He surprised her by talking, not about redemption and eternal life but about fear.
“It can eat away relationships, peace of mind, faith itself,” he said, the Scottish burr thick with emotion. “Yet, in a broken world, it is often a necessary and reasonable response. Fear protects us, and it humbles us. It reminds us that we are vulnerable. It urges us to guard ourselves and those we love. We need fear, as miserable as it feels, to keep our world safe. As safe as possible. And if we really let ourselves feel that fear, it will turn us toward God.”
His words reverberated in the silence. In a quieter voice, he began the Eucharistic rite. When the boys went to stand in line for Communion, Sarah stayed on the steps, ignoring Colin’s slight, encouraging nod. Glancing around, she caught sight of Leah Morganstern in one of the back rows. Did she think the murderer would be stricken by conscience and blurt a confession in the middle of Mass? There was a time when the Mass had such power. Not anymore.
But Philip’s killer could be there. Smiling and nodding, scooching along the pew to make room, fishing out money for the Offertory collection . . . She shivered again. The sight of that gurney, the thin navy blanket covering Philip’s white-blond hair and beautiful features, would never leave her.
After Mass, she walked to the back of the church and found Morganstern still in the pew, skimming a missalette. “I knew cops went to funerals to see if the murderer showed up,” Sarah said.
Morganstern laughed. “Actually, I’m just trying to get a handle on the ritual. I almost went to the Catholic church in my neighbourhood, but I wasn’t sure how different the Mass was from place to place.”
“It’s not. That’s a point of pride, actually. We were always told, ‘You can go anywhere in the world and know what’s going on, be part of it.’”
“Makes sense. We can’t even get the Hasidim to speak to a Reform rabbi.” Morganstern dangled the flimsy missalette over her red satchel. “Does lightning strike if I steal this?”
“My guess is they’ll write it off as evangelism.”
She grinned and dropped the missalette into her bag, then looked up. “Ms. Markham, are you staying out here?”
“Only for a few more days. Colin asked me to help wrangle the reporters.”
“Be careful. About your personal safety, I mean. Try not to be alone with anyone, and keep your phone with you at all times.” Fishing out a business card, she scrawled her cell on the back. “If you see anything unusual, call me.”
“Will do,” Sarah said, taking the card automatically. She started to leave, but Morganstern caught her by the arm. “This isn’t an overdose, Sarah. It’s a homicide. Philip’s laptop was wiped clean. Our tech people are trying to restore its contents; but, so far, other than an old map, we don’t even have a motive. What we do know is that the killer’s close at hand and will be increasingly paranoid about being discovered. If you start digging into things, you’ll be in as much danger as Philip was.”
*
After Morganstern left, Sarah returned to the marble steps, mad that her knees were shaking. Cops just liked to scare people. Falling back on a childhood comfort, she murmured the Memorare, letting the prayer’s tender confidence soothe her. Never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession, was left unaided . . . Words she no longer believed, yet they still had the power to steady her.
As the last stragglers left, quiet fell. She could hear Colin behind her in the sacristy, making sure the altar boys hung their albs in the closet and extinguished every candle.
“I would have given you Communion,” he said, coming down the steps to join her.
“I’m divorced, remember? Even if the rest of me were fit for Communion, that fact alone would keep the bishop up nights.”
“I doubt Bishop Ehrlich allows much to perturb his sleep.” Colin held out a hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Hey − nice homily,” she said. “You surprised me. I was expecting you to talk about life after death.”
He gazed out at the empty pews. “I’m not entirely sure I believe in it.”
“Seriously? Don’t you have to?”
“Oh, I’m probably agnostic about far more than a priest should be. I believe spirit endures. But the notion that we get our bodies or even our personalities back strikes me as absurd.”
“Me, too.”
They drove back to the school in a companionable silence. But, when they pulled into the lot Sarah felt the world closing in again. “Let’s not go inside yet,” she pleaded.
