The Tenth Order

by Nic Widhalm

  Jackie scribbled a few notes on her pad, then looked up at Adrianna. “So why did you stay with him? It sounds like the first date didn’t go so hot, and then the quick proposal…” Jackie thought about how to word the next part. “I just don’t really picture you two as a couple.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Why do you think I latched on to him so quick? I mean, have you seen the man? He’s fucking gorgeous!”

  That was the first thing Adrianna said all night that Jackie agreed with. Friskin’s picture was one of the first thing’s she’d seen when she arrived at the hospital, and there was no denying the man was uncommonly handsome.

  “So he didn’t ‘rub you the wrong way?’” Jackie asked.

  Adrianna leaned across the table. “Look, just between us girls, the man was hotter than a candle lit at both ends, but dumb as a stone. I mean, yeah, sometimes he gave me the creeps. A lot of the time, actually, but come on…a guy like that, whaddya going to do? You look the other way and hope things get better.”

  “You thought you could change him?”

  “That, or I’d change I guess. That I’d come to love him.” Adrianna leaned back and sighed. “But none of that ever happened. We’ve been married for five years, and I can’t think of the last time we made love. We’re practically strangers now.”

  Jackie glanced at the over-sized Packers shirt Adrianna was wearing. Guess she’s getting comfort from someone. “So you haven’t seen any unusual behavior from your husband lately?” The detective asked.

  “Ex-husband. And yeah, he’s been acting kinda nuts the past couple weeks. And that’s saying something, cause the guy’s always a little wack-a-doo, you know? Complaining about head-aches, constant night sweats…that kind of stuff.”

  Drugs for sure, Jackie thought. “Have you seen your…er, Mr. Friskin take any pills lately?”

  “Hunter? Hell no, he doesn’t trust that kind of stuff. He’d yell at me whenever I took an aspirin for a headache. He said my ‘natural painkillers’ would kick in if I was patient.”

  “Okay, can you think of anything else that might have contributed to Mr. Friskin’s attempted suicide? You’re sure it wasn’t stress at work?”

  “Please,” Adrianna said. “With Hunter’s history? Stress at work is nothing, he’s just happy to have a job.”

  Jackie smiled politely, and added a few notes to her expanding pile. Her coffee had grown cold, and Adrianna’s nasal voice was starting to get on her nerves.

  “Well Ms…Fultano, right?”

  Adrianna nodded happily.

  “I think we have everything we need,” Jackie closed her notebook. “Please, if you think of anything else don’t hesitate to call.” She handed the woman her card and rose from her chair.

  After Adrianna left, Jackie stayed behind and reviewed her notes. What they showed was something more interesting than an assault gone wrong. To begin with, Jackie was pretty sure Adrianna had played fast and loose with the truth concerning her relationship with Friskin. She stayed with him because he’s hot? Right. And the whole headaches and night sweats that Adrianna had snuck in at the end? They were classic signs of drug use…but the toxicology screen said he was clean. Adrianna hadn’t lied about that—not even an Advil in Friskin’s system.

  Jackie yawned and rubbed her eyes, then spread her notes across the table. It was an organization trick she had learned in the academy, designed to help mental-blocks. Somewhere in this mess were the seeds to Friskin’s motives. Jackie just had to find the right pieces.

  A sudden knock at the door made her start. Russ poked his head through, “Jack, you got a sec?”

  “Yeah, I know I said we’d take off after this, but there’s something here,” Jackie motioned at the scattered sheets. “I know there’s more to it, I just have to put it together.” She looked up from the mess and gave Russ a tired, tight-lipped smile. “Why don’t you take off? I’m going to be at this for awhile. I’ll bring in whatever I have tomorrow and you can take a look.”

  Russ opened the door wide and stepped through. “Yeah, about the ‘staying awhile’ part…”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re going to love this.”

  Jackie frowned. “Wanna help me out here?”

  “Just got a call from dispatch.”

  “…and?” Jackie said warily

  Russ grinned. “And, they just got a report of a double homicide down by that old cathedral—Saint Catherine’s.”

  Jackie groaned. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me? Can it wait?”

  Russ’ grin widened. “No, I think you’re going to want to check this out.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Trust me. The report says both victims were strangled to death.” Russ paused to make sure Jackie was listening, then blanched as Jackie gave him her death-stare. “Well, they said—”

  “Let me guess. Necks broken and bruises in the form of a hand-print?”

  “You already heard?”

  Jackie sighed and started packing up her notes. “Give me a sec to clean up and we’ll get going.”

  Russ nodded and made to leave.

