“I’ll talk to you however the fuck I want,” O’Callahan said. “All I need you to do is listen. With Lichner gone, I’m sure this Indian will become interested in some other avenue of investigation.”
“Do you think so?” Tobias asked, sounding like a little boy who’d been told that Santa Claus was indeed real.
“Yes, doctor. In the meantime, you return to assisting the poor, troubled men we send to you. It is important now for you to go about your business as normal. And you keep your mouth shut, understand?”
“Yes. But what about Marlene Ciampi?”
“What about her?”
“Don’t you think…”
“I think you are worrying about things best left to others,” O’Callahan said. “Don’t you agree, doctor?”
“Well, yes,” Tobias said, now sounding much relieved. “Yes, of course, you’re right. Business as usual. Leave Marlene Ciampi and that Indian to you. I wash my hands of the whole mess.”
O’Callahan smiled and wondered if Tobias got the irony of his last statement. “Yes, doctor, scrub away,” he said and hung up.
Despite the confidence he’d tried to impart to Asher and Tobias, O’Callahan was afraid. In his opinion, Lichner was more trouble than he was worth. His little mission took precedence over even his loyalty to Kane, and he was putting them all at risk. O’Callahan didn’t understand Kane’s refusal to be done with the giant priest. If it had been up to him, O’Callahan would have had Lichner killed and dumped in the Atlantic, but Kane would not hear of it. “He’s part of my plan. You have some objection?”
“No, of course not,” O’Callahan answered quickly, feeling a chill go up his spine. He’d seen the results when people objected to some plan of Andrew Kane’s, and he wanted no personal experience with it. If there was a fault with his master, it was that sometimes he was a little impetuous when it came to violence. In O’Callahan’s opinion, the decision to kill Martin Johnson had been an overreaction to the rapper’s betrayal. Better to have sued him and taken the money, O’Callahan thought. But Kane wanted him dead and made it integral to accomplishing the more important goal of framing Alejandro Garcia.
O’Callahan had nothing against murder. It was often an effective tool. But the plan to frame Garcia was complex to begin with—too complex in his opinion, but the boss did enjoy his little strategies and gamesmanship. Now, as he headed back to Kane’s office with the news from New Mexico, he was not so sure that the boss wasn’t losing his grip.
• • •
Kane entered the study and motioned for O’Callahan to have a seat in the low-backed chair in front of his desk, the same desk where his father sat years before and blew his brains out. He thought of the study as his cave, a place removed from the world—done in rich mahogany and soft leathers, the heavy drapes rarely opened to allow the sun in. He closed the door and began wandering around the room as O’Callahan began to speak, giving every impression that he was listening carefully but without undue alarm. He drifted past the wall that held his extensive book collection, absently picking up from the elephant-foot umbrella stand an old riding crop that he tapped on his shoe as he paced.
As O’Callahan talked about the calls from New Mexico, Kane thought about how Lichner fit into his plan to destroy the Catholic Church in New York. Of course, the man was a murderous pedophile who was going to keep on screwing and killing young boys once a month until he got caught. And that was his last little secret. Someday not only would the press discover how the church, in the person of the archbishop, had covered up sexual assaults by its priests by paying off the victims’ families. The knife would slip in deeper still when it was revealed that Fey and his predecessor (as this had been going on for some time) signed off on a plan to send the offenders to treatment centers and then allow them to return to prey on more of their flock. But the coup de grâce would be Lichner, the pedophile priest protected by the church who turns out to be a serial killer.
• • •
The problem was, of course, the missing files. The files would show that Kane himself had arranged for the payments to the families of the victims who had been lucky enough to survive meeting Lichner. The letters in his files recommending against prosecution had been signed by Kane and stamped No Prosecution.
Still, he’d believed that his plan to retrieve the files was still unfolding as it should, with a few nuances. Yes, the death of Vincent Paglia, as yet undiscovered by the authorities, was unfortunate. But he couldn’t take a chance that the star witness had been found out or that he would crack under questioning.
