She stood in the hallway and considered. She was frustrated, but she was also a little relieved. Now what? She didn't like the idea of staking the place out, but she could at least wait in her car to see if Bandini returned. She didn't have much idea what he looked like, but surely if she saw a white guy entering this building she could be pretty sure he was the one she wanted.
All right, then. Morelli put her gun away and headed back out of the dingy apartment building.
* * *
Robert Coulter was unhappy and frightened. He sat in his car at a red light, looking nervously in the rearview mirror. Nobody behind him—yet. No flashing blue lights, no order to pull over, nothing except the usual traffic. He grunted with relief, but he didn't feel much better.
Things were falling apart, and he didn't know what to do about it. He was too used to being under the wing of the Protectors. Need some money? Here it is. Need a new identity? Go to this address. Now he was on his own, with every law enforcement officer in America looking for him. How was he supposed to survive? His rage at Leahy had kept him going for a while, but now he had taken care of Leahy. That had worked out well, but it only added to the risk. He would show them, he thought. He would show them. But it was hard.
He was making mistakes. He wasn't sure what to do. Should he change his name again? But he had a driver's license, a complete identity as Albert Bandini. What could he do without a driver's license? Should he move out of Boston? But the pope was coming here first. And what did Coulter have left, if he couldn't kill the pope? Besides, they were looking for him everywhere—would he be any safer in Chicago or Los Angeles?
In any case, how was he supposed to get money? How was he supposed to live? Leahy's murder had given him an idea, and he had just robbed another convenience store in the South End. But the cash register was nearly empty, and the terrified clerk swore he didn't know how to open the safe. So Coulter had risked his life for forty, fifty dollars, and in a couple of days he'd have to do it all over again.
It wasn't fair. He was doing the Lord's work.
The light changed, and Coulter continued, his brain still racing. Maybe he should rob a bank. Convenience stores were for punks and addicts. Maybe he should shave his head; that would make him harder to recognize. Maybe he should move out of Roxbury, to a neighborhood where there were more whites.
He didn't know, he just didn't know.
He turned onto Grinnell Street. Awful place. What he had given up for the Lord! He slowed down as he noticed a policewoman crossing the street. She hadn't noticed him.
It was Kathleen Morelli.
He had dreamed a wicked dream about Kathleen Morelli.
Coulter panicked. How did she know where he lived? He pressed down on the accelerator, aiming straight for her. She turned and stared at him, but didn't move. Then someone reached out and grabbed her. Coulter heard a thud as he passed—had he hit her? He looked in the rearview mirror. She was on the ground; a man was kneeling next to her, looking up at the car. And then he turned the corner and they were gone.
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Christ. How had she tracked him here? He felt more alone, more persecuted than ever. Now what? He couldn't go back to his apartment. He would have to get rid of the car. Where could he stay? What could he do?
Kathleen, why are you persecuting me? Not fair, not right. Kathleen, don't you know that I love you?
Coulter started to weep as he drove off into the night.
Chapter 22
"What are you doing here?" Morelli screamed at Hurley.
"Are you all right?" Hurley asked. He reached out to look at her leg.
She batted his hand away. "Never mind that. He's getting away." She limped to her car, got in, and took off after the green Honda. Her leg hurt, but she'd live. She quickly realized, though, that she wasn't going to find the Honda, and Bandini had escaped. She pounded the steering wheel in frustration, then drove back to Grinnell Street.
Hurley was standing on the sidewalk, looking forlorn. Morelli parked and got out of the car, still frustrated and upset.
He came over to her. "You think it was Bandini?" he asked.
"That's what I assume," she muttered. She thought of the face she had seen staring back at her from the car. It had looked familiar, somehow. But what was frightening was that the man had seemed to recognize her as well. She wasn't just a police officer he was trying to run down. This had felt... personal.
"We should get you to a doctor," Hurley said.
She looked down. Her jacket was ripped, as well as the shirt beneath. She moved the fabric away and saw a small gash in her arm. How had that happened? "I'm okay," she insisted. She leaned against the hood of her car. Across the street, the man with dreadlocks stared at them without interest. "Now why exactly are you here?" she asked Hurley.
He looked abashed. "I thought—well, I was worried about you going to the apartment by yourself. I thought I could help. Be, you know, backup. Or something."
"That's sweet, but not a great idea. You should go home."
"Why? What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to search Bandini's apartment."
"Without a warrant? Isn't that, well, illegal?"
"Exactly. I'm breaking my vows. That's why you should go home."
Morelli headed back across the street. Her leg still hurt, but she could get around. Hurley tagged along behind her. She should have argued with him, but she didn't have the energy.
A priest for backup. No search warrant. Captain Ryan would have her strung up if he found out. But right now she didn't care. She was mad at Hurley for not thinking her capable of doing her job. She was mad at herself for getting flustered when she saw Hurley as she was crossing the street, for freezing when she saw Bandini accelerating towards her. She wanted to prove something to Hurley, and to herself. And she wanted to find Bandini. She wasn't going to be able to get a search warrant with what she had against Bandini right now. So should she just give up?
