Søren laughed, though Cyrus had a feeling the man had not been laughing at the time.
“So you going back?” he asked. “Nora says you got until Friday to decide.”
“I have to decide by Friday if I want to go back to teach when the new school year starts. There are hoops galore I have to jump through before they’ll put me back in a classroom.”
“That long stride will help you jump those hoops.”
Now Søren glared at him. Cyrus cackled to himself.
“You could be a professor without being a priest,” Cyrus said. “Right?”
“I wouldn’t be teaching pastoral studies at Loyola.”
“Then teach running at LSU. They got profs for that. Don’t know why, but they do.”
“I’m trying to picture myself as a Track & Field coach. It’s not working.”
“Just saying, you got options. It’s not ‘marry Nora’ or ‘be a Jesuit priest.’ There’s a range…” Cyrus held out both hands three feet apart. “Right hand, marry Nora. Left hand, be a priest. You see all that space in-between? That’s other shit you could be doing.”
“I’m well-aware of my options,” he said. “I just don’t like any of them. Professors, piano teachers, and track & field coaches don’t get to perform weddings and baptize babies, celebrate Mass, and perform Last Rites on the dying and bring a sense of comfort and peace to the family.”
“I get that. I do. I was a cop, then I was shot, now I’m a private detective. Even when I’m not a cop…I’m still a damn cop.”
“We are called to what we are called to,” he said, sounding just like a priest when he said it.
“I’m going to tell you something,” Cyrus said, “and it might come off as me getting back at you for running me ragged back there, but it’s not, okay?”
“Go on.”
“It’s what I tell the married men I talk to when I catch them cheating. You can’t keep your vows, you don’t get to keep your wife. It’s just that simple.”
“Simple,” he agreed. “Not easy.”
“Nobody’s saying it’s easy. I won’t even say it’s fair. I think you priests should be allowed to get married. Not easy. Not fair. But it is what it is and you knew that when you signed up for it. And that’s exactly what you’re allowed to tell me if I ever cheat on Paulina, God help me.”
“You are a wise man,” he said. “And I don’t like you very much right now.”
Cyrus had to laugh at that. “Truth hurts.”
A middle-aged woman jogged toward and then past them, giving him and Søren a knowing look. Cyrus could guess what she was thinking—definitely a weird gay hook-up.
“Here’s a thing you don’t know about me,” Cyrus said. “I’m in therapy. Paulina’s idea, but now I’m a convert. My therapist, she’s a Jungian. Now Jung was a little woo-woo but he’s helped me solve a lot of cases.”
“Very impressive for a man who’s been dead over fifty years.”
“Right. Anyway, he had this idea that people needed to have secrets. A secret is the thing that separates you from the masses. That secret is what makes you an individual.”
“And your point?”
“Dunno. Just seems kind of interesting that your whole life is a secret—by choice. Why do you think that is? You think maybe you like being separated from other people? Other priests, maybe?”
The Viking laughed a little—a very little—at that. “Worth considering.”
“Why would you want to be a priest if you don’t, you know, like them? Or want to be like them?”
“I promise you, Cyrus, you do not want to go anywhere near my psyche. You’d be better off walking blindfolded through an active minefield.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“Good. I don’t feel bad now about asking you a creepy question.”
“You have me intrigued. If you can creep me out, I’ll be very impressed.”
Priest. Sadist. Sleeping with a dominatrix. Yeah, probably took a lot to creep this old boy out.
“Speaking of priests and death—what makes a priest want to kill himself? It’s not just a sin. It’s the sin. The biggest sin. The sin that gets you kicked out of the cemetery. You can shoot up a 7-11 and still get in the cemetery. But you shoot yourself? That’s it. You’re evicted. Even the dead don’t want you in their neighborhood.”
