Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  I smiled. “Mrs. Vincent’s sink. Unintentional.”

  He was dressed in his black suit and clerical collar and swinging his black umbrella, the only one I remember him ever carrying. The vinyl canopy was a bit beaten up and the wooden crook handle was worn smooth by decades of Pop’s hand gripping it, but it still kept the rain off, and so he would not part with it, despite the number of fancier umbrellas people gifted him with every birthday and Christmas. The black suit paired with the old umbrella made him look a little like the Penguin, minus the waddle, the nose, and the psychotic propensity for mayhem. He stepped inside.

  “I’m sure it’s one heck of a story. I can’t wait to hear it.”

  He followed me upstairs to my apartment and hooked his umbrella on the hat rack by the door as he’d done a million times before. I tossed Plumbing for Dummies into the wastebasket, never wanting to see it again, and set my toolbox down by the door. “What’s up? Want a ginger ale or something?”

  He waved me off. “I’ll get it myself. You go get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Hope you have some of those cookies I like.”

  I smiled, peddling away toward the bedroom. “Cabinet on the left. Back in a minute.”

  I was back in five, having had to hang my sweat socks over the bathroom towel rack to dry them out. I swapped wet jeans for dry ones and my tried-and-true U of I T-shirt for the one I had on. I ran my fingers through my choppy hair, but left it to dry on its own. I felt renewed as I padded into the kitchen to find Pop on a stool at my kitchen island munching on a Milano cookie, a cold ginger ale there to wash it down.

  “So? Why were you wet?”

  I grabbed a cookie from the bag, took a bite. I deserved it. I’d nearly drowned on dry land and had to pay a plumber $250. I took a second cookie. I deserved that one, too. “A leaky faucet downstairs turned into an eruption.”

  “Ah, that’s okay then. I was worried it was work related.” He shook his head. “I still can’t begin to understand what you do for a living now. The police work was nerve-wracking enough. This PI thing is dangerous, and you’re out there by yourself.”

  I smiled. “I could say the same for you, you know—battling Satan, dunking warm babies into cold birdbaths.”

  He chuckled, shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta do it.” He watched me intently. “How’re you getting along?” Since the rooftop, he’d asked the same question every time he saw me; every time I gave the same answer.

  “The pills are still in the bottle.”

  He nodded, smiled. We were quiet for a time. It was an easy silence.

  “This is Tuesday. You didn’t bring your chessboard. What’s wrong?”

  He glanced over at me. “A detective at work?”

  “It’s not like I can turn it off.”

  I watched as his hand hovered over the bag of cookies, and then drew away without taking one. “Mind if we talk for a bit?”

  He’d turn sixty-nine next March, and didn’t look it, despite the thinning gray hair. But now, really looking at him, he appeared older than he had even last week, as if something were bothering him, something big. My gut clenched. “Of course not.”

  He hesitated just slightly, but it was enough to send a niggle of dread sliding down my spine. “Pop?”

  His eyes met mine. I waited, my pulse quickening. He was sick, I thought. Cancer. Again. He was going to die of cancer, like my mother, and didn’t know how to tell me. I held my breath, my brain sputtering, my fears taking on a life of their own.

  “I need a detective, or think I do.”

  I wasn’t sure I heard him right. “What?”

  “I need a detective.”

  I paused, relief flooding over me. I was a bit startled by his directness, but too relieved he wasn’t dying to worry much about it. My appetite for the cookies was gone, though. I pushed them aside, focused in. “Why do you need a detective?”

  He got up to pace the floor. “I’ve never been one to spook easily. Maybe it’s just me getting old, but . . .” His voice trailed off. “I’ve got the sinking feeling that somebody’s watching me.”

  I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Who follows a priest? Why bother? “What makes you think that?”

  “Besides the feeling?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s not the only strange thing. My car’s been broken into, fires set in our garbage carts, a couple of busted windows in the rectory. Kid stuff, I told myself, but then I got to thinking, what if somebody got hurt? A parishioner or one of the kids at the school?”

