All the Dead Fathers (4 page)

If it weren't for Carlo, of course, neither time nor risk would matter. But Carlo could not survive without her, and he would be returning soon. She had to be ready for him, and she had decided to present the bitch to him as a homecoming gift. Yet she could not simply ignore God's sign. Clearly, it was His will that all these beasts pay the price. But how many of them were specifically her responsibility? And when she knew the number, which ones was she to choose?

She went to her desk. She had already made an index card for each priest: last name, first name, then adding bits of information—the nature of his crimes, where he lived, his habits—as she learned them. Now she spread the eighteen cards before her on the desk. Divine Wisdom would help her decide.

She placed Thomas Kanowski at the upper edge of the desk, farthest away from her, then studied the remaining cards. Sliding them around on the smooth surface. Staring at them. Rearranging them. And suddenly, as though someone had twisted a lens into focus, the picture became clear.

She selected six additional cards, with alternate choices for three of them, and placed them one under the other. The number itself was obvious. God willed that she should purge the world of seven of these beasts herself. Seven, the biblical number of fullness and perfection. But what she saw laid out in front of her was not only how many, but which ones, and in what order. Seven evil fathers, ending with Michael Nolan, and leading her, step by step, to the woman … another one for whom mere purging was not enough.

6.

It was the following week, Tuesday. Dugan walked into the kitchen and found Kirsten already up and sitting at the table in jeans and a rather flimsy yellow top that was a favorite of his. She was staring down into her coffee mug.

“Want some more?” he asked.

“What?” She was in a different galaxy somewhere.

“Coffee,” he said. “Your mug's empty.”

“Oh, sure.” She held the mug out and he filled it.

“Did I ever tell you,” he said, “that you have the world's nicest—”

“Smile,” she said, “yes.” Then she
did
smile and tilted her head so he could kiss her on the cheek.

“Well … that, too,” he said, accepting the invitation. “The smile's good.” He tapped his finger on his watch. “I'm late. I take it you're not headed downtown today?”

“What? Oh, I guess not.”

He stared at her. “You seem a little … distracted,” he said, and then it suddenly occurred to him what it must be, and he got a little nervous himself. He poured a mug of coffee and sat down. “It's been a little more than a month, hasn't it? You got any … uh … news?”

She smiled again, as though coming back to Earth. “Yes, but … not what we were hoping for.”

“Oh. Well…” He didn't know whether he was more disappointed or relieved, but he said, “You think it's time to … I don't know … talk to someone?”

“Damn,” she said, “don't be so negative. It's way too soon for doctors and all that bull—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “Take it easy. I was thinking that's what
you
might want. I'm happy to just keep trying. That's … you know … got its own rewards.”

“Anyway,” she said, “that's not what I've been thinking about. What's bothering me is I have to meet Michael for lunch today.”

“Jesus, didn't you just do that a few days ago?”

“It was a week ago yesterday. We agreed we'd get together again today. And here it is already. It's just … it's hard to know what to talk about.”

“You could talk about how nice it is that there've been no more of his pervert buddies found—” He let that go. “You've been working long hours on that disability case. Why don't you just call Michael and cancel?”

“I can't. I promised.”

“Yeah, well, Michael's one guy knows all
about
breaking promises. He should—”

“Dugan.”

“Yeah, right.” He stood up. “I better go.”

“I can't just abandon Michael. Not after what— Not after all these years.”

“Yeah? Well … fine.” Just talking about her uncle irritated him. Whatever good things he'd done for her in the past, they would never outweigh the wrong he did to that girl who killed herself. Not in Dugan's mind. “I gotta go.” He left her in the kitchen and headed for the front door.

Their condo was the third floor of a three-flat, and on the way downstairs he was seriously hoping there'd be no more of those damn priests killed. He didn't want Kirsten worrying about it or thinking she should do something. Michael's problems were his own damn fault. She knew that. She hated what he'd done as much as anyone did, and she should just cut herself loose from him, once and for all.

*   *   *

With her mug in one hand, Kirsten was rummaging around the kitchen counter for the TV remote. When the phone rang, she jumped and splashed coffee on the counter as she reached for it.

“Hello?” she said.

No one said anything. Which happened all the time with these damn automated telemarketing systems. But this was pretty early in the day, and she'd put their number on the “Do Not Call” list. The caller ID was blocked. She hung up, wondering whether or not she had actually heard someone breathing on the line.

She made herself some toast and was buttering it when the phone rang again. She grabbed it. “Hello!” she said, not wanting to sound friendly.

“Oh. Kirsten? It's me, Michael.”

“Did you just call,” she said, “a few minutes ago?”

“How'd you know? Your line was busy.”

“So … what's up?” she asked.

He told her he'd just learned the night before that he and the other priests who lived at Villa St. George had to be downtown that day, at what he called “the Pastoral Center,” for a lunch meeting with the cardinal.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, we'll get together some other—”

“But I could meet you somewhere down in that area? Somewhere convenient to you. At … say … eleven? Just for coffee or something?”

“That'd be fine,” she said. Less painful than an entire meal, anyway.

It was supposed to be a warm day, so she suggested they meet at a tiny park on Superior Street, not far from the Pastoral Center.

*   *   *

She took a cab and when she got to the park—really no more than a tiny patch of green grass surrounded by tall buildings—Michael was already there, sitting on one of the few benches. He looked tired and somehow smaller than usual. He wore tan slacks and a brown tweed sport coat that was too big for him and looked like it came from a rummage sale. Maybe that's why he seemed small, she thought. He and the other accused priests apparently weren't allowed to wear their clerical outfits even for a meeting with their boss.

He stood up to greet her, and he thanked her for the coffee she'd brought. They sat side by side and sipped from their cardboard cups. “Mmm,” he said, “that's good.” His was a café mocha with whipped cream. Hers was blend-of-the-day, black.