They walked to the edge of the flagstone terrace. From there you could look out on rounded hills and, in the distance, the river bluff. A single, loud caw punched through the sky. “Crow?” she asked.
“Or raven. I actually saw a whimbrel the other day.”
“Do you miss the Islay wildlife?” she asked, not caring anymore about reminding him. Philip had been right. No secrets.
“Aye. The grey seals and otters on Caol Ila beach. The barnacle geese, cranky as hell. I loved the red deer, but there are plenty of deer in Aberdeen. The other morning I saw a doe and a fawn just ten yards away, standing in the mist like statues.”
She leaned on the railing, looking out. “Nature’s close here. How do the boys react? They’re a pretty urban bunch.”
His smile faded. “Philip was the one who surprised me. I’d have put him in expat Paris, not rural Missouri. But he loved it out here. He wrote poems about still winter sunrises and the candour of coyotes.”
“I need a better sense of him. Was he kind or cruel?”
“Both. He had no boundaries, and he questioned everything. I never knew whether to resent that freedom or envy it.”
“How did his father react? He seems more concerned with propriety.”
“Right. And Philip saw that as hypocrisy. He didn’t exactly make his father’s life easy − especially after Philip’s mother left them.” Colin pointed toward the river, and they watched a hawk soar in big easy loops before vanishing into the treetops.
“Which one was she fed up with,” Sarah asked, “her prim husband or her outrageous son?”
“The husband, I suspect. She waited until Philip was away at school to leave. I got the feeling Philip still talked to her, by phone at least. But she never gave us her contact information.” He frowned. “I’d better ask Grant if he’s notified her.”
“Maybe he doesn’t even know where she is. Maybe only Philip knew.”
Colin nodded. Again, they stared out toward the river. From here, it was only a line of grey, but now that Sarah knew what that line was, her eyes kept seeking it.
“What do we know about alibis?” she asked reluctantly, hating to break the peace. “Where everybody was Friday night. The kids were all here, I assume?”
“No home passes that weekend. Connie checked.”
“What about faculty?”
“Are you serious?”
“Unless you honestly think somebody climbed the hill in a blizzard and offed one of your students.”
His jaw shifted to one side. “I was in my study trying to write a report to the board. I finished about midnight and went for a walk to clear my head. Francis is always in his room in the evening. Adriana wasn’t even in Aberdeen − she spent the night with her sister. Connie and her husband order pizza and watch a horror flick every Friday night.”
“What about Jimmy?” She couldn’t remember Jimmy even losing his temper; he was all about fun. Still, they had to consider everything.
“He was around. Kept talking about Skyping his brother in D.C. to see his new niece. His parents are over the moon − it’s their first grandchild. Jimmy’s the godfather, so he had his Irish-mafia jokes ready.”
“Skyping wouldn’t have taken all night,” she pointed out.
“So, what, Philip’s contraband absinthe drove him to a murderous rage?”
“Well, somebody here did it.”
�
��I’m still not convinced he didn’t do it himself. He could have hidden the syringe before he lost consciousness.”
She gave him a look. “I overheard one of the cops talking about blood spatter. Where would that have come from?”
“He hit a vein wrong. He’d be nervous . . .”
“Colin, it wasn’t suicide. You know it wasn’t. What about the rest of your faculty?”
“The part-timers? No idea. I just hope they lead more exciting lives than the rest of us do.”
Maybe somebody led too exciting a life, she thought. This school would be a great place to hide out. High on the river bluffs, far from the city . . .
He read her silence. “We do extensive background checks.”
“How did the Jesuits manage to get property way out here anyway? You never said.”
“The owner had a midlife crisis and tried to turn it into a French-country B&B. Fake stone walls and battery-operated candles, all the romance she’d never had.”
“You’re cruel.” Sarah was laughing.
