A Matter of Time (26 page)

“And the maître d’—”

Buff yawned and interrupted her. “I’m going to bed; I’m afraid I overdid it this afternoon.” He turned to Jane. “But you stay
up and talk, if you want to.”

He yawned again, and without waiting for a response, plastic-smiled and left.

“Honey,” said Maud to her gently, clicking off the TV, “we need to talk.”

31
  
  
confessor

At the back door of the main house on the Harris Property, Brother Bartholomew thanked Father Francis and the sisters for
supper. “That was the best meal since I came!” Then he laughed. “Considering who’s been my chef, that’s not saying much. Except
I did have dinner at the Frog & Onion the other night.”

“Why don’t you stay and watch a movie with us, Bart?” asked one of the sisters.

“Thursday night’s movie night,” another explained.

“We were going to watch ‘Sister Act,’” said a third.

“But we could watch ‘The Robe,’” added the fourth.

Bartholomew glanced at Father Francis, who smiled. “You’re not on retreat now,” the old priest reminded him.

“In that case,” he grinned, “I’d like to—” He felt a distinct check in his heart. “In fact, I’d
really
like to, but I think I’m supposed to go up the hill. Good night, you guys, and thanks again!” He left abruptly, before he
could change his mind.

When he reached the Quarry Cottage, he was still in a bit of a grump over not being able to stay for the movie.
But there, sitting on the middle of the bench waiting for him, was Noire.

Instantly forgetting whatever had been bothering him, he bowed to her and said, “You don’t have to look at me that way. Aren’t
I allowed to have dinner with my family?”

She said nothing.

“All right, I’m sorry! I’ll get yours right now.” To the turkey and cheese on her saucer, he added a sardine. (He’d bought
a tin for her; tonight would be her first.) Returning outside, he moved slowly, so as not to alarm her, and put down the saucer
on the end of the bench. She waited until he had backed away to the porch, before deigning to dine.

When she went to the sardine first, he was pleased, but tried not to show it, as he said, “You might say thank you. Those
are rather expensive, especially since I don’t care for them myself.”

She glanced at him, and then turned to the turkey.

“Well, the main thing is, you like it. And listen, young lady, the next time I’m late, you don’t have to be so disapproving.
I mean it’s not like we’re friends, or anything. Not like you’re living in the cottage with me.”

Without looking at him, she started on the cheese.

“Of course,” he said, relenting, “you’re welcome to move in with me, anytime.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Startled by the voice, Bartholomew peered into the darkness.

A figure emerged from the shadows, into the light of the porch.

“Dan?”

“Who in the blazes are you talking to?” his friend demanded.

“Oh,” said Bartholomew, gesturing toward the bench, “that’s Noire.” There was no one there.

“Um, maybe you’ve been up here a little too long.”

Bartholomew smiled. “She must have been startled. I certainly was.”

“She?”

“A feral cat. We’re starting a relationship—at least one of us is.”

“Oh,” Dan replied, not really understanding. “I walked up here, because, well, I really need to talk to you.”

“Come on in,” said Bartholomew, holding open the door. He waved his friend to the Naugahyde chair and took the desk chair
for himself.

“I came after dark,” Dan explained, “but you weren’t here, so I walked over to the chapel. It was locked. I sat on the outside
bench over there and waited. Then I heard you talking and realized you were back.”

Bartholomew looked carefully at his friend’s face, and was startled a second time. “Dan, what is it? You look—”

“However I look, it’s not as bad as I feel.” He told Bartholomew of his talk with Eric and subsequently with Inspector Cochrane.

“So what’s the matter?”

Dan had difficulty getting the words out. “This afternoon Eric did not come home from school. He’s still not home. He and
I were going to meet his father’s plane, so he could tell his dad the whole thing—or as much of it as he could. Then he and
I were going to go to the police station together. His dad’s driving around right now, looking for him.”

“Where’s Ron?”

“He went home this afternoon. Bunny called yesterday and said her mother was driving her crazy. They’d had a terrible fight,
and now her mother wasn’t speaking to her. She begged Ron to come home and help. I didn’t go because I wanted to see this
thing through with Eric.” He stared at the tile floor. “And now he’s missing.”

His monk friend frowned. “If he was going to be a material witness, why didn’t they take him into protective custody? At the
very least put a guard with him?”

“Cochrane didn’t want to spook the perp, who would have no idea anyone had seen him.”

Bartholomew looked at his friend. “And you blame yourself that he’s taken off. Because you’d persuaded him to talk.”

Dan could not meet his gaze. The next words were little more than a whisper. “It’s worse than that. When Eric didn’t come
home, Nan called the school. Apparently he never came back in after Noon Recess.”

“Why is that so bad?”

Dan buried his face in his hands and murmured, “He told me that Thursday was the day he picked up his drugs. During the Noon
Recess.” He closed his eyes. “I should have urged Cochrane to put him under surveillance. And if he wouldn’t, I should have
simply kept an eye on him myself, or insisted to Nan that he stay home from school.”

“You think, whoever the supplier was, he abducted Eric?”

Dan nodded. “It’s the only explanation. Eric wouldn’t tell me the name of the murderer, but they’ve got to be one and the
same.” He finally looked up, his eyes red. “Bart, I’m so scared for that kid!”

