Decatur (5 page)

CHAPTER NINE
Inquiries Begin

The sheriff’s deputy was no longer a greenhorn, he had seen a suicide, two separate train accidents, and made a couple of raids with local police on a hidden gay bar called Dorothy’s that changed secret locations around the county that they arm-twisted informants to tell them where the latest place was. So when he got the call to come out to the Lincoln Log because the morning shift manager doing his rounds found a bathroom window smashed in the more remote wing of the low slung motel, he wasn’t particularly worried. The Lincoln Log Motel wasn’t technically in Decatur but right outside which is why he was handling the call rather than the city cops. The dispatcher had told the manager to wait until the Sheriff showed up. The two-lane highway was still dark with plowed fields with ankle-high corn stalks and soy beans sprouting on either side but you could see the lights on in the farmhouses. Five AM, time to be up and out as soon as light came. Spring was busy with an endless cycle of seed, fertilizer, and pest control.

His big aluminum flashlight in one hand and his free hand on his sidearm, the deputy quietly walked around the rear of the one-story ranch-like cluster of rooms. The only car parked in this section was the panel truck of the men who had checked in the night before, according to the register. The back of the motel was overgrown with weeds and a collection of failed touristy endeavors; a rusty ice-cream cart, some bent and broken patio furniture, a rickety log cabin the size of a large dog house. It was a sad lonely-feeling place and the sheriff’s flashlight swept the back of the apparently empty wing looking for the room with the smashed rear bathroom window. Finding it, the glass scattered on the ground, he tried to see in but the blinds were still on it masking whatever lay inside. The sheriff sighed and walked around to the front. This didn’t feel good and he thought about radioing for back-up. The door to the room seemed untouched. “County Sheriff, come out with your hands up.” Nothing but predawn silence. The deputy came closer and kicked in the door with his big black boot, it broke apart easily just like they did in the junior college law enforcement classes. He beamed the flashlight inside. Bud beer cans everywhere and blood stains with a couple of plastic baggies on one of the still made-up twin beds. The bathroom door hung off its hinges like a drunk. The arc of the flashlight illuminated two swaying forms hogtied and hanging upside down from the fake log cabin beam running down the center of the sprayed ceiling. One had a long ponytail that swept the floor.

Gar was up early before the rest of the parish household and he slipped down the two flights of steps and out the side door closest to the church. Taking the ring of keys he let himself into the church and made his way in the watery light of dawn coming through the big rose window to the baptismal font in the front lobby. The architect had carefully modeled European plans for the church so that the light coming from the east through the rose window would shaft down the center aisle and land directly onto the font, it was a classic Gothic plan. Gar ran his bruised and throbbing hands around the smooth dry marble interior. He knew what he needed. Holy water to fill the font was kept in white jugs in a small closet tucked into the corner. He lugged out three jugs, his whole body aching, and putting in the small rubber stopper in the drain, filled the basin. The water splashed into the marble with a wonderfully familiar sound of liquid against stone. The font was only four feet wide and not more than eighteen inches deep and stood on thick marble pedestal four feet off the ground. The three big jugs filled it up halfway with water blessed by Monsignor Lowell, according to the legend taped inside the closet, Easter Sunday, two years ago. Gar slipped his work pants and shirt off, and lifted himself into the font, his powerful form like an Italian marble statue come to life. There were deep scratches on his forearms and neck, and his hands were puffy and bruised. He sat naked in the holy water waiting for the fully risen sun to come streaming through the rose window, and the rays to land on him in the water. Patiently he waited, his sore hands soothed by the cool wetness. It wasn’t soul’s tears, but it was something and it began to fill him back up again against the emptiness after the momentary high of last night’s consumption. When the sun rose fully and his skin could feel the warmth of the light, he pulled the stopper from the basin and felt with great satisfaction the water sluicing away from his powerful thighs folded up like a vast bird in the font and draining his sins down and away from the glorious sun.

When the first parishioners were parking their cars in the church lot next to the school for eight o’clock mass, Gar was already hard at work stacking up the booths he had taken down to make room for the cars. The men all gave especially hearty waves and called out, “Morning, Cigar!” as they made their way into church eternally grateful not to be striking the school carnival for once. The Sunday following carnival was always a little quieter with attendance at all three masses a little slight, and by three the entire parish household was down for a nap. Mrs. Napoli had left a simple casserole of tuna, peas, and noodles to be baked for Sunday supper and that seemed perfectly fine after the craziness of the day before.

