by K. L. Murphy
He’d woken at five, eyes snapping open in the dark. Around him, the other boys in the group home had snored and snorted in their sleep. He’d sat up, careful not to make a sound when his feet hit the floor. He’d pulled on his sweatshirt and slipped into the beat-up high-tops he kept under the bed. He’d pushed the pillow and the rest of his clothes under the sheet and thin blanket, pressing it with his hands to resemble the rough shape of a teenage boy. He’d known it wouldn’t pass close inspection but might buy him a few extra minutes.
Social services had been scheduled for nine. It was the day he was supposed to officially move in with the foster family. He’d stood up straight, swallowing the bile that rose up in his throat. No way would he ever live with those leeches. He was no fool. He could see through their phony smiles and stupid words. It was bullshit. It was all about the money—just like everything else in the world.
Reaching into his pocket, he’d pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills. It was all he had, but it was enough to get him across town where he’d be safe.
He’d pulled his baseball cap low and tiptoed around the beds. Pulling a stolen credit card from his pocket, he’d taken one more look around the room. No one had stirred. The boys were sound asleep, probably dreaming of a better place, a place that didn’t exist and never had. Too bad they were too naive to know it. With deft hands, he’d slipped the card between the door and the lock, tripping it on the first attempt. Quiet as a mouse, he’d slipped through the door, down the hall, and out into the darkness. He was free.
Matt sighed. He’d gone straight to Barry Farm, hiding in the shadows until he saw Carlos’s mom leave for work. Carlos had answered the door on the third knock, bare-chested and drowsy with sleep. He’d blinked, wrapped his thin arms around his old friend, and pulled him inside, slamming the door. Carlos had done everything for him for three years. He’d helped him hide, brought him food. After enough time had passed, and they both knew no one was looking for Matt, he’d given Matt a job. Carlos had worked for Wayne then and he’d brought Matt in to help. Matt had kept track of supply and demand, kept lists, packed bags. The money was good.
When Matt had turned eighteen, he’d known it was time to go. He’d grown tired of the life and tired of hiding. He’d wanted more, but he’d owed Carlos. He’d promised one more job. Carlos had said he needed a backup, but it had been more than that. Matt’s skin went cold remembering Wayne’s blood shooting across the room, the knife slicing a second time, a third. Wayne’s hand had reached too late for his pistol. Matt had seen the cold ambition in Carlos’s eyes. Matt had left that night without a word, disappearing as easily as though he’d never been there at all. They’d been friends, but that was a long time ago and they were on different sides now. He held the picture between his fingers and lit a match. He watched the picture blacken until it curled and shriveled, and he dropped it in the trash.
Matt sat down and took a deep breath. He couldn’t change the past, but he could try to influence the future. Carlos had lost patience with him. It was time to be honest with his old friend. He wouldn’t return the money. The best he could do was explain and help Carlos understand. Would it be enough? He couldn’t be sure, but he had no choice. Either he’d live or he’d die.
Chapter Forty-nine
Father Joe wiped his mouth with a napkin and placed the wooden chopsticks on the plate. “Thank you, Michael. I do love that spicy chicken and fried rice.” He smiled. “You are so good to remember.”
“It’s the least I could do since you’re putting me up for the night.”
The old priest’s smile faded. “You don’t need to stay here. Nothing is going to happen.”
Cancini pushed away from the table and cleared the plates. “You might be willing to take that chance, but I’m not.” Father Joe started to get up, and Cancini laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sit. I’ve got it,” he said, tidying the small kitchen while he talked. “Dad said to tell you hello.”
“You saw him tonight?”
“Called. Jada said he was tired and getting ready to turn in. She takes good care of him.”
“She’s a good woman.”
Cancini wiped the table and poured two cups of coffee. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t tell him about you being shot.”
Father Joe let out his breath. “Thank you. How’s he doing?”
“He has good days and bad.” The relationship between father and son might not have been traditional, maybe not even particularly good, but it was still difficult for Cancini to see his father so frail, so afraid. “The rainy weather we’ve had doesn’t help his breathing, and he can’t really go outside.”
“Isn’t he using oxygen?”
“Most of the time, but he fights it.” Cancini set the cups on the table and sat down. “He hates the oxygen. Doesn’t think he needs it, but without it, you can see him struggling.” He shook his head. “Stubborn.” In his head, he heard Julia’s voice. Hadn’t she said the same about him?
“Mmm. Like father like son.”
Cancini looked at him sharply. “We are not alike, Father.”
The priest picked up his cup. “It’s true you are different, but you are alike in one way. Neither of you listen—even when someone asks you nicely.”
“That’s not going to work, Father. I’m not being stubborn. I’m doing my job. If we had available manpower, someone else would be here, but we don’t.” He grinned. “Lucky you.”
Father Joe returned his smile. He reached out and patted the younger man’s hand. “I’m always glad to spend time with you, Michael. Just because I don’t think I need a babysitter doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the company.” He sipped his tea. “I also know you still have questions, although I don’t know how much help I can be.”
