Flight Dreams (27 page)

They are interrupted by a shuffle in the hall and the appearance of a figure in the open doorway. Manning blinks, breaking the gaze he has shared with Neil, and turns to find Brother Burt standing at the foot of his bed.

“I was making my Sunday-morning hospital rounds,” the preacher tells Manning, “and heard that you’d been admitted. Sweet
Cheee-sus,
what a terrible accident …”

Manning lifts his broken arm to give Brother Burt a good look at it, telling him, “It was no accident.”

“Really,” says Brother Burt flatly. But he’s not looking at the cast on Manning’s arm. His eyes are fixed on Manning’s other hand, which still holds Neil’s. Brother Burt flexes the muscles of his jaw. Through a tight smile, he tells Manning, “The Lord works in strange and mysterious ways.”

S
ILENCE RINGS IN JAMES
McMullen’s ears. In the darkness of the confessional, the priest waits to hear the whispers of the next penitent, but there has been very little sinning since Christmas—it’s a slow afternoon for contrition. His head bobs. He fumbles to press the button that lights the dial of his watch. He has slept; only ten minutes remain till he can emerge into the daylight. Though not hungry, not yet, he wonders what Mrs. Weaver is concocting for dinner—holiday leftovers if he’s lucky, Tuna Helper if he’s not.

His idle musing is broken by the thud of the church’s front door. He knows from experience how long it takes to walk from the door to the side aisle and then the length of the nave to the confessional. This must be one of the older sheep in his flock—the trip is taking far too long. Waiting, he hears the sound of a limp on the stone floor. Thump-slide … thump-slide.

Wooden rings rattle on their metal rod as the frayed velvet curtain sweeps open, then closes again. With a groan of both pain and disgust, the heavy man kneels with difficulty, his face only inches from the priest’s, separated by a screen of white pleated linen. In a familiar, sarcastic drawl, he says, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” then breaks into laughter.

By force of the sinner’s breath, the screen puffs toward the priest, who recoils from its foul odor, covering his own mouth and nose with one hand. As disbelief and anger well within him, his hand slides to his throat and he spits back through the screen, “What in hell are you doing
here?
How
dare
you, Bertrand!”

Brother Burt tells him, “What’s the matter—afraid we’ll be
seen
together? Not much of a brotherly attitude, Jamie—and to think we were once so close. You didn’t seem to mind my being here the other day when I ‘lost’ one of my pets in that faggot reporter’s car. Poor Sasha—I hear she fell in the line of duty, shot by one of the Keystone Kops—God rest her venomous little soul.”

“Get
out,
” the priest tells him in a loud, panicked whisper.

“I’ll leave when I’m damn good-and-ready. We stand to lose everything now. It’s time to act, and I’m here to tell you what to do. Think you can handle it?
Cheee-suss,
you were always such a fuck-up.”

“Me?
I’m not the one who brought disgrace to our family. I’m not the one who had to run away, vanish, and ‘die.’ I’m not the one, Bertrand, who murdered our friend, a classmate—a fellow seminarian, no less—butchered with the stone blade of some heathen relic. Christ, I still have dreams about finding that poor innocent boy …”

“Innocent, my ass. That ‘friend’ was no more than a filthy little queer. He confessed his repugnant ‘love’ for me, and I was thereby anointed the holy instrument of almighty God’s wrath—an avenging angel sent to slay the serpent, to slash his disgusting throat. Satan struggled, maimed me, tangled my foot in the rods of a steel headboard, but I arose victorious from his blood. And God has rewarded me with the bounties of His mission.”

“Mission, indeed. The only ‘mission’ of that TV scam you’re running is worship of the almighty dollar. Your insane homophobia is outweighed only by your greed.”

“My, my—aren’t
we
suddenly self-righteous. You had no aversion to those almighty dollars when I offered you the seed money to start up this pissant retreat—this desert ‘paradise’ where you and your friends, you bunch of losers, could get together and play old-time religion. The dollars weren’t so dirty when they were a gift from God.”

“They were never a gift from God, Bertrand. They were a gift from you. Like most gifts, this one had strings attached.”