She went back into the apartment building she had just left and climbed to the second floor. Upstairs, the baby had stopped crying, replaced by the sounds of rap music. She stopped in front of Bandini's door. "Go home, Joe," she repeated to Hurley. She felt as if she were near tears.
He gazed at her in that knowing, priestly way of his. She realized that she hadn't seen him since the moment in her car when he'd touched her. Since then her only contact with him had been his voice on the phone, his face in her imagination. He was wearing jeans and a Boston College sweatshirt. He looked more human, less intimidating than in his black suit and Roman collar. "You don't want to do this by yourself, Kathleen," he said.
"I also don't want to get a civilian killed," she replied. "I'm breaking enough rules as it is." She turned away from him and put her shoulder to the door while turning the knob. The door splintered and sagged, but the lock held.
"Let an ex-football player try," Hurley said. He moved past her and gave the door a well-placed kick; the lock gave way. Upstairs, the rap music paused, then started up again; none of their concern what went on down here. Morelli pushed the door open and went in, gun held at the ready. Hurley followed her.
"Police officer," she called out. "If you're going to be here, make yourself useful and find a light," she told Hurley.
Hurley fumbled along the wall until his hand encountered a switch, which he flicked on. The overhead light illuminated a small living room furnished with a couch, a dirty braided rug, and a portable TV on a stand. There were newspapers and empty Chinese food cartons on the floor in front of the couch. Morelli glanced to her left at a kitchenette, then moved into the bedroom on the right. Empty. It had the same unwashed smell she had noticed in the apartment above Betsy's. The narrow bed was unmade. Above it hung an iron crucifix.
"Look," Hurley said, pointing to her left.
She saw a dresser with a small wooden mirror on top. On the dresser were loose change and a hairbrush. Taped to a corner of the mirror was a newspaper photo of a smiling Pope John.
"There's nothing here worth telling anyone about," she said.
"The photo?"
"He's religious," she said. "He's got a crucifix, a bible. The photo doesn't prove anything. Maybe he just likes the pope. Everyone likes the pope. There's no evidence that he committed a crime. There's no evidence that he's planning to commit a crime. There's no motive for him to commit a crime. There's nothing."
"Then what do we do?"
Morelli shook her head. She had made some progress tonight, and now it seemed to have evaporated. She was dizzy; she couldn't think this through. "We go home and try to figure it out," she said. "Maybe I'll come up with something tomorrow."
"I still think you should go to an emergency room."
"I'm all right," she said. "Let's get out of here."
They walked back outside once again. She flinched a little as they crossed the street. She remembered crossing before—seeing Hurley standing there, becoming confused and then upset, not noticing the green Honda until it was too late...
"Look," Hurley said, "your leg is obviously bothering you, and it's going to be hard for you to drive. Let me at least take you home and make sure you're okay."
Morelli stared at him, not quite believing what she had just heard. "What about my car?" she asked.
"I'll drive your car and take a cab back. No one's going to steal my old rust bucket. I'm feeling guilty here, Kathleen. This was my fault. Let me do something for you."
Was guilt all that was going on? She couldn't tell. But she wasn't going to turn him down. "Okay," she said. "I guess that would be a help."
He had been worried about her, and he had driven out to Roxbury in case she needed him. Now he was still worried about her, and he was going to drive her home. Was there a pattern here? She handed him her keys. He opened the door of her Jeep for her, and she got inside. It felt strange to be on the passenger side. A lot of things felt strange suddenly. Good thing she had cleaned out the junk, she thought. The remains of her coffee sat in the cup holder, however, cold and unappetizing.
She gazed at Hurley while they discussed the route to Roslindale. He had a small birthmark under his right ear. He had nicked himself shaving. She imagined him on Wall Street—smart, smooth-talking, charming. Would she have liked him any better if he wasn't a priest? She guessed that he would have merely irritated her. Who was he to be so confident, so smug? But instead there was that mystery at the heart of him, and that made a difference. He had given it all up—wealth, women, power—given up his life, really, to serve God. And where did he find the belief, the certainty, that allowed him to make such a commitment? She had looked into her own soul for as long as she could remember and found... nothing, despite her father, despite the nuns who taught her. Maybe there was a God, maybe there wasn't. Maybe Jesus was that God, maybe He wasn't. She didn't know, and she didn't much care. She could live her life without religion as easily as she could without fairy tales. Was that a blessing, she wondered, or a curse?
He drove much too slowly—was he afraid to break the speed limit? She found that charming somehow. "This is very nice of you," she murmured.
He didn't respond. Maybe he was thinking that it was anything but nice, that he was falling helplessly into an abyss. It's not an abyss, she wanted to tell him. It's life. It's beautiful. Don't let it slip away from you. But she too fell silent, uncertain if her words would do more harm than good.
When they reached her house in Roslindale he parked in her driveway, and the silence became awkward. "We should talk," Hurley said finally, staring out the windshield. He didn't say about what.
