The sound of her feet moving from gravel to the pavement of Main Street hit her ears. The silence of the surrounding buildings made her footsteps echo all the louder. It drowned out all other ambient noise in her head and left her isolated from the world around her. Her eyes focused on nothing as she continued to run, trusting that her feet knew the way home.
Those feet brought her into a near collision, however, and a man’s abrupt shout shook her awake. She managed to stop herself and reach out and grab him just in time to prevent them both from falling to the ground. She steadied them both and took a step back, wiping the sweat out of her eyes and tightening her ponytail. The man came into focus. He was tall and slender with a close-cropped, white beard and balding head. What hair he had left matched the color of his beard. He held a large, black plastic bag in one hand and was checking around the sidewalk to make sure nothing had fallen out during their near collision. His black, short-sleeved shirt was buttoned around the neck with a white collar. A priest.
“Close one!” he exclaimed in a cheerful tone. “I’m sorry, I saw you coming down the street, but I thought you were far enough away for me to get the trash to the curb. You’re faster than I anticipated.” He smiled at her and tossed the bag into the garbage can.
“Yeah, well, sorry,” she answered stiffly. She hated talking to priests, even ones that seemed nice. “Um, I hope I didn’t hurt you or anything.”
“Oh no harm, no harm,” he sang out, laughing a little as he spoke.
“Well, that’s, uh . . . that’s good,” Maureen stammered. She began to edge around him to continue on her way home, but the man didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve seen you running past the church before,” he said as he nodded off to his right. She followed his silent direction and turned her head to face the red-brick building. Of course she had seen it several times before: St. Mary’s Catholic Church. There’s always a St. Mary’s, she thought the first time she had passed it. So now, she wasn’t only talking to a priest, but a Catholic one at that. She made a face as she looked at the church.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, turning to stand next to her and looking up at the church as well, “if I recall correctly, I first saw you run past a few weeks ago. I took notice only because I’d never seen you before in the eight years I’ve been assigned here. ‘You must be new in town,’ I thought to myself.”
“Yeah,” she said, not bothering to look at him, “my car broke down three weeks ago.”
“I see!” he returned, seemingly delighted at the information. “So you didn’t intend to come here, but fate had other plans and now, here you and I are, having a nice little chat that we wouldn’t have had otherwise. The small miracles of life!”
This was getting a bit too strange for her. Maureen turned to face him. “Yeah, well, not to be rude, uh . . . Father, but I kind of have some things on my mind, and I’d really like to get home.” She tried again to get past him, but he stood fast.
“Oh, how rude of me,” he replied. “Of course, of course.” She nodded and began to leave once again when he stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Father Patrick, Father Patrick McGill.” The man was obviously not going to let her go until she acquiesced.
She shook his hand but remained silent.
“You seemed to be in a hurry,” he continued, as if he didn’t care that she didn’t introduce herself. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t inquire as to what was troubling you. As I’ve said, I’ve seen you run by the church a few times before, but never in such a rush. If I may be so bold, I should say that something has just happened that troubled you deeply.”
“You haven’t seen the crime scene over in the subdivision?” she asked, surprised by her own quick response.
“That would explain the flood of people I saw heading in that direction earlier this morning,” he mused. His smiling face suddenly gave way to a more serious expression. “It is a sad thing that so many should want to be on hand to witness tragedy.” He shook his head.
“I think someone’s dead,” Maureen found herself responding. Something about Father Patrick just drew it out of her.
“Tragic,” he said, “simply tragic. I’m forced to ask, though, why is it that a scene like that, which made so many people flock to look on, made you run in the other direction?” He looked at her steadily, and it was as if he could see all her secrets.
She had no idea how she was going to answer, and her feet felt bolted to the ground.
“Father Patrick,” a voice interrupted from the direction of the church, much to Maureen’s relief. A younger, brown-haired man dressed much like Father Patrick came walking across the front lawn of the church and stopped a few feet away. “Father, I thought you were going to be in your office. I’d hoped to go over the parish budget for next quarter, as well as my sermon for this Sunday.”
“Just taking out the garbage,” he answered coolly.
“Is the custodian busy with something else, Father?”
“Father Preston Lane,” Father Patrick said to Maureen gesturing to the young man. “My junior priest. A very devout man, a little too obsessed with propriety if you ask me, but surely that will be what raises him to Bishop before he turns forty.” He smiled as he clapped the younger man on the shoulder and shook him like a man gently chastising a little brother. “What of our custodian, Preston? Haven’t I always said that we’re custodians ourselves? A priest shouldn’t mind using his hands. After all, didn’t our own Savior know His way around tools and labor? But, then, if it weren’t for you, maybe I’d lose sight of the bureaucratic side of things that keeps the Church operating. Bless you for reminding me. I’ll be there in just a moment to handle our business.”
Father Preston nodded, turned, and headed back into the church. Father Patrick watched him go before turning back to Maureen, shaking his head and chuckling.
