by Robert Lane
We had come undone.
CHAPTER 43
Cynthia Richardson sat at the end of my dock along with Morgan and Kathleen. She had flown in the previous night, and I invited her over for a dinner of gag grouper and Morgan’s seafood gumbo. I scuttled back to the house to fetch another bottle of wine.
Wayne’s badge rested on top of Tony Bennett’s 1965 album Songs for the Jet Set. A sizeable dent warped its surface. The bullet from Paretsky’s gun that should have found my heart met its match in that Viking badge. I can’t say that wearing a badge makes me an honest man. I can say it saved my life. If I could only have one, I’d choose the latter over the former.
My left side had taken a few other hits. If I were a boat, I’d no longer be listing to the port but would be dry-docked in the yard for major repairs. As it was, I vacationed three nights in the hospital. Paretsky crumbled under the combined fire from Garrett and Wayne. Garrett told me that he took a shot at Paretsky when I was still standing, and the three of us were clustered on the beach. He saw that Paretsky had the draw on me and didn’t debate my situation. He also believed that Wayne had gotten off a shot a split second before, which jibed with my memory.
I remember nothing after the dress wiping across my face.
As for Kathleen, here’s a clue: when you take one for your woman (we’re talking real lead here, not some symbolic goo), it does a world of good toward showing the meaning of I will fucking die for you. That I was the one who led her into that danger was something that she insisted I let slide. No need, she said, to be so persnickety.
We never identified the woman Paretsky was walking with, and that bothered me. I don’t like loose ends, but at least I’d whittled my original questions down to one: what was Giovanni Antinori’s sin?
Renée had nuked my theory of sexual abuse, but I had a strong contender up my sleeve, not that anyone gave me a chance of being right. It wasn’t the sexual thingumajig or the unknown words that Antinori laid on a twelve-year-old mind. Furthermore, I had great faith in my hypothesis. That put me on the opposite side of seven billion people, but I liked my odds. Always have.
My hypothesis, although conceived in the cardinal’s eyes as he lay dying, was far more than hocus-pocus. It packed substance. Uranium weight.
My first night back, at 2:38 a.m., I left Kathleen in our sheets and wandered onto the screened porch. It was there—in my favorite seat, watching the red, pulsating channel marker, stroking Hadley III, who for some inexplicable reason had leapt up on my lap—that it came to me. I remembered my dream in which a wallet-sized picture of Kathleen floated above my head. The zeppelin dream. There was another picture I’d wanted to see, but I’d forgotten about it. I tossed the cat, got up, and scrounged around in my dresser, using my phone as a flashlight. Kathleen never stirred. I found it and returned to the screened porch. I flipped on the lamp and stared at the picture of the young woman that had been in Antinori’s hand.
Cynthia’s words from the Red Lion, when she was talking about her daughter, Lizzy, flooded over me. All I managed to do was go from a brunette to a blonde, and that took me thirty years. No wonder I hadn’t made the connection earlier.
But I did now.
No doubt.
“I know you,” I said to the picture and smiled. “I know you,” I repeated. “And I know your secret.” How would I explain how it had come into my possession? I couldn’t. That line could never be crossed.
I rejoined the triumvirate. Morgan had hauled out chairs from the patio table, and we perched four across with the ladies in the middle. Cynthia was next to me, her white sweater curtaining the back of her chair. I had on lightweight long pants, which, according to Kathleen who’d insisted I wear them, would make Cynthia feel more comfortable and not so out of place. I lost. I planned to do more than my share of losing.
I’d explained on the phone to Cynthia that Renée Lambert was in the dark, same as me; her mother never told her the exact words the cardinal had pronounced that cast such a pall over her life. I informed her that, despite her assertion in the Red Lion that she didn’t know what Antinori had said to Elizabeth years ago, both Renée and I believed she did. I recalled her denial at the pub; it had come too fast, and she’d glanced away from me. Renée’s need for closure was the trump card, although I was highly suspicious that Cynthia was the one who needed closure. I e-mailed her flight confirmation, which made no a tougher word to say.
