Bad Blood

by Ren Hamilton

  Anger flared hot in the man’s aura, but he made his face sad. “But I truly think I can help you find the answers. Won’t you reconsider?”

  Shep laughed loudly. “Go home, detective. Or is it agent? You must be dying to get out of those ridiculous clothes.”

  The man looked too shocked to come up with a clever protest. He stared open-mouthed at Shep for a moment, then he relaxed and smiled. “How did you know?”

  “It was a combination of things, but I think it was the Walmart beads around your neck that really coined it.”

  The man nodded. “I told them the beads were over the top. Goodbye Mr. Shepherd.”

  By midnight, they’d chosen sixty followers; thirty women and thirty men. There were artists, nurses, executives, students, and beach bums. It was a beautiful mix, for now they all held the same goal—to please their leader. Weeding out the rejects had been grueling. The unwanted candidates were led out by the brothers, some quietly, others hysterical, many angry. The new family was set up out in the back fields, in and around the guest house. Tomorrow afternoon, Joey would go out and give his first sermon, then they would be truly his.

  Shep sat alone in the sunroom and leisurely smoked a joint. He was pleased with the way things were coming together. There was of course still one soldier out of step. He’d expected Obrien to show up by now. Dear old Patrick was turning out to be more of a challenge than he’d expected. No matter. Patrick would join them eventually. If he wanted to wait until he was writhing in pain before he came back to them, so be it. It was his choice. For now.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The four pain pills Patrick took upon waking were finally kicking in, the pounding now eased to a dull throb. Last night’s dream had been a corker. Joey was strung up and hanged by an angry mob while Patrick struggled to fight through the crowd to save him. Each time he thought he was getting close to Joey, the crowd would thicken in front of him, preventing his pursuit.

  Shuddering at the memory, Patrick adjusted his tie in the bathroom mirror, and smoothed a bit of gel across his hair. His brother Ryan had just had his second child, and today was the baptism. Patrick had stood Godfather to Ryan’s first son, Ryan Jr. who was now three years old. Patrick was looking forward to seeing his little Godson, a quizzical red-haired boy who was certain the world revolved around him.

  He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, double checking the time on the invitation. He was about to put the invitation down when he did a double take. He hadn’t examined it very closely when it arrived. Location: Saint Mary’s Church. It had to be a mistake. His family’s church was Holy Name.

  He picked up the phone and called his brother. Ryan sounded pleased to hear from him. Patrick had been fairly neglectful of family issues lately. “Hey, stranger! I was beginning to think I didn’t have a brother anymore. Are we going to see you today?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. Hey, why are you having this thing at Saint Mary’s instead of Holy Name?”

  Ryan was silent for a moment. “Oh. Yeah. Well, mom insisted. She goes to Saint Mary’s now. Ever since your friend Joey had his little miracle.”

  “Oh, Christ. Are you kidding me?”

  “I take it you weren’t as impressed with the miracle as Mom was.”

  Patrick grew silent, not knowing what to say. He hadn’t spoken to his brother since the whole thing happened.

  “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to, Patrick. I imagine it’s been a pain in the ass for you.”

  “You’ve got that right. I will tell you about it when we have time, Ryan, I promise. All I can tell you right now is the last thing I want to do is set foot on the grounds of Saint Mary’s church. I’ve been going out of my way to distance myself from that mess.”

  “A challenge I bet when your pal Joey talked about you on TV.”

  “Yeah. He’s a real fucking pal, that one.”

  “I always told you that relationship was weird,” Ryan said. “The three of you are too close, and I feel like it’s held you back. You need to make your own life, Patrick. Leave them behind. Especially after this miracle thing, it’s insane.”

  “I know, believe me, and I’m trying, Ry. I really am.”

  Ryan sighed. “If you want to skip the baptism we totally understand. Hey, little Ryan wants to say hello.”

  “Well put him on!”

  Patrick could hear the toddler struggling with the phone, and the sound of his breath. “Uncle Patrick?”

