by J. R. Mabry
“Where are you going to go?”
“I have a rabbi friend in San Francisco. She has a guest room. I already called her.”
“Is she the rabbi at the Gay and Lesbian synagogue over there?”
“Yeah. Well, associate rabbi.”
“Can we call you when we need your expertise?”
“You can call me. Dylan can call me. He can call me when hell freezes over.”
“I’ll tell him not to try you for a few days,” Richard smiled.
Brian nodded. “That will work, too.”
“You’re going to miss all the excitement. CNN is here.”
“Oh, joy. I’m actually kind of relieved. I’m not…photogenic.”
“You are part of our family.”
“Terry is part of your family. I’m…I’m the cook.” Brian’s face screwed up as if he were fighting back tears. He mastered it and walked out of the bedroom. A moment later he came back with a handful of items from the bathroom. “At best, I’m an appendage.”
“That is not true. Everyone loves you. I love you. You have lived with us for what—five years, now? That’s like, what? Thirty-five years in gay years.”
Brian let out a weak laugh. “I love you, too. All of you. I just…I need…” He sat down on the bed next to Richard, his shoulders sagging. “Ten years ago, if you asked me where I’d be, it wouldn’t be here…cooking. I had dreams of being a Talmudic scholar, of teaching, of doing something important with my life.”
“You don’t think what we do here is important?” Richard asked.
“I do. It is. I’m just…I’m just not sure that it’s mine. I’m not sure that what I’m doing is what I’m supposed to be doing. I mean, is this the best use of the skills and the gifts that HaShem has given me?”
“That’s an important discernment.”
“Yeah, so I just need to…I need some space.”
“I get it.” Richard put his arm around his shoulder. “We’re going to miss you.”
“You’re going to miss my cooking.”
“Also true.” Richard stood up, and so did Brian. Richard gave him a long hug. “Are you taking BART over?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want a lift to the station?”
“No. I can walk. Thanks, though.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll pray for you.”
“Please do.”
Richard released him. He felt awkward and didn’t know what else to say, so he hugged him again and then turned to go back in the house.
14
Richard sat quietly, waiting for the others to take their places in the chapel. He found it hard to focus, hard to pray. He was distracted by Brian’s departure, and he was too keenly aware of the bright lights and the camera, and of Tapper rushing back and forth and whispering to the cameraman, the sound engineer and her assistant. He finally just gave up and opened his eyes, watching as the camera panned over the wall-sized collage assembled from a random assortment of photos cut from magazines: people of all ages and colors, breathtaking scenes from nature, and even architectural marvels. When you stood back from it, though, the pictures resolved into a stylized version of Jesus’ face, eyebrows high as if he were merry, mouth open as if he were about to speak.
Kat was always adding pictures to it—he resolved to ask her if she had any ready to go. It would be a good shot for the feature on them. But, he realized, Kat was not there to ask. No one was there. He glanced at his watch. 10:59. He was wondering if he should go upstairs and see where everyone was when Susan entered the chapel and took a seat next to him. He leaned over and whispered, “Where the hell is everyone?”
“Dylan’s coming. Terry won’t come downstairs—he’s a wreck. He tried to put on mascara, but his hands were shaking. And then he cried. He looks like he has some kind of venous condition.”
“Venous?”
“You know, like he has black veins running through his face. If we were shooting a horror film, he’d be ready to go.”
“Jesus. Kat and Mikael?”
“They’re trying to talk him down.”
“And Marco?”
“I wasn’t able to rouse him. He’s sawing logs in the guest room. Mikael said he had a bit of a breakthrough last night and was up until three in the morning working out in his shop.” She meant his van, of course.
“It’s going to be embarrassing if we start mass and there’s no one here.”
“Where two or three are gathered…”
“Yeah.”
Just then Dylan lumbered in and took a seat across from Richard and Susan. A moment later Tobias trotted in after him and plopped down by his master’s feet.
“Time to pray,” he said, and smiled. “Uh…who’s sayin’ mass today?”
“I’m presiding. You’re supposed to preach.”
“Ah am? Shit. Forgot ’bout that.”
Richard rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth. Susan patted his leg.
“Waal, Ah’ll think of somethin’ to say.”
“I’m sure you will, dear,” Susan smiled patiently at him.
Richard sighed and stood up. “Let us begin our worship this morning by singing the 77th Psalm, using chant tone nine.” Then, in a sonorous tenor, he sang, “I will cry aloud to God.”
Dylan and Susan responded, singing, “I will cry aloud and God will hear me.”
Richard sang, “In the day of my trouble, I sought the Holy One.”
The response came back, “My hands were stretched out by night and did not tire. I refused to be comforted.”
Richard heard steps on the stairs, and before the Psalm was finished, Mikael and Kat had joined in. Richard squinted against the harsh light and tried to ignore the camera.