“What I said was true,” he said to her. “St. Mary’s might have gone bankrupt if it wasn’t for him. It’s likely why they sent him to me. The Diocese has always said that my flock adores me, but the accountants despise me.” He paused to look at her for a moment, the smile on his lips amused and sad at the same time. “Well, I’ve detained you long enough. I’m sorry to hear about the tragedy you have witnessed, and more sorry that you can’t stay to talk. If you ever need an ear, the church door is always open. Literally.” He laughed. “I don’t allow the doors to be locked, much to the chagrin of some. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. . . .” He looked at her inquisitively and stuck out his hand for another shake.
“Allen,” Maureen said, eyeing him carefully and shaking his hand one more time.
He tilted his head, beckoning her to offer just a little more.
“Maureen,” she conceded.
“Maureen,” he repeated, giving her hand a final shake and releasing her. “Until our next meeting, I’ll pray for you and anyone who may have been hurt today.” His eyes became grave despite the smile on his face. He nodded a farewell and turned to walk back toward the front door of the church, waving his hand back at her as he went.
Maureen stood frozen on the sidewalk until the church’s door shut behind Father Patrick and exhaled with relief. She could not put her finger on what bolted down her feet, what made her legs inoperable, or what caused her to stay and talk to the man. She never talked to priests. It was a hard and fast rule ever since she had gone out on her own. No cops, no doctors, no priests. She could not afford to let her rules slip if she was going to get out of here and back ahead of the nightmares.
Maureen ran back to her apartment as fast as she could. She dashed up the steps, retrieved her key from its hiding place, and got inside, shutting the world outside with the slam of the door.
She went into the bathroom to wash her face. As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, the dark bags under her eyes reminded her that she had forgotten to buy some concealer. No point in that now, she thought sulle
nly. Just throw on the push-up bra, and not a single one of those drunk bastards will even bother to look at my face. With that notion in mind, she quickly splashed her face, dried it, and threw the towel on the ground.
There was only one thing she wanted to do now: shut off everything for a while. Maureen stalked across her apartment to her nightstand and ripped open the drawer. She grabbed the pill bottle and tipped one of the pink tablets into her mouth and swallowed, set her alarm to two, and flopped down on her sheetless bed with her knees tucked to her chest. She had her plan decided. She would let the pill help her sleep until the alarm went off, finish tonight’s shift, and disappear.
By this time tomorrow, she’d be on a bus to anywhere else. By this time tomorrow, she wouldn’t be Maureen Allen anymore.
SIX
Manny slouched on his bar stool, staring at his mug of beer and running over the day in his mind. He’d wandered into Anderson’s and ordered his drink nearly an hour ago and had yet to take more than three sips. The honey-blonde bartender looked familiar, but he couldn’t be sure, and he wasn’t in the mood to begin speculation. If he had less on his mind, he might have been able to place her, but he was focused on other things at the moment.
During the interview, Mr. and Mrs. Lowes hadn’t displayed any odd behavior, and both of them had readily agreed to a DNA swab. The samples were at the county crime lab now, and he’d have the comparison results to that vomit sample, along with the rest of the report, in the morning. He wouldn’t have the report long, however, before he’d have to pass it along. This was what was weighing on him.
That afternoon, as he had been poring over the Lowes’ personal information, Captain Wellner called him into his office. He knew the minute he saw Sheriff Taughten in the office that something was going to be shaken up in the investigation. And it was, in the manner that he had feared most.
“Detective Benitez,” Captain Wellner had begun, using the formal tone he always did when he had to deliver some bad news. “Please have a seat.”
Manny had declined to sit, and the sheriff took over the conversation.
“Manny,” he said, “we know that you’ll do your best in the investigation, but we think we’re going to need some help on this one.”
“Okay,” he said, knowing what was coming.
“We’re going to need the FBI’s resources to handle the DNA evidence,” the sheriff went on, “and we just think that due to the sensitivity of the case, and its heinous nature, it’s best to bring in folks with more experience in handling these types of situations.”
“Are you pulling me from the case?” he asked harshly, not wanting to be put on the sidelines.
“You’re the only detective in the department,” Captain Wellner broke in. “We know that you’re going to be an asset on this one. We’ve agreed that the department will offer support to the Feds, and you’ll be our primary representative. Your ongoing investigation will come under their jurisdiction, and you’ll be reporting directly to the agents that they send down. They’ll be here within the next twenty-four hours.”
“So do I have to stand down until my babysitters get here?” It just slipped out. Manny would have given a year’s pay to take it back, but he just couldn’t control his frustration. He knew the involvement of the Feds would relegate him to nothing more than an errand boy.
“Benitez, son,” the sheriff scolded, “I think you’d do well to bite that tongue of yours when the Feds get here. Cooperate. Make sure you look like you know what you’re doing. That way, we’ll all get along a lot better and get those boys out of our hair all the quicker.”