Bartholomew nodded, and they sat silent for a moment.
Then the monk frowned. “There’s still no way this dealer could have known what Eric intended to do,” he mused. “Unless—the
boy happened to let something slip that made him suspicious. I mean, if I were Eric, and I knew this guy had killed someone,
I would have freaked out, just being in the same car with him—even if I wasn’t about to give him up.”

The monk felt himself being drawn into the situation, but it seemed the right thing to do. “Have you told Cochrane?”

“Of course. He was the first one we told.”

“What’d he say?”

Dan shook his head. “Same thing I would have: We’re doing all we can. But until we have a name, or at least a description,
we’ve hardly anything to go on.” He paused, then added, “He did say he was going to pick up the boy Jones, as soon as he got
home from school.”

Bartholomew sighed and smiled. “In that case, they’ll have their description soon enough. And their culprit. And Eric.” He
laughed. “Cheer up, Dan! This thing’s going to have a happy ending!”

But Dan just shook his head. “I wish I could think so. My gut tells me otherwise.” He managed a wan smile. “I’m glad you’re
here! I was going crazy out there on the bench, waiting! If you’d been much longer, I’d have freaked out, myself!”

Bartholomew nodded—and inwardly shuddered to think how close he’d come to being a couple of hours longer.

He took a deep breath. “First of all, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself. You did the right thing. I’m sure his parents don’t
hold you responsible.”

“No, they’ve both told me how grateful they are.”

Looking at his friend’s haggard expression, Bartholomew realized that only time—and God—could ease his burden. “Look, Dan,
get some sleep, or you’ll be a wreck in the morning. And of no use to Eric or Cochrane or anyone else.”

Dan nodded and got up. “Glad you’re here,” he murmured again, as he went out into the night.

32
  
  
witness

The trouble was, having sent his friend back to Sandys House to get some badly needed sleep, Bartholomew couldn’t get to sleep
himself. He lay on the rack, staring at the darkened ceiling, his eyes wide as saucers.

That sometimes happened when he assumed the role of confessor. The penitent would be released from his burden, yet while Bartholomew
instantly forgot the details, it sometimes seemed that the weight had been transferred from the shoulders of the absolved
to the one pronouncing absolution.

Bartholomew had seen Eric only the two times: In church, then briefly as he exited the bar at Sandys House. But he kept seeing
him in his mind tonight. Finally he decided he would deal with it as he had on other nights when sleep eluded him. He would
go for a walk.

He got up, pulled on his navy blue sweats, his black walking shoes, and his new navy blue cap. As he was about to go out,
he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the kitchen window and smiled. Dark clothing from head to toe—if he were a Navy Seal,
he wouldn’t be much more invisible.

It was a moonless night, which made it difficult to keep to the footpath to the Railway Trail, through the first field and
around the freshly plowed one. It would have been impossible, had he not done it practically every day and on more than a
few sleepless nights.

Once he reached the trail, he relaxed. While there were no streetlights (save one at the corner of the first crossroad, which
was usually out), the trail was paved and smooth. So even though it was quite dark, particularly on moonless nights, he managed
to stay in the middle by keeping track of the pitch-black foliage on either side. And certainly no one else would be out here.

Father Francis had warned him not to go out on the trail in the middle of the night. With the drug situation deteriorating,
there had been a spate of robberies in this vicinity, and even a murder here last year. Yet for some reason, Bartholomew had
always felt safe—though, he smiled ruefully, he may have put undue stress on his guardian angel.

He had walked perhaps a half mile west, into the cut through the limestone, when he became aware that he was not alone. He
could not see anything. The cut, with its overhanging brush that shut out the faint starlight, was as black as the inside
of a cave. Yet he was certain he had heard something, a sound he couldn’t identify.

He stopped and listened. It was a sound that was not of nature. Man-made. Coming nearer.

He flattened himself against the rocky wall of the cut. The sound was coming from the direction of Sound View Road, the first
road to cross the trail after it came out of the cut. He strained to see something, anything.

And then, just in from the road, the streetlight that was usually out sputtered briefly to life.

In that frozen moment, he saw a man pushing a shopping cart along the trail into the cut. Something large and bulky was in
the cart. The light sputtered out. Bartholomew felt the brackish taste of fear rising in his throat. His breathing shallowed.
He pressed his back against the rock as hard as he could and waited. And wished he could do something to still the pounding
of his telltale heart.

The man and the cart came closer. He, too, was navigating, as Bartholomew had a few moments before, by keeping to the middle
of the slightly less dense shadow. When he came abreast of Bartholomew, he stopped.

He’s listening, Bartholomew thought. He’s sensed something. He held his breath, wishing now that he’d forced himself to breathe
more deeply.

The man remained perfectly still, no more than ten feet from Bartholomew, whose lungs were desperately scavenging what oxygen
molecules remained in them. And then, a moment before Bartholomew gasped for air, the cart started to roll again.

Bartholomew waited for the man with the cart to emerge from the south end of the cut, before he followed. Filled with a profound
sense of dread and foreboding, he nonetheless felt compelled to follow, to see this—whatever it was—through.

In the starlight now, Bartholomew could see the man’s silhouette ahead, while he himself remained in the deeper shadow by
the side of the trail. At a place where the trail ran by a steep gully thick with foliage, the man stopped. He looked back
towards Bartholomew and waited a long time. Then from the cart he lifted the limp form of what looked to be a body, went over
to the
edge of the trail, and flung his burden down into the depths of the ravine.