Prodigal Father (31 page)
Keep me as the apple of Your eye.
âPsalm 17
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A note that Marie Murkin had called was waiting on Phil Keegan's desk. And a message from Cy:
Nothing.
Phil was relieved as well as disappointed. There was one crisis he didn't have to face. He picked up the phone and called the St. Hilary rectory.
Nothing.
Phil was relieved as well as disappointed. There was one crisis he didn't have to face. He picked up the phone and called the St. Hilary rectory.
“I suppose I'm just a worrywart,” Marie said, after telling him
that Father Dowling was gone when she came down to the kitchen. “He left a note.”
that Father Dowling was gone when she came down to the kitchen. “He left a note.”
“What does it say?”
She read it to him.
“Probably out on a sick call.”
“But he would have said if that's what it was.”
“Marie, he's hardly a missing person.”
“I know. But I had to tell someone.”
“I'm glad you did. I'll call back in a little while. Maybe eleven. He said he'd be back for the noon Mass?”
“Yes.”
“There you are, then.”
It was ridiculous, but Marie's worry had transferred itself to him. Roger Dowling was not an impulsive man. But during their last conversation, Phil had the impression that Roger was waiting for him to say something. They had been talking about the deaths of Father Nathaniel and Charlotte Priebe. Roger had frowned when told that Morgan's confession to killing Nathaniel pretty well severed any link between the two killings.
And then the call came from the desk clerk at the Stella Hotel. The officer answering the phone said Phil would probably want to hear this himself.
“Captain Keegan,” he said, when the call was transferred.
“This is Brink at the Stella. Something odd is going on. A priest showed up here an hour ago and asked to see one of the guests and just now the two of them left. It looked to me as if the priest was being taken away.”
“What did he look like?”
Roger Dowling might not have been flattered by the description of him. Tall, thin, profile like an eagle.
“What's the guest's name?”
“He signed in as Leo Corbett.”
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Leo's license number was acquired and the make of his car and the search began. It ended at the Stella Hotel, where Leo's car was found parked in the diminutive lot behind the building, backed up against the trash cans. Feeling like a fool, Phil Keegan put out a bulletin on Father Dowling's car, a ten-year-old Olds-mobile Cierra. Meanwhile, Cy had come in.
“He must have come to the same conclusion I did when we came up empty at the Wackham.”
“You think Corbett did them both?”
Cy nodded. “It seems inevitable. All the other possibilities have run out.”
“We should have thought of Leo right away.”
But Cy wouldn't give him that discomfort. Morgan had made himself the obvious suspect and if they didn't like him, the Georges, father and son, seemed to be claiming the role.
“They wouldn't have fouled their own nests.”
Cy said nothing. If murders made sense there would be fewer of them. They went off in separate cars, as reachable in them as anywhere else, destinations random. Phil drove to St. Hilary's to find that Marie Murkin had called Father Boniface and the Athanasian had come to say the noon Mass. Phil knelt in back, feeling that Roger was almost posthumous, his place taken by another, as priest can easily be replaced by priest. Marie was in stoic selfcontrol.
“Come have lunch with Father Boniface,” she whispered in his ear when he was trying to pretend his anguished thoughts after
communion were a form of prayer. He felt empty at the thought that Roger Dowling might already have met the fate of Nathaniel and Charlotte Priebe. Suddenly Phil felt that whatever future was left to him was uninviting. He would retire, he would ⦠He got up and followed Marie to the rectory.
communion were a form of prayer. He felt empty at the thought that Roger Dowling might already have met the fate of Nathaniel and Charlotte Priebe. Suddenly Phil felt that whatever future was left to him was uninviting. He would retire, he would ⦠He got up and followed Marie to the rectory.
Lunch was like a wake, everything reminding Phil of the missing pastor. He had called his office and was given the rectory number. He had no appetite, but he ate everything Marie put before him. Boniface could not substitute for Roger at that table. He wondered what Marie would do.
Boniface began to speak of old Maurice Corbett. “He was a presence around Marygrove when I was a student, a silent, imposing old man. When we prayed for our benefactors I suppose we all thought of him.”
“Did you know the son?” Marie asked.