“Not as cruel as the house itself. I swear to God it sabotaged her. The roof sprang a leak; the foundation cracked; the decoupaged grapes peeled off the wood. And then, the real-estate bubble burst. She gave up and announced with a grand, sweeping gesture that she would donate the place to the Jesuits. What we were supposed to do with it, nobody knew.”
“So you proposed your school?”
“And now somebody’s killing my students.”
She turned. “Let’s go back inside. I want to talk to Graham.”
“Oh no you don’t.” Colin grabbed her by one shoulder and spun her around. “I never would have brought you here − never would have brought him here − if I’d thought something like this would happen. If he killed Philip, you could be next on his list.”
“So could you,” she said, wriggling away. “And I could have fucked up royally when I told you he was − what was your word? − contained. But I still don’t think he did it.”
“And how can you be sure?”
“My famous empathy, remember?”
“Not good enough. You don’t speak with him again. I’m going to call Ehrlich and ask him to insist that the Dennisons withdraw their son.”
She let her shoulders collapse, pretending defeat. “I’ll work on Haiti for a while then.”
CHAPTER NINE
The sun was going down, and the chill seeped through the walls of the milkhouse. Sarah sat on the couch, pressed close to Simon’s warm back, and glanced through a notebook. When she’d given Colin plenty of time to reach his office, she went over to the dorm and ran up to the second floor.
Graham opened the door at her first knock. “Ah, Ms. Markham. I thought you’d want to talk again.”
“People keep dying around you,” she pointed out, settling herself in his desk chair.
“In point of fact, this is the first death. But, according to Father McAvoy, I’m the prime suspect.”
“You sound pleased.”
“It’s always nice to be noticed.”
Sarcasm, or a subtle confession? Maybe he’d been acting out for attention, year after year, escalating the violence. That’s what Jimmy and Father Charron thought − and now Colin, too. But she couldn’t see Graham letting anything make him that desperate.
“Alas, I didn’t do it,” he added.
That smug tone again. “How do you expect anybody to believe you? You show no sign of feeling for anyone but yourself.”
His eyes lit with interest. Seeing the change in him, Sarah felt a chill. Did the intensity have to ratchet up this high before the boredom fell away? That could be motive to kill.
“Maybe Philip Grant was another pathetic victim, like the child in the wheelchair,” she suggested. “Philip acted out. He was odd. He was an addict.”
“Philip could take care of himself.”
She raised an eyebrow, and he caught her meaning and flushed. Reality hadn’t exactly borne him out. He looked away, and as she followed his gaze she noticed a Black Keys poster tacked above his desk.
“So what do you think happened?” she asked, letting her voice relax.
He sat on the side of his bed, kicking a pair of hiking boots out of his way. “Maybe he didn’t find life as amusing as he pretended. Or pushing everybody to be honest about their feelings pissed somebody off.”
“Do you think it was murder or suicide?”
“Murder. He liked himself too well to commit suicide. And, if you ask me, you should be looking at crazy Steven. He showed me his medical records − Asperger’s, attention deficit, dysgraphia. Just because he looks like an angel and acts like a geek, people assume he’s incapable of violence.”
She studied his face, slightly flushed, the eyes bright. “That bothers you, doesn’t it? When people get cut a little extra slack?”
“It distorts reality. And it’s patronising.”
“It can be. It can also be empathetic.”
“Everyone seems very concerned about my ‘lack of empathy.’”
“Well, if you can’t imagine someone else’s feelings, you can’t understand anybody but yourself.”
Propped on his hands, he leaned back and gazed up at the water-stained ceiling. “Well, let’s see. Right know you’re nervous, because you want to do a good job for Father McAvoy, because you’re in love with him. But you’re out of your element, and you hate that feeling. You’re also frustrated that he pulled you away from your own project − which is something about Haiti, because you’re a good little liberal journalist − and you’re tired of feeling like such a chump. Plus, you’re worried because you like me just ever so slightly more than you dislike me, and it’s against your best instincts. You value honesty, but you can’t always pull it off yourself.” He cocked his head. “How’d I do?”
