by Philip Kerr
In truth, I never thought much about the FBI. Not since I’d quit the Bureau. And to be honest, I didn’t miss the work. Not as much as they missed my doing it. Several times Gisela asked me to reconsider my resignation; and several times I told her no; the Houston FBI SAC, Chuck Worrall, also asked me to reconsider; I told him to go fuck himself. He said he wanted to know who was going to protect the people of Houston from domestic terrorism; I replied that it wasn’t my problem and again told him to go fuck himself; headquarters in Washington, D.C., also called to offer me a training post at Quantico; I told them to go fuck themselves, too. Something had died in me when Gisela had sent me on leave. I’d lost the sense that the Bureau was as loyal to me as I’d always been to it.
You might even say I lost my faith in the FBI the way I’d once lost my faith in God.
I might not have missed the Bureau, but I did miss the guys who worked there. I especially missed Helen Monaco. I missed carrying the badge—for a few days I felt naked without that gold shield and the gun that went with it. I missed the money, of course. Not that there was ever much of that. Since leaving the Bureau, I’d managed to get the OCD under control. I no longer started to play solitaire with sugar packets whenever I was in a restaurant or a coffee shop. All of that stopped when I stopped thinking about animal-rights activists and Christianists and Islamists and far-right militias and what they might do to the city of Houston and, by extension, my family; these days, all of my thoughts are about me, and God, of course. Let’s not ever forget him. And believe me, I won’t. Not ever again.
A couple of times Helen came down to the Magnolia to have a coffee with me; and we talked.
“Why this place?” she asked. “It’s a dump.”
“It’s convenient to the cathedral,” I said.
“Do you spend a lot of time there?”
“Quite a lot. I feel at peace in the cathedral.”
“I like it there, too. Especially after a day in the office. I get pissed off sometimes with the other guys. The dyke jokes. I have a wife now. Did you know that?”
“Congratulations. I’m really pleased for you. What’s her name?”
“Toni. We got married in Los Angeles. Texas doesn’t yet recognize same-sex marriage.”
“Nor does the Catholic Church, but I wouldn’t let that stop you.”
“Don’t you miss it? The Bureau? The work?”
I shrugged. “I used to think we were doing good work. Now I don’t think it matters very much one way or the other if we catch this killer or that terrorist. It certainly doesn’t matter to God if we catch the bad guys or not. There’s always another one to take his place.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“A hundred years ago people were worried about anarchist bombs. Now we worry about bombs from al-Qaeda. Jack the Ripper murdered five prostitutes in London’s East End. Now we have Saint Peter murdering people here in Houston. Nothing changes very much.”
“That’s not very encouraging. Priests are supposed to be encouraging.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Tell me, Gil. Do you really believe in what you’re doing, or is going to church again just your way of trying to get Ruth and Danny back?”
“It’s a little too late for reconciliation, I think. No, Ruth and I, we’re through. I know that.”
I’d seen Ruth and Danny by then—at our old house on Driscoll Street. It was actually quite amicable. I’d spent a whole evening with them after taking Danny to a ball game; while I was there, Ruth apologized for having treated me so badly, which kind of took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting that. But I had a few surprises of my own for her and among these was my new calling.
“I didn’t behave like a good Christian,” she declared.
“I know I certainly didn’t.”
“You had an excuse, Gil. You weren’t actually a Christian at the time. You were an atheist.”
“It must have been very difficult for you, living with me and my very ungodly questions. Faith is kind of hard to sustain even at the best of times. I used to think it was easier to believe in God than not to believe in him. But now that I’m certain he exists, I find I don’t believe in him at all. At least not the way most people believe in him.”
“I don’t understand. You say you know he exists but—”
“What I mean is—” I paused. “Forget about it. Just take my word for it, Ruth. For me, it’s no longer a matter of faith. I know God exists, all right? That’s all you need to hear from me on the subject.”
“Really? Are you joking about this?”
“No joke. I’m perfectly serious.”
“I do believe you are,” she said. “Well, what do you know? Jesus, I certainly didn’t see that coming.” Ruth smiled thinly. “And where does this new certainty come from?”
“Let’s just say that something happened to me that convinced me I’d been completely wrong. Like Saul in the Acts of the Apostles. It was my road to Damascus moment, Ruth. Except that I wasn’t struck blind. Quite the reverse, as a matter of fact.”
“I wish I had your confidence, Gil.”
I frowned. “You’re not having doubts?” I said. “Surely not? Not you, of all people?”
“Sometimes I think that the real reason I left you was because you were only saying what I was afraid to say myself. As a matter of fact, I’ve stopped going to church while I try to figure out what I really do believe.”
“Which one? Lakewood or the Izrael Church of Good Men and Good Women?”
“Both.” She shrugged. “Nelson Van Der Velden was charismatic, of course. When he died, I guess I began to change my opinion of the church in general.” She smiled. “I’ve been thinking. About us. Maybe you and I could see some more of each other again.”
