female writers said, laughing. “All we do is sit here and bounce ideas off each other. Lunch is brought in. Porta Pottis are brought in. Soon they’ll be bringing beds in.”
Dane said when they were walking down Pico back to their two cars, “It’s time for a nice big meeting, mixing Feds with locals. There’s lots of folks that need very close attention.”
Flynn nodded, saw some kids shooting baskets, took three steps toward them before he caught himself.
FOURTEEN
ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S
Dane and Nick were seated in the second row in St. Bartholomew’s, Nick staring at Father Michael Joseph’s coffin, Dane staring at the wooden cross that rose high behind the nave, both waiting silently for the church to fill up and the service to begin. They’d come back from LA the previous evening for Michael’s funeral.
It was an overcast early afternoon in San Francisco, not unusual for a winter day. It was cold enough for Dane to wear his long camel hair coat, belted at the waist. The heavens should be weeping, Father Binney had said, because Father Michael Joseph had been so cruelly, so madly, slain.
Dane had taken Nick to Macy’s again on Union Square. In two hours flat, he’d come close to maxing out his credit card. She kept saying, “I don’t need this. I don’t. You’re making me run up a huge debt to you. Please, Dane, let’s leave. I have more than enough.”
“Be quiet, you’ve got to have a coat. It’s cold today. You can’t go to the-”
He broke off, just couldn’t say it, so he said finally, “You can’t go to the church without a coat.”
She’d picked out the most inexpensive coat she could find. Dane simply put it back and handed her another one in soft wool. Then he bought her gloves and boots. Two more pair of jeans, one pair of black slacks, two nightgowns, and underwear, the only thing he didn’t help her pick out. He just stood by a mannequin that was dressed in a sinful red thong and a decorative bra, his arms crossed over his chest.
At noon, she’d finally just stopped in the middle of the cosmetics section on the main floor. Salespeople swarmed around them. A woman was closing fast on her to squirt her with perfume, when she said, “This is enough, Dane. No more. I want to go home. I want to change. I want to go to Saint Bartholomew’s and say good- bye to Father Michael Joseph.”
Dane, who’d never in his adult life shopped for more than eight minutes with a woman, said, “You’ve done well-so far. All that’s left is some makeup.”
“I don’t need any makeup.”
“You look as pale as that mannequin in lingerie, the one with the bloodred lips and that red thong that nearly gave me a heart attack. At least some lipstick.”
“I’ll just bet you noticed how pale she was,” Nick said, and turned to the Elizabeth Arden counter.
And so Dane found himself studying three different shades of lipstick before saying, “That one. Just a touch less red. That’s it.”
Dane finally turned in the pew to look over his shoulder. So many people, he thought. Not just priests today, like at the wake, but many parishioners and friends whose lives Michael had touched. Archbishop Lugano and Bishop Koshlap both stopped and spoke to him, each of them placing his hand on Dane’s shoulder, to give comfort, Dane supposed. He was grateful for their caring, but the truth was he felt no comfort.
He watched Bishop Koshlap stand over Michael’s coffin, and he knew his eyes were on Michael’s face. Then he leaned down and kissed his forehead, straightened, crossed himself, and slowly walked away, head bowed.
Dane stared down at his shoes, wondering how well they had hidden the bullet hole through Michael’s forehead.
Michael was gone forever, only his body lying in that casket at the front of the church. A huge sweep of white roses covered the now-closed coffin, ordered by Eloise because Michael had loved white roses. Dane hoped, prayed, that Michael knew the roses were there, that he was smiling if he could see them, that he knew how much his brother and sister, and so many people, loved him.
But Michael wasn’t there and Dane didn’t think he could bear it. He focused on his shoes, trying not to yell his fury, his soul-deep pain out loud.
DeBruler, DeLoach-he just couldn’t get the names out of his mind, even here, at his brother’s funeral mass. A sick joke? His anger shifted to the murderer who was somewhere down in LA, someone connected with that damned TV show. He turned when he heard his sister Eloise’s voice behind him. He rose again, kissed and hugged her, shook her husband’s hand, hugged his nephews. They sat silently in the row behind him.
Archbishop Lugano spoke, his deep voice reaching the farthest corners of the church. He spoke spiritual, moving words, words extolling Michael’s life, his love of God, the meaning of his priesthood, but then there were the inevitable words of forgiveness, of God’s justice, and Dane wanted to shout there would never be any forgiveness for the man who killed his brother. Suddenly, he looked down to see Nick’s hand covering his, her fingers pressing down on him, smoothing out his fist, squeezing his hand. She said nothing, continued to look straight ahead. He looked quickly at her profile, saw tears rolling down her face. He drew in a deep breath and held on to her hand for dear life.
Other priests spoke, and parishioners, including a woman who told how Father Michael Joseph had saved not only her life, but her soul. Finally, Father Binney nodded to him.
He walked to the front of the church, past Michael’s coffin, hearing gasps of surprise throughout the church, for he was the very image of his brother. It was difficult for people to look at him and accept that he wasn’t Michael. He went up the steps to stand behind one of the pulpits. It was only then that he saw that the church was overflowing, people standing three and four deep all around the perimeter, filling the south and north transepts, even out beyond the sanctuary doors.
And Dane thought, Is the murderer out there somewhere, head bowed so people won’t see him gloat? Did he come to witness what his madness had brought about and delight in it? Dane had forgotten to say anything to Nick about keeping an eye out, just in case.
Then he saw his friends, Savich and Sherlock. Dane felt immensely grateful. He nodded to them.
Dane looked down at his brother’s coffin, the white roses blanketing it. He cleared his throat and fastened his gaze just over the top of Savich’s head because he just couldn’t bear to speak looking directly at anyone. He said, “My brother loved to play football. He was a wide receiver and he could catch any ball I could get in the air. I remember one of our last high-school games. We were behind, twenty to fourteen. There was only a little over a minute left in the game when we got the ball again.
“All the fans were on their feet and we were moving down the field, me throwing passes, Michael catching them. Finally, we were on the eighteen-yard line, with only ten seconds left to play. We had to have a touchdown.
“I threw the ball to Michael in the corner of the end zone. I don’t know how he kept a foot inbounds, but he actually caught that ball just as he was tackled hard, and he held on. He won the game, but the thing was, that hit tore up his knee.
“He lay there, grinning up at me like a fool, knowing he’d probably never play another football game, and he said, ‘Dane, it’s okay. Sometimes the bad things don’t touch you nearly as much as the good things do. We won, you can’t get gooder than that.’ ”
Dane’s voice broke. He vaguely heard scattered small laughs. He looked down again at the roses that covered Michael’s coffin. Then, suddenly, he felt warmth on his face, looked up, and saw that brilliant sunlight had burst through those incredible stained-glass windows. He felt the warmth of that light all the way to his bones. He said, voice firmer now, “Michael appreciated the good in everyone, rejoiced in it; he also understood that the bad was a part of the mix, and he accepted that, too. But there was one thing he wouldn’t accept, and that was evil; he knew it was here among us. He knew the stench of it, hated the immense tragedy it brought into the world. The night he was shot, he knew he was facing evil. He faced it, and the evil killed him.
“Michael and I shared many things: Two of them were Sunday football games and tenacity.”