  “Oh, and Russ?” He turned and looked at her. “Better call your wife. We’re not going home anytime soon.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hunter fled the church with no idea where to go. He was back at the place he had started a few hours ago, outside the church, lost in a neighborhood he barely knew. With the exception of the priest’s cassock, everything was the same. For a second Hunter entertained returning to the hospital, but didn’t want to face whatever assault charges would be waiting—not to mention being forced back into cuffs.

  He could go home. The idea had appeal; he could grab a change of clothes, fill his duffel bag, and be out in a few minutes. Hunter looked up and watched the hazy, winter sunlight slowly spill across the city. It was probably too early for Ade to leave for work, but if he started walking now he could be there by late morning.

  It was tempting, especially the clothes part, but something warned him that going back to any part of his past life would be a mistake. Escaping his old pattern—the rotating jobs, the hateful co-workers, his dead-end marriage—was the only silver lining of the last twenty-four hours. If he returned, Hunter didn’t know if he’d ever leave again.

  So instead he wandered the city.

  Usually, Hunter worked late hours at the funeral home, and would sleep-in until nine or ten in the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been awake at dawn, and never in Denver. Walking through the empty streets in the ill-fitting robe, Hunter was surprised to find how beautiful the city was when barely touched by morning. All the hard edges, the trash-littered corners, the pitted streets, seemed to glow in the early light. An empty bus stop, a trampled weed struggling in the cracked sidewalk—they had a quiet, almost surreal beauty.

  His headache was gone, had been for hours, but Hunter’s mind was still fuzzy. The visions felt a thousand years away, almost a different lifetime. Hunter’s fingers began to tingle, and he tightened his hands, forcing his digits to go numb.

  I need a drink, he thought. Usually Hunter stayed away from the stuff—Adrianna used to tease him mercilessly that she could drink a big man like him under the table—but there was that whole thing, “No time like the present.” And for the first time in awhile, that was all he really had—time.

  He stopped and tried to get his bearings. There, only a few blocks away and looming in the early morning shadows, was Saint Catherine’s. Hunter had spent the last hour walking a long, lazy circle, but hadn’t gotten anywhere. Cursing, he pointed himself in the opposite direction, intent on putting some distance between him and the priest—and that’s when he noticed the bar across the street.

  Well, you did want a drink.

  Hunter glanced at the tall towers of the cathedral, weighing the risk of staying in one place too long. He doubted the police were giving him much consideration—Hunter wasn’t paranoid enough to believe his little cloak and dagger routine at
the hospital had caused a city-wide man hunt—but it didn’t hurt to be safe. Just the thought of returning to the hospital was enough to taste bile in the back of his throat. But then he thought about Adrianna and the bombshell she dropped last night. Divorce…God, it made him want to strangle her fat neck. After he had stayed with her this long, put up with her insults, her shopping habits, the cheating—all so she could leave him when he was at his lowest.

  Fuck it. You’ve earned a drink.

  Crossing the street, Hunter realized he didn’t even know the time. Were bars open this early? But he’d forgotten what part of the city he was in, and when he pushed on the door it opened easily.

  The inside looked like every bar Hunter had seen, mostly those on TV. It consisted of a long wooden bar and a few chairs and tables scattered haphazardly across the chipped, wooden floor. The windows admitted a dirty, brown morning light, and a pool table in the corner looked, if not clean, at least serviceable. Hunter waited to see if he needed to be seated, then, noticing the bartender’s odd looks, made his way to bar and lowered himself to a faded red stool.

  “Morning,” Hunter said.

  “Morning,” the bartender replied, his lips twitching.

  Hunter glanced around the dingy room. “You’ve got a nice place here. Been open long?”

  The bartender’s amusement spread into a long, lazy grin. He put down the glass he had been cleaning and moved closer. “Yeah,” he said. “Been in my family for sixty years.”

  “Shit. Sixty, really? Man, I wish my family had left me something like this.”

  The bartender, whose grin had grown even wider when Hunter said “shit,” just shook his head. “Jesus, Lou is never going to believe this.”

  “Believe what?” Hunter smiled in reply to the bartender’s grin, not really aware of the joke but enjoying the unusual sense of camaraderie.

  “A priest. In my bar. Saying ‘shit.’” The bartender slapped his hands on the counter and laughed.

  Hunter, realizing he was the butt of a joke, felt his grin vanish. “Uh, yeah. Guess I’m not used to being in a bar, you know? Parish life…they keep us on a short leash.”

  “I’ll bet,” the bartender laughed, wiping his eyes.

  “So,” Hunter looked around awkwardly. “What does a priest have to do to get a drink?”

