The Priest's Graveyard (7 page)

Silence filled the house. Only the cleanup remained.

Jonathan Bourque
. The name hung in his mind. Took up occupancy in a secure place there.

Danny would have to see about this man who apparently was killing off his attorneys to protect himself. What kind of man would
do that?

What kind of priest?

The day Lamont
vanished from my life began just like any other day in the glass house by the sea.

He was gone for three days on a quick trip to Japan, and he would return Thursday, which meant he would be home by Thursday
evening at the latest. I was certain to treat every day as if he might return early, because he sometimes did.

The sun was already well over the house when I climbed out of bed that Thursday. I had been very careful not to make any messes.
In fact, after the way Lamont had treated me to a candlelight dinner overlooking the sea, I was determined to make his return
very special.

I went through my normal daily activities—showering, cleansing, taking my pills, dressing in a clean pair of flannel pajamas,
making my bed, wiping out the shower, wiping out the sinks, polishing his shoes, dusting the electronics, rubbing off any
marks from the glass, and cleansing once more to be sure—but because I wanted to treat Lamont, I set out to do more.

Using a gallon of warm water and four ounces of vinegar, I carefully cleaned the marble floors until they were as shiny as
a mirror. I polished the stainless-steel refrigerator and the stovetop, then all of the appliances, until they sparkled like
stars.

Lamont’s bedroom was one level down, in the basement, and it was the one room that I normally did not clean because it would
upset his flow, as he put it, and I did not like it when his flow was upset. But on that Thursday I dared to sneak down and
dust his nightstand and his dresser. He had a trophy room off his bedroom, but I did not go in there.

The exertion made my head dizzy, so I had to rest a few times, once for a full hour when I accidentally fell asleep on the
leather couch. By the time I finished everything, the sun was going down. I decided to take another shower so I could be spotless
for him.

Freshly dressed and squeaky clean, I prepared some food—a cucumber salad with olives and mayonnaise, some sliced salami, crackers,
and tomato soup—so he could have a snack after his drive from the airport.

I checked and rechecked the entire house twice to be sure everything was just perfect, then sat down to wait.

When the living room clock chimed seven, I started to wonder why he was so late. I checked the digital clock on my nightstand
to make sure I was reading the right time. Seven oh two. He must have hit traffic.

When the clock struck eight I grew worried. The cucumber salad would be getting rubbery and the soup would be cold, so I busied
myself by preparing them again.

By nine I was biting my fingernails. By the time ten o’clock came and went, I was climbing the walls.

Had he been in an accident? Anything could have happened. If there was a problem, the authorities would visit the house to
tell me, right? There was no regular phone in the house, not that I knew of. Lamont used his cell phone for everything.

He’d given me a special black-and-​yellow cell phone preprogrammed with his number for emergencies only. I’d called him on
it once when I was lonely, and he rushed home. But that was the only time I’d used it. It was important that I use it only
for dire emergencies.

At eleven o’clock I decided this was a dire emergency. I hurried to my nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and withdrew the
black-and-yellow phone. I couldn’t get it to come on, so I had to charge it.

My head was throbbing with worry and I had to mutter comforting words to myself to remain calm.
This will all work out. This will all work out.
Everything always worked out with Lamont. He was the only thing in my life that had
ever
worked out.

But my concern swelled like a volcano. I couldn’t live without him! What if he was dead? What if Jonathan Bourque had killed
him? What if his plane had crashed? What if a truck had slammed into him on the Pacific Coast Highway and pushed him over
a cliff?

I tried the phone again, and this time the screen lit up.
Please let him answer. Please, please.

He didn’t answer. It rang ten times then went to his recording. “I can’t get to the phone right now. I will call you back.”
My fingers began to tremble and my eyes filled with tears.

I called the number twelve times over thirty minutes and got nothing but his message. I was frantic. Something was terribly
wrong and I was completely lost.

In my mind, Cyrus was at my door, waiting for me to stick my head out so he could throw a noose around it and haul me away
to finish what he’d started.