The Gospel was the dishonest manager, from Luke chapter 16. After the reading of the Gospel, Dylan got up to preach. “Uh…Ah’ve never understood that parable. You got this guy who’s running his boss’s business, and he screws it up, and his boss fires him. But he’s made a lot of enemies, and he figgers when he’s kicked out into the street and homeless, no one is gonna let him sleep on their couch. So he takes everyone’s invoices and cuts them in half, cheating his boss, but now everyone loves him and they’ll let him sleep on their couch. And the boss isn’t even mad. Ah don’t get it.” He sat down.
The cameras were rolling, of course. Richard wanted to bang his head on the pew.
Susan spoke up. “St. Augustine said he didn’t believe Jesus ever spoke that parable. I read that once.”
“It’s a weird-ass story,” Kat said. “How is it good news?”
Mikael stroked his chin as he thought. “Well, you know, the manager did forgive the people their debts.”
“But he didn’t have any right to,” Dylan pointed out. “It wasn’t his money.”
“But we who are ordained forgive people’s sins all the time,” Richard noted. “Do we have the right to do that? No, they aren’t sins against us. We forgive sins against God—which is God’s to forgive. But God is like the boss in the story, he doesn’t get mad.”
“Maybe,” Kat said, speaking slowly, “It’s never wrong to forgive, even if you don’t have the ‘right’ to do it. And whether it’s sin or money or…whatever.”
Richard felt cut to the quick. He felt his throat tightening up. He knew he should forgive Terry for causing all this upset—today, for God’s sake! And he should forgive Dylan for not being prepared with a sermon. He clutched at the seat of the pew until his hands hurt.
There were a few more minutes of discussion, but Richard didn’t really hear them. They said the Prayers of the People and brought forward the gifts of bread and wine at the Offertory. Richard stood behind the altar and bid them all rise. “The Lord be with you,” he announced.
“And also with you,” they responded.
About halfway through the Eucharistic Prayer, as Richard held the chalice aloft, he was distracted by Tapper’s wave. He faltered and blinked.
&
nbsp; “Father Richard,” Tapper shouted. “We’d like to get a different angle on you raising that chalice. Can you back up a bit and do this again?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Richard said.
“Uh…no. Do you mind?”
“Yes, I fucking mind. We’re not doing some kind of performance for you here. We’re praying. If you want to be unobtrusive and document us at prayer, you have our permission to do that, but you do not have our permission to interrupt our prayer!”
“Okay, okay. Sorry about that.” She tapped the cameraman’s shoulder. “Just keep rolling. We’ll fix it in editing.”
The cameraman nodded without taking his eyes off his viewfinder.
Richard felt derailed. Susan came up to the altar and pointed to the liturgy. “You’re right there, sweetie.”
Richard let out a long sigh. He closed his eyes, and then he continued the mass. Somehow they got through the Eucharistic prayer without further incident. Richard was giving Kat communion when Marco walked through the chapel on his way to the kitchen. He was naked except for a pair of briefs with a picture of Darth Vader printed on the fly. He was momentarily arrested by the lights.
“Hey, there’s a camera crew here,” he said. He reached into his underwear and began to scratch his ass.
Suddenly, a howl erupted from upstairs. Richard realized it was the sound of Terry keening.
“What the hell is that?” Tapper whispered, looking at the ceiling.
Tobias lifted up his yellow muzzle and let loose a howl of sympathy.
“Christ,” Richard said under his breath.
The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Marco yelled from the kitchen. Richard heard his bare feet padding down the short hallway into the office. “Yyyellooooo,” he said.
Richard bit his lip so hard it started bleeding. “This is the bread of life,” he said, breaking off a bit of bread for Susan.
“Amen,” she said, trying not to laugh and failing.
The rest of the mass went quickly. No sooner had Richard pronounced the final blessing than Marco poked his head out of the kitchen doorway. “Hey, you got a gig. I left the address for you on the notepad. They want you to come ASAP.”
“It is Sunday,” Richard protested, taking off his stole.
“No time to lose was how it sounded to me,” Marco tossed over his shoulder as he went back into the kitchen.
“What’s the case?” Dylan called.
“I don’t know, but it sounded urgent. Something about a possessed dog.”
15
Perry punched him on the right shoulder and then dodged left. Cain fell for it, looking first to the right side of their office, then to the left. “What are you, in fifth grade?” Cain asked. The room was large, with three rows of facing desks contained within cinderblock walls painted a pastel aquamarine. Scuff marks and bits of old masking tape were the chief ornamentations, save for crime scene photos and maps. “You’re here on a Sunday,” he noted.
“So’er you.”
Cain nodded and indicated the photos from the Tilden park crime scene spread out on his desk. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“What’s Sally have to say about that?”
“She’s at a dog show. She won’t know I’m gone.”
“That’s a weird-ass hobby. It’s like signing up to be around obsessives. Why would you do that?”
“Um…I’m an obsessive. And as I already pointed out, you are also here.”
“Less fur, though.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Perry smiled and took a seat at her desk, which was arranged opposite his. She interlaced her fingers and stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“I know who she is,” Perry said.
“The girl?”
“The dead girl.”
“How?” Cain looked up.
“I was here until 2 a.m. looking at missing persons reports for the greater Bay Area.” She fished a photo out of her desk drawer and threw it at him. “Consuelo Hernandez, from South San Francisco. Went missing four days ago, reported yesterday.”