“So,” she said, “how is everything?”

“Everything's okay. Thank God there've been no more murders. Everyone's calming down … a little.” When she didn't respond, he said, “Thanks for seeing me again. I know it's not easy.”

“Don't be silly. It was a ten-minute cab ride.”

“That's not what I meant,” he said. “I just … well … I miss talking to you.”

“It's only been a week. And before that it was … what?… a month?”

“I mean I miss the way it was. I miss
you
. I think you know what I mean. All these years, you've been the only family I had. And I don't know what to do about … about what's happened between us.”

“There's nothing anyone
can
do about it, Michael. Short of going back thirty years and not … and doing things differently. Or maybe if you'd at least have
told
me, not left me to learn it from—” She shook her head. “Anyway, what's the meeting about?”

“I'm not certain, but I think the cardinal just wants to tell us he hasn't forgotten about us. Actually, I know he'd
like
to. He and all the bishops are taking a pretty hard hit on all this.”

“Yeah? Well, why shouldn't they? My God, they find out Father So-and-so is groping little boys—or worse? And their answer is to hush it up and send him somewhere else? Not even
warn
anyone about him? There's your ‘hard-hit' bishops.”

“Too often they did that, yes. It was stupid, and wrong.” He sipped from his cup. “But a lot of them tried different things. Sometimes they sent the man for treatment and were assured he was okay. And then he turned out not to be. Most of the bishops, I think, did what they thought was best.”

“Best? For who? Themselves? Their screwed-up, homophobic, pseudocelibate old-boy system? ‘Okay, guys, let's all hang together, and pretend the pedophiles aren't—'” She stood up, then sat back down again. Michael was part of the problem, sure, but she knew he wasn't a pedophile. “Let's talk about something else, okay?”

“That's up to you,” he said, “but don't ever put me in that group.” He was clearly angry himself now, sitting up a little taller inside the tweed jacket.

“I didn't put you with any group.”

“But you came pretty close. Pedophiles are … Even
them
we shouldn't hate. They're seriously damaged people, and they so often do serious damage to others. But I'm not one of them.”

“I
know
that,” she said. “Let's change the subject.”

“I'm trying to get what's between us out in the—” He stopped. “I know how you must feel. But I just—”

“Dammit, Michael!” she said. “You
don't
know how I feel.” Even
she
couldn't sort out all her feelings, at least the ones beyond anger, which was easy. “Forget it.” She stood up again. “I have to go.” She turned away, then turned back. “Listen, I don't feel like talking, but I'm not gonna abandon you, okay? Call me if … if something comes up.”

He nodded without looking up at her, and she walked away.

At the edge of the little park she looked back, and he was already headed in the opposite direction. She knew he hadn't finished his mocha, but he dropped the cup in a trash container as he passed it. He had his own anger and pride. And his guilt and all the rest of it. He'd done a terrible thing, but she knew he wasn't really a terrible person. Still, he should have told her about his past, right from the start, way back when he'd come down to Florida for her. He shouldn't have pretended to be perfect. He shouldn't … It went on and on. It always did.

She didn't know who she was madder at—herself or Michael.

*   *   *

Kirsten took a cab home. There were cars parked along both sides of the street. There always were, day and night. At night, with lots of bars and restaurants not far away, there were always people on the sidewalks, too, and cars going back and forth, and it could get pretty noisy. But during the day there was seldom anyone in sight.

Their building had a wrought-iron fence, with a gate that no one ever bothered to lock, and a tiny yard. There was a cement stoop, and then the front door. The door was thick plate glass and led into a small foyer, and it was always locked.

She was already at the gate when she first saw the red paint on the door. Grafitti happened around here once in a while, but it always appeared overnight, and this hadn't been there when she'd left an hour earlier. She'd get someone to remove it before Dugan saw it.

It wasn't the usual stylized gang grafitti. Just a thick dot, or a blob, with a circle around it; and around that, a larger circle, and then a still larger circle. And long fingers of red paint—like blood—dripping down on the glass from the circles.

7.

It was about noon on another Monday, exactly two weeks after the murder of Thomas Kanowski, that the body of the second priest on the list was found. He'd been dead for some days, maybe as long as a week, when his body was discovered in the middle of nowhere in central Minnesota. His name was Stanley Immel.

Kirsten learned of it when her uncle called at ten o'clock that night with the news. He was obviously shaken. He'd known Father Immel well. The two had talked often over the last few years about their cases, and about how both of them thought they'd gotten their lives back together until the recent national uproar about priests and sex abuse. They'd both been removed from their positions and told that if they wanted to keep their insurance coverage and get a small monthly stipend they had to live at Villa St. George.

“But Stanley refused to sit here and vegetate with the rest of us,” Michael said. “He left to start a new life, on his own. Stanley Immel had more courage than I.”

Right,
Kirsten thought.
And Stanley Immel is dead.

*   *   *

The next morning, Tuesday, broke dreary and cold. Rain started pouring down about ten o'clock and gave every indication it would last forever. Michael had said on the phone that he needed a few hours away from Villa St. George, and he'd decided to take the train downtown today and visit one of the museums. She said she'd meet him at the station at noon. He hadn't asked her to do that, but she could tell he was glad to hear it.

She'd been hoping his fear was as unfounded as she'd told him it was, hoping there wouldn't be a second priest killed, that there wasn't some crazy out there planning to go down the
Sun-Times
list and cross out one name after the other. Because if there was, even though Michael would never ask her, how could she
not
try to help? When she'd been in trouble and reached out to him, he hadn't hesitated for a minute. Yes, that was some fifteen years ago, and no, it wasn't a debt easily repaid.