And Renée? She had no desire to hear firsthand from Cynthia the opening scene that set her family on its tragic trajectory. Her mother’s demons had destroyed not only her own life, but in a sense her father’s as well. She requested only a phone call that could finally put to rest the question that had bothered her for so long: what did Giovanni Antinori, as a young priest, say to her mother all those years ago that drove her mad and damaged her mind beyond repair? As to whether that led Antinori to embrace death, she didn’t give a fuck. Her words, not mine.
I reclaimed my seat with the opened bottle of red, and Cynthia said, “Aren’t you hot in those long pants? It’s so… sticky here.”
Kathleen and I exchanged glances, and she gave me a dreamy smile. I have no idea what a dreamy smile is, but that one’s going in my pocket.
“I wasn’t allowed to wear shorts.”
“I see. I hate to think I’m making you uncomfortable. Really, Kathleen,” she glanced over to her, “it certainly matters not a bit to me.”
“It’s good for him,” Kathleen said, “to practice on the side of caution when being considerate of other people’s positions.”
“Well, I won’t get between you, although, obviously, here I am.”
The sun, behind us in the west, illuminated mushrooming thunderheads that formed over the land. Distant lightning bolts battled one another for my attention; they wouldn’t win tonight. Cynthia Richardson would either share the cardinal’s words to Elizabeth or not. She was the end of the line. Time for me to let go, pack up, and move on.
“Goodness,” Cynthia said. Her eyes fixed on the quiet, late-afternoon water that mirrored the sky with liquid clouds of orange and black, as if there were two skies. “You live like this?”
“Worse,” I replied, “Morgan grew up in this.”
“A sailboat. That sounds so…adventurous.” Cynthia glanced over at Morgan. He had regaled us at dinner with tales about his upbringing on the water.
“It was,” Morgan replied. “I was raised on a sailboat, reading books as we chartered from one port to the next. I had no choice in that. It was as if I’d won an enormous lottery. In all of history, no finer gift could be bestowed upon a child.”
“Not all are nearly so fortunate,” Cynthia said.
“I was blessed,” Morgan said, strengthening her comment. I was thinking of how to bring up the subject of Cardinal Antinori when Cynthia said, “Certainly not the case with the group of girls I grew up with.”
“About that little knot,” I said, taking her cue.
“A knot, indeed. How was your meeting with Renée Lambert?”
“Enlightening, to a degree.” I explained what Renée had told me. “But,” I added, “she came up short on the central question. Her mother told her the church, specifically Giovanni Antinori, damaged her, but she never fully explained what that damage was for fear of alienating her daughter from the church.”
“Elizabeth Lambert didn’t want to raise her daughter to be angry at God.”
“So the world’s told me,” I replied. “You claimed that you weren’t particularly close to Elizabeth Lambert, some comment about how men find a common ground so—I believe the word was ‘effortlessly’—but I think you and Elizabeth had plenty to discuss when you reunited with her two years ago.”
Cynthia shifted her weight as a pelican miraculously survived a smacking dive into the water. “Yes, well, about that—rather violent bird, isn’t it?” She gave me a nervous smile. “It wasn’t my most honest moment, but really I had no idea what you were fishing for.”
&nb
sp; “Your most honest moment.”
“I realize that, but first, I think—and I have thought about it—that the church is not wholly to blame here. I think Elizabeth had other issues. I’m in no way defending the church, or Giovanni, but it was likely a case of strong words cast upon a weak mind. Heaven knows that Elizabeth wasn’t the first to hear those words. And the man who cast those words? He wasn’t the first to alter his beliefs, but his dark moods deformed his own mind, and her mind never surmounted its youthful impressions. Their meeting was a tragic affair for both.”
“We hear words differently, though, don’t we?” Kathleen added.
“We do. What rolls off one person sticks like glue to another.”
Kathleen shot me a look that could only be interpreted as the world’s largest I told you so. No need to pocket that.
“Those words,” I said. “Words that stuck and led to Elizabeth’s darkening mind, to her death, that Antinori never forgave himself for—what were they?”
“I recall from our pub visit,” Cynthia said, “that you know history. Am I correct?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“Are you familiar with Catholicism?”
