“Have a nice time wit yo honey,” she called.
I certainly will, but not the way you think.
_____
Ten minutes later he parked near a dumpster behind a Winn Dixie, got out and opened the trunk. Grasping the green tissue paper that enclosed the thorny stems, he removed the roses from the box. They were already wilting in the fierce heat. Maybe he’d give them to Mrs. Fontenot next time he visited her. By then of course the roses would be dead. So might Mrs. Fontenot, though he hoped not. Then he would have to find another comatose patient to use as an excuse for escaping the rectory at night.
He dropped the roses in the smelly dumpster and checked his watch. Mickey’s white-gloved hands pointed to eleven o’clock. Rasta was probably there already, shooting hoops while he waited, eager to collect his ten dollars.
But when he pulled up to the basketball court with the tattered cord dangling from the rusty hoop, there wasn’t a soul in sight. It’s early, he reassured himself. Rasta wants his money. He’ll be here.
For ten minutes he studied the graffiti-sprayed tenements with raggedy window shades across the street. No Rasta. He got out and paced around the car, head down, hands clasped behind his back. What if the idiot didn’t bring him the blackbird? He lengthened his stride as he circled the car, checking with Mickey after each revolution, his frustration mounting.
His plan was useless without the bird, and time was precious. He couldn’t miss his noon appointment with Ida Thierry. If the old biddy complained again the Monsignor might report him to the Archbishop, and before he went to see her, he had to deliver the bird. If Rasta didn’t show in five minutes, he would have to devise a new plan.
“Yo!” called a voice from behind him. “Got yo’ bird.”
Rasta-hair strolled up in his baggy pants and dirty T-shirt. In his hand was a plastic grocery bag. But when the sinner reached for the bag, Rasta jerked it away, his eyes cold and calculating.
With an insolent smirk, he said, “Show me the money.”
“Let’s not get excited,” said the sinner. Rasta was a lot bigger than he was, bigger and stronger. From his billfold he took out a ten and showed it to the insolent boy with the dead-flat stare. “Where’s the bird?”
Rasta upended the bag and a large blackbird tumbled to the ground.
“Got youse a big one, like you said.”
Appalled, he stared at the carcass. The bird was big all right, but its feathers were matted with a dark stain. Blood, he realized.
“Me ‘n my buddies shot up half dozen. This the biggest one.” Rasta smiled, as pleased as if he’d shot down an enemy fighter plane.
All the better, he thought. A large blood-soaked blackbird with a gaping hole in its gut would send a message no sane person would ignore. He took out his wallet, exchanged the ten for a twenty and held it out to Rasta.
The boy’s eyes lit up. He grabbed the twenty and dropped the plastic bag on the ground beside the bird. “Y’all need sump’n else, park here, I see you from my room.” He gestured at a dilapidated two-decker across the street and sauntered away.
The sinner scooped the blackbird’s carcass into the plastic bag, dropped the bag in his trunk and drove off. Everything was going perfectly. Now all he had to do was find a delivery person.
_____
Leaning against the rear wall, Sean Daily observed the throng of priests milling about the low-ceilinged basement room, sipping coffee and munching cookies. Two rectangular tables held metal coffee urns, Styrofoam cups and platters of pastries. The caffeine would keep them awake during Archbishop Quinn’s pronouncements; the cookies were sweet substitutes for the repressed desires they preferred not to confront. The Archbishop was nowhere in sight. Quinn and his favored assistants were inside the rectory across the street, Sean assumed, partaking of finer fare.
“Hello, Father Daily,” said a voice behind him. “This should be a wonderful convocation. I can’t wait to hear what the Archbishop says.”
Recognizing the sanctimonious tone, Sean faked a genial smile, but his heart was thumping his chest. “Hello Father Tim. How are you?”
“Just fine. And you?” Gazing at him with a holier-than-thou smile.
Sean detected a challenge in those dark eyes, eyes that held him in an implacable gaze. “Can’t complain,” he said with a casual shrug.
“What do you think? Do you think this disgusting killer is a priest?”
