Don of the Dead (24 page)

Father Anthony was wearing a baseball cap but I could tell there wasn't any hair under it. His skin was as white as chalk and mottled with blotches of red. He was dressed in jeans and a Notre Dame sweatshirt that gaped around his scrawny neck.

"I don't know you." Like every muscle ached, Father Anthony moved over. He patted the seat on the bench next to him. "What can I do for you?"

"I just… " I dropped down on the bench. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I just wanted to talk."

"Two ears, no waiting." Father Anthony pointed to either side of his head. "Listening isn't a vocation, but it is a big part of my job description. You should excuse my secular wording."

I smiled. "You sound a lot like your father."

Father Anthony tipped his head to one side. "You aren't old enough to have ever known my father."

"No. I'm not." I told myself I should have paid attention to the voice of logic inside my head that said I shouldn't have stopped to see Anthony until I knew exactly what I was going to say to him. Of course, I hadn't listened to my own advice. And now it was too late.

"I came to see you, Father, because of your father. That is, I've been doing some research about your father, Father, and… " I sighed. Father Anthony was watching me carefully, his dark eyes sparkling like the sun against the daffodils. I shrugged. "He's not resting in peace," I said.

Odds are, another man would have told me to get the hell out of his garden. Father Anthony nodded. "I suppose I knew that," he said. "Even after all this time, it's hard to imagine that Pop could find any sort of peace. But how do you… " He looked at me carefully. "You didn't know him. You said so yourself.

You're too young."

I nodded. "I work over at Garden View. I give the tours. One of the places we stop is at your father's mausoleum."

"And you're looking to find out more about him."

"Something like that."

There was a book open on Father Anthony's lap. He closed it and set it down on the flagstone pathway at his feet. "You want to define that 'something?' "

I would have. Except that I wasn't in the mood to look like a nutcase.

I guess that was the reason I didn't explain myself more fully. It didn't explain why I said, "He's looking for closure."

Father Anthony sighed. "That makes two of us."

"But not in the same way, I bet."

He studied me, his dark eyes like pools against his washed-out skin. His fingernails were thick and yellow, and he scratched his ear. "Have you talked to him?"

I winced. "I'm not Catholic," I told him. "If you're looking for me to make a confession—"

Father Anthony laughed until he started to cough. It was a heavy, ugly cough and it took him a couple minutes to get settled again. He laid a hand on my arm.

"I'm not looking to give you absolution. I'm thinking maybe you're here to do that for me."

He was so darned sincere, I didn't have any choice but to set him straight. "I don't think so, Father. I mean, all I wanted to do was ask you a couple questions. But absolution… " I whistled low under my breath and shook my head. "That's definitely not in
my
job description!"

Anthony was not so easily put off. "I'll tell you what… " He shifted on the seat and I swear, I could just about hear his bones creak. He couldn't have been very old in that picture I saw of him at Gus's funeral.

Which meant that now, Father Anthony was somewhere around fifty. He looked one hundred and fifty.

"You ask what you want to ask," Anthony said. "I'll make the decisions about absolution. Sound okay to you?"

"Sure." I put both my feet flat against the pavement and drew in a breath. "Did you know that Benny Marzano is dead?" I asked him.

He didn't look surprised. "Haven't heard that name in years. Benny No Shoes! He used to bring me Hershey bars when I was a little kid. He didn't have any kids of his own and… " The rest of the memory was lost in time and Anthony shook it away and looked at me. "I thought you came here to talk about my father."

"I did. You see… " I drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "I'm trying to find out who killed him."

Father Anthony sat quietly for so long, I thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. I was about to get up and walk away when he passed a hand over his eyes.

"I was eighteen years old when my father was killed," he said. "Seems like a lifetime ago. And though I was young and pretty naive… well, I was never stupid. I heard the way the kids talked behind my back at school. I saw what went on at our house. Even my brother, Rudy, never said much and by then, he was in the family business. But I knew. I'd figured it out a few years earlier. I knew exactly what my father did for a living."

"Did it scare you?"

"I never let myself think about it." He gave me a sidelong look, gauging my reaction. "That way, I had nothing to feel guilty about."

"I'm not in the mob, if that's what you're thinking."

"I didn't think you were. You should pardon the sexist comment but even these days, they wouldn't let a girl in the club."

"Then how—"

"I've been praying for years," Anthony said. "I knew that sooner or later, you'd show up to set things straight."

"Oh, no!" I jumped off the bench. "You're not going to lay that on me. I'm not some sort of engine of divine vengeance."

"I didn't say you were."

"But you said—"

"That I've been praying. For Pop. And for myself. Now you show up out of the blue. And you say you're here to find out what really happened. Are you sure you want to know?"