“I light candles for my liver.”
“Yes, well.” She couldn’t suppress a smile. “I was thinking more in line with ideological thinking. Vatican Two? The ecumenism? Do you carry a remedial, and I don’t mean to imply the negative connotation that word carries, understanding of those issues?”
“The Catholic church’s coming to terms with an official position.” Morgan stepped in, and I was glad for the hand-off. He had far more interest in the topic. “Specifically, how to view and accept others who are outside of the Catholic church. For many followers, but not all, the church for centuries considered that its Christian offshoots—Protestants, Lutherans, Baptists, the list goes on—were not part of the true church.”
“Yes,” Cynthia agreed. “We could debate the finer points, but why spoil such a night? Suffice to say, prior to this ideological shift, there existed some radical views within the church; in many cases, non-Catholic Christians were treated with even greater disdain than those who were never introduced to the one true church. Those lucky souls were excused under the doctrine of invincible ignorance.
“Giovanni’s family was old school.” She took a sip of wine and looked at Morgan. She knew her audience. “He was raised under strict beliefs. Beliefs that for the majority of his career he felt compelled to follow. Compelled by his faith, his parents, his unwillingness to plot his own beliefs.”
“He dropped it two years ago,” Morgan said, picking up the pace, “didn’t he? His old faith, his upbringing?”
“He did.”
“Triggered by his meeting with Elizabeth Lambert.”
“That is correct. But bear in mind, it had been boiling underneath for some time.”
“Antinori was raised to believe that non-Catholic Christians were essentially not even Christians,” Morgan continued as my surrogate questioner. “Is that right?”
“Yes. His childhood, unlike yours, Morgan, was greatly encumbered with rooted thoughts and beliefs. His mind never set sail. Nor was it in his nature, until much later, to pick up anchor and question such things.”
I shifted my weight, and Kathleen landed another glance.
“You’re doing quite well, Mr. Travis,” Cynthia said. “I know you prefer the straight road, and so we now find ourselves upon it. Giovanni was raised to believe that all non-believers went to hell. Invincible ignorance gave you a free pass, but for those who professed to be Christians but did not belong to the Catholic church, well then, a particularly nasty little corner of Dante’s inferno awaited them. Mad, isn’t it? In many ways we are such a disappointing species, considering the size of our brains.
“Renée Sutherland died at age twelve. Elizabeth’s parents were devout Catholics. The Sutherlands were Protestants. Elizabeth and Renée were very close. Played at each other’s houses nearly every day. As I told Mr. Travis in London, we all lived on the same street. We had a bunny, a white bunny—just the cutest thing—that we raised jointly. You know, one week at each house.”
I recalled Cynthia staring at the girl with the white rabbit in the basket of her bicycle when we were at Granville Estate. It had frozen her, and now she stared blankly at the waters of the bay.
“Elizabeth’s parents,” she continued, “sent her to a very young and dashing Father Antinori for counseling. He, he said…he told her…”
She hung her head and rested it in her right hand, her elbow propped on the arm of the chair, her eyes open but dead, staring at the composite dock. I thought of Lambert’s eyes taking in his popcorn ceiling. Kathleen reached over and draped her arm around Cynthia’s back. We all knew what was coming. She shouldn’t have to say it. She’d lived with it. It destroyed her childhood friend.
“He told young Elizabeth,” Morgan said, “not in a mean way, but sitting there in his robe of authority, that twelve-year-old Renée Sutherland would burn in hell.”
“Forever and ever.” Cynthia raised her head. “So ridiculous, isn’t it?” She blurted it out in a half laugh, half cry. “That a twelve-year-old with a white bunny would suffer God’s eternal punishment. Oh…” She shook her head. She blew out her breath. “Giovanni had no courage of thought, no stomach for the questions. A stupid man.
“Thank you, Morgan. I knew none of this at the time, of course. Indeed, not until Elizabeth confided in me two years ago. When Elizabeth saw Antinori at the carnival, she broke. Unleashed hell in his face. She told me afterward that she’d suffered decades of nightmares. Twenty-four years of counseling. Can you imagine? It never erased the images in her head, her dreams, her life. She hid the root of her problem from both her husband and her daughter—thought she could tough it out herself. Was embarrassed, ashamed, she told me, that she couldn’t overcome an imbecile’s words.