“Maybe,” he said with a jocular smile. “Could be anyone, even you.”
Frozen in a posture of astonishment, Father Tim stared at him, his left eyelid twitching in a spasm. He rubbed his eye and turned on a smile, a predatory smile that raised hackles on Sean’s neck. He’d seen that sort of smile in his youth, right before a thug beat his victim to a bloody pulp.
“How’s Aurora? Are you two as close as ever? I wonder what Archbishop Quinn would do if he knew you and Aurora were so … intimate.” Maintaining his predatory smile, Krauthammer turned and stalked away.
He felt like a horse had kicked him in the stomach. He watched Krauthammer join a group of priests near the coffee urns, cursing his stupidity for the fatuous remark. Could be anyone, even you.
His stomach churned with acid. He mopped sweat from his brow as the Archbishop’s assistant mounted a low platform and told them to gather upstairs in the sanctuary. But the church offered him no sanctuary. If Renzi reported him to the feds, his Roman collar wouldn’t protect him. Joining a long line of priests, he mounted the creaky wooden stairs that led to the sanctuary, gripping the handrail as if it might somehow bolster his courage.
The sanctuary was ablaze with flickering candles, and organ music from the loft wafted through the room, an uplifting chorale. Setting the scene for the Archbishop, Sean thought. Pompous ritual was what the Church did best. The men at the top had no idea of the day-to-day problems that beset their parishioners, or the humble priests who served them, good men for the most part, doing their best to minister to their flock.
He took a seat in back to the left of the center aisle. Nodding to the priests along the pew, he folded his hands and assumed a pious expression, which did nothing to calm his inner turmoil. Tonight he would lie awake again, worrying about what Renzi would do. Turn him in, probably. George Dillon had fled New Hampshire to save his own ass, with no regard for anyone else, including Mary Sweeney, he thought, with a pang of regret.
The organ music swelled as the stragglers took their seats. He saw Father Tim slip into a pew on the other side of the aisle three rows ahead of him. There’s something sinister about him, Sean thought, sinister and spiteful and dangerous.
With a mighty crescendo the organ launched into a regal hymn. The congregation arose and faced the center aisle to view the procession: monsignors first, then bishops in red hats, and finally the silver-haired Archbishop, resplendent in his white satin vestments and jewel-studded miter. With imperial pomposity, Archbishop Quinn placed a sheaf of papers on the lectern and gestured for them to be seated.
Thumping and scraping sounded as the congregation settled onto the wooden pews. If that stack of papers is any indication, Sean thought, we’re in for a long lecture. The priest beside him surreptitiously checked his watch, and Sean stifled a smile. He wasn’t the only one dreading this.
The Archbishop waited for silence, gazing out at rows of pews filled with red-capped bishops and bare-headed priests in black. Despite the air conditioning, the sanctuary was already uncomfortable from the heat of so many bodies. When the silence was complete, Archbishop Quinn cleared his throat and said, “Good afternoon, my brothers in Christ.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” thundered the congregation in a unified male voice.
No nuns present, Sean thought, just the accused, and Archbishop Quinn was about to circle the wagons.
“My brothers, I have summoned you here today because a scurrilous allegation has been made. It has been suggested that the terrible murders that have horrified this community were committed by a priest.” He
swept his audience with a laser-beam glare. “Nonsense! No man of the cloth would do such things. We know that, of course, but the media . . .” Quinn’s lip curled in disdain. “The media advances this theory with great zeal. Whenever a serious allegation arises against the Church, reporters are eager to exploit it.”
That’s why you didn’t invite them to the convocation, Sean thought. You’d rather preach to the choir. No priest wanted to believe a fellow-priest guilty of such crimes. If one stood accused, others were guilty by association. There but for the grace of God . . .
“Let us not forget what happened during the recent troubles,” the Archbishop said. “A few priests—a very small number, mind you—behaved inappropriately. When this came to our attention, those unfortunate souls were given treatment.”