I do know what I’m doing! The bitter thought was still fresh in Manny’s mind as he sat gazing at the three shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar. It was good that he’d decided not to head over to Smokey’s after work. By now, he was sure, the gossip of the Feds becoming involved and his demotion to a supporting role in the investigation would have made its way around the station. He could only imagine the relentless ribbing he’d endure from Wentworth and the other cops if he were to show up at the usual hangout. Anderson’s, on the other hand, was well known as the weekday establishment for the lower rung of drinkers who had nothing to go home to. It was a place where you went to be left alone; it was the perfect spot for him now. Manny lifted his mug and took a large swallow of beer. It had gotten warm during his silent vigil, and he could feel himself make a face as he swallowed.
“Sucks when it gets warm, doesn’t it?” a woman’s voice penetrated the haze that surrounded him. Manny looked up to see the bartender standing in front of him, hands on the bar, leaning over just enough to give him an eyeful of the cleavage poking out of her white tank top.
“Word of advice,” she continued, “when you come in here to sit and drown your sorrows, it’s usually more effective to drink more than half a beer in an hour. You’ll never kill the right number of brain cells at your pace.”
Despite himself, Manny broke into a half smile at her jab.
The woman grabbed his mug of warm liquid and dumped it into the sink behind the bar. She shot Manny a wink as she walked over to the tap and filled the mug with fresh beer and plopped it back in front of him. She then grabbed a bottle of tequila from the back shelf and filled a shot glass, set it on the bar next to the beer, and nodded at Manny to drink it. He took the glass in hand and took a small sip. It was some of the worst tequila he’d ever tasted, and he could feel the look of utter disgust twist his face as he swallowed. The woman let out a laugh as he set the remainder of the shot on the bar and pushed it away.
“Yeah, Mr. Anderson doesn’t really spend much money on the liquor around here,” she said.
“Clearly. I think I’ll stick to the beer. Do I owe you for the shot?”
“Nah. Second beer’s on me too.” She grabbed the shot glass and raised it up. “Cheers.”
Manny watched in awe as she downed the remainder of the nasty liquid, giving no visible hint whether it bothered her in the least. Almost unconsciously, he grabbed his beer mug and drained nearly half its contents in one gulp.
“That’s more like it,” she smiled as she slapped the bar with her hand, before turning her head to peer down to the men seated in the stools at the other end. “Better go check on the boys. You’ll let me know if you need anything else?”
Manny gave a nod which she returned before sauntering over to stand in front of the three older, and somewhat unkempt, men. He watched as she filled each of their glasses with brown liquor and put her hand over her heart in thanks as one of the men handed her a large bill. They seemed familiar with each other, and he deduced that these men were probably regulars who she had been working her feminine charms on for a while.
Though she seemed totally committed to her act, Manny would catch her periodically rolling her eyes and, when the men weren’t looking, allowing the phony smile to momentarily drop from her face before continuing with her flirtations. Here was a woman who was clearly not where she wanted to be. He wondered what her story was, and why he kept staring at her. She was attractive, to be sure: thin and lithe. And though she was a tad shorter than he usually liked and a few years older than he was, the curve of her backside pushing against her jeans as she leaned over the bar was an alluring sight.
Manny looked over at the television in the corner above the bar. He was hoping that the Cardinals game would be on, but he was confronted with the scene in front of the Sheriff’s Department from a few hours prior. Sheriff Taughten was at the podium speaking to the assembled media. It was the part of the statement where he was going over the details of how the local authorities were going to be handing over control of the investigation to the FBI. Manny recalled the awkward feeling of being called to stand next to the Sheriff as he gave his statement and was relieved when Taughten hadn’t asked him to say anything when he was finished.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” The bartender’s voice mad
e him jump. Manny marveled to himself at how he didn’t hear her come up behind him.
“That’s me,” he managed to reply, his frustration with his bosses showing through. He looked at her, but she was staring intently, almost transfixed, at the screen.
“Young Boy Slain, Burned,” she said, reading the caption at the bottom of the screen.
Manny eyed her carefully over the rim of his mug as he took a slow sip. He watched as she walked over to the television, reached up, and turned up the volume. She seemed to ignore everything else in the bar. Manny knew that if the news channel ran the press conference in its entirety, she would remain like that for almost another five minutes.
Manny turned to scan the room. His eyes passed over the men that she had been flirting with and then beyond to a couple of younger men at a table in the corner. They were drinking quickly out of their glasses and laughing to each other, but their eyes were cast across the room. Manny followed their gaze and saw a group of three women who were just sitting down. They were in their early forties with too much makeup on and were dressed how they probably thought college girls dressed. They were clearly looking for a man to pay for their drinks and possibly take them home to make them feel as beautiful as they hoped they still were. It was enough of a scene to make Manny begin to regret his decision to walk in this world for the night.
“So you’re a detective, then.” Her voice brought him back to the moment.
Manny turned back around to face the woman, who was once again leaning over the bar and staring at him intently.
“Do you have any idea who did it?” she whispered, causing him to lean closer.
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