“The prodigal son of a prodigal father, in different senses of the term. He was a geologist.”
Their thoughts went on to the grandson. That a highly successful and finally generous man should have had a son whose passion was rocks and the ages of the earth was odd enough, but that the grandson should have developed a deep resentment because of the wealth he felt should have been his seemed a commentary on the ages of man.
“Maybe we are all composed of layers, like the earth,” Boniface said.
“Where is he buried?” Marie asked and Boniface stared at her. “I mean the grandfather.”
“Ah. In Resurrection Cemetery. He raised a great stone to his wife and he was buried next to her.”
When Phil went out to his car, he sat for a while before starting
it. He called in to find out if anything had been heard, but of course they would have let him know. When he started off, he drove aimlessly for a time, his ear cocked to his radio, and then he headed for Resurrection Cemetery.
it. He called in to find out if anything had been heard, but of course they would have let him know. When he started off, he drove aimlessly for a time, his ear cocked to his radio, and then he headed for Resurrection Cemetery.
The Lord preserves all who love Him but all the wicked He will destroy.
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Psalm 145
Psalm 145
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“Good idea,” Leo said as he guided him through the lobby of the Stella Hotel. The man behind the desk had his tweed hat on the back of his head and waved at them. “I've visited there often to cuss him out.”
“If it weren't for him, you wouldn't be, Leo.”
“You can say the same of Adam. And look what he did to all of us.”
“We won't be condemned for Original Sin.”
Outside, they stood for a moment in front of the hotel. Father Dowling considered raising a fuss. What could Leo do to him there on the sidewalk? No doubt it would have been a futile gesture. The cars would have continued to speed past, hundreds of people hurrying to a hundred different places, unlikely to notice what was going on in front of a sleazy hotel. But then a watery-eyed
man with reddish stubble on his face came up with his hand held out.
man with reddish stubble on his face came up with his hand held out.
“Give a fella the price of a meal, Father?”
“Beat it,” Leo said.
“Hey, I asked him.”
“And I answered you. Get lost.”
Indignation made a showing in the watery eyes, but before he shuffled off Father Dowling gave him the change in his pocket.
“Bless you, Father.”
“For I have sinned,” Leo said. “Isn't that how it goes? Where's your car?”
He opened the driver's door of Father Dowling's car and told him to get in. When he was behind the wheel, the door slammed. With a flick of his finger he could have locked all the doors. But he waited for Leo to go around the front of the car and then get into the passenger seat.
“That bum won't sound the alarm.”
“Where is your grandfather buried?”
“Resurrection.” Leo laughed. “Do you believe all that? These bones will live again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if it's any consolation.”
Father Dowling started the car and pulled away. His Oldsmobile could have found Resurrection Cemetery by itself, it had been there often enough, when he didn't ride with the undertaker. But he preferred driving his own car to the cemetery; it was better afterward. He would say a final word to the bereaved and then as he drove away see the little band drift off toward their cars, perhaps feeling for the first time the definitiveness of their loss.
It was late morning now and Father Dowling thought of the noon Mass. Why hadn't he included his destination in his note to
Marie? She might have been worried and called Phil and help would be on the way. But he felt more concern for Leo than for himself.
Marie? She might have been worried and called Phil and help would be on the way. But he felt more concern for Leo than for himself.
“Leo, nothing you've done is unforgivable. Think about it. You have taken human life. That was the first crime after Original Sin.”
“Oh, come on. Just drive.”
“Were you raised Catholic?”
“Drive!”
He drove through the busy streets, out of downtown and through a residential area, and finally into the country. Eventually they came to the entrance gate of Resurrection. Old Heidegger might notice his car, it would be familiar enough to him, but there was no sign of the sexton when they passed the gatehouse or as they moved along the quiet, tree-lined road.
“Where is his grave, Leo?”
“Take a left at the next fork.”
“You know it pretty well.”
“I told you. I used to visit him and tell him what I thought of him.”
A charming scene, a resentful grandson muttering over the grave of a grandfather he had never known. “That's it,” Leo said. “The houselike thing on that little hill.”
