him.
He finished eating, and as he sipped a final cup of coffee, he tried calling the priest. He got the message machine. “Hi. Don Cannon. Can’t take your call, just leave a message and have a great day.” Bo didn’t leave a message. But so far, the day hadn’t been too bad.
He returned to the house. No one answered his knock this time either. Next door, a bald man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts stood in the middle of his lawn. He had a garden hose in one hand and a beer can in the other. He was spraying a fine mist over the grass and eyeing Bo.
“Know Father Cannon?” Bo called to him.
“Sure.”
“Know where he might be?”
“Thursday’s his bowling night. Falls Lanes. West side of Main Street as you head north out of town.”
“Thanks.”
“You a cop?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I can tell. I used to be a cop, too.” He lifted the beer in a friendly toast of goodwill.
The last of the day’s sunlight fell across the town as Bo drove to the bowling alley. Trees cast long shadows down quiet streets. The air smelled faintly of fresh cut grass. If his concern had not been so pressing, Bo might have let himself linger awhile, enjoying the feel of the small town as evening settled in.
When he opened the door to the bowling alley, the country quiet was broken by the rumble of balls on oiled wood and the thunder of shattered pin sets.
The place was busy. A league night. Every lane was full. Bo had no idea what Father Don Cannon looked like. He didn’t see anyone wearing a cleric’s white collar. He made his way to the desk and took his place in a long line of people waiting to be served. As he stood there, he scanned the lighted displays above each lane that gave the names of the teams, the bowlers, and their scores. A team on lane eleven called themselves The Holy Rollers. The third bowler listed was Don. Bo stepped in that direction.
Father Cannon was a big man with bushy gray hair and a thick, unkempt beard. He wore glasses, a rumpled, blue knit shirt that barely covered his rotund belly, and tan slacks. He crouched low as he prepared to bowl, approached the foul line aggressively, and threw a powerful hook that sent the pins flying like demons fleeing the wrath of God.
Bo bided his time, waiting while The Holy Rollers and the team they opposed, The Wild Ducks, bowled two more lines. The Holy Rollers easily won. As the priest toweled off his ball and placed it in his ball bag, Bo approached him.
“Father Cannon?” he asked.
The priest looked up, smiling huge through the wild hairs of his beard. “Saw you watching. Wondered if you were a fan or just killing time.”
“Bo Thorsen’s my name. I’m with the U.S. Secret Service.” Bo let him have a good look at his ID. “I’d like a word with you.”
“About what?”
“David Moses.”
The priest’s face lost its smile, and a different look appeared there. As if Father Cannon had just heard something he’d been waiting a long time to hear. “You a drinking man?”
“On occasion,” Bo replied.
“I think this is an occasion, Mr. Thorsen.”
chapter
twenty-two
David Moses,” the priest said unhappily and shook his head. “It’s been twenty years since I heard that name.”
They sat at the bar in the lounge connected to the bowling alley. The television above the liquor bottles was tuned to a Twins’ game, but the sound was turned down. Father Don Cannon fingered a shot glass of Dewar’s that was backed up by a chaser of beer. Bo was nursing a bottle of Leinenkugel’s. He’d already told the priest everything he knew about David Moses, and everything he suspected.
“You really think he tried to kill Tom Jorgenson?”
“I’m almost certain of it,” Bo said. “I just don’t know why.”
The priest signaled the bartender. “We’re going to a booth, Patrick. I’ll let you know when we need another round.” He motioned for Bo to follow, and he walked to a dimly lit booth well back in a corner. After they sat down, he slammed back his Dewar’s and took a hard draw on his beer. “Did you know he chose his own name? David Solomon Moses.”
“What do you mean, he chose it?” Bo asked.
“He didn’t even have a name when he came to us. His existence had never been officially noted, and his mother had never given him a name. Or one that he would tell us. This was probably the least of the sadnesses in that boy’s history.”
“You know about his history?”
“Until he left us, anyway. David wasn’t Catholic, wasn’t anything really, and so what he shared, he shared with me only as his confidant, not his confessor. And more’s the pity.”
The thunder from the alleys almost drowned the priest’s dour voice, and Bo leaned nearer.
“David came to us in unusual circumstances. He was sixteen, just orphaned. No other family that the authorities could identify. He wasn’t a good candidate for adoption. Kids that age seldom are. The social worker assigned to his case believed that St. Jerome’s was a better option than foster care. After I heard about David, so did I.
“He was the most remarkable young man with whom I’ve ever worked. Brilliant. He arrived at St. Jerome’s with a limited understanding of the world and proceeded to read quite literally everything in our library. He soaked up knowledge. I remember many times sitting up with him in my study late at night deep in ecclesiastical arguments. He had a wonderfully analytic mind. I admit, at one point I entertained the hope he might even have a religious calling. But that was my own blindness.
“I knew there was great potential in David, both good and bad. And the bad wasn’t his fault.”
“His childhood?” Bo said.
Father Cannon finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That boy was raised in the basement of an old farmhouse by a man about as near to the devil as a man can get. By all rights, David should have been totally ruined, but he wasn’t. There was a strength, a resilience in him that was remarkable. Do you believe we come already forged into this world, already created as the beings we will be?” He didn’t wait for Bo to answer. “I do. David was born strong, and he resisted as well as he could the forces that sought to break him. He told me things about his childhood that made me weep, Mr. Thorsen.” The priest paused a moment, and Bo thought his old eyes might yet be fighting back tears. “I believed we had David on the right track. He was in school. He’d made the gymnastics team. He’d joined the debating society. He seemed to have made friends. He was blossoming, and it was wonderful to see. In those days, I thought of him a little like Lazarus. He’d been dead, but he was alive again. Then the thing happened with Tom Jorgenson and his daughter, and we lost David forever.”
The priest hesitated.
“You can’t leave me hanging, Father. Tom Jorgenson’s life is at stake.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“I’m just about to the place where I’d stake everything on it.”
The priest thought it over. “We might need another round for this.” He signaled the bartender. When the drinks came, he threw the Dewar’s down his throat and followed it with a swallow of beer. Braced, he addressed Bo again.
“As I said, David was doing well. I knew some of what had gone on in his life, but I was aware there were