There was the videotaped interview and one more piece of evidence to come. A couple thousand dollars was all it had taken to liberate the .45 caliber handgun Alejandro Garcia had used to shoot the rival gang member two years earlier from the police evidence locker. The gun, which bore the youth’s fingerprints, had then been used to kill ML Rex and subsequently kicked under the car to be found by the police. The case against Garcia was still solid.
However, this new problem in New Mexico was not to his liking. If this Indian and the DA’s wife were working together and had focused on Lichner, it could ruin his plans, especially if he didn’t get those files soon. He hated it when his plans went awry; it made him really angry. So angry that as he walked behind O’Callahan, he suddenly raised the riding crop and brought it down swiftly and hard across the shoulders of the priest.
O’Callahan grabbed the desk in front of him to keep himself from falling. The shock and pain of the blow had stopped him in mid-sentence and all he could do was try to suck in air. A second blow drove it all back out of him as a scream.
“I thought I told you to make sure there were never any problems at St. Ignatius,” Kane said calmly as the priest bleated in pain. “I want you to call that idiot sheriff and tell him to take care of that Indian cop and this Ciampi woman. Make it look like an accident or someone had it in for the cop and she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But get it done, do you understand me?”
Whack! A scream. “Yes, yes, please no more,” O’Callahan pleaded from his knees, where the third stroke had driven him.
Kane was rather enjoying himself and was about to add one last stroke when a loud voice interrupted him. “My God, Andy, what in the name of Jesus is going on here?” said Archbishop Fey from the doorway. He had seen his secretary and Kane disappear from the hall and thought he would follow when they didn’t immediately return to the party.
“Oh, Archbishop Fey. Please do come in and shut the door,” Kane said as though inviting him to tea.
Fey did as told, but demanded in a stern voice, “Why are you striking this good man?”
Kane looked down at the fallen priest. “Riley, tell this old geezer to shut the fuck up and listen,” he ordered.
Shakily picking himself up off the floor, O’Callahan turned to the archbishop and snarled, “Shut the fuck up and listen.”
Fey stood still for a moment with his mouth opening and closing. Rather like a fish, Kane thought. The old man looked as if he might faint, but Kane walked up to him and slapped him twice. “Now sit down,” he snapped and the old man complied meekly on the couch.
• • •
Thirty minutes later, Fey sat with his face in his hands weeping. Kane had revealed the true extent of the cover-up regarding the pedophile priests, the No Prosecution files, and that his name was on the payoff paperwork, as well as the papers reassigning the offending priests to new parishes.
“Oh my God, what have I done?” Fey cried.
“Well,” Kane laughed, “for starters probably committed any number of crimes. But I think worse, as far as the faithful are concerned, pretty much destroyed any faith they might have in the Church once this comes out. If it comes out.”
“But I didn’t know,” Fey pleaded.
“Oh please, you self-righteous piece of shit,” Kane said, “you signed off on the payoffs and you knew in that pious little heart of yours that there was more going on
. You didn’t want to know what that might be. All you cared about was building a new cathedral so that all those droll little people out there would remember that you even ever existed.”
Kane walked over behind the archbishop who kept a nervous eye on the riding crop. But instead of a blow, Kane rubbed the old man’s shoulder.
“There, there, it doesn’t have to end badly,” he consoled. “You can still have your cathedral and the adoration of millions for all eternity. But I may need you to do something for me…If certain things don’t go the way I expect them to, I may need you to grant this Father Dugan an audience and demand those files from him. No one ever need know about any of this.”
Fey kept his face in his hands. “Oh God, I have sinned…how could I have done this to my church…to the children?” he whispered.
“Pride, your eminence,” Kane said and laughed. “Pride goeth before a fall, remember that one? Now be a good old fart and dry those tears so that we can go join my guests. Riley, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you had better remain here until my guests leave, your back seems to be bleeding. Besides, you have a telephone call to make.”