They got out of the car and walked side by side across the lawn between the graves. The mausoleum was an impressive structure with the word CORBETT displayed across the front. It had a greenish door with huge iron hinges. The names of the buried were etched in the door.
“Is that your father's name?”
Leo nodded. “It was when he was buried that it first hit me.”
“What?”
“My grandfather built this pyramid to rot in and left me with
nothing. I had just learned that what my father had been given ran out when he died.”
nothing. I had just learned that what my father had been given ran out when he died.”
“Perhaps you'll be buried here, too.”
“Come around to the other side, away from the road.”
“The car's pretty obvious.”
Leo thought about that. “Give me your keys.”
Father Dowling gave him the keys. He was waiting for something; he wasn't sure yet what is was. Leo wasn't such a monster when you got to know him a bit. Leo started toward the car, then turned.
“You going to run?”
“Would you want me to?”
Leo tried to smile. “You're a strange man. You didn't have to get involved, you know. It's not my fault it's ending up like this.”
“No.”
“I'll catch you if you run.”
“I'll wait.”
Leo started off slowly, but then he began to hurry. When he got to the car, he didn't get in. He went to the rear and unlocked the trunk. When he closed it, he had a lug wrench in his hand. He came swiftly back across the grass to Father Dowling.
“You should have run.”
“I'm not much of a runner.”
They stood facing one another, Leo with the wrench dangling from his hand, the priest facing him.
“I don't want to do this.”
“Then don't.”
Through the trees, Father Dowling saw cars on the road. Some of them parking. He spoke to Leo with new urgency.
“Leo, you're at the end of the trail. Think of what you learned when you were a child. I can hear your confession.”
Leo laughed. “You want to hear my confession? Okay. I put an ax in that priest's back, I drowned Charlotte. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I already knew that.”
Figures were moving toward them, from tree to tree, keeping out of sight, but getting closer. “Give me the wrench, Leo.”
“Sure. Where would you like it?” He lifted it menacingly, holding it aloft, glaring at Father Dowling, And then a shot was fired.
Leo spun in pained surprise, the wrench dropped, and his hand went to his shoulder. He looked accusingly at Father Dowling, but then the police converged on them. It was Phil Keegan who wrestled Leo to the ground.
“It's all right, Phil. He's harmless.”
“He is now.”
It was perhaps a sign of the times that public sympathy for Leo Corbett rose as the memory of his crimes faded. The brutal murder of Nathaniel and the drowning of Charlotte Priebe in her bath were eclipsed by a long interview with Leo in his cell by Monique Parle of the
Tribune.
Monique had hitherto written indignant essays on the various ways Fox River disappointed her, usually featured on the fourth page of the second section, but her interview with Leo catapulted her into the front ranks of journalists. At least onto page one of the
Tribune.
Tribune.
Monique had hitherto written indignant essays on the various ways Fox River disappointed her, usually featured on the fourth page of the second section, but her interview with Leo catapulted her into the front ranks of journalists. At least onto page one of the
Tribune.
“Was he always so fat?” Marie asked, frowning at the paper.
“I think he may have lost weight.”
On Monique's telling, Leo was a victim of callous parentsâan eccentric father, a mother guilty of substance abuse. As for the heartlessness of Maurice Corbett, words failed Monique.
Leo, spruced up for the occasion, looked soulfully at the camera. There were no pictures of the body of Nathaniel at the grotto or of Charlotte in her tub. Leo seemed to be confined to a cell for vague and nameless reasons while Monique told the litany of his grievances.
“They'll find him guilty,” Phil Keegan said to allay Marie's fears. “He could spend ten years in prison.”
“Ten years! They should lock him up and throw away the key.”
Marie's thirst for justice was currently out of vogue and often confused with a desire for revenge. Of course, justice can be hungered for out of less-than-exalted motives, but it did seem basic that Leo Corbett should pay the price for the murders he had committed.
Charlotte's successor at Anderson Ltd., a slim, bald, boyish man who moved with the grace of a ballet dancer, floated the suggestion that Leo had authored the message found on Charlotte's computer in a libelous effort to divert suspicion from himself. More grist for Monique's mill. The powerful and mighty could not leave Leo alone.