Cancini nodded. The sacrament bound the old man, forced him to keep the secrets of every man, woman, and child who entered the confessional. Cancini had been one of those children once. The decades had gone by, but he couldn’t forget the words he’d once spoken in confession.
“I hate my father,” he’d said, his voice trembling.
“‘Hate’ is a very strong word.”
“It’s true,” he’d insisted. “I wish he’d died instead of my mother.” He’d stumbled over the words, choking back sobs as he spoke. “I wish he was dead.”
Cancini shook away the memory. That was a long time ago, and he’d been young, just a boy grieving for his lost mother and the father who couldn’t or wouldn’t fill the void.
“You asked me earlier about Carlos,” Father Joe said. “He never left the neighborhood. He was probably Matt’s closest friend when he was just a boy, but that was a long time ago.”
“What about Carlos’s mother? Could she tell us anything?”
The priest shook his head. “I doubt it. She’s a good woman. Quiet. She doesn’t live far from her old apartment in Barry Farm. The new one is nicer, of course, but still small. When Carlos was very young, his grandmother lived with them, too. She didn’t speak much English, but she went to Mass at St. William every day, rain or shine.”
“What do you think his mother knows about Carlos’s business?”
“The chicken business?”
“No. His other business.”
“Honestly? Probably nothing. Carlos’s father died when he was five. Like many young boys, he felt it was his responsibility to take care of his mother and grandmother. Unlike most of them, he never outgrew that feeling.”
“He kept her out of his business then?”
“That would be my guess. She knows about the chicken stores, of course, but I honestly doubt she knows about the gangs or the drugs or the rest . . .” His voice trailed off.
Cancini rubbed his fingers across the table, back and forth. He agreed with Father Joe. The mother was probably a dead end. “Let’s talk about something else then.”
“Such as?”
“How about women?”
“I’m no authority as you know, but happy to listen.” The lines in
his forehead seemed to ease, and his shoulders settled into his chest. His lips turned up in a half smile and he raised his cup. “How is Julia?”
Cancini sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “She’s fine. Says hello.”
“Please say hello back.”
“My question isn’t about Julia. It’s about the relationship between Father Holland and Erica Harding.”
Father Joe set his cup on the table, hand steady. “She worked for Matt as the church secretary. I understand she was very good at her job.”
“What I mean is what kind of relationship did they have?” He hesitated. “Beyond employer/employee. Friends outside of the office? More than friends?” The old man’s faded eyes flickered, drifted away for a second, then locked on his again. Cancini let out a breath.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do, Father. Erica Harding is an attractive woman. They spent a lot of time together.”
The old man frowned and looked away. His face took on a far-off expression. “Matt took his vows very seriously.”
“I’m not saying he didn’t, but one thing I’ve learned about Father Holland was that he wasn’t an ordinary priest. He was a complicated man.”
Father Joe rose from his chair. He reached for the cane leaning against the table. Taking his cup to the sink, he balanced his weight against the counter. “We are all complicated, Michael. It’s just a matter of degree.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that there was something. I haven’t been able to put my finger on it exactly, but I don’t think Mr. Harding liked it too much.”
Father Joe refused to be baited. “You’re only speculating.”
“Really? I’m not speculating when I tell you Sonny Harding has a bad temper. I’m not speculating when I say he’s an extremely possessive husband.” He hesitated. “Sonny Harding beats his wife.”
The old priest remained still, face placid. “I don’t know that to be fact, and neither do you.”
“I think Father Holland believed it. Maybe Harding didn’t like all the time his wife spent with another man, priest or not. Maybe he found out the good Father Holland was making house calls while he was at work.”
Father Joe shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Father Joe’s lips pursed. Cancini could almost see the uncertainty, the confusion. Had the young priest confided his attraction to his mentor? Or had he confided something more?
After a minute, Father Joe spoke again, any possibility of doubt wiped away. “A priest is not born asexual, Michael. He is a man who has committed himself to serving God. He makes the sacrifices required of him by choice.” He sighed. “I will not speak for Matt on this matter ever again, except to say this. He may have been a man with a man’s weaknesses, but he was also a man who swore his allegiance to God until his death.” His shoulders slumped with his last words. “Those are my final thoughts on the matter.” He turned back to the sink, washed his cup, and set it in the drying rack. “I’m turning in. If you still feel like you need to stay, I’ve set some bedding on the sofa in the living room. Sorry it isn’t more.”
“It’s all I need.” He stood, hugged Father Joe, and watched him hobble out of the kitchen. Cancini sat watching the old man’s retreating back. What had the priest really told him? Nothing concrete, of course, but it occurred to Cancini that it didn’t matter what actually happened between Erica Harding and Father Holland. It only mattered what her husband believed had happened. He sighed. It would be another long night.
In the living room, he sat in the dark, his head in his hands. His mind jumped from closed bank accounts to jealous husbands to skull tattoos. He couldn’t decide if Father Holland was complicated or just plain crazy. Stealing from Vega? How did he think he was going to get away with it? Cancini raised his head and ran his fingers through his hair. It was almost like the guy had a death wish.