With that he reached down and pulled the archbishop up by his elbow to help him stand. “Come, come now, your holiness,” he said, “stiff upper lip. You just didn’t realize that you were playing for the other team. It’s not as bad as all that.”
“No,” the archbishop replied. “It’s worse. But I have no choice but to go along with your evil. I must protect the church from my failings.”
“Yes, yes,” Kane said. “Glad you see it my way.” He linked arms with Fey and they left.
Moving gingerly so as not to further incite the screaming demons clawing at his back, O’Callahan sat back down in the chair and reached for the telephone. He called a number in Taos. “Sheriff Asher, please,” he said politely, trying not to cry.
“Asher,” a voice said a minute later.
“Listen, you fuck,” O’Callahan snarled. “This is coming from the top. The Indian cop and the woman have to go…make it look like an accident or something unrelated to St. Ignatius.” He reached behind and touched one of the burning welts and felt the wetness. “But make it happen or expect a one-way ticket to New York to see the boss.”
23
JOHN JOJOLA STOOD IN THE PREDAWN HALF-LIGHT ON THE edge of the cliff above the eagles’ aerie gazing into the depths of the Rio Grande Gorge. The river slithered through the narrow canyon below, a topaz-green snake winding its way south, the rush of its waters over and around the large rocks in its path reaching his ears as a continuous murmur.
He’d been meditating for two hours, arriving while the stars were still at their brightest and the sky around them at its darkest. It was one of his favorite times to be alone in the desert, but it wasn’t for the quiet. If one listened carefully there was always some sound: the raspy whisper of a rattlesnake crossing sand in search of prey…the cautious hopping of a jackrabbit…the distant yipping of a family of coyotes greeting each other to begin the hunt. But it was peaceful—a time when the natural world was in harmony with itself and his troubles were revealed to him as an infinitesimally small part of an infinite universe.
However, he had not driven out that morning just to enjoy the landscape or the solitude. He was there to meet Sheriff Asher and Marlene Ciampi.
After returning home from his run-in with Tobias at the St. Ignatius Retreat the night before, he’d checked his messages at the Taos Pueblo Police Office. He almost spilled his coffee on his lap when one of the messages was from the sheriff, asking for his help. “I know I haven’t been the model of interagency cooperation, but I’ve been giving it some thought and wanted to see if we can’t put this behind us. So I figured you might want to know that I received a tip after you left, ’sposed to be the location of another grave on the east side of the gorge, just north of reservation lands. If you want to meet me tomorra’ mornin’, say eight about ten miles north of the turnoff before the bridge, I’d be obliged to have your assistance. If it checks out, I think we could use that to go see my friend the judge and ask for a warrant to search St. Ignatius…. Oh, and if you want, invite that Ciampi woman. I understand she used to be a prosecutor back in New York; maybe she’ll have something to add that us two hicks can’t see. Otherwise, sort of as a sign of our new workin’ relationship, I’d appreciate it if you kept this information between us.” Asher chuckled. “I’d like to get there before the press does this time.”
Jojola had listened to the tape with his mouth hanging open like an attic door. Then he’d called Marlene and, after telling her all of what had transpired earlier with Asher and Tobias, asked what she thought.
“Well, at first sniff, something doesn’t smell right,” she said. “Obviously, he’s traced my license plate to figure out who I am. Nobody out here knows much except for you, the people at the art center and, maybe, Father Eduardo. Then again, he wouldn’t be the first cop to use his technology to check out the new girl in town, especially if she’s hanging out with a hated rival. Maybe you put the fear of God, or at least of bad press, into him, and he’s decided to turn over a new leaf for the time being. Or maybe he just wants to have a scapegoat if these murders go unsolved. I’ve seen that happen plenty in New York. Shouldn’t hurt to find out what he’s up to, anyway.”
“Yeah, but there is something that’s bugging me,” he said.
“What?”
“When I went to St. Ignatius I got the feeling that Tobias knew I was coming.”