  “When did all this start?”

  Pop shrugged, turned his back to me—avoidance. I knew the signs. I’d perfected them in Voigt’s office. “A few weeks, maybe.”

  I stood. “Then why am I just now hearing about it?”

  He turned to face me. “Because I didn’t want to worry you over it, that’s why.”

  “A fire? A break-in?”

  “A little fire and a little break-in.”

  “And you reported this to the police.” It was not a question.

  He waved me off. “Let’s try not to make a big thing out of this. I ruffle feathers, you know that. I’d just like it to stop is all. I thought maybe you could poke around like you do. See if anything jumps out at you.”

  I grabbed a notepad from a drawer, mostly to keep my hands steady. Just the thought of anybody harassing Pop made my blood boil. “Who do you think it is?”

  He fell silent. “Truthfully? It could be any number of people.”

  It was true. Pop was a burr in a lot of sides. He harassed slumlords, linked arms in human daisy chains to block neighborhood crack houses. Every news station in the city had B-roll of him sitting in at hooker pickup points or staring down grungy cashiers behind the counters of filthy stores that sold beer and crack pipes to children along with the expired milk and overpriced toilet paper. “Who recently?” I asked.

  “I don’t always see eye to eye with everyone on everything. Doesn’t mean people want to do me harm.”

  “And yet someone seems to want to do just that. Give me a name.”

  “I’ve chosen forgiveness and understanding. My primary concern is the safety of the parish, like I said.”

  “I need a place to start, Pop. Your forgiveness and understanding are not going to help me here.” He looked away. He was probably reciting a prayer in his head. That’s what priests did, wasn’t it? Turn to divine guidance. I wanted to scream out in frustration, shake him. “Pop?”

  He turned back. Our eyes held. His were full of kindness and compassion. They were patient eyes. It slowly dawned on me that we weren’t talking about some unknown stalker; he knew who was doing these things. Soon after that revelation came this one—he wasn’t going to tell me.

  “I’ve given you enough to get started. I’ve seen you do more with less.”

  I sputtered. “What? You’ve given me nothing. I need information. I get you’re—” I stopped midsentence. “You won’t tell me because you can’t. That’s it, isn’t it? Someone confessed to you, and now you’re bound by that seal thing. Is that it?”

  Pop’s eyes twinkled; he smiled. He didn’t have a mean bone in his entire body. “Fire’s a very dangerous thing, Cassandra. The church could catch, or the school. These are my people, my kids. I need them safe.”

  The kitchen phone hung from the wall. I picked up the receiver, dialed.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “The police.” I got the desk sergeant at the Third District on the line and then handed the phone over to Pop. “Tell them everything.”

  While he talked, I paced. The call seemed to go on forever. Each detail Pop relayed felt like a stab to my heart from a hot knifepoint. I wore a path in the linoleum between the island and the dishwasher across the room. The pacing got a little monotonous after a while, but I was too keyed up to sit, too angry to stand still. Something Pop said to the cop on the phone, however, stopped me cold. The in
cidents had been going on not for a few weeks, but for three months.

  I faced the kitchen window so he wouldn’t see how startled and hurt I was that he’d kept all of this from me. How could I stop this? What did I need to do to find some nameless, faceless person? Pop couldn’t help me; he was bound by the Seal of the Confessional. That left me next to nothing. I worked to keep my breathing steady. What could anyone have against a simple parish priest anyway, against Pop? How far were they willing to take it? When Pop’s call ended, I turned back to him. “Three months?”

  He exhaled. “Don’t parents try and keep the hard things to themselves? Besides, you’ve got enough on your plate with the rehab and the new direction you’re going in.”

  “I’m not a child anymore, Pop.”

  He slid his hands into his pockets, smiled. “Age doesn’t make a bit of difference, that much I do know.”