The monsters were hiding behind the shrubs on either side of the driveway.
We’re gonna kill you, Renee. You just wait, we’re gonna cut you open and suck the blood right out of you
.

None of my worrying set off the chime that announced a car in the driveway. No amount of staring made the black-and-​yellow phone ring.

It didn’t occur to me until two or three in the morning that all of the doors were locked from the outside, including the
door that led out to the deck, which Lamont locked as part of his ritual. Not that I wanted to get out, but if I did, how
would I open any of the doors?

Even the windows were sealed shut. One less thing to worry about, he’d said. He’d spot-welded all of the latches long before
I came to the house.

We’d covered this, but I couldn’t remember what Lamont had told me to do if I ever had to get out. I was on a psychotropic
drug and also a sedative to help me cope, and loss of short-term memories was one of the side effects. Memories like how to
get out of the house.

I did not sleep that night. By the time the horizon turned white with the new day, my frayed nerves were starting to shred.
I was mumbling at the monsters, daring them to keep Lamont away. I began to curse Jonathan Bourque profusely, certain that
he was behind Lamont’s disappearance.

I paced the kitchen and living room, my fierce eyes fixed on the door, begging it open. “Please, please, please, please…”
It remained closed like the door to a vault.

I called the number on the special black-and-yellow cell phone repeatedly, and each time heard only his message: “I can’t
get to the phone right now. I will call you back.”

The phone was one that could only place calls to numbers programmed by the owner, who was Lamont, and 9-1-1. The latter would
bring the police. Did I know the address? I couldn’t remember. Mail never came to the house, but to a mailbox down the street.
Maybe authorities would know the address by the 9-1-1 call.

The thought of police terrified me, though. If Jonathan Bourque was behind this, and I was sure he was, he would have the
police under his thumb. What had Lamont said? Something about how corrupt the law was. I should take the law into my own hands,
like that vigilante did. Meaning don’t trust the police, right?

But I was no vigilante. I was a scared girl who weighed only a hundred pounds, and I was all alone in a big glass house by
the sea. I started to cry.

With tears running down my cheeks and exhaustion overwhelming my body, I finally collapsed on the leather sofa and fell into
a dreamless sleep.

It was afternoon before I woke and sat up, wondering why I was in the living room. But then I remembered, and I began to run
through the house calling Lamont’s name. He wasn’t in my room, nor the kitchen, nor the billiards room, nor the storage room,
nor his bedroom.

My world was crumbling, and I was powerless to prop it up with sound reasoning or comforting thoughts. My predicament was
painfully simple.

Lamont had vanished.

I was alone.

I had no way to get out of the house.

This last matter was a mere bug on the screen of my mind. I was preoccupied by loss, not self-preservation. In the absence
of any reasonable alternative, I set my jaw and resolved to wait until Lamont returned, no matter how long it took.

I had plenty of food, enough to last for weeks, for all I ate. I had clothes, a bed, music, water, everything I needed until
Lamont came home.

By nightfall I had convinced myself that my anxiety was all a mistake. Something very simple was keeping Lamont away. I’d
misunderstood him when he’d said Thursday.

I hummed and sang to pass the time. I ate. I cleansed. I cleaned. I took my medication except for the sedative, because I
didn’t want to sleep. I embraced denial as if it, not Lamont, was my savior.

My determined resolve collapsed on Saturday at midnight, when I remembered with perfect clarity that Lamont had indeed said
Thursday. He’d said Thursday, and it was now five minutes past twelve on Sunday and he wasn’t home.

Lamont was either gone or dead. Just like my dad.

I fell to my face on the shiny marble floor and wept. I scolded myself for being the kind of person who always ended up alone.
I begged Lamont to come and get me. I cried out for my mother even though I knew she was dead.

Slowly my tears ran dry and I lay there, facedown, for quite a long time. Then I pushed myself to my feet, retreated to my
bedroom, and climbed under the covers.

I did not clean up the mess I’d left on the floor from all my weeping and slobbering. That would have to wait just this once.