“Damn right. My only interest in helping you get Assumption up-and-running was your promise to lure our dear, long-lost, and very wealthy sister out to this hellhole.
And
your promise to convince her to sign a new will, which I drafted.
And
your promise to enter into a private but ironclad agreement with me that the proceeds of her estate will be divided between our two ministries.”

“I have many failings—God knows—but I
am
a man of my word. I’ve kept all those promises. I owed you that.”

“You owe me more, Jamie. You owe yourself more. We’ve come this far together. We can’t just let it all slip away—which it could, since that reporter had found Helen. If she leaves Assumption, she’ll never come back.”

“But she
hasn’t
left,” says the priest, trying to assure himself as well as his brother. “In any event, we’ve got the second will. Sooner or later, the money will come to us.”

“You hopeless fool,” says Bertrand, “that will isn’t worth shit if she’s still alive. She has to die, Jamie—
and you’re going to kill her.”

Dumbstruck, the priest watches his brother’s hand materialize from the folds of the screen, watches the chubby fingers with dirty nails open to reveal a small glass vial. He inhales the word that springs to his mind, hardly daring to speak it: “Venom.”

Bertrand snorts. “Idiot. That would have to be injected. Not very subtle. But this’ll do the trick, if you keep it refrigerated. Use it soon. In wine.”

Stammering, the priest tells him, “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.”

Bertrand’s fist jams farther through the screen, striking the priest’s chest. Father McMullen has no choice but to take the bottle, holding it in his open, wounded palm, unable to close his fingers around it. With his other hand, he grasps the sacramental stole of purple that hangs around his neck. “Besides,” he tells his brother, fishing for an out, “the plan would never work. What about Mark Manning?”

“I’ll take care of Manning.”

T
HE CAB IS COLD
. Manning nestles into his camel-hair topcoat, which isn’t buttoned because of the cast on his arm. Clearly, he’s in for a period of readjustment.

Manning returned from Phoenix late Monday, lucky to have a confirmed seat on CarterAir, one of the few airlines not affected by a spreading mechanics’ strike. His flight arrived on time at O’Hare, and the city had dug itself out of the worst of the Christmas storm. Things were returning to normal, and it felt good to be back—back in the hub of activity, back to work—in spite of the splendid weather he left in Arizona, in spite of the man he left behind, wishing a bittersweet farewell that was peppered with mutual promises to think it through, work it out, get it settled.

Tuesday was hectic—catching up at his desk and preparing for the opening of the Houseman Trial. He spent most of the afternoon with his editor, Gordon Smith, and with Arthur Mendel’s lawyer, Roxanne Exner, reviewing background and strategies for their day in court. Both Manning and Roxanne were careful to keep the conversation on a professional level, avoiding personal matters, particularly the trip to Phoenix. Roxanne knew that Manning had been there, but she was not yet prepared to hear any of what transpired with Neil, and Manning was not yet willing to reveal that he’d found Helena Carter.

Roxanne explained that the Houseman Trial—the hearing—would be held in Cook County Circuit Court, presided over by Judge Clement Ambrose, whom she described as “classically crusty-but-fair.” When the case was assigned to him, he expressed grave reservations as to whether the inquest was warranted by the known facts of the case, nearly refusing to hear it. He was aware, though, that the publicity surrounding the case would easily entice less scrupulous judges to accept it. There were also the interests—and pressures—of the Archdiocese to consider, so he amended his schedule to accommodate the opening session during the last week of the year.

Roxanne cautioned Manning to be wary of Hank Ferret, Helena Carter’s court-appointed guardian
ad litem.
Apparently Humphrey Hasting and his buddy, deputy police superintendent Murphy, invited Ferret out for a “working lunch.” Hasting later bragged to a lawyer acquaintance of Roxanne’s that it took “precisely two cocktails” to convince Ferret to assume the prosecutor’s role in the proceeding, and it is Ferret who has subpoenaed Manning to deliver testimony at the “fact-finding inquest.”

In the cab now, Wednesday morning, traffic is slow between the
Journal
offices and the Loop, so Manning burrows deeper into the collar of his coat, slouching with his head resting on the back of the seat. Clearing his mind, he slips into a dreamlike state. His brain is awake, but devoid of words, of syntax, of language itself. His awareness consists only of fleeting images, overarching perceptions. He feels as rested as on that first morning in Phoenix when he awoke to find Neil shaking his shoulder. His trip, he knows, was inevitable—but it wasn’t fate that took him out to the desert. It wasn’t destiny. He had
decided
to go there. He
willed
it.