It wasn’t until Tuesday morning that the inquiries began. It started when two polyester-suited FBI agents quietly knocked on the door of the parish office. Mrs. Napoli, a dust mop in one hand and some old Catholic bulletins in the other, answered the door. Agent House, the lead, was efficient and terribly polite. He apologized for the intrusion but wondered if he could speak to uh, whoever was in charge. Agent Colby consulting his spiral notebook supplied softly, “The Monsignor”. Mrs. Napoli pressed her lips together and the two agents showed her their badges then, big thick bronze-looking things in leather covers. She backed up nodding and let them in. “I think maybe you should talk to Father Weston or Father Troy, the Monsignor isn’t terribly well.”

It just so happened as the agents were being let in Father Weston was on his way to the South Shore country club for nine holes with his regular Tuesday lunch foursome: a doctor, a Staley executive, and the local Cadillac dealer. He was coming down the stairs in checked golfing pants with his bag slung over his shoulder but wearing a black tunic shirt with the roman collar. The men he played with were also the fundraising committee for the school and they were going to go over the proceeds of the carnival at lunch. Even as Mrs. Napoli whispered the words FBI the priest had already guessed the suited men were law enforcement, and he sighed deeply thinking about the club sandwich and nine holes about to slip away. He signaled the men into the parish office, frustrated that Mrs. Cleary hadn’t taken his advice about not talking about Little Rhonda and the carnies to the cops. Still not wanting to disturb the Monsignor who was napping into his prayers in his second floor room overlooking the rose garden, he ushered them in quickly.

Agent House was more direct once he sat down. They had a double homicide and because there was evidence of interstate drug trafficking the bureau had been brought in. The last place the Big Top Entertainment carnies, now murder victims, had worked according to a rather messy schedule found in their motel room was St. Patrick’s school carnival.

Father Weston let out a long low whistle after the agent stopped talking. “Can you give me a minute? I need to cancel an appointment.” Without waiting for a reply he punched the numbers on the beige desk phone for the country club and told the manager at the clubhouse that he was tell his group that Father Weston had been detained on parish business. Agent House’s lip curled, a golfing priest was not going to get any special treatment from him. Putting the phone down, Father Weston folded his hands together in front of the desk. A red flush crept up his neck and he could feel his blood pressure rising even as he struggled to remain calm. At that moment Father Troy, looking like a stand-in for Jesus Christ, came through the door, his long hair curly from the misting spring rain, with sandals on this feet and carrying a hoe. He was in a worn black frock smudged with dirt and some stray leaves.

“Mrs. Napoli said you were talking to some FBI agents, Frank?” Father Troy rarely called Father Weston by his first name, sticking with “Father W” as most everyone did since the priest detested his first name.

“There’s been two murders, Father Troy. Of the carnies who we hired on Springfield diocese’s recommendation for the spring fundraiser.” Father Weston grimaced as he spoke, trying to imagine explaining this to the congregation, hell with the archbishop.

The younger priest staggered then, his hoe falling against the wall and knocking a picture of Pope John askew. “They’re dead?”

Agent Colby suddenly felt terrible bringing raw news like this into a church office on a Tuesday morning. “We aren’t making any connection to the parish having anything to do with this. But you understand, we need to ask -- nothing happened that we should know about for our investigation? Any strangers around the carnival, anything unexpected….”

“No. Nothing,” Father Troy spoke first, two little red blotches on his cheeks, “It was all very normal. No one strange. Nothing odd. God have mercy on their troubled souls.” He wiped his hands on his frock but his eyes seemed pained and sincere behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

Father Weston blinked slowly, sucking his breath in, surprised by Father Troy’s quick thinking. Maybe he had underestimated the younger priest, this was good. He looked like a saint standing there and Father Weston could tell the agents were cautious and respectful of someone apparently so little used to the secular world.

