But he didn’t want any. He went straight to his room. I’m worried, Cork. I pray for him a lot these days.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t hurt, Ellie. One more question. Did you spend New’s Year Eve here with the fathers?”
“Lord, no. I have a life outside this rectory. I was with my late husband’s family, out at Tower.”
“So Mal and Father Kelsey were here alone?”
“I believe so. Father Kelsey was probably asleep by nine, so I’m sure poor Father Mal had to see the New Year in all alone.”
“Tragic,” Cork said.
Jo was waiting in the kitchen when he got home.
“Well?”
“The night Kane and Solemn died, Mal went out about nine. Came back around ten-thirty. Very upset, no explanation.”
Jo picked up the phone and handed it to him. “Boomer Grabowski called. He wants you to call him back.”
“That was quick.”
“The execution of a good reputation goes fast around here.”
Cork ignored her comment and punched in Boomer’s number.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already got something,” Cork said.
“It’s all in knowing who to call.”
“Spill it.”
“Remember Dave Jenkins?”
“Yeah. Shaved head, right? You used to call him Cueball.”
“That’s him. He’s with homicide out of Area Two. Been there for a couple of years now. You hit the jackpot with the priest, Cork. Before he took over the unit, Cueball got assigned to investigate two homicides in Hyde Park. Somebody iced a couple of punks with rap sheets almost as long as my dick. Turns out, they were the primary suspects in the assault and attempted robbery of a priest named Father Malachi Thorne.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. The bust was bad, and they had to let the douche bags go on a technicality. But get this. Cueball says that for a while the priest was a suspect in those murders. Seems the guys were beat up pretty bad before their throats were cut. And guess who was a hotshot boxer back in college. The priest. Here’s where it gets interesting as far as your situation goes. It wasn’t the first time the priest had been connected with a murder investigation. Sixteen years ago, a children’s home he was in charge of burned down. Arson. A fifteen-year-old girl died, name of Yvonne Doolittle. You sitting down, Cork? This Doolittle girl had accused your Father Thorne of molesting her.” Grabowski was quiet a few moments. “You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Not enough evidence to build a case against him. The Church hustled him away from there and hushed things up.” Boomer laughed softly. “One more thing you’re gonna love. The Hyde Park killings? There was something real whacko about them. Seems the perp had himself a feast at the scene after he’d done the deed. Cueball did some digging. You know that knack of his for uncovering the truly weird? This time he looks for weird and Catholic, discovers there’s some kind of old Catholic mumbo jumbo goes along with feasting over the dead.”
“Sin eating,” Cork said.
“That’s right.” Boomer sounded impressed that Cork knew. “Another good reason Cueball liked the priest for the killings. In the end, your Father Thorne had an alibi they couldn’t break. Also, there was another double homicide with the same weird MO, and it happened before the priest came to Chicago.”
“Know anything about those killings?”
“No. You want I should ask?”
“Let’s get everything we can.”
“All right. But you know, Cork, if I were you, I’d put this priest away right now. He sounds to me like one sick bastard. For all you know, you could have your own little serial killer right there in Nowhere, Minnesota.”
“Thanks for the insight, Boomer. I’ll be in touch.”
He reported everything to Jo who sat tight-lipped at the table. When he was finished, she stood up, walked to the door, and looked through the screen, where dozens of moths shuddered their wings against the mesh. She said nothing.
“It makes sense,” he argued quietly. “Solemn thought Charlotte had been seeing a married man. Mal is a married man.”
“I thought we knew who the married man was. Arne Soderberg.”
“When I talked to Glory Kane-I mean Cordelia Diller-she told me that Charlotte-Maria-related to her father in a sexual way and that she’d come on to Fletcher, hoping to secure his love that way, too. Mal’s not only married, Jo. He’s Father Mal. And think about the graffiti on the wall at St. Agnes. Liar. Who do you suppose that was directed at?”
She spoke carefully and with her back still to Cork. “I know you think anyone is capable of murder. That’s how you’ve been trained to think. I find it hard to believe that Father Mal is the kind of monster you’ve painted.”
Cork followed her to the door. He put his arms around her and spoke quietly. “I wish I had your faith. In God, in people. I don’t. I’ve seen too much, I guess.”
“You believed in Solemn when no one else would.”
“That was for Sam.”
“In the end, it was for Solemn.” She laid her head back against his shoulder. “And you believed in us, even when everything seemed hopeless. What do you think faith is, Cork? I think it’s believing in what you care about even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. I care about Father Mal. I want to believe in him.”
“You still have to ask questions, especially the hard ones.”
She stepped away from the door. “What about Mal? Tonight?”
“I’ll take him back to the rectory.”
“I suppose that’s best. Let’s not say anything about this to Rose. Not yet.”
“All right.”
She put her hands gently against Cork’s chest, as if to feel his heart. “I know we have to be thorough and ask the hard questions, but I hope neither of us ever stops believing that the answers can be good.”
They found Rose sitting in the rocker, which she’d pulled nearer to the bed where the priest slept. The lamp in the corner was on low, and a soft light spread across the room. Mal looked peaceful.
“How is he?” Jo said.
“He hasn’t stirred.”
“I need to wake him up,” Cork said. “Take him home.”
Rose looked as if she were about to object, then nodded her agreement. “It’s probably best.”
Cork leaned over Mal, caught the smell of sweet bourbon coming off his skin. “Mal,” he said. Then louder, “Mal, wake up.” He shook the priest’s shoulder.
The man’s eyes flickered open and his pupils swam a moment before finding solid ground on Cork’s face. “Huh?”
“I’m taking you home, Mal. Back to the rectory.”
The priest considered this, and while he thought, his eyes began to drift closed.
“Come on, Mal.” Cork slid his arm under the priest’s shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position.
“Oh, Jesus,” Mal mumbled.
“Let me help,” Rose said.
They swung his feet off the bed and together helped him up.
“I don’t feel good,” Mal said, swaying.
“Hold on to us.” Rose positioned herself to one side; Cork took the other. Between them they managed to get him downstairs and out the door.
“My car,” Mal said as he slumped onto the passenger side of the Bronco’s front seat.
“We’ll take care of that tomorrow,” Cork said.
For a brief moment Mal worked on focusing, and he put out his hands to cup Rose’s face through the open window. “I didn’t want…,” he began, but seemed to lose the thought. “I’m sorry.”