I rose Sunday morning and, not bothering to put on my slippers, drifted through the house like a ghost, knowing I wouldn’t
find him. Still, I looked. Even under the beds this time.

My heart was lead in my chest. My face felt like it might fall off my head. Each step felt like a step farther into hell.

I didn’t bother to shower on Sunday—I just couldn’t. I couldn’t listen to music. I couldn’t prepare food or clean. I could
hardly think.

So I sat on the stuffed leather chair in the living room and stared out at the ocean for most of the day, clinging to a fading
hope that at any moment the door would fly open and Lamont would crash in to rescue me as he had once before.

He didn’t.

Monday morning was
like Sunday morning in every way except this one: I accepted that I was alone. Not just in the house, but in the world. Someone
had taken Lamont from me, and I would have to go on without him.

The thought was overwhelming. For four days, I’d focused on Lamont, on my concern for his safety and on my loss of him. Now
I was forced to start thinking about Renee.

What was I to do? How could I live? Would I have to leave the house? Who would buy the groceries? Who would pay the bills?
Did I have any money?

Was Lamont really dead? Would there be a funeral?

I paced in front of the big window overlooking the ocean, hands on my cheeks.
Think, Renee. You have to pull yourself together. You have to figure out what to do
.

The house wasn’t in my name, I was sure of that. To my recollection, he’d never mentioned anything about a will or arrangements
other than how to get out of the house, and I couldn’t even remember the details of that conversation.

I stopped pacing and made my first decision. I had to find a way out of the house. I couldn’t stay cooped up in here forever,
could I? The food would run out eventually. What if I knocked over a candle and set the place on fire? How would I get out
then?

I had to get out!

Frantic with this new problem, I ran to the front door, quickly unlocked all the latches, and tugged. It didn’t budge. I screamed
at the door and jerked as hard as I could, but I might as well have been tugging on a solid concrete block.

I flew to the other doors and found them no more responsive, as expected. Without functioning doors, the most obvious way
out was through a window, but they were all welded shut and I wasn’t about to break a window. Lamont would have an absolute
fit.

I
would have a fit if I had to break one of those beautiful windows that I’d shined so dutifully all these months. Besides,
the glass panes were thick, I wasn’t even sure I could break one if I had to; besides, Lamont had said not even a shotgun
blast could blow one out.

Still, I ran through the house, checking every window just to be sure that none of the welds had cracked. There weren’t many
because, except for the wall facing the ocean, the rest of the outer walls were made of solid brick.

The doors were locked. The windows were sealed. I was helpless!

There was a pull-down attic ladder at the end of the hall. I’d poked my head up there once, saw nothing but insulation, and
made a hasty retreat. But now I wondered if there could be a vent in the space.

A shower of debris fell to the floor when I pulled the ladder down, and I ignored the temptation to sweep it up. I climbed
the ladder, found a light switch on the frame at the top, and studied the attic by the dim light of one incandescent bulb.

Past mounds of pink insulation, through a maze of cross members, in the attic’s farthest wall, rays of light angled through
the slats of a square vent.

I stared for a while, considering the challenge of navigating my way to the vent. Maybe I was light enough to walk on the
ceiling without breaking through. No. No, I couldn’t risk that. If I crashed through to the floor below and broke my legs
I might die in the house, alone.

Getting to the vent wasn’t the only challenge. I had to get it open, and even then I didn’t know how far it was above the
ground.

What else could I do? I had to pass through the darkness ahead if I wanted to reach the light beyond.

Teetering on one of the main beams, I made my choice. The wood was solid and several inches wide, so I moved quickly and crossed
the attic with surprising ease. I reached the square attic vent, gripped the slats with my fingers, and peered out, feeling
elated.

I could see the driveway and the bushes on either side, but the ground looked too far down for me to jump. A large palm tree
swayed in the wind ten feet away. I couldn’t jump ten feet!

The slats bent in my hands, so I tugged at one and was rewarded with a crack. Like a woman clawing at the face of a thug in
a dark alleyway, I attacked the thin wood with both hands and tore the slats away, one by one, until I was panting and dizzy
enough to fall.