several months.”
“You knew him as well as anyone.”
“Alright, then, to be frank, no, I rather doubt that Arthur killed himself. Certainly he did not have the intelligence or the technical knowledge to do it that way-to form the plan, to determine what a fatal dose would be, to hide the pills until he’d accumulated enough. That’s all well beyond Arthur’s capacity. I doubt Arthur would ever have considered suicide in the first place. I don’t think it was in his makeup. He never voiced any inclination toward suicide. He was never depressed, to my knowledge. Of course I can’t rule it out, but it strikes me as very, very unlikely. On the other hand, I can’t imagine who would want to kill Arthur, either.”
“I can.”
“Arthur had no enemies in Bridgewater.”
“He did. He just didn’t know it. Someone did not want him to confess to any of the Strangler murders. Someone didn’t want to see DeSalvo cleared. If Arthur Nast talked, if he laid claim to the murders and described them convincingly-even more convincingly than DeSalvo, which would not be hard to do-then the whole thing would start to fall apart, wouldn’t it? How could people go on thinking DeSalvo was the Strangler if another, better suspect started confessing to the same crimes?”
“Who are you accusing, then? The docs? The guards? The prisoners?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who put those pills in Nast’s hand, but I know why they did it: They’re covering up.”
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Daley?” A skeptical, honeyed tone came into the doctor’s voice. It became the voice of a therapist. The shrink apparently thought Ricky himself was a little crazy, a little grief-sick, delusional, conspiracy-minded. “If you prove all this, a cover-up, if you do find the ‘real Strangler’ who killed your friend Miss…”
“Ryan.”
“Miss Ryan-what then?”
“Then I’ll see that justice is done.”
“How?”
“I’ll see him go to prison. He’ll know he didn’t get away with it.”
“What then?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You said what you want is peace. Will you have it? What then?”
Ricky blinked. His mouth drooped open as if he were about to respond. But his mind, the thought-stream so hard to silence earlier, had gone utterly quiet. What then?
56
Sunday Mass at St. Margaret’s.
Frozen in time, Michael thought.
Same harp parish. Father Farrell still at the altar. White-haired heads in the pews, all those Sullys and Murphs and Flynns and Flahertys-except that the white heads now belonged to the parents, not the grandparents, of Michael’s generation. Here were the same kids he and Ricky and Joe had grown up with, all looking a little flabbier than their fathers had at this age. Same brick cathedral named for a Scottish queen, Saint Margaret. It was Margaret’s husband, Malcolm III, who murdered Macbeth, and Michael always figured they should have called this place St. Malcolm’s-but they didn’t make saints out of guys like that.
Anyway, this parish already had a Margaret: Daley. In her customary seat, front and center.
And beside her, Brendan Conroy, in the aisle seat, where every time he lowered his bulk down onto the kneeler, his own fat knees squashed out the narrow ruts dug there Sunday after Sunday by Joe Daley, Sr.
And beside them was Joe, drenched in worry. Kat, wearing a matching blue coat and hat. And Little Joe, in a clip-on tie.
No Ricky. Ricky did not bother. Did not care what his mother said. Ricky was blithely agnostic about the Lord, and he was not about to fall for Margaret’s tail-chasing argument that doubting is a necessary part of faith. God or the God-shaped hole simply held no interest. What difference did it make? How would you live your life any differently, God or no God? Forget it, pal. Not a useful way to spend your time. Sunday mornings Ricky slept in.
So the last seat in the Daleys’ row was taken by Michael. Michael who did not believe in God or Church, and who had not been to Mass in years. And yet, he figured, if he could just swallow the placebo-if he could trick his brain into giving his heart a rest-maybe there would be some relief here. Praying to a nonexistent God would be every bit as effective, in psychological terms, as praying to a real one, the whole thing being an exercise in talk therapy and blissful submission. And he could not deny that the placebo worked for billions of people. Why not for Michael, then? Wasn’t it at the darkest moments that grace was supposed to descend? To wish for the thing, to crave it, was to make it so. But to Michael, the Mass-every aspect of it, the tortured Christ above the altar, the dull expressions of the parishioners’ faces, the familiar musty smell of the church-seemed puny and desperate and exhausted. He had been a fool to come back here. As the Mass progressed, Michael’s disappointment quickened into anger, which he flung out at the entire parish for their collusion, for taking Conroy in. They saw Conroy walk in with Margaret on Sunday morning, they saw him cup his hand under her stout elbow as she shuffled out into the aisle for Communion, saw the two of them march around here with imperious nonchalance. Nothing went unnoticed here-over the years Michael had heard his mother condemn virtually everyone in this parish for one indiscretion or another-and yet no one raised an eyebrow. They pretended not to notice. Had they forgotten Joe Senior already?
At Communion, Michael followed the rest of them out of the pew to line up two abreast. It did not even cross his mind not to take Communion. People would gossip, his mother would grind him for embarrassing her.
The man beside Michael in line whispered, “Hey.”
Michael turned to see Kurt Lindstrom. His face was mottled with blue and yellow bruises, and one eye bulged, but he was still smirky and undaunted, like a rich cousin.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, Michael. Should you be in this line?”
“Shh.”
“Have you confessed?”
Michael did not respond.
“Have you confessed?” Lindstrom whispered. “For what you did to me?”
The line inched forward one step.
“It’s alright, Michael. I forgive you.”
A step. Another step. “Michael, who’s that with your mother?”
The line stopped.
Lindstrom, imitating the others, stood with his hands clasped at his belly. “She looks lovely today. Saint Margaret. Did they name the church after her?”
“Shut up,” Michael whispered.
“Such a lovely woman.”
“Shut up.”
When they reached the front, Michael knelt on the red-carpeted stair. Lindstrom knelt beside him.
The priest worked his way efficiently across the row of communicants. When he reached Lindstrom, the priest hesitated, distracted by the bruises. Lindstrom opened his mouth and extended his tongue too far. Again there was a pause. The priest seemed unsure whether he was being mocked. He laid the wafer on that too-long tongue, and Lindstrom retracted it slowly.
The priest hesitated at Michael, too, and gave a bent little smile. Long time since he’d seen Michael Daley at Mass. He placed the wafer on Michael’s tongue, then moved on to Little Joe.
Michael circled around to the outer aisle to return to his seat. Turning, craning his neck, he could not see Lindstrom anywhere.