“Of course we want to help. Here’s the number of the diocese staff member who recommended Big Top. Maybe they would know something? We just knew them as hourly workers for a day, I’m afraid with everything going on we didn’t even talk much.” Father Weston thumbed through his rolodex quickly and wrote down the phone number on a scrap of paper. He knew better than to ask the agents to keep quiet about St. Patrick’s involvement, he was going to have to hope that someone in the Bishop’s office would handle that. No one from the Herald had called so the lid was on for now, at least.

Father Troy nodded. “Father Weston’s right. They might know something. If you don’t mind I need to get back to the garden. I’ll be praying for you.”

When he said the word garden, Father Weston knew. Father Troy wasn’t thinking about the scandal for St. Patrick’s, or even Little Rhonda Cleary, no, he had been so quick on the trigger because of Gar. Father Troy was taking no chances that some inquiries by the FBI would hasten the end to Gar’s parish sojourn. Oh, for multiplying fish, thought Father Weston, as he saw the two agents to the door.

CHAPTER TEN
Father Troy’s Project

The living quarters of the parish were upstairs from the office and Gar was in the second floor kitchen doing dishes so he could without much effort keep an eye on the entire household. The Monsignor was already out like a light. Through Father’s Troy open door he could hear the priest tuning his guitar but when Father Weston walked through, Gar, while looking like he was completely absorbed in cleaning up the kitchen, began wiping the counter closest to the open door so he could hear better. The carnies, while deserving their fate, had been a mistake, Gar realized, and things were a little more precarious than he wanted them to be at the moment. He could see Father Weston putting a copy of the evening newspaper on the younger priest’s chest of drawers through Father Troy’s open door as wiped down the counter in slow semi-circles.

“The parish isn’t stupid, they are going to put two and two together. These were the St. Pat’s carnies. Even if the paper doesn’t say so yet, it will.” Father Weston was struggling to keep his voice down.

“So? We preach forgiveness, don’t we?” Father Troy wished Father Weston would go wherever he went and leave him and Gar alone. He wanted to reassure Gar that the story about the murdered carnies had nothing to do with him and that the parish house was his home now and that he, Father Troy, would take care of things if it came to that.

“Those FBI agents asked us if anything or anyone unusual happened to be at the carnival,” said Father Weston.

Gar kept wiping the counter but felt his muscles tensing.

“You are so controlling, it must be the old Vatican in you. If the Clearys talk to them, they talk to them.” Father Troy hissed at Father Weston while he put his guitar back in its case.

“I’m not talking about the Clearys!” Father Weston was almost shouting. Father Troy felt the old familiar feeling of shields coming up through his feet, he had felt this way since he was boy being teased on the playground, invisible shields would just come up and close around him, protecting him from the bullies of the world. Soon they would be up to his ears and Father Weston’s voice would be muffled and far away. Sometimes when they closed completely around his head it would be tough to get back out, that’s when he learned to play the guitar, it had a way of allowing the shields to sink back down again when it was safe.

“Are you listening to me, Mark?” Father Weston used his first name for the first time Father Troy could ever remember and the shields stopped rising around mid-chest. “I think we should talk to the Monsignor about whether or not he wants Gar to stay. It’s a risk to the parish right now, in my mind. Not because I think he has anything to do with this, Mark, but because we can’t afford speculation. He’s a complete stranger, a Vietnam vet, and he just kind of showed up here and now two carnies are dead. But I realize it’s not my decision, it’s still Monsignor Lowell’s.”

“You’re a hypocrite. We’re priests, for God’s sake. ‘Do unto others as you would do unto me’, does none of that mean anything to you?” Father Troy’s heart was blazing just above where the invisible shields had stopped. Gar wasn’t leaving. It wasn’t fair.

Gar put down the checkered blue dishtowel and weighed his options for a moment, then without saying a word he went up the wooden stairs to his attic room. He pulled the hand-me-down olive green canvas duffle bag marked “U.S. Army” from underneath the bed and stuffed in the extra shirts, socks and underwear that Mrs. Napoli had given him from her dead soldier son. Stripping off his plain brown shirt, he looked at himself in the mirror, his smooth nearly hairless chest big and muscular with his nipples tight and oxen red. He found a muscle tee and put it on, the white ribbed material clinging to his pectoral muscles, and tucked the tee it into his pants, pulling out the old rope belt and tying that around his slim waist. Smoothing his hair, he slung the duffle bag over one shoulder and went back downstairs.