He stripped down to his T-shirt and laid his gun and cell phone next to him on the coffee table. Ignoring the bedding, he stretched out on the sofa, folding his arms over his chest. One hour stretched into two, and his mind refused to stop. Father Holland had an edge and a crazy streak, but he also had courage. He’d turned his back on the street life, the only life he’d really known. More amazing, the man had returned on a mission to make life better for those he’d left behind. He hadn’t been able to save his mother, but somehow, he’d tried to make it up to her. Cancini understood.
He rolled his head to the side and yawned. A flicker of light caught his eye. He blinked. There it was again—the flicker. He leaped to his feet, hand finding the gun on the table. He crept to the large window and peered around the heavy drapes. In the immediate yard, he saw nothing. He looked to the right, at the dark building that dominated the property. Orange and yellow flames jumped and rose almost to the roofline. The church was on fire.
Chapter Fifty
Running out the door, Cancini shoved his gun in his waistband with one hand and dialed 911 with the other. Close to the church, hot flames forced him back. The fire climbed up the stone wall, gathering strength with each passing minute. Smoke billowed above the rooftop.
Cancini raced to the front of the church, searching in every direction. Most of the houses sat in darkness. A few cars lined the street, a few more sat in driveways. Sirens approached from the south. He looked up and down the street. Except for the siren and the crackle of the fire, he saw and heard nothing. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he spun on his heels. Someone was watching him. There. The second house from the end of the block. The curtains on the upstairs window swung gently, as though whoever had been standing there had suddenly stepped away.
Twin fire engines rumbled down the block, sirens blaring. Lights went on up and down the street. He sprinted back to the small apartment, the heat from the fire swelling and hitting him in waves. He stopped short. Father Joe stood on the steps, leaning heavily against the doorway. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Why?” he asked. “Why?”
“Come on,” Cancini said. “Hang on to me. We need to get out to the street.” He wrapped his arm around the old man’s shoulder, pulling him forward. Father Joe limped alongside him until they reached the sidewalk. Breathing heavily, the old man sagged. Uniformed police arrived and blocked both ends of the street. “Everybody, get back,” shouted a fireman. Along with the police, firemen herded them down the block. The minutes ticked by and the firemen alternately yelled, blasted water, and yelled again. Several residents clustered on the sidewalk, clutching their robes or coats and shaking their heads. Father Joe’s lips moved in prayer. Black and white smoke rose into the night sky. The air smelled of charred timber and wet ash.
Cancini looked at Father Joe. “Will you be okay for a few minutes?”
“Are you leaving?”
“No. I just want to talk to whoever’s in charge.” He nodded in the direction of the fire trucks.
Father Joe stood up straighter. “I’ll be fine.” Cancini glanced back once. The old man was already surrounded by his neighbors, his parishioners.
“You need to stay back,” said a young officer, holding out his arm.
“Detective Cancini. I called 911. I don’t have my badge handy.”
The young man caught sight of the handgun tucked into his waistband. Barefoot, Cancini wore only a plain T-shirt and pants. The officer’s voice took on a wary tone. “I don’t care who you are. You need to stay behind the line.”
“Let him through, Johnson,” came another voice. Fire Chief Zeke Howell walked over. “He’s with Homicide.” The young man looked him over one more time, then backed away.
Howell pulled Cancini to the side. “Did I just hear you say you called this in?”
“Yeah.” He pointed in the direction of the apartment. “I was staying the night with a friend and saw the fire from the front window.”
The fire chief looked from the apartment to the church. “Well, you can count yourself a hero ton
ight.”
Cancini eyed the blackened walls at the back of the church. “Doesn’t look too bad. You guys are the heroes.”
Howell shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. That shouting you heard. There’s a gas line just on the other side of that wall. Another ten minutes, maybe less, and the whole damn church might’ve blown.”
Chapter Fifty-one
“Christ. What a goddamn mess.” Martin paced the small conference room. He whirled around to Cancini. “Any chance that fire was an accident?”
“I’m afraid not, Captain. Preliminary reports show it was deliberately set. And if the fire had gotten to that gas line . . .”
“Shit.”
The room was quiet. Jensen stared at his shoes. Bronson twisted his pen in his hand. Smitty sat hunched over, his arms resting on his long legs. The implication was there. If Cancini hadn’t been on the couch, if he hadn’t been awake, if he hadn’t seen the flickering light of the fire, the church, the apartment, and some of the block would have exploded into flames. Father Joe and Cancini might not have made it out alive. No one commented on the shortage of manpower. No one commented on the captain’s insistence that the shooting of Father Joe had been an unrelated drive-by. No one hinted at his reluctance to request extra men. But everyone in the room knew. And they understood.
The fire had amped up the spotlight on Vega. Even though Cancini accepted that Father Joe would never break the sacrament of confession, he had to presume Vega was not convinced. He had to know they’d found the money, seen the trail of withdrawals and deposits. The drive-by had been a warning. Was the fire meant to be another warning or something more sinister?
“What’s done is done,” the captain said, his words resigned. “From here on out, we have twenty-four-hour surveillance on the priest.” He looked at Cancini. “Where is he now?”