Father Mullen frowns at the doctor, but it?s hard to chide a man who has just lost his son. ?You have my word, of course,? says the priest.
?I want the seal of the confessional.?
Mullen looks offended. ?I'm not sure what you mean by that. You?re not Catholic, are you??
?You know exactly what I mean, Father. I'm sorry to insist, but I?'ve known priests and pastors who betrayed confidences, both in private conversation and in court.?
Father Mullen shakes his head with a weary sigh. ?The seal of the confessional. What we say here goes no further.?
Dr. Jessup is watching me like the parents of defendants I prosecuted for rape or murder watched the faces of their sons? accusers; he?s waiting for some hint that his child wasn'?t the terrible man people believe he was?some scrap of hope to cling to as time wears him down and leaves nothing but memory.
?Father Mullen,? I say softly, ?I'm ashamed to admit this, but I was Tim?s childhood friend, yet for the past few years I shared the low opinion people have of him. If we?re all honest here, I think even Dr. Jessup shared that opinion.?
A strangled croak comes from my right, but I cannot bear to look.
?In the next few days, people are going to say a lot of things about Tim. The newspaper may say he was using drugs the night he died. The police or the district attorney might even say Tim was planning to commit terrible crimes. I'm telling you now that those charges will be lies.?
Dr. Jessup?s shoes creak as he steps forward and leans closer. ?What do you mean? Tell us.?
I keep my eyes on those of the priest, which are blue and clear and bright with skepticism. ?Tim Jessup was a hero,? I tell him quietly. ?I don'?t say that lightly. Tim died trying to save innocent people from suffering, and to protect this town from evil. That may sound archaic, Father, but I?'ve dealt with evil firsthand. I know what I'm talking about. Tim suffered terrible torment before he died. The tragedy is that his death was unnecessary. Had the rest of us been doing the work we pay lip service to doing, Tim would still be with us. I know Mrs. McQueen has suffered over her son, but Tim paid for that a long time ago. What matters most is this: Even if the truth of what Tim was trying to do never comes out, every citizen of this town is in his debt. Of that you can be sure.?
Dr. Jessup clutches my upper arm like a drowning man clutches a life preserver.
Father Mullen?s eyes are wide, his mouth half open. ?Well?I think I expected a plea for the sake of the man?s wife. Can you give me any details??
?I'm afraid not. There are lives at stake.?
The surgeon?s hand is shivering on my arm. ?Please, Penn. Anything.?
I shake my head. ?Father, Jacqueline Kennedy once said that the Catholic Church is at its best when dealing with death. To me, this is one of those opportunities to live up to the promise of your creed. I personally don'?t know what Tim believed about God, but I do know he believed
God. He made religious references to me the night before he died, and I know he believed he was doing God?s work when he was killed. Now, you can call the bishop if you like. But I think it?s best if Dr. Jessup and I just leave you alone with your conscience.?
Before the priest can respond, I turn and pull the old surgeon with me to the door. Dr. Jessup is wheezing like an asthmatic, but this sound isn?t respiratory distress; it?s the throttled crying of a man who sealed himself off from emotion for most of his life and now finds himself unable to contain the hurt and stunted love within him.
?Can you get home all right?? I ask.
Dr. Jessup won'?t let me off so easy. When we reach the steps, he
seizes my arm and turns me until I'm looking into his watery gray eyes, eyes that for forty years seemed to look down from an Olympian height to the mortals who came to him to cut out their tumors and inflamed gallbladders, and that now hold only pain and pleading. How the mighty are fallen.
?Was that true? What you said about Tim? That he was trying to do something good??
?Yes. But don'?t ask me what it was. And please don'?t tell your wife yet. I'?ll tell you the rest of it someday, Doctor. When it?s safe. But that?s the best I can do tonight.?
Dr. Jessup shakes his head slowly. ?You said he?he suffered.?
I look down the street, toward the corner of Washington Street. ?You?re going to see that for yourself when Tim?s body comes back from Jackson. You?re a doctor, so you?ll know what you?re looking at. I wanted you to be prepared. Don?t let your wife see him.?
?Who killed my boy?? Dr. Jessup asks in a cracked whisper. ?You tell me. Tell me!?
?I can?t.?
?But you know, don'?t you??
?No, sir. And I'm afraid the police aren'?t even calling it murder yet. Not officially. The next few days are going to be hard on you and Mrs. Jessup. I hope you can take some comfort in what I told Father Mullen. I don'?t think you?ll have any more trouble about the funeral. Mullen?s just young, and I'm sure Mrs. McQueen was pretty formidable. She feels about Patrick the way you do about Tim.?
Dr. Jessup nods. ?I know that. I see it now.?
I try to turn and walk to my car, but he clings to me, his hand like a claw on my wrist. ?What are
doing? I know you?re your father?s son. Are you trying to finish what Tim started??
A car with blue headlights approaches on the street. After it hisses past, I say, ?All I can tell you is this: If I have anything to do with it, Tim will not have died in vain. Now, I need to go.?
?One last thing,? Dr. Jessup says. ?I know your father never thought much of me. All my life I chased after things that don'?t mean a damned thing. My son needed me, and all I could do was hate him for not being what I wanted. Well, this is my punishment, I guess.? Dr. Jessup?s gaze slides off my face and climbs the but
tresses and spires of the cathedral. ?Your father was the best of us. Our crop, I mean.? The wet eyes come back to me. ?And Tim thought the world of you. I wish you would say something at his wake, if you will. Even if you can?t say what you told us in there.?
?Of course I will.?
Just as I think I'm free, the gray eyes peer into mine with a darkness like blood behind them. ?If you find out who killed my boy, Penn, you pick up the telephone. You hear me? Tell me where to find him, that?s all. I don'?t care if I spend the rest of my life behind bars and eternity in flames.?
Dr. Jessup?s clenched hand finally loosens as the force of his passion drains from him. For a moment I fear he?s going to collapse on the steps, but then he pulls his coat around him and gets himself under control. I saw this too many times when I was a prosecutor, most often in victims? families: fathers and brothers who would readily kill to avenge those they should have loved far better when the person was alive.
?Tim will get justice. The best thing you can do for him now is take care of your grandson. Your wife and your daughter-in-law too. They need you.?
With a last grimace of confusion, he shuffles past me toward the big Mercedes by the curb. As he wrestles with his key, I trot to my car on unsteady legs, hoping that Caitlin has waited for me.
Caitlin is watching from one of her front windows as I pull up. She opens the front door with only her face showing, as though she?s just gotten out of the shower, then motions for me to come in, but I wave her out to the car. She extends a bare foot and calf, points to the foot, then disappears inside. I get out and walk halfway to her door. A moment later she comes out wearing shorts, sandals, and a white linen top, a puzzled look on her face.
?To what do I owe this honor??
?We need to talk,? I whisper, ?and it can?t be in our houses or cars. Is there a car at the newspaper office we can use??
She?s looking at me strangely, but she answers quietly. ?Yes. Are you going to drive us over there??
When I nod, she walks back and locks her door, then comes out to my car.
Caitlin never needs to be told anything twice, unless it?s to keep her nose out of something. She doesn?'t speak as we drive across town; she?s content to study me from the passenger seat. I look toward her a few times, but it?s