“Oh? What about Hogan?”
Ruth shook her head impatiently. “He was nothing to me. Just a friend, that’s all. Forget Hogan, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Perhaps I was too hasty about you, Gil. You know something? I think I was clinically depressed. That’s what my doctor says. I’m on Xanax now and I feel much better about a lot of things.” She sighed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’d like us to give our marriage another shot. For Danny’s sake, if nothing else.”
I smiled and laid my hand fondly on her cheek. “I’m afraid it’s a little too late for that,” I said.
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“No. There’s no one, Ruth.”
This was not quite true, but I hardly wanted to mention his name in this context. His name should rarely be mentioned, ever—certainly not without a great deal of precaution. I have Nelson Van Der Velden to thank for that.
“It’s not that I don’t love you or Danny.”
“What then?”
There was no way of making it sound any less peculiar to Ruth than it would sound—although I don’t think it’s any less peculiar than turning down a well-paid job with a top firm of New York attorneys to join the FBI because of what happened back in 2001. What happened to me in Galveston had been as traumatic and affecting as 9/11. Maybe more so.
“It’s just that I’ve decided to become a Catholic priest, Ruth. I’ve joined St. Mary’s Catholic Seminary.”
“But why, Gil? Why?”
“At the time I didn’t have anywhere else other than the seminary to go to, Ruth. Physically and spiritually. I’d come to the end of myself, if that doesn’t sound like too much of a cliché. But now that I’ve thought more about it, I’ve made the decision to enter the priesthood just as soon as I can. I think it’s the right decision for me. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“Gil Martins, what possible use is there in your becoming a priest?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I grinned. “Time will tell. But I think Bishop Coogan is relieved to have a
t least one priest who isn’t a pedophile or gay.”
“My God, I certainly didn’t see this one coming.”
“No, neither did I, although I think maybe God did.” I patted her on the arm. “I had hoped you would be happy for me, Ruth. But I can see you’re a little upset by the idea. Well, if you can, pray for me.”
“I don’t think I will.” She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t mean that I don’t wish you well, Gil. It’s just that I’m not sure that prayer is all that effective.”
“Oh, it is,” I said glibly. “Take it from one who knows.”
“I prayed for you before,” she said. “I prayed that you would believe in God again.”
“Well, I guess your prayers were answered then.”
“We get what we pray for and then find out that we didn’t want it after all.”
“Isn’t that so right?”
“Now that you do believe in God, I find that I don’t believe in him so much anymore. Weird, isn’t it?”
“There’s no sense in trying to understand God,” I said. “‘Touching the Almighty, we cannot find him out; he is excellent in power, and in judgment, and in plenty of justice; he will not afflict. Men do therefore fear him; he respecteth not any that are wise of heart.’ That just means God doesn’t like a smart-ass. Job 37:23–24.”
“Is this what our conversations are going to be like from now on, do you think?”
“Ruth. It’s what our conversations were always like. The only difference is that now it’s me who’s quoting scripture, not you.”
When I left, she tried to kiss me on the mouth, but at the last moment I turned my face so that her lips just brushed my cheek. It wasn’t deliberate on my part, more instinct, really—the way you duck something that might injure you, like a hornet. But it hurt her, for sure, although that wasn’t my intention. As I walked away from my old house and got into my car, there were tears in her eyes. I wondered if the tears came from the fact that she still loved me or if they were because she regretted what she’d put me through. Then again, maybe her tears were for our son and the fact that I wouldn’t see him grow up the way most other fathers do. But I didn’t care. I’d lied when I told her I still loved her; that was just to make her feel better. Me, I didn’t feel the same about anything anymore. Not about her, not even about Danny, and certainly not about myself. Myself least of all.
In the Magnolia Tree Café, an unexpected peal of laughter trickled out of the television for a moment. I looked up from doing the crossword in the Chronicle to see what was happening up on the screen. Pastor Penny had cracked a joke; and just to make sure we all got it, she cracked it again.
“Forget Pilates, forget the gym, forget yoga, and forget working out. The best exercise you can get is to walk with God,” she trilled.
Encouraged by the congregation’s reaction to her little joke, Pastor Penny decided to try another.
“You know, the other evening I was stopped by a traffic policeman who informed me that I’d broken the speed limit. He informed me that I’d driven at thirty-five miles per hour in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. I apologized for my thoughtlessness several times—I’m not used to being stopped by the cops—and I guess he wasn’t used to this, either. I suppose most people in these circumstances get more annoyed than I was. Anyway, he asked me if I was under the influence of alcohol. And do you know, I was so surprised I said no, I’m under the influence of God.”
More laughter. Did anyone of them, I wondered, ever have any idea about the real nature of God? Probably not. And that was probably just as well.
“And you know why I’m under the influence of God?” she yelled—Pastor Penny was kind of in your face with her preaching. “I’m under his influence because God is love.”
Absently I wrote “God is love” on the edge of my newspaper.