Bullshit, thought Sean. The men at the top let them continue their dirty deeds, allowing them to ruin countless young lives. The Church protected its own: Defend the clergy, screw the victims. Today’s problem would be no different. As Quinn rambled on Sean tuned him out. His gaze settled on Father Tim, sitting there with a pious expression on his face.
What would the Archbishop do if he knew you and Aurora were so intimate?
Answer: Archbishop Quinn would call him on the carpet and discharge Aurora. Allegations that priests molested children were one thing, but any hint that a priest had a female lover—never mind that some priests had sex with each other—was dealt with harshly. Sean pinched the bridge of his nose.
He couldn’t live without Aurora. A sharp pain roiled his gut. Was it the cancer or a benign indisposition? How much longer did he have? Months? Weeks? He studied Krauthammer. The priest looked too boyish to be a killer, but he was no choirboy. His threat had been unmistakable.
_____
As the Archbishop droned on about the accusations the sinner fantasized about sex. Ever since Brother Henry, sexual fantasies came to him often in church, especially at the altar rail, watching women stick out their tongues to receive the body and blood of Christ. Reciting the liturgy kept his mind focused, until he dispensed communion. At such moments his thoughts should have been reverent; instead, he fantasized about what those tongues did when the women were not in church.
Back home in Nebraska, after Brother Henry, he had vowed to be chaste. In the shower he avoided touching himself by pretending his father was watching. God knows Father watched him every chance he got, his eyes full of accusation: How dare you shame me? How dare you allow that man to touch you and slobber over you and …
The sinner’s groin throbbed. He said an Act of Contrition and focused on Archbishop Quinn, who shouted: “Nonsense! No man of the cloth would do such things.”
Excellent, a vehement denial of Jefferson’s killer priest accusation.
His thoughts returned to his sexual fantasies. In high school he had remained pure as the driven snow for three years. Until he took that slut to the movies, and she took off her clothes in the back seat of his car and made him undress and then humiliated him. The slut he’d wanted to strangle, aching to wring her neck with his hands until she was dead.
“Whenever nasty allegations arise against the church,” Archbishop Quinn said, “reporters are eager to exploit it.”
The sinner nodded. Archbishop Quinn would put a stop to this nonsense. Quinn took a hard line, one that mirrored his own. The day after that slut mortified him he had decided to become a priest. No more Brother Henrys, no more humiliations from women. He would become a priest, remain celibate and ensure that others also remained chaste in thought, word and deed. He would warn them of the sexual temptations that pervaded the culture, tell them to reject the salacious images: half-naked sluts in movies and on television, especially the ones on MTV, singing their suggestive lyrics.
Images that had caused another descent into sin, said the voice in his mind.
True. While he was in college he had gone to a prostitute. Not to have sex with her. No. He just wanted to question her. But when he asked if she enjoyed tempting men, she told him to get out. What nerve! Lying there on the bed, naked, displaying her sex. When he asked if she enjoyed selling her body, she said: “Hey, stupid, you’re the one paying for it.” And then she laughed at him. It sent him into a rage. Why wouldn’t she confess? He was paying her to do what he wanted. In a blind rage, he put his hands around her neck and then he was squeezing and she was fighting back, but he wouldn’t let go and she began to gag and her face turned red and her eyes rolled up into her head. Still he squeezed that pale white throat until he was sure she would never humiliate another man again. And thus began his mission.
Rousing chords from the organ startled him. The Archbishop had left the pulpit. His neck prickled, a familiar warning recalled from his childhood. Someone was watching him.
He turned to look at the pews behind him and his gaze settled on Father Sean Daily. Some priests liked to befriend their youthful parishioners. Daily was one of the worst offenders, coddling his young charges, encouraging their sexual exploits with his permissive attitude and his own loose behavior, screwing his housekeeper.
Could be anybody, even you, Daily had said.
Oblivious to the bishops in red hats marching up the aisle, the sinner clenched his teeth. Once he got Rona Jefferson and her killer-priest theory off his back, he would take care of Father Daily.
_____
Seated at her computer terminal inside her cubbyhole at the Clarion-Call, Rona ground out her column, fingers flying over the keyboard. After the convocation, the Archbishop had stood on the steps of the church to address a throng of reporters. His words had infuriated her.