  Patrick smiled at the sweet, high-pitched voice. “How you doing buddy?”

  Another heavy breath. “We have a new baby. Liam. He doesn’t do anything. He just sits on the couch and drinks milk. He cries sometimes too.”

  Patrick laughed. “Well, he’ll be old enough to play with you soon.”

  “Yeah. Uncle Patrick? Am I still your favorite boy?”

  Patrick felt a hard yank at his heartstrings. “You’ll always be my favorite boy, Ryan.”

  “So you is coming to the church today?” the little voice asked.

  Damn. He’d rather gouge his eyes out than go back to Saint Mary’s. But he couldn’t say no to Ryan, senior or junior. “Of course I’m coming to the church. Tell your daddy I’ll see him there.”

  Walking up the church lawn wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. It was a bright sunny day and the church looked different in the morning light. People in colorful outfits poured into the front doors, chatting and laughing. Aside from a few piles of decaying flowers left by hopeful spectators on the lawn, all seemed normal at Saint Mary’s. There were no crowds seeking visions of holiness during the day.

  Patrick slid onto the bench alongside his mother, a thin woman with lips perpetually pursed in disapproval, giving her face a birdlike quality. She wore her auburn hair pulled back into a tight bun, and her skin was pale and smooth. She often told Patrick that he should thank her for his lovely skin, and that he hadn’t inherited his father’s rosacea or baldness. His father was only slightly balding, but he harped on it like he was losing a leg instead of a few strands of hair.

  The priest trickled water onto the miniature forehead of Patrick’s newest nephew. Awakened from a sound sleep, the baby squealed. Patrick’s brother Ryan and his wife Shay giggled nervously, but the priest was unfazed by the crying. The man didn’t look like a priest. He was a handsome, olive-skinned Italian, perhaps in his mid-forties, with thick dark hair combed back from his forehead. There was an intensity in the young priest’s dark brown eyes that was unlike the usual somber countenance of a clergyman. When he smiled, his eyes sparkled with warmth and kindness. When he was not smiling, however, he looked a little rough, like he could hold his own in a street fight. It was a strange contrast.

  It was time to take communion, and Patrick stood and got in line behind his parents. He was not feeling particularly worthy of receiving the body of Christ, but he had little choice. To sit communion out would be to bear the wrath of his mother, which could be significantly more threatening than God’s. So, with hands clasped at his waist, he shuffled forward and hoped the act would not transport him directly to hell.

  With just two people ahead of him now, he could hear the priest’s deep soothing voice. “The body of Christ,” he said to Patrick’s mother.

  “Amen,” she said, and the priest placed the wafer on her tongue. Blessing herself, she turned and went back to her seat.

  Patrick stood before the priest now. Up close he could see a tuft of gray at each temple of the priest’s black hair. He raised the wafer. “The body of…” The priest looked up at Patrick and hesitated. He held the wafer out in mid-reach, his brown eyes wide and startled. “The body of…” he started to say again, and paused. Patrick was tempted to check his own head to see if he’d sprouted horns on the way to the altar. Finally the priest’s face relaxed and he smiled. The smile was cold, not reaching his eyes. “The body of Christ,” he said, and dropped the wafer into Patrick’s cupped hands.

  “Amen,” Patri
ck said. His legs felt like undercooked noodles as he moved back down the aisle, past his parents, and out the front doors of the church.

  On the front steps he sat with his head between his knees. Why had the priest hesitated? The answer came like a dumbbell falling on his head. He didn’t have horns sprouting from his skull. The priest had simply recognized him. He’d probably seen Patrick’s picture in the newspaper. Of course he’d followed the story of the apparition, it happened at his church. Patrick couldn’t believe he was fool enough to come here.

  Moments later, the crowd came pouring through the front doors and Patrick was able to blend in. His mother wandered over to him, holding the hand of a squirming Ryan Jr., who looked terribly uncomfortable in his little pin-striped suit. “I want to go home!” the child squealed.