“The usual, I imagine. Depression. Mental illness. Traumatic event. All those can be exacerbated by the loneliness of being a Catholic priest. No spouse to confide in, very few intimate friends. Also, there’s the fishbowl effect. We’re watched. We’re seen. We’re put on pedestals we don’t belong on. Most men feel the pressure to bottle up their emotions and priests experience that as well. But whereas other men are at least allowed to express anger, priests are expected to be godly and perfect at all times. We’re denied even the outlets other men are allowed.”
Cyrus nodded. He couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to go through life without Paulina in it. “What about you? Can you think of anything that would make you want to do it?”
“Ah, now that is a creepy question, isn’t it?”
“Creepy as hell,” Cyrus said. “Don’t answer it if you don’t want to.”
Søren took a long breath. “The two people in my life I love the most, I’ve hurt them both and hurt them deeply. Betrayed them, their trust, their love for me. And even then, I always had faith that the wounds would heal. And they’ve both done their fair share of damage as well.” He paused again. “I’d say the only thing that would make me tempted to take my own life would be if I hurt my son or found myself tempted to hurt my son. My father…he hurt my sister. And me when I tried to stop it. Yes, if I were tempted to hurt a child, my child especially, I would be very tempted to do myself in.”
“You wouldn’t have to kill yourself,” Cyrus said. “You hurt a kid? I’d do it for you.”
“And I would thank you for saving me the trouble.”
“You think it means anything he did it at that little house on Annunciation Street?” Cyrus asked.
“He would have wanted privacy, of course.”
“He had a car. He could have driven out to the middle of nowhere and done it.”
“True. Perhaps the house holds some special meaning for him?”
“Not that I know of,” Cyrus said. “But I haven’t looked at that angle yet either. The house has been locked up for cleaning. I’ll see if I can get in, nose around.”
They were nearing the parking lot. Cyrus couldn’t wait to get into his air-conditioned car, get home and get in the shower. And then he might take a nap. A long God damn nap.
He whistled softly when he saw Søren’s ride. A black Ducati motorcycle.
“Who’d you have to sleep with to get one of those?”
“This was a bribe,” Søren said as he took his helmet out of the saddlebag. “My father—who was vile in every way imaginable—tried everything in his power to stop me from joining the Jesuits and becoming a priest. Threats of violence. Threats of public humiliation. Threats of harming the few people in my life I loved. In the end, he resorted to simple bribery. Jesuits aren’t allowed to own personal property and everything is owned in common. If I wanted to keep the bike for myself—which I did, of course—I would have to leave the Jesuits.”
“But you got it.”
“My father didn’t know about the loophole—a Jesuit can ask permission to keep gifts. Sometimes it’s granted, usually for small personal things, rarely anything large or expensive. My advisor and confessor, however, gave me permission to keep it. I believe his exact words were, ‘You keep the Ducati. Your father can go to hell.’ And when he died, he did.”
“Damn,” Cyrus said. “You’re pretty cold for a priest.”
“You don’t know much about priests if you think we’re better people than everyone else. I am living proof of that. In fact, if I had one piece of advice to give you as you investigate your case—”
“I’ll take
it,” Cyrus said.
“Assume the worst.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The verdict was in. The color was Return to Paradise—a pale blue-green. Kingsley approved, begrudgingly, and Céleste approved wholeheartedly. As always, what Céleste wanted, Céleste got, God bless that girl.
Juliette preferred oil-based paint for its finish, but it stunk to high heaven. Juliette, Céleste, and Kingsley decamped to the Ritz-Carlton for a few days, leaving Nora alone with the fumes. With the windows open and a paint mask on, Nora was fine, more or less. Except for when she hallucinated a young Christopher Plummer, riding on the back of a white horse, coming to carry her away. She’d taken a break after that.
With the family gone, Nora could have simply hired someone to paint the nursery. Though tempted, she’d decided against it. Better to stay busy than sit around obsessing over everything Mercedes had said to her. So she cranked the music—Madonna and Prince were good company for manual labor—and got to work.