"Come on up and help me take care of this thing," she replied, pointing to her arm.
She got out of the car, not waiting for a response. After a moment she heard his door open, and he followed her up the stairs. Mrs. McClarty, her landlady downstairs, was away visiting her grandchildren, she recalled. No one peeking through the blinds. No one listening to the sounds above her head.
She went into the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were piled up in the sink. Great. Was her hamper overflowing? Had she made her bed?
She took off her jacket and shoulder holster while Hurley stood awkwardly nearby. "Want something to drink?" she asked. "I have some beer in the refrigerator, I think."
"No thanks," he replied softly.
She rolled her sleeve up and they looked at the wound. As she expected, it wasn't bad, although the dried blood made it look rather messy. "I think I have some Bacitracin," she said. "Let's just clean it up and put a bandage on it."
Hurley still said nothing. He's lost his will, she thought. He doesn't know what to do. She felt in control at last. But what did she want to do with her power?
She found the Bacitracin and bandages in a drawer next to the sink. Hurley took a cloth and ran warm water over it, then held her arm and gently washed the wound. She kept her eyes on him, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. Finally he patted her arm dry with a paper towel, smeared the Bacitracin onto the wound, and covered it with a bandage. "It'll be okay, I guess," he said. "But you really should see a doctor."
"Thank you," she murmured.
They fell silent. Morelli could hear the hum of the refrigerator, could still feel the gentle pressure of his hands on her arm. It was the second time he had touched her. He was close enough to touch in return, but she didn't move. "Well," he said, "I should—"
"Don't go," she said, her decision made—as if it had ever been in doubt.
He looked at her then. She reached out, and he took her hand. There. It was real. His hand was hot. She silently took it and pressed it against her breast. He closed his eyes. "Please," he whispered. To her? To God? To stop? Or to give him the strength to see that this was right, it had to be right?
She stepped closer to him, and he took her into his arms. She let out a long breath; she felt as if she had been holding it for a week. This was where she belonged, she knew, her arms around him, her head nuzzled against his neck. He was kissing her hair, and it was wonderful, but she wanted more. She looked up at him, and he drew her face to his, and they kissed, tentatively at first, and then with increasing passion. She felt herself being pushed back against the kitchen counter, then lifted off her feet. She felt as if she were nowhere and everywhere. Floating in space. Raised from the dead.
She managed to come back to reality long enough to pull away from him and lead him into her bedroom. She could feel him hesitate one final time, but only for a moment, as the last shards of his resistance crumbled into dust. And then they were there, in the semi-darkness, fumbling to remove their clothes, then falling in a tangle of limbs onto her bed. She reached up to stroke his cheek, and she was startled to find that it was wet with tears. "This can't be wrong," she whispered. "It can't. It can't." She reached down and guided him inside her, and she felt him thrust in rhythm with her reassurances. It can't, it can't, it can't...
He shuddered to a climax almost immediately, and she held him there, her legs wrapped around him. her hands clutching the back of his head. "My darling," she crooned into his ear. "It's all right. It's all right."
Eventually he fell away from her, and they lay side by side, her hand on his chest. She longed to know what he was thinking but was terrified to ask. Was he blaming her in a post-coital funk? Was he thinking about hellfire and eternal damnation? Or was he like her, simply filled with gratitude and wonder that they had found each other at last, simply hoping that God or Fate or the cold uncaring cosmos would let them hold on to their happiness?
She caressed him, and finally he spoke. "Where's your bruise?" he asked.
She led his hand down to it on her left thigh, as she had led his hand to her breast earlier. But this time he slid down in the bed and began kissing the bruise, which she had totally forgotten about until he mentioned it. And now she felt herself begin to cry, out of joy and longing and relief. He was here with her. He had made love to her. He would make love to her again. He would heal her wounds, and nothing would ever be the same.
* * *
This can't be wrong.
The curves and hollows of her body. The sweet sad bruise on her thigh. The soft moans of pleasure as he kissed her skin. The light touch of her fingers moving through his hair. He would think later, feel the guilt and the pain. Now he could only experience this glorious woman and trust—pray—that she was right.
The first time had been an explosion of need. The second time, minutes or hours later, was a long, focused fulfillment of desire. He lost himself inside her, felt everything drop away except the desire, a single, searing flame of light in the dark world.
And after the desire was spent, or at least its flame burned low, there was the more enduring pleasure of intimacy. Kathleen went off to the kitchen and returned with a couple of beers and a plate of leftover chicken from KFC. They snacked in bed, still naked, sitting cross-legged on the rumpled covers. They found things to talk about, though they stayed away from the big issues that would eventually have to be confronted. Don't lose the moment, he thought. It may never come again. And now it was all right to reach out and flick a crumb from her lip, to examine her bruise by lamplight and ask her how it felt; now it was all right for her to finger the scars from an ancient knee operation and demand to know every detail. Lovers, he thought, as if he had just learned the word. We are lovers.
"Stay," she said simply when the beer and chicken were gone. It was the order she had given earlier, and he hadn't resisted.
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