  “We’ll go soon honey,” his mother said. “We have to wait for Mommy.”

  Patrick grabbed Ryan Jr. and swung him up onto his shoulders, making him shriek with laughter. “What happened to you, Patrick?” his mother asked. “Why did you walk out like that?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well. I just needed some air.”

  She reached up and grabbed Ryan off of Patrick’s shoulders. “Well don’t hold the children if you’re sick!”

  “I’m not sick, mom. I just needed some air. The incense eats up the oxygen. It makes me lightheaded.”

  Patrick spotted the Italian priest up on the stairs, speaking into a cell phone. He finished his call and slipped the phone into some unseen pocket beneath his robes, then turned to shake hands with Ryan and Shay as they came out of the church. Patrick was about to sneak away when his mother grabbed his elbow. “Patrick, come meet Father Carbone. He’s been just wonderful to Ryan and Shay.”

  Patrick panicked. He didn’t want to go anywhere near that priest. “I think I’m coming down with something after all, Mom. I better go lie down.”

  “It will just take a second! Come on, Patrick. I want to introduce you.”

  She all but dragged him, leading him up the stairs to where his brother stood with the priest. The priest reached out to her as they approached, warmly taking her hand in his.

  “Brigid, it’s so nice to see you.”

  “That was just lovely, Father Carbone.”

  “Thank you. It’s a lovely occasion.”

  “I’d like you to meet my other son,” his mother said, tugging him forward. “Patrick, this is Father Carbone.”

  The priest extended his hand and Patrick shook it. “Your son?” he said. “No kidding.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Patrick muttered, and tried to slink away.

  “Does Uncle Patrick want to hold the baby?” his sister-in-law Shay asked, offering him the frilly-dressed infant.

  “No!” his mother snapped. “Patrick is sick. Don’t give him the baby.” Shay retracted the child as though Patrick had the plague.

  “You’re sick, Patrick?” Father Carbone asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, just a cold or something. I just need to get some rest. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “I have just the thing,” Father Carbone called out as Patrick attempted escape. “It’s a very special tea. The recipe was passed down from four generations of monks. Come on around back, Patrick. I have some at the house.”

  Generations of monks? What a crock of shit.

  “Thank you, Father, but I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. I can brew up a pot in five minutes.”

  His mother looked ecstatic at the idea of Patrick sharing tea with a priest, what with his mortal soul in danger from missing church so much. “Don’t be rude, Patrick!” she said. “Father Carbone has offered to make you tea!” Patrick wanted to swat his mother away like a fruit fly.

  “That’s very kind, really, but I don’t think so.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was be alone with this priest, who looked like a Mafia wise guy. Father Carbone put a firm hand on Patrick’s shoulder, his fingers gripping just a bit too tight. “I insist.”

  Patrick’s eyes darted from the handsome face to the white collar. He was a priest, for crying out loud. What was he going to do to Patrick? Kill him? Poison his tea? Have him whacked in the parish house?

  Patrick’s brother Ryan gave him a warning glance that said he was protesting too much now.

  “All right,” Patrick said. “One cup of tea. Thank you, Father.”

  Father Carbone smiled. “Good. Let’s go then. Don’t worry, Brigid. I’ll fix him right up.”

  I’ll bet you will, Patrick thought. His mind played absurd images of the priest coming at him with a baseball bat as soon as they got inside.

  Father Carbone led Patrick around the back of the church to his little apartment, or priest’s house, or whatever it was. Patrick had pounded on that very door the night of the apparition, trying to get someone to let him into the church. Where was Father Carbone that night? Things might have been different had Patrick not been forced to scale the damn building.

  “Have a seat. I’ll go make the tea.” The priest gave him a phony smile and disappeared down a hallway. Patrick sat stiffly on a worn-looking chair, examining his surroundings. It was a cozy little space, with paneled walls covered with religious knick-knacks. A set of shelves displayed a variety of books on matters such as immortality and resurrection. Statues of the Virgin Mary graced the end tables, along with a ceramic Jesus or two.