Music helped for an hour or two, but once Nora settled into the rhythm of the work, the swish and whoosh of the roller brush on the wall, her mind wandered again to the warnings Mercedes had given her.
She would face a difficult choice. She would make the wrong choice. Innocent people would be hurt. And it was a man who would lead her astray.
It was that last part that turned Nora into a skeptic. Deep down, she knew she was perfectly capable of fucking up royally and hurting people without even realizing what she’d done. She’d been that person more times than she wanted to think about. But the men in her life? Søren. Nico. Kingsley. Cyrus. Gmork?
Nico was in France and wasn’t even aware of what was happening right now. Nora would tell him, but only when she had more answers than questions.
Kingsley? True, he was a reformed rake, minus the reformed part, but he was protective of the women in life—especially Juliette and Céleste but her, too.
Cyrus? Cyrus was up to his eyeballs in love, lust, and adoration of his fiancée. He wouldn’t do anything to mess things up with Paulina, much less lead Nora “astray.”
And Søren? He would die for her, plain and simple. He would never talk her out of doing the right thing or into doing the wrong thing.
Would he? Not on purpose anyway.
She was fairly sure she was hallucinating again when she received a text message from Cyrus that read, Emma Stone wants to fuck your Viking.
Nora left the nursery and went out to the backyard to breathe some fresh air and make sure she’d read that right.
She had.
Therefore she replied, Do I get to watch?
You’re as crazy as he is.
I warned you about the running thing. But no, you didn’t want to listen to me.
Yeah, you warned me. That’s on me. Call me.
Nora called him.
“What’s up?” she asked him. “Wait. How sure are you this phone call is actually happening?”
“Ninety percent. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been inhaling a lot of paint fumes. Oil paint. I’m not sure about reality at the moment. Not that I’m complaining.”
“You’re not even gonna ask me about Emma Stone?”
“Sexy young redhead with good tits flirted with Søren while you two were running this morning?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Either Søren has a thing for redheads or redheads have a thing for Søren, I swear. You should have seen it when he and Kingsley played on the same team in church league soccer. Women would slide off the bleachers.”
“I don’t need that image in my head.”
“Sorry. Blame the paint fumes for that. Trying to get the nursery done. Wanna come help?” she asked, her voice bright and obnoxious as a fluorescent light.
“Yeah, no. Just calling to tell you your Viking says we can keep working together.”
“So the fellowship of the cock rings isn’t breaking up?”
“You are not right, woman. Not right at all. And don’t even try to blame the paint fumes for that.”
She couldn’t, so she didn’t.
“What’s our next move then, partner?” she asked.
“The police finally released the house where Father Ike died. My next move is checking that house, seeing if they missed anything.”
“Like what? Suicide note?”
“Most people don’t leave a note,” he said. “And cops looked for one. Closest we got was that voicemail he left for Sister Margaret.”
“What did it say exactly?” Nora asked. He’d never told her.
“Give me a sec. I’ll get my notebook.”
Nora heard Cyrus put his phone down. When he picked it up again, she heard the rustle of pages flipping.
“According to Detective Katherine Naylor,” Cyrus said, “Father Ike said, ‘I’m sorry for what I’m about to do but I’d be sorrier if I didn’t do it. I can’t do this anymore. Forgive me. Pray for me, Margaret.’ And that was it.”
“Pretty vague. I guess ‘I’m sorry for what I’m about to do’ means he’s sorry for committing suicide. But why would he be sorrier if he didn’t commit suicide?”
“No God damn idea.”
“Did you listen to it yourself?” she asked.
“The voicemail? No, didn’t want to.”
“Maybe we should,” Nora said. “Maybe he said something else. You got that from the detective, not Sister Margaret.”
“You’re gonna make me listen to that message, aren’t you?”
“I’ll do it if you don’t want to.”