  I cleared my throat, trying to dislodge the lump in it. “We can talk about that later, and we will talk about it. What’d the police say?”

  “They’ll have a car swing by the church a few times tonight to make sure everything’s all right. Somebody will be by in the morning to take a report. The officer recognized me by name, turns out. I’ve been detained over there a few times, you know. Nice bunch of folks.”

  “You were arrested, not detained.”

  He shrugged, grinned. “I think detained sounds friendlier, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t think clearly about much at the moment; I was too worried. “I’ll follow you home, check the place, and make sure you’re all locked in.” These were things I could do now, things I knew how to do. Pop opened his mouth to argue. I narrowed my eyes. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

  He sighed. “And just like that, the child becomes the parent.”

  “I’m going to find out who’s doing this,” I told him, as though issuing a challenge.

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’ll make them knock it the Hades off.”

  He smiled, amused. “You could’ve said Hell. I’m familiar with it.”

  “You’re wearing the collar. It didn’t seem right.”

  We padded out. I grabbed my car keys from the bowl in the entryway. Pop grabbed his umbrella from the rack. “It’ll be good to get in early. There’s a whopper of a storm coming.”

  I flicked off the lights and locked the door behind us. “You’re right,” I said, my jaw clenched. “There is.”

  Chapter 5

  St. Brendan’s Church, cross shaped and gray stoned, sat stoically on a good half block of land at the head of a quiet T-shaped street dotted with single-family homes and three-flats. The rectory, fashioned from the same stone, sat next door, the two buildings separated by a small courtyard with a well-worn statue of St. Brendan in its center.

  I followed Pop inside the rectory and checked the ground-floor windows and doors to make sure they were locked and secured. Then I went outside and walked the perimeter with a Maglite, training its beam into every shadow and under every scraggly bush. A black wrought-iron fence about six feet high separated the church and rectory from a narrow alley, which was particularly murky at dusk because of the impending storm, and also because someone had busted out a couple of the alley lights.

  Across the alley stood more brick three-flats, their sooty sides facing the church’s back fence. A block north on the main drag, CTA buses lumbered up and down the wide street at irregular intervals like tired mastodons with miles to trek to the nearest watering hole, their slow progress announced by rude engine burps, hydraulic hisses, and the stench of diesel exhaust.

  I jiggled the latch on the back gate. It was a joke, but it would have to do until Pop could get someone to shore it up. Looking for places someone unhinged might duck and hide behind, I checked inside every trash cart and every alcove and nook, but found nothing but a lot of smelly garbage and a couple of stray cats hoping I had a juicy morsel to share.

  Pop was standing in the rectory doorway when I made my way back, the door open wide, the light from the foyer shining down on his head like a halo. He couldn’t have made himself an easier target if he’d actually worked at it. I said, “I asked you to stay inside.”

  “How could I when you were out there by yourself with nothing but a flashlight?”

  I flicked off the light, slid it into my left pocket, my right pocket hanging low from the weight of my Glock. “I have more than a flashlight, Pop.”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  It began to drizzle. I flicked my hood up. “I’ll keep watch tonight so I can be here when the police swing by.”

  Pop shook his head no. “No, ma’am, you go on home. I’ll be perfectly fine all locked up inside. Thea will be here at six like always.”

  “Where’s Father Pascoe?” I asked. He was the parish’s new transfer, a vinegary, curmudgeonly killjoy, far too stodgy for someone twenty years Pop’s junior.

  “Personal business. He’ll be here in the morning, too. Go on now.”

  A sudden boom of thunder and a streak of lightning lit up the courtyard.

  “So, it’s you alone in the house during a thunderstorm, and someone’s after you?”

  “I’m never alone, neither are you. Read your Bible.”

  I shook my head, a stubborn child digging her heels in. “I’m not moving from this spot till the cops get here in the morning.”