  Carbone returned with a large metal tray and set it down on the coffee table. The tray held an elaborate painted tea set that looked like an antique. Patrick was tempted to ask if these mysterious monks had passed that down as well, but decided it was not in his favor to be a wise ass at the moment. “Do you like lemon?” the priest asked, still feigning cordiality.

  “No, thank you.”

  Father Carbone sat on a small couch across from Patrick and poured his tea for him.

  “This ought to fix you right up, Patrick.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Patrick decided he could keep up the façade as long as the priest did.

  Father Carbone took a sip of his tea and looked at Patrick, smiling that strange smile. “So Patrick, I didn’t realize that you were Catholic.”

  “What do you mean, Father? You and I have never met before today.”

  The priest nodded. “Right. Right. What I meant was I’ve never seen you in church with your mother.”

  “Yes, well, we used to go to a different church. I didn’t know my mother was coming here now.”

  The priest took another slow sip of his tea and nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Like so many others, your mother started coming here after that business with the apparition.” Patrick’s stomach jumped. The priest lifted his gaze. “You heard about that, didn’t you, Patrick? The Virgin Mary appeared on the roof of this very church. It was in all the newspapers. I was away on vacation at the time. What luck, huh?”

  Patrick pretended to be consumed by his teacup. He could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard about it.” He drained his cup and stood. “Thank you for the tea, Father Carbone, but I really do have to go now.”

  “Why don’t you stick around for a while. I have some people coming by who want to meet you.”

  Patrick stared at him, blinking. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said stick around. We’re just getting started.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

  “I don’t think so. Sit down.”

  Patrick frowned down at the priest. Father Carbone grinned in mock politeness. Patrick laughed, nodding. “Okay, Father Carbone. Enough of this. Why don’t you just tell me what your problem is.”

  Father Carbone laughed, leaning back and linking his hands behind his head. “What is my problem, he asks. Hmmm. Let’s see. What is my problem? Do you mean besides the fact that you turned my church into a fucking circus?”

  Patrick was shocked by the profanity, but not the accusation. “I had nothing to do with that.”

 
; “Oh! You had nothing to do with it. I suppose you just happened to be in the neighborhood that night.”

  “It’s complicated,” Patrick said.

  “I have time.”

  “Well I don’t.” Patrick started for the door.

  “I wouldn’t leave if I were you, Patrick.”

  He stopped and looked back. “Oh? And why not?”

  Father Carbone leaned forward, forming a steeple with his hands and resting his chin on it. “There are three agents on their way here now. They want to ask you some questions.”

  Patrick laughed. “You’re out of your mind. Goodbye, Father Carbone.”

  “Go then, Patrick. But I must warn you. This really is the easiest way. If you go to your apartment they will follow you there, and your neighbors will see them escort you out. If you go to the Christening party at your brother Ryan’s house they will follow you, and your family will see them escort you out. I don’t think your mother would take that well. Do you?”

  Patrick’s heart thudded. “You’re lying. Why the hell would the cops be interested in me?”

  Three hard raps sounded at the door, making Patrick jump. He looked back at Father Carbone, wide-eyed. The priest smiled. “Well. Now you can ask them that question.”

  The door opened and three men in dark suits walked in. They looked like the kind of FBI agents Patrick had seen in movies, all but one who had long yellow hair to his shoulders. He looked like a professional wrestler, aside from the dark suit and sunglasses. He and a man with a brown crew cut took up guard positions on either side of the door, expressions placid.

  The third man moved with a determined stride directly toward Patrick. He had an unmistakable air of authority, the leader. His short hair was so gray it was nearly white. Patrick would have thought him in his sixties until he removed the sunglasses. His face was smooth and unlined, dark blue eyes wide and clear. He looked far too young to have hair that white, but the lack of warmth in his eyes made it seem appropriate, like his hair had iced over from the coldness within. “Patrick Obrien?” he said, his voice stern.