“Fine. I’ll call Sister Margaret, see if we can hear the message. Although I’m already thinking that’s a dead-end. Detective Naylor would have told me if there was anything in that voicemail worth listening to.”
“You never know,” Nora said. “So if not a note, what are you looking for in the house?”
“Maybe that key?” he said.
“Good thinking. I should come, too, and help you look for it.”
“You want to go to the scene of a bloody suicide?”
“It’s not still bloody, is it?”
“No. It’s cleaned up now.”
“Then, yes, I want to go with you.”
“All right. Meet me there at six,” he said. “Yellow house on the corner of Annunciation and Rose.”
“I’ll be there. See you later. If I don’t pass out from paint fumes first.”
Nora hung up, took in a few more lungfuls of fresh air, then returned to the nursery where Christopher Plummer was waiting for her.
Naked.
“Captain Von Trapp,” she said. “We really should stop meeting this way.”
Maybe when she was done with the nursery, she’d repaint her bedroom. Or the whole house…
Chapter Thirty-Six
Cyrus paced the sidewalk while he waited for Nora to turn up. It was almost six, the sun still up, and he wanted to search the outside of the house for Father Ike’s missing car keys. He had a feeling if they found the car keys, they’d also find the missing padlock key. Nora seemed to like her theory that Father Ike had a lady somewhere who was wearing that key around her neck on a chain, but Cyrus doubted it. Things weren’t that mysterious and sexy in real life. Violent deaths were ugly and brutal and stupid, and beautiful corpses were only on TV.
Although the sun was up, Cyrus used his flashlight to scan the little front yard. He didn’t find anything in the weedy grass. Before he could check the backyard, Nora pulled up in her Mustang and parked in front of the house on the street. Thank God, she was dressed normal. Jeans, white tank, sneakers. Duffle bag, which probably had that cock-ring chastity thing in it.
“Over here,” he said and waved her to the front door.
“You heard back from Sister Margaret yet about the message?” Nora asked.
“Not yet.”
Using the key Katherine had given him, Cyrus opened the front door and let them both in the house.
They paused at the entryway as if afraid
to go in further. The house didn’t look like the scene of a crime. The clean-up was over. No red left on the old oak floors. It just looked like a little guest house—bookshelves filled with mismatched knickknacks and old books that either came from Goodwill or ought to go there, ugly plaid sofa, coffee table from the ’70s, wallpaper from the ’60s, brick fireplace plugged up since the ’50s. Why do it here? Of all the places to kill yourself…
“It’s clean,” Cyrus said, glancing around. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Why do you look so worried then?” Nora asked. She didn’t look too relaxed herself.
“We’re not supposed to be here, technically. So look hard and fast and try not to mess anything up.”
Nora nodded. Cyrus said, “Good luck.”
He left her in the living room while he walked through to the kitchen and out the backdoor. With his flashlight he made a circuit of the yard. Didn’t find anything. Not until he went all the way around the side of the house again and noticed paper sticking out of the mailbox.
He knew he shouldn’t be digging through the mail—federal crime and all that—but it wouldn’t kill him to look. Turned out the box was stuffed solid with several days of mail. Junk mostly. Flyers and notices. But there was something else, a big pink envelope, the kind that went with a big greeting card. Except this envelope had no address or name written on it, no return address or stamp. And it didn’t hold a card. It held something hard, something solid, something that jingled.
Shaking, Cyrus pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and grasped the envelope by the corner before he got his fingerprints all over it. Cyrus stepped into the front door and found Nora had taken all the couch cushions off and was digging through the seats.
“Come here. I got something.”
She stood up fast and Cyrus nodded toward the kitchen where there was good bright light.
At the kitchen counter, Cyrus laid the envelope down.
“Feels like keys,” he explained to Nora as he dug latex gloves out of his pocket. “Sounds like them, too.”
He turned the envelope over. Holding the flap down was a sticker.
The Priest: An Original Sinners Novel Page 26