But when Pastor Penny’s TV audience laughed, it seemed like they were laughing at me, so after a moment or two of consideration, I crossed out the word LOVE and replaced it with FEAR. Now, that was a lot more like the truth. I looked at the slogan and nodded to myself. There could be no love where first there was fear. Not ever. And still nodding, I said out loud, “Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom.”
Hearing me speak, the waitress smiled and said, “Amen,” and then, as a reward, she brought me some more of the terribly bitter coffee that tasted like wormwood.
“I’m glad you like Pastor Penny’s TV show,” said the waitress. “I like to watch it, but sometimes the customers object and I have to change the channel.”
“There are no other customers,” I said. “So that’s all right then.”
“Bless you,” said the waitress. “God loves you, brother.”
I restrained my first impulse, which was to laugh out loud in her face, and just politely nodded my thanks.
A couple of days after Van Der Velden’s murder, Harlan Caulfield came to see me at the seminary. We talked in my room, with me sitting on my single bed and Harlan seated in the only armchair.
Harlan’s face looked even more lived-in than usual: the furrows on his forehead now looked so deep that his cranium seemed about to detach from the rest of his head. The space between his always quizzical eyebrows, above the bridge of his nose, was a Gordian knot of anxious skin and sinew. He looked like a human question mark. I didn’t offer him anything. I had nothing to offer except some Salem cigarettes, which would hardly have been fair given his attempt to give them up. I offered him one anyway and then lit one myself when he declined with a curt shake of his head.
“You started smoking again?”
“Why not? Considering everything else that you have to give up, I figure I’ve got to have some pleasures in life.”
Harlan nodded sadly. “Might be worth it at that,” he said. “Just to have a smoke again. My life has no real pleasures. Not anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. So what can I do for you, Harlan?”
“You know why I’m here.”
“It isn’t to beg me to come back to the Bureau,” I said.
“You’re right. Somehow I think we’ll manage to get along without you.”
“Then I suppose it’s about Saint Peter,” I said.
“I wish people wouldn’t use that name,” he said, looking away. “Given your new priestly calling, I’m kind of surprised you do.”
I shrugged. “But you do think it was the same sub who killed Van Der Velden?”
He shrugged. “Could be. Bears all the hallmarks of.”
“A million dollars buys you a nice shiny halo in this town.”
“But you don’t think he deserved it.”
“That depends, Harlan.”
“On what?”
“On what you’re fishing for.”
“All right. Fair enough. Where were you on Tuesday morning at about eight o’clock?” he asked.
“You mean on the morning of Van Der Velden’s murder? I was here. In bed. Just me and my newfound celibacy.”
“I thought priests were supposed to get up with the larks.”
“That’s monks you’re thinking of, Harlan. Besides, I’m not yet a priest.”
“Can you prove you were here?”
“No. I guess someone might have seen me at breakfast. But I don’t remember talking to anyone in particular. One morning is kind of like another in this place. But it’d be kind of weird if I could actually prove it, don’t you think?”
“You can see why I’m asking though, can’t you, Martins?”
“Of course. I knew your killer’s modus operandi. I’m still a member of the Houstonian Club. And I knew Nelson Van Der Velden. Frankly, I didn’t much like him, either. On top of all that, before his death I suffered a nervous breakdown. In your eyes that makes me borderline mentally unstable. I’m surprised you didn’t come to see me yesterday, Harlan.”
He no
dded. “Did you kill him?”
“Thanks for asking, Harlan, I’m a lot better now.”
Harlan stared at his hands and then knotted his fingers as if he was about to pray.
I laughed.
“Did I say something funny?” he asked.
“I guess the Chronicle was right,” I said. “You really don’t have any new leads, do you?”
“The way I see it, you might have had a motive to kill him; and you could easily have facilitated the opportunity.”
“And the other killings? You want me to provide an alibi for those murders, too?”
“Right now, I’m only talking about one murder.”
“Well, thanks, buddy.”
He looked momentarily sheepish. “I don’t say you did do it, Martins. Merely that you could have done it.”
“Fair enough. But where do you want to go with this?”
Harlan shook his head. “I could bring you in for questioning.”
“You could at that. And just so as you know, I’m waiving my rights. As a favor to an old colleague. I can’t afford a lawyer anyway.”
“Gil, you look good for this murder.”
“That’s going to play well with the media. When all else fails, accuse one of your own.”
“You walked into Van Der Velden’s church wearing a gun.”
“Didn’t you ever take your gun to Lakewood?”
“Maybe.”
“I know I did. My wife used to tick me off for it. Besides, I wasn’t the only one at Clear Lake wearing a hog’s leg. Dr. Van Der Velden had a bodyguard. Although not so as you would have noticed. Not on Tuesday anyway. Guy named Frank Fitzgerald. You might like to run a few checks on him. Claims he’s Homeland Security when he’s not moonlighting as the pastor’s tough guy.”
“Frank Fitzgerald, huh? I didn’t even know Van Der Velden had a bodyguard.”