Scurrilous accusations.
Falsely accused priests.
Somewhere in New Orleans, she typed, a white priest is hiding behind a Roman collar, while innocent victims are forgotten. How many women must die before this cowardly killer-priest is caught?
Recalling the phone call she’d received an hour ago, she typed: A source close to the investigation has revealed that the Tongue Killer left his DNA on one of the victims. It’s high time the police collected DNA samples from every white priest in the diocese.
She scanned the words and nodded with satisfaction. Four times she had emphasized that the killer-priest was white. She hit a key to transmit the file to her editor. He wouldn’t mess with it. After all, she was a player now. The Clarion-Call’s circulation numbers had risen twenty percent last week.
She grabbed her purse and rode the elevator downstairs. At ten o’clock the lobby was deserted except for Sam Leroux. The heavy-set security guard in the navy-blue uniform shot her a broad smile.
“You be workin’ overtime these days, Miz Rona.”
“Just doing my job,” she said as she walked past the security equipment. “Now that my column’s done I’m ready for a beer.”
“’Bout time somebody stood up for black folks ‘round here,” Sam said, his dark face set in a frown. “We get blamed for ev’ry little thing, drug deals, robberies, carjacks, murders. Not to mention the profiling and the traffic stops. Redneck state cop pulled my brother over on the I-10 just last week, said he was speeding, which he wasn’t.”
Sam picked up a narrow white box on the table beside the security station and held it out to her. “Almost forgot. This’s for you, Miz Rona, some fan sendin’ you flowers, mos’ likely.”
Rona flashed a smile, tucked the box under her arm and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Thank you, Sam. I’ll open it at home.”
CHAPTER 14
Wednesday: 6:35 AM
Frank flipped down the car’s visor to shade his eyes from the sunlight filtering through the trees behind St. Margaret’s, where, if Sister Esther Emmanuel was correct, Father Tim was officiating at the early Mass. His gut tightened in anticipation. Surprise interviews often brought first-rate results.
Would the priest look like Daily’s altered sketch, he wondered, or was Daily just trying to curry favor? Daily had seen Father Tim talking to Lynette at the mall the day
before she’d been murdered, and Sister Esther Emmanuel had seen him talking to Melody Johnson two days before she died. Add in Kitty’s belief that the man who’d attacked her was a priest and the damning details began to snowball. That didn’t mean Krauthammer was the Tongue Killer, but it got his adrenaline pumping.
A stoop-shouldered old man with a cane shuffled out of the church. Frank took a last glance at the sketch and put it in his pocket as two women in flower-print dresses followed the old man. A half dozen more worshipers straggle out the door. A minute later a priest emerged and hurried toward the rectory. Five-nine or so, with a wiry build, no Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he appeared to be in good shape.
Frank cut across the lawn to intercept him. “Father Tim?”
The priest turned and flashed a smile, squinting in the sun. “Yes?”
“Hi, Father, glad I caught you. Could we talk for a minute?”
“Of course. How can I help you?”
Father Timothy Krauthammer maintained a steady smile, but the smile didn’t extend to his eyes. Mud-brown and expressionless, they looked like the painted eyes of a cigar-store Indian. In fact, the priest’s eyes were the only remarkable feature in an otherwise ordinary face. He might be the man in Daily’s sketch, but so might a thousand others.
“Detective Frank Renzi, NOPD,” he said, and flashed his ID. “I understand Melody Johnson attended St. Margaret’s Church.”
The priest’s expression turned sorrowful. “Yes. Everyone in the parish is devastated. From what I understand, she was a wonderful person.”
From what I understand. Was he implying he didn’t know her?
“Could we talk in the rectory?” But the priest’s body language said no. He didn’t want his colleagues to see him talking to a cop. “Or maybe you’d rather go somewhere and have breakfast.”
Krauthammer flashed a boyish grin. “Yes, let’s. I’m always hungry after Mass. Patisserie Cafe has great pastries and it’s close by. Let’s meet there.”
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 15