She shrugged one shoulder and said nothing. He’d scored one hundred, and they both knew it.
*
Sarah tossed for hours, throwing off the covers then yanking them up in a furious tangle while Simon snored on, oblivious. What was Graham hiding behind all the wordplay? And what had Philip done to get himself killed? He was witty and brazen − it would have been easy for him to infuriate somebody. Or to intimidate; he would have enjoyed dangling a threat. Plus, he was using heroin, and that opened all sorts of violent possibilities. Maybe he was dealing. Maybe he was in debt − hard to ask Daddy for a drug allowance. Maybe he tried to sell the Matteo Ricci map and the buyer decided killing was easier than cash.
She fell asleep near dawn and woke two hours later with low, grinding cramps. Great. A boy’s school wasn’t likely to have an emergency supply of tampons. She dug through her purse, found one at the bottom, and tried to ignore the torn, slightly grimy condition of the wrapper. Ever since the divorce her periods had been erratic, and the cramps had knocked her flat on her back. Her body’s revenge for dodging motherhood? She popped three ibuprofen and told herself not to be superstitious.
Even walking downhill jostled the pain. She stepped into the deli with relief, its warmth coming over her like a blanket. Across the room, she spotted O’Rourke’s grey buzz cut and ruddy-cheeked profile. His head half turned, eyes flicking toward the doorway just long enough to register her arrival. The guy with him was in his early forties, lean and hard-muscled, wearing jeans and a dark brown leather jacket. Both men held thick mugs of coffee.
Sarah longed for a latte, but she’d feel like a fool standing there waiting for froth. She laced a black coffee with heavy cream and walked toward them.
The cop stared, his eyes daring her to stop him. O’Rourke didn’t make introductions, just said, “Call him Tailor.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know heroin’s sold in buttons,” Wingert said, keeping his eyes on Sarah.
She gave him a bored half-smile. “How often did Philip buy, and what did he buy the last time?”
“He’d been buying pretty regularly the past three months, Story tells me.”
>
“Story?”
“The girl who brings him his stuff. That’s the name she gave me.”
A sudden cramp wrung Sarah’s insides like an old laundry mangle, and nausea floated on top of the pain. “Hope it’s not her real name,” she managed. “It’s unusual.”
“Yeah, but you’re not writing any of this down.” His eyes had panned the room as he talked, but now they bore into her.
“That’s right,” she assured him. “I’m not.”
“The last time was just a week ago. He wanted boy − that’s heroin.” Tailor had seen through her jaded act. “Luckily, I had a good shipment, straight from a British hospice. It was in eyedropper vials, already liquid. Guess he liked the idea of having it ready, ’cause he didn’t blink at paying double.”
Rage squeezed the air from Sarah’s lungs. Logically, this asshole was not to blame for Philip’s death. But how dare he make money off teenagers while he ruined their lives? Taking a deep breath, she waited for the cramps to unclutch, then spoke as evenly as she could. “When did he buy it?”
“Last Monday night. He said he wanted the strongest stuff I had.” Wingert pushed his coffee mug away and stood. Leaning over, he jabbed a finger at O’Rourke’s chest. “Now you owe me.”
*
The minute the cop was gone Sarah snarled, “How can you even talk to that man?”
O’Rourke shrugged. “Greater good. Now we know where your kid got the stuff that killed him.”
A motorcycle revved outside, drowning her retort. “Stereotypes don’t bother Sgt. Wingert one bit, do they?” she asked as the bike roared away. “How’d you convince him to come here?”
“Caught him covering something up a while back and didn’t report it.”
Her jaw dropped. “Do you realise how many kids you could have kept away from easy drugs if you had turned him in?” she asked, her voice cracking high.
“They would’ve found it someplace else. What would you rather do, delay a few deaths by five minutes or get intel about your kid’s murder?” He walked to the door and held it open for her.
A Circumstance of Blood Page 10