“He was never the same after that—after she screamed at him. Then he found the courage of thought, of words. Then he publicly amended his beliefs, although privately those beliefs had already been severely altered. Then he became the people’s cardinal. As if he were madly scrambling to atone for his past transgressions and his blunt unwillingness to question the doctrine that had been drilled into him as a child.”
“He did have courage,” Morgan said. “It just came too late for Elizabeth.”
“Nothing, Elizabeth told me, could stem the images of her childhood friend, Renée Sutherland, burning in hell. No drugs. No two dozen years of Tuesday four o’clock sessions. No support groups. Nothing. Elizabeth said, when she went to bed, she feared the night. She disowned belief in any organized religion and never forgave her parents.”
Morgan, contemplating his words, said, “He told young Elizabeth that her friend would live in hell, and in doing so he inadvertently sent Elizabeth there as well.”
“Bravo, Morgan,” Cynthia exclaimed. “And he knew it. Knew that he created hell.” She swayed her head from side to side. “No way, as a young priest serving a supposedly loving God, did he ever see that coming. Elizabeth told me, when we met two years ago, that they, the church, in well-publicized settlements, fork over millions—billions, actually—to the victims of sexual abuse. ‘What about me?’ She beseeched me as if I would know the answer. ‘What about the damage they’ve done to me and thousands like me?’ What was I to say to her? Nothing. I had nothing to say.”
“And that tipped Antinori?” I interjected.
“He was already in a depression over Mr. Hoo—yes. In a way, I suppose, Elizabeth gave him a way out. When Giovanni learned of her death…what a pit he went in. He wasn’t able to crawl out of his depressive state. I couldn’t convince him to forgive himself. I don’t believe he ever saw the sun again. He told me once that he didn’t fear death but regarded it with curiosity—to see if everything the church believed in was true or not. He decided to take that great litmus test. He wanted to die.”
The conversation rambled on abo
ut the evolution of religion, although I wasn’t a participant. I was stuck on a comment Cynthia had made and shut everything else out. Eventually, Morgan and Kathleen excused themselves. Earlier I’d drawn Morgan aside and told him that I desired time alone with Cynthia. She and I sat in silence and watched as a cloud—microscopic particles of water—drifted under the moon until it was shrouded and only half its light filtered through.
“He was murdered, Ms. Richardson,” I said, evenly drawing back to her earlier remark concerning Antinori. “What leads you to believe he wanted to die?”
Cynthia glanced at me with apprehension. “I mis—”
“You did not. How do you know the cardinal wanted to die? Did you talk with him or Mr. Hoo—”
“No. It’s not that. I…”
“I what?”
“I saw—in his diary—the day he took his fatal stroll? It was marked.”
“How so?”
“You know Latin? I don’t know why you would, but for some reason I assume you do.”
“Eat, drink, and be merry?”
“That’s Ecclesiastes. Why always the jesting?”
“Tell me how it was marked.”
“Incepto ne desistam.”
“May I not shrink from my purpose.”
“Very good.”
“This was not his official diary, is that correct?”
“It was his personal diary.”
“Did Father McKenzie ever see it?”
“Not that I know.”
“Would you know?”
She hesitated. “Yes, Mr. Travis. I would most definitely know.” I wanted to make sure McKenzie, despite pissing in his robe, was in the dark. I didn’t like the man and was quite certain he felt the same way about me.
“Anything on the following dates?”
“Meetings, appointments. But that doesn’t tell us anything, does it?” She intensified her eyes. “But this does. And the Latin? He never put anything in his calendar in Latin. It’s the only entry.
“Don’t you see?” Her voice skipped up two notches on the excitometer. “He knew he was going to die. He went to the gardens to die. It’s the man who killed him who didn’t know his part in the tragedy. I can only conclude that a man was dispatched to kill someone else—who that person might be, I prefer not to know—but his guilt should at least be muted by the knowledge that Giovanni desired and sought the outcome.”