I walked to the place where the path intersected the one that led back to the rectory. If I'd been smart, I would have kept right on walking. Instead, I turned around and stalked back to where Anthony waited.

"All I'm looking for is the truth."

"Then it's all I'll give you." This time, he didn't pat the bench. I sat down, anyway. "It's funny, isn't it, that he waited all this time to ask for anyone's help?" he said.

I didn't ask who
be
was. I didn't have to. At the same time I wondered if Father Anthony shouldn't be in Dan's crazy person study, I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "It's because I hit my head," I said.

"Oh, I'm sure. I mean, I'm sure that's what precipitated things. But think about it. Why now?"

I shrugged. "Because there wasn't anybody he could ask before."

"Why else?"

"I've never been very good at this sort of philosophicalbullsh —" I caught myself and had the good sense to blush. "Sorry, Father."

"No need." Father Anthony grinned, but the expression didn't last long. The next second, his eyes clouded with memory. "Let me tell you a story. When I was teenager, all I cared about were cars. I lived and breathed cars and I had a honey of a Firebird. Used to love to spend my Saturdays out in the garage working on it. That's where I was one day when I heard some men in the yard talking. I was a pretty quiet kid. They didn't realize I was there. I was just going to step out of the garage and say hello when I realized what they were talking about."

Even though he was sitting in the sunlight, Father Anthony chafed his hands over his arms. He looked at the dome of blue sky over our heads. "They were planning a murder. They never came out and said it in so many words, of course, but by that time, I was pretty good at reading between the lines. They were discussing a hit. And I was too embarrassed and too ashamed and, yes, too afraid, to tell anyone what I'd heard. That's because I didn't realize whose hit they were planning."

"Gus's murder?" I digested the enormity of the information. "But who—"

"That, I couldn't tell you." Anthony held up one hand. He must have known I was going to protest. "I'm not keeping secrets. I just can't tell you. I heard their voices, but I was too scared to look and see who was talking. If I'd said something to my father… "

"So you blame yourself for his death."

Anthony didn't confirm or deny this. He drew in a deep, labored breath and when he let it out again, it staggered on the edge of powerful emotion. "I've prayed for his soul. I've prayed for his salvation. I've prayed for my own forgiveness. Now you show up and maybe if you can find out who killed him… "

"Shit."

Father Anthony didn't seem to mind my profanity. He chuckled. "Shit as in—"

"Shit as in now I can't walk away." I folded my arms over my chest and plunked back against the wooden slats of the bench.

"You think that's all there is to it?"

"Isn't that enough?" Still, I wasn't satisfied. I chewed over everything he'd told me. "Maybe you know more than you think you know," I suggested.

I don't think it was what Father Anthony wanted to talk about, but he gave in with grace. "I've thought of that," he said. "Believe me. I've spent years trying to analyze every second of that day."

"They must have been your father's friends. Otherwise they wouldn't have been at the house."

"That's true." Anthony nodded. "It made me question every single person who came to the funeral to offer their condolences."

"And it made you feel guilty."

"Guilty as hell."

"I can't offer absolution. Not for that."

"You still don't get it yet, do you?"

I guess my blank expression was all the answer he needed.

Father Anthony patted my hand. "I'm sick," he said. "But I guess you might have noticed. The doctors say I've got three months. Tops. Something tells me the fact that my father is suddenly looking for closure isn't a coincidence."

I felt as if I'd been sucker punched, and I guess I had. "He knew all along. And he never mentioned it.

He didn't want me to know what a soft touch he is."

"He didn't want you to know how scared he is." Slowly, Anthony stood. He looked down at me. "Do you understand now? About the absolution?"

I understood, all right.

Damn it.

And I knew exactly what I had to do. I said my thanks and goodbyes to Father Anthony and headed back to the cemetery. I had to make a pickup and stop at the bank before it closed.

I had eight thousand dollars to put back into my account.

I suppose I should have been relieved. I knew
more than I knew when I left Garden View that morning. Way more than I'd known throughout my investigation. Okay, so I still didn't know who killed Gus. But I had insight into why, after all these years, he suddenly cared so much.

If what I suspected was true…

Well, if it was, I hated to admit it, but it broke my heart.

I couldn't stand waiting until the next day to find Gus and confront him. Not with the thought of Father Anthony's impending death weighing on me until I felt as if I had a rock in my stomach. After I dashed into the office for the brown lunch bag, then over to the bank just as they were getting ready to lock up for the evening, I went back to the cemetery.

It was nearly dark.

I drove over to Gus's mausoleum, but just like it had been early that morning, it was empty. I tried the angel statue again. And the office. There wasn't a soul around.

Not even a disembodied one.

Was I going to let that stop me?

I left my car outside the office and decided to do a quick turn around the sections that were closest to where I'd parked. Maybe if Gus didn't see my car, he wouldn't know I was coming.