  Pop pulled a face. “You’ll go now, or I’ll call them back and tell them you’re the one harassing me. It’s a night in your own bed or one at the police station.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “If it’ll get you home warm and safe, I sure would.”

  I glowered at him, turned to leave, but stopped.

  “Get walking,” Pop said. “And, Cassandra, don’t let me look out this window and find you sitting in your car watching my curtains. You did your search. I’m locked up tight as a drum. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come early and I’ll even cook you some breakfast before Thea shows up and throws me out of her kitchen.”

  I didn’t move. Knowing the housekeeper would be there at six didn’t make me feel any better about leaving. Suddenly, the light drizzle became a steady downpour. I stood there as still as a pillar getting soaked. Second time today. Two times too many.

  “You should be walking.”

  “Fine, but the lock on that gate is pathetic. You need a sturdy padlock.”

  “I’ll get somebody on that first thing.”

  “And it wouldn’t hurt you to put some lights with motion sensors near the alley.”

  “That too,” he said, shooing me toward the street. “Good night!” he called after me.

  “Lock that door,” I called back. “I want to hear it lock before I go a step further.”

  I stood there as he closed the door and locked it. Another clap of thunder rumbled overhead. I double-timed it to my car, dodging puddles. I pulled away from the curb reluctantly, and after one last glance at Pop’s windows, I headed home. Pop was safe, for now. Tomorrow I’d make sure he stayed that way.

  * * *

  I spent a restless night punching pillows, watching my bedside clock mark time, and listening to the rain pelt against my windows as I thrashed away at Pop’s problem, wondering what I was going to do about it. By three AM I was too anxious to even pretend I was getting any rest, but managed to last another two hours before I finally had to get up, get dressed, and head back to the church. The storm had moved on, and the weather was calm, the sun still hours from rising. I stopped on my way for a bag of Pop’s favorite crullers. He’d promised breakfast, but cooking wasn’t exactly his thing. The crullers were backups in case the eggs, toast, and OJ went horribly wrong.

  Pop didn’t answer the rectory bell, even after three insistent rings. Bewildered, I peeked through the side window. Through a break in the curtains I could see that the lamp in his office was on. I rapped on the window, but he didn’t acknowledge that either. He was an early riser, and there was nothing
wrong with his hearing. After the talk we’d had the day before and my fitful night, I began to worry.

  I dug my cellphone out of my pocket and called inside. I could hear the phone ringing, but no one picked up. I ended the call, then turned to scan the deserted courtyard, noticing only then that the church’s side door stood ajar. I breathed a sigh of relief. That’s where he was. It was a little early for church praying if you asked me, even for a priest, but Pop was Pop. I headed over, more than a little put out, prepared to give him a good talking to. Honestly, sometimes adults acted more like children. If you think someone’s stalking you, do you hang out alone in an empty church with the door standing open? No, you don’t. Pop may as well have hung a sign around his neck reading: HERE I AM. COME AND GET ME.

  I pulled the door wide open by its Gothic handle, the creaking noise it made resembling that of a warped prison door in a dank dungeon. “Pop? C’mon, you’re killing me here.” The church was dark, cold, and eerily silent, like no one had been inside it in a thousand years, despite the cloying remnants of candle wax, wood varnish, and spent incense. What had he come over here for? I stood just inside the door blinking into the shadows, waiting for my eyes to adjust, my ears peeled for any sound other than the ones I was making.

  “Pop? Are you in here?”

  He didn’t answer. There was a small vestry out back. Its lights were on. That’s where he had to be, I thought, relieved that I’d found him. But why was he here at the crack of dawn? Maybe he had a prayer emergency. Was there such a thing? Couldn’t you pray anywhere? In the rectory, say? Where it was safe and the doors were locked? I felt my way along the dark wood paneling, my fingers skimming along the wall, heading toward the light. The crullers inside the bag I carried were getting cold. Who wants a cold cruller? Nobody, that’s who.