The trial was postponed for a second time in an effort to have it moved to another jurisdiction. Meanwhile, the wedding of Rita Martinez and Michael George was center stage at St. Hilary's. An ecumenical compromise had been reached. There would be a nuptial Mass said by Father Dowling and at the reception Father Maximilian would bless the happy couple.
“But what of the children?” Marie wanted to know.
“Sufficent for the day are the compromises thereof,” Father Dowling murmured.
“She'll make a Catholic out of him,” Marie decided, her solution to the Great Schism.
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The visit of Stanley Morgan to the rectory put Marie's diplomatic skills to an ultimate test. Here was a man whose praises she had initially sung but whose subsequent behavior had placed him in her doghouse. Stanley showed up unannounced at the kitchen
door putting Marie into a momentary fluster. His manner was deferential, his smile engaging. Marie asked him in.
door putting Marie into a momentary fluster. His manner was deferential, his smile engaging. Marie asked him in.
“I'll never forget the day you gave me tea here,” he said. “It seems a lifetime ago.”
“I'll put some on now.”
“No. No. Thank you, Mrs. Murkin.”
“Marie,” she corrected.
“I just wanted to stop and say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?”
“I'm returning to California. At least for the time being.”
“Well, after what you've been through ⦔
“It was my own fault.”
“I never really thought you could have done such a thing,” Marie lied. Her memories of Stanley's first visit to her kitchen returned, and with them her benevolent feeling for him.
She ignored his refusal, putting on tea. And there was peach pie as well. She sat across from him, watching him eat.
“Is Father Dowling here?”
“Not at the moment. Stanley, anything you want to say, you can say to me.”
“You're very good.”
“Goodness has nothing to do with it. It's my job.”
“Well.”
So he told her of his stay at Marygrove, and of his hope to confront Nathaniel. He spoke ruefully of his time in jail. And they were as one in lamenting the reaction of the Georges, father and son. But now Nathaniel was dead and Stanley free.
He stood then and with his hands on the back of the chair, gave Marie's kitchen a valedictory look. Suddenly he leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
“Good-bye, Marie.”
And he was gone. From the doorway Marie watched with tear-blurred eyes as he went down the back steps. Hers was a tough and thankless job, by and large, but there came moments that made it all seem worthwhile. But where was he going?
Marie stepped out on the porch and could see Stanley hurrying along the sidewalk in the direction of the school. A frown came over her face. Was he going to say good-bye to Edna Hospers, too? Marie turned, went back inside and pulled the kitchen door shut with a bang.
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Father Dowling and Boniface were on the path that led to the grotto at Marygrove. How much had happened in the weeks since Father Dowling had made his retreat here. But somber as many of those events had been, Boniface was in an almost jolly mood. The cardinal had approved the battle plan for the resurgence of the Athanasian Order. The two priests were discussing publicity for clerical retreats to be offered at Marygrove, a project good in itself but also a means of reacquainting the local clergy with the Athanasians.
“And vocations?” Father Dowling asked.
“Just this morning I received a very serious inquiry.”
“Ah.”
“I put him off. A person needs time to ponder so serious a move.”
“Is it anyone I know?”
“Stanley Morgan.”
Well, Our Lord had recruited tax collectors and fishermen. There was nothing to prevent a financial advisor from being called to the altar.
“Was it his stay here that put the idea in his head?”
“That and his time in jail.”
Father Dowling looked at Boniface, but there was no irony in that serene countenance.
“I suppose there are precedents.”
“I have been trying to think of one. St. Paul won't quite do.”
“No.”
“Morgan could start a trend.”
“Yes. Perhaps, in the fullness of time, Leo Corbett will knock on your door.”
Boniface threw up his hands. “May the Good Lord spare us that.
Parce nobis, domine.”
Parce nobis, domine.”
They came to the grotto and knelt, Boniface having whispered that the prie-dieu on which Nathaniel's body had been found had been relocated. Flames of vigil lights danced against the blackened wall of the grotto; the smell of burning wax was sweet in the nostrils. Father Dowling prayed for Nathaniel and for Charlotte Priebe and for all those who had been involved in recent events. It was a pleasant thought that Nathaniel's old partner might take his place among the Athanasians.
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