He thinks of Neil; his mind blossoms with the textures of their contact, the sounds and smells of their intimacy. He thinks of Helena Carter; he is dazzled by the henna brilliance of her hair, by the truth and wonder in her eyes. He thinks of his own future; his mind is awash with vague options for happiness. The uncertainties that lie ahead invigorate him. He feels no fear.

“Daley Center,” croaks the cabbie, yanking Manning from his reverie. Handing the driver some bills, leaving the cab, he reminds himself that the next few days will be the most difficult of his career. With the full assault of reality—to say nothing of the arctic downdrafts that whip through the plaza—Manning suspects that his bout of euphoria should be dismissed as the aftereffect of painkillers he was fed in the hospital. The monumental Picasso bird/woman/dog looks down on him with a wry, shifting glance. Transmitter vans from a half-dozen television stations line the curb.

Manning enters the glass-and-steel monolith of Daley Center and stands still for a moment, letting his senses adjust to the interior space. A commotion at the far end of the lobby stirs his reporter’s instincts, drawing him toward the fray. Like bouncers at some trendy night spot, two guards check credentials, allowing some of the people in the crowd to board a single elevator, but turning away others, who howl their protest. Drawing nearer, Manning discovers that the elevator is whisking express to one of the large upper-floor courtrooms where the Houseman Trial will soon begin.

Nudging his way to one of the guards, he flashes his press pass. The guard squints at it, then at Manning’s face, then back at the card. He laughs awkwardly and says, “Of course, Mr. Manning, how stupid of me. This way, sir.” He clears a path to the elevator door, admonishing the crowd to step aside.

Inside the elevator, the others fall silent as Manning enters and the doors slide closed. The ride is obligingly brief, punctuated by coughs and whispers as they rise twenty-some stories. When the doors open into the upper lobby, Manning strides out from the huddle behind him and into the glare of cameras assembled there to meet him.

A network television reporter charges forward with the ferocity of a quarterback, flashes two perfect rows of capped teeth, and intones, “Can you give us any clues, Mr. Manning, as to what strategy you plan for today’s showdown with your opponent, Humphrey ‘The Hump’ Hasting?”

“Mr. Hasting is in no sense my opponent,” Manning begins—while a battery of microphones are thrust under his chin. “I have no idea what motivated his various allegations, but I assume
I’ve
been called to act as a character witness on behalf of Arthur Mendel. I hope I can help him.”

A stunningly attractive woman, dressed more like a fashion model than a reporter, asks, “How does it feel to be on the other side of an interview for a change?”

The cluster of reporters look to him with special attention. He says flatly, honestly, “It amuses me.” There is a round of laughter—the laughter of comrades basking in the shared glow of a workfellow’s glory, laughter tempered only by their envy.

“Mr. Manning?” says a short young reporter with thick glasses who holds a microphone from one of the local stations. He speaks with an aggressive voice meant to compensate for his stunted height. “Your employer, the
Journal,
has access to the most high-powered legal talent in the city. Who are your editors sending to represent you this morning?”

“I’ll stand alone,” Manning says. “I’ll answer any questions put to me, and I’ll speak for myself.”

“Did you
hear
that, ladies and gentlemen?” the female reporter coos to her audience.

“An astonishing act of courage,” proclaims the network man through his capped teeth.

“But, but …” stammers the little reporter who asked the question.

A guard ushers Manning through the doors of the courtroom itself, leaving the gaping and babbling, the glare of TV lights, behind in the hall. Taking his seat in the front row of the gallery, Manning estimates that the room can accommodate perhaps a hundred spectators. It bears scarce resemblance to the movie settings for trials held in turn-of-the-century courthouses. This room has no windows. It’s boxy and sterile, painted white, with a ten-foot ceiling composed of acoustical tile interspersed with oblong rectangles of fluorescent lighting. The bench itself is raised—but only a step or two because of the low ceiling—flanked on one side by the American flag and on the other by that of Cook County. A sheriff’s deputy, the court clerk, and a stenographer stand gabbing near the bench, sipping coffee from foam cups, waiting for the show to start.