Father Troy must have heard him because now he was standing, fists clenched, in the middle of living room with the Monsignor’s recliner, the sofa and the big TV set. Framed pencil sketches of St. Peter’s square and Basilica were hung over the sofa and weren’t half bad, thought Gar. “What are you doing?” exclaimed Father Troy in a choked way. Father Weston was leaning against the facing of the open entrance to the kitchen where you could see the spotless yellow Formica counters and the white plastic rack full of clean dishes.

“I hate to overstay a welcome,” Gar said in a shy unhurried way, and Father Troy burned with the injustice of it all. Gar looked so beautiful to him, so vulnerable with his rope makeshift belt and so strong, the muscles rippling under a simple white tee shirt with his bare biceps. A shock of sun-streaked hair fell loosely over one eye, and Gar had a regretful, sad, perfect smile on his lips.

Before he quite knew what he was doing Father Troy was pulling on the straps of the duffle bag slung over Gar’s shoulder murmuring, “No. You can’t. It’s not right.”

A big tan hand closed over Father Troy’s thin one. “Hey, there, Father. I don’t want to cause any trouble.” But he put down the bag, noted Father Troy with a little rush of relief.

Father Weston went over to the bar cabinet with the gold woven front and unlocked it, pulling out a bottle of Jim Bean and pouring himself three fingers in a short glass. “Father Troy, I think Gar knows what he wants. He’s a grown man, a traveling man. You’re hearing the call of the open road, right, Gar?” Then the priest knocked back the drink quickly because he couldn’t stand the beseeching look in his fellow priest’s blue-grey eyes behind his wire rims.

“No, he’s not.” Father Troy shook his long hair. “Those carnies’ deaths had nothing to do with him, and you know it. They happened at the Lincoln Log Motel, miles and miles from here. Don’t listen to him, Gar.”

“Heard about that. Evil men brought it on themselves if you ask me, and I think that’s what most people will think. But Father Weston, you tell the Monsignor good bye now for me, would you? We were fixing on putting in a St. Francis of Assisi bird bath in the garden, so tell him we’ll do it another time. Had it all picked out he did. Or maybe you could help him.” Gar picked up the duffle bag again, but slowly, taking his time, arching his back, pulling in his stomach so it was rock hard, his arm one long regretful extension as he reached for the bag. He felt like a boxer in the ring, he wasn’t going down this easy. This was his base and he wasn’t leaving until he found out what the Monsignor knew about the source’s life here in Decatur. This was it. His destiny. So he had no choice and neither did the two priests, he was staying put in the parish rectory until he found and fed his need.

“Where will you sleep? You’re casting him out in the middle of the night and it’s not even your decision, you bastard, you hypocritical bastard.” Father Troy hated hypocrisy and how it corrupted the real values of the Church. It was everything he was fighting against. Gar looked like a sacred dancer to him as he reached for the duffle bag. Then the injustice and hypocrisy were too much and wet tears were running down Father Troy’s cheeks and he whipped off his glasses and ran a black sleeve over his eyes.

Father W let out a long sigh and longingly looked at the Jim Beam bottle, the raw pain in Father Troy was unsettling and yet familiar in a distant way. The younger priest was on an emotional precipice and if he went over it would be Father W’s fault. So, crossing himself and mentally asking for forgiveness, Father Weston spoke with a calm deliberation that he didn’t feel but had practiced time and time again in the confessional and at the pulpit. “Well. Gar. Maybe you should wait. Could you wait?” Father Weston was forcing the words out of his mouth. “At least until morning to say goodbye.”

“Yes,” Father Troy said, “You have to wait. Think of Mrs. Napoli, she wouldn’t want you to go without a goodbye either.”

There was an electric pause, Gar chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. “I did kinda want to have a conversation with the Monsignor before I left.”

“He’s a wonderful person to talk to,” Father Troy sniffed, blinking his stinging eyes and putting back on his glasses.

Gar put a hand on Father Troy’s shoulder then. “It’s okay there, big padre. It’s alright. I’ll at least stay the night.” Then without another word, he picked back up the duffle bag and trudged back upstairs.