“72-hour rule…”
“Exactly.”
Cain looked at the photo—a posed photo from school, complete with a fuzzy blue background. She was smiling, but there was a hint of distaste in her brown eyes. He put the photo side-by-side with the crime scene photo of the victim. He had to study them for a minute or so, but he finally had to agree that if it wasn’t her, it was her twin sister. “Any connection with our witch cult?”
Perry shrugged. “Let’s go find out.”
“I’m driving.” Cain stood up and shuffled all the photos into the file.
“You don’t like my driving?” Perry stood and pushed in her chair.
“You scare the shit out of me.”
“You’ve never mentioned it before.”
“My feelings are close to the surface today.”
“You heard that on Oprah.”
“You think I watch fucking Oprah?”
“I know you watch Oprah, because I’ve heard it in the background when I talk to you on the phone.”
“Fucking Oprah,” Cain said, heading to the elevator.
Thirty minutes later, they crossed the Bay Bridge and were exiting Highway 280. “Should we ask for SF backup?” Perry asked.
“We’re not making any arrests,” Cain said. “We’re just asking some questions. Besides, who’s gonna be at work?”
“Only obsessives.”
“We sure as hell don’t want any of them with us.”
“Turn there. No, left.”
Cain jerked the car to the left and made the turn.
“That was close.”
“A little warning would be nice.”
“Aren’t we irritable today?”
Cain said nothing, keeping his eyes glued to the road.
“This is it. Slow down. We’re looking for two-one-zero-five. Should be on the right.”
Cain slowed the car to a crawl as they looked for house numbers. Cain caught one and sped up again. A couple houses later, he parked beside a small ranch with a neatly kept yard. Cain got out of the car and looked up. “Overcast. It never ceases to amaze me how different the weather can be from one side of the Bay to another.”
“Ever thought of moving to this side? Get some actual weather?”
“I think I’d slit my wrists.”
“I kind of like it.”
“You kind of would.”
“Who’s taking the lead on this one?” Perry asked.
Cain stopped up short. “You know, the whole way over I was only thinking about investigating this case. It just hit me—”
“We have to do a notification.” Perry stared at him, her mouth open. “Oh, God.”
“Or…can we say with a hundred percent certainty that Consuela is our girl?”
“We should probably collect some DNA.”
“And we can still ask some questions.”
“We can be here investigating the disappearance,” Perry nodded.
Cain shrugged. “Why not?”
“Okay, I like it. You take lead.”
Cain nodded and headed for the porch. He punched at the doorbell.
“You smell like garlic,” Perry waved at his face. “How does Sally deal with you?”
“She loves garlic.”
The door swung inward, and Cain saw a woman who looked a little younger than himself clutching tentatively at the door. It was clear she’d been crying. “Are you Mrs. Hernandez?”
The woman nodded.
Cain and Perry both held up their badges. “I’m Detective Cain, this is Detective Perry. We’re from the Major Crimes Division over in Berkeley. We’re investigating a crime that we think might be connected to your daughter’s disappearance.”
Cain saw her eyes widen with hope.
“Can we come in and ask you some questions?”
She looked nervous.
“Mrs. Hernandez, we’re the good guys
. If you have naturalization issues, we don’t care about that. We want what you want.”
She nodded, still uncertain, but swung the door open for them. Cain gestured Perry inside and then shut the door behind himself.
The room was dim but neat. A stack of Spanish language magazines was on the coffee table, along with a pack of rolling papers. There were posters taped to the wall. They had not been hung entirely straight. Small tears were visible near the yellowing tape.
Cain indicated the couch. “May I?”
Mrs. Hernandez nodded. Cain and Perry sat down next to one another and smiled grimly.
“Mrs. Hernandez,” Perry began, “Can you tell us anything about your daughter’s interests? Her friends? Did you notice anything different in her behavior lately?”
“Connie is a good girl. She has never been in trouble a single day in her life!”
She seems unnecessarily adamant, Cain thought. “No one is suggesting otherwise,” he said. “We are trying to help.”
“Why are the Berkeley cops here?” Mrs. Hernandez asked.
“We’re investigating a lead in another case, and it led us to your daughter. If you can help us, we might solve both cases.”
Mrs. Hernandez nodded.
“Is Connie still in high school?” Perry asked.
Mrs. Hernandez nodded.
“Where?”
“Burlingame, with the Sisters of Mercy” she answered.
“I hear that’s a good school,” Perry nodded.
Cain kicked her shin, by which he meant “Bullshitter.” She didn’t know the first thing about that school.
She kicked him back. “What year is she?”
“She is supposed to graduate next June,” Mrs. Hernandez said.
“Was she having any problems, or hanging around with anyone new?”
“No, no problems,” Mrs. Hernandez said. “Except that she’s been sassing the sister in her religion class.”
Cain took a note of this, scrawling on a small moleskin pad. “How so?”
“I got a call from the headmistress, Sr. Angelica. Nothing bad, just—too many questions. You know, challenging the sister’s teaching.”
“Is that unusual for Connie?”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard about it.”