“So you think Asher called him?”
“Yep. But maybe the sheriff was trying to get out in front of me on the investigation. You know, solve the case himself.”
“Yeah, maybe.” There was a pause then Marlene added, “Just be careful, John.”
• • •
Jojola had gone to the eagles’ aerie alone because he’d wanted the time to himself to let the anger drain from his body. He was grateful for the release, as the more he thought about what Charlie told him, the more enraged he’d become.
He noticed the eastern sky beginning to turn gray and was suddenly aware of a shadow at his side. If he tried to look at it directly, it was gone…just a memory, a breeze rustling the silver-green sage. But if he looked straight ahead at the far side of the gorge, the shadow remained and he felt the presence of Charlie Many Horses.
“You’re going to have to let me go, John,” said a voice in his head.
“I cannot.”
“You must and soon. Lives may depend on it.”
“I cannot, you were my brother,” he repeated and turned toward the shadow. But it was gone, leaving him to guess if his mind, or the desert, was playing tricks on him.
Jojola wondered how Marlene was doing with her ghosts. She is strong, he thought. She’ll be all right with them once she learns how to forgive herself. He actually had greater concerns for the daughter, Lucy. Outwardly, she seemed a normal young woman, enjoying the attentions of the young ranch hand, Ned, and the growing affection of his people. But she was like her mother in that she seemed to attract evil like a flame attracts moths. And she is more likely to be burned than Marlene. He wondered if the women realized that the violent patterns of their lives were not just a series of misadventures or bad luck. Some people seemed destined to walk paths that would bring them into conflict with darkness.
As the morning sun at last peeked over the Sangre de Cristo range behind him, he watched the rays chase the shadows down the rugged rock wall opposite his position and thought, No matter how long the night, light eventually conquers dark. The sun rose higher, warming his shoulders as he raised his palms to the sky. I pray this night will not last much longer for my people.
He turned his head to look down the road in the direction Marlene would be coming from, having asked her to join him at the aerie after the sun rose. Then they’d meet up with the sheriff another five miles farther north. Marlene wasn’t coming alone. She’d called back to ask if she could bring Lucy. “She insist
s and I’d like her to see the eagles.” He’d agreed, but now he wished he’d told them both to stay home. Something wasn’t right, and he knew it in his heart.
Looking back across the gorge, he caught a quick movement of gray out of the corner of his right eye. Instinctively, he ducked into a crouch, whipping the big knife from its sheath in one fluid motion to face the coyote that had emerged from a stand of junipers five feet away. Any other time, he might have congratulated the animal on its stealth; he was a man who prided himself on being able to distinguish the scurrying of a lizard over pebbles, or the click of a deer’s hoof on stone a hundred yards away. But there was no time, as something that sounded like an enormous bee whizzed by his head so close that he felt its passing. The buzz was immediately followed by the distant report of a rifle, but he was already falling to the ground. He lay still, waiting to see if there would be a second shot, but he’d landed in a small hollow just below where he’d been standing and realized that he was out of sight of his would-be assassin.
Jojola turned over on his stomach and found himself almost face to muzzle with the coyote, which had sunk to its stomach at the sound of the bullet passing overhead. The animal seemed mildly amused by the whole scene, its yellow eyes bright and its mouth open in a mischievous grin.
“Thanks, brother,” Jojola whispered. “I’ll owe you a rabbit every week for the rest of my life.” The coyote grinned wider still, then staying low, slunk off into the junipers.
Jojola snaked his way up behind a clump of dry grass to look out in the direction from which the bullet had come. He had no doubt it was intended for him. The morning was clear, no one could have mistaken him for an animal, and besides, it wasn’t hunting season. He wondered if he had stumbled upon the boys’ killer out digging another grave. But that didn’t make sense, the timing wasn’t right, the moon wasn’t full anymore. So maybe someone trying to protect the killer, or, he thought wryly, just any one of a couple dozen others who don’t like me.
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