till they got to the corner of Morris and Barrington. Dominic fiddled with the buckle and tried to get out of the stroller, so Monty decided to let him walk. He unsnapped the restraint and lifted the little guy out.

  “All right. You hold on to the side here, and we’ll walk the rest of the way. Hold on to the stroller.”

  Monty could hear a loud motor approaching, with an equally loud thumping of a car stereo, so he repeated what he said in case Dominic had not heard. A tractor-trailer was slowing to a stop for a red light. What was it doing there? Was it even allowed on this part of Barrington? Monty had no idea.

  Dominic decided his spotted dog should have a walk too, and he put the toy on the ground and gave it a push. Monty bent to retrieve the dog, saying to Dominic “Keep holding” as he did so. He reached up to make sure he had a grip on the baby’s clothes, but missed him. He looked up. Dominic was running into Barrington Street in pursuit of the dog on wheels.

  “Dominic! Come back!”

  At that moment, the light turned green. The eighteen-wheeler kept moving, and the driver geared up.

  The baby vanished beneath the transport truck.

  Everything from then on unfolded in slow motion. Monty launched himself towards the street. He reached out with both hands and grasped a rail running along the side of the trailer in front of the two rear axles; he managed to hoist his feet up, and he clung to the side as the vehicle banged along the street. Dominic was not on the pavement, so he must have been caught up somehow under the truck. Monty fought back waves of panic; he had to get under there. He let go with his right leg and pushed it under the flatbed. He hooked his foot into the underside of the deck, then let go with his right hand and managed to climb underneath, keeping himself braced against the steel ribs that ran across the underbody of the flatbed. There was the baby, suspended ahead of him, his red jacket caught on a metal bar of some kind. Dominic was screaming in unearthly terror, his eyes fastened on Monty, his hands reaching out for him.

  For the first time in his life, Monty felt certain he was involved in something he could not survive. He would die under this vehicle. He would be jolted from his hold, the vehicle would turn, and he would be crushed beneath the wheels. But he had only one final objective: to keep that from happening to Dominic. He had to reach the little boy, keep him in place, keep him alive.

  Monty was able to inch forward and twist around so that he was holding on with his right hand and foot; his left side was hanging towards the pavement. He managed to grasp the child with his left arm, and kept him pushed up into what Monty hoped and prayed was a safe place in the underbelly of the trailer. He shouted at Dominic, that he had him, that he would keep him safe. A loud bang sounded from the front axles as they went over a bump. Monty’s left leg hit the pavement; he felt an intense burning pain in the side of his knee. Another jolt smashed his left elbow onto the ground, and he felt another searing pain. In an effort that nearly made him pass out, he kept holding Dominic up with his injured arm. All he cared about — the one last concern he would ever have — was that Dominic should live, and be unscathed.

  The truck kept barrelling down the street; it showed no signs of stopping. The driver had no idea what was happening.

  Then Monty heard yelling from somewhere, and the eighteen-wheeler lurched to a sudden halt. The door above them was wrenched open, and feet appeared on the pavement. Other feet appeared, and there was a cacophony of voices. Some of the people sounded out of breath; had they been running after the truck?

  A man: “Did you see that? He let go of that kid!”

  A woman: “Are you a parent? Do you think you can get through a day without having your hands free for a second? Shows how much you know.”

  Another woman, crying and saying: “You’re all right! You’re all right, sweetheart!”

  A man: “You can let him go, sir. Let go now. He’s not hurt. He’s fine.”

  Monty was unable to move his left arm. He felt hands on him, and then the pain in his arm and leg made him cry out. He let go and fell to the pavement. He tried to keep himself quiet as kind hands eased him out from beneath the truck.

  “Where is he? Please tell me he’s all right. Where is he? Let me see him.” He heard himself repeating the words, as if he was hysterical, but he could not stop.

  “He’s shaken up. He’s scared but he’s fine. Here he is.”

  They placed Dominic in the crook of Monty’s uninjured right arm. The child screamed and cried, clinging to Monty’s neck. Monty mumbled soothing words into his ear; he had no idea later what he said.

  Paramedics and police arrived, and the driver and bystanders filled them in.

  One man said to Monty, “You kept him alive at great danger to yourself. You’re a hero, sir.”

  Monty just shook his head. “No. He’s my son.”

  Brennan

  Brennan had just come in from teaching a music theory class when his phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Brennan!”

  The MacNeil.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. MacNeil. How may I — ”

  “Brennan, meet me at the hospital. Please! The VG.”

  “What’s happened? Is everyone — ”

  “It’s Monty. And Dominic. I’ll see you here.”

  Monty and Dominic! What on earth? Brennan grabbed his keys and ran from his room. He closed his mind to the possibility that something terrible had happened to his closest friend or to the beloved little child, Dominic. He filled his mind with prayer and prayer alone. He got into the car, blasted out of the parking lot, and drove the few short
blocks to the hospital in under two minutes. He parked illegally and ran to the entrance. Scarcely able to breathe, he asked for Monty Collins or Dominic MacNeil.

  He was given directions and he headed for the room. A couple of people greeted him as he flew past them. He was unable to form words to respond. When he found the room he saw Maura MacNeil and Tommy Douglas standing just inside the doorway. Tommy had his arm around his mother.

  Monty was lying in the bed, eyes closed, face scraped and bruised, his arm in a cast. Lying partly on top of him, his little arms curled around Monty’s neck, was Dominic. His eyes too were closed.

  Brennan looked to Maura and Tommy. Maura’s eyes were swollen and red. Tommy looked as if he were barely holding it together.

  “What happened?” Brennan tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

  “He . . .” Maura started to speak, but was unable to get the words out.

  “Tom?”

  “Dominic ran out in front of an eighteen-wheeler. He got caught up underneath it.”

  Brennan looked at the child.

  “Dominic’s okay. Dad kept him from falling off, or getting caught in the — ” Tommy, too, was unable to continue.

  Brennan turned to the bed, reached out, and made a sign of the cross on the top of Dominic’s head, and then on Monty’s forehead. He began to pray. “De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine . . .”

  When he finished the prayer, he turned back to Tom. “How did Monty keep Dominic from falling?”

  “He went under the truck.”

  “It hit both of them?”

  “No.” Tommy cleared his throat. “Dad went under it on purpose. He jumped onto the side and climbed under while it was moving. To save Dominic. People saw it from the sidewalk. They said it was incredible. They didn’t know how he managed to hang on himself and keep hold of Dominic. It was as if he . . . Dad probably knew going into it he might get killed. But he wanted to try to save the baby.”

  Nobody spoke for several long minutes. Then they were joined by someone new.

  A big man in work clothes entered the room. It was clear to Brennan that nobody recognized him.