  The bartender finally stopped laughing and shook his head. “Father, it’s on the house. Name it.”

  “Oh no, that’s cool.”

  “I insist. My brother’s never going to believe this.”

  “Well, if you insist…” Hunter didn’t press the point, the thought occurring that he had no way of paying for the drink if the bartender changed his mind. “Brandy, if you’ve got it.”

  “Brandy? Father, I know you don’t get out much but—”

  “Beer then,” Hunter said quickly, hoping to stave off more questions. Just take whatever he’ll give you and shut up.

  “Sure. Beer it is.” The bartender walked over to the cooler, still shaking his head and chuckling. When he returned Hunter thanked him politely, then turned and began to drink, hoping the bartender would take the hint and give him some privacy. The bartender, his smile disappearing when he realized his joke was done, frowned, then went back to the sink and continued cleaning.

  As Hunter nursed his beer—A domestic? I’m not funny enough for imported?—he took another glance around the bar. In the corner, converging around a slightly crooked pool table, was a pair of college students who looked like they’d been at it all night. The two boys had wide, dark smudges around their eyes, and leaned more than played on the table. One of the two, a kid wearing a burgundy sweatshirt with the initials DU, was rubbing his temples and speaking softly to his friend.

  Not far from the students was an old man seated by himself at a small table, drinking something brown with ice. The man’s hands shook slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips, and he closed his eyes as he took each sip. He reminded Hunter painfully of his father.

  There were a few more guys crowded at the end of the bar, wearing construction gear and looking like they were already running late for work, and in the opposite corner of the pool table…Hunter’s mouth suddenly went dry.

  In the opposite corner of the pool table was the most beautiful woman Hunter had ever seen.

  She sat by herself, but had the easy confidence of all beautiful women who know they don’t have to sit by themselves. She was wearing a modest green blouse and black skirt, but somehow she made the conservative outfit uncomfortably sensual. Hunter’s gaze was drawn repeatedly to the way the shirt hugged her breasts; the tight, seductive lines the skirt formed as it outlined her slim legs. Auburn hair ran halfway down her back, falling full and thick along her graceful neck. And her eyes— deep black pools that drew Hunter like…

  Black? Hunter shook his head. No. The woman turned while he was staring, catching his eyes, and Hunter felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He watched as she ran her eyes up and down his body. How could I have missed that? Her eyes are green as a summer meadow.

  Smiling, she stood and walked languidly over, never breaking eye contact. Her gait was smooth, her hips swaying gently as she placed one foot in front of the other. Hunter thought his eyes would dry out if he stared much longer. Reaching him, she smiled and took the adjacent stool, holding out her hand. “Morning. I’m Karen.”

  “Hunter,” he shook her hand delicately.

  “What? Big guy like you, that’s all you’ve got?”

  Hunter blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not going to break,” Karen looked down at her hand, still grasping Hunter’s. He grinned and squeezed until she finally released the grip.

  “Much better. Now we know each other.”

  “Um…”

  Karen ignored him and ordered a drink from the bartender. Turning back, she flashed another teasing smile. His mouth went dry and he took a long pull from his bottle. When he finished, he saw her looking at him expectantly.

  “So, uh…Karen?”

  She took her beer from the bartender—an import—and nodded at Hunter.

  “Right. Can I buy you a drink?” That’s how you do this, right?

  She looked down at her beer then back at Hunter with a raised eyebrow. His cheeks burned again and he laughed nervously. “Right. Um…pretzel?” He held out the half-full bowl he’d been snacking on.

  “I had a big breakfast, thank you.” Then, running her eyes up and down Hunter’s body again, she asked, “Working on a sermon?”

  “What? Oh. Yeah, something like that.” Hunter fingered his almost-empty bottle, cursing himself silently. That was twice he’d forgotten the robes.

  Karen took a long swallow from her beer—the play of her lips almost made him faint—then slapped down the bottle and leaned over. “You’re not a priest.”

  “I am.”

  “No,” Karen sighed dramatically. “You’re not. You know how I can tell?”

  Hunter wiggled in his chair, not sure if he was excited or terrified. “Alright. How can you tell?”

  Karen looked over both shoulders, then leaned close and whispered, “You’re drinking shitty beer at a shitty bar at seven in the morning.”

  Hunter leaned back and laughed, startling the group of work-men at the end of the bar. He smiled apologetically, still chuckling, and looked over at Karen who was grinning in return. Yeah, crazy as a goddamn fox this one. Hunter didn’t mind, though. It was the first time he could remember holding a conversation with a woman for more than a few minutes before seeing her face fill with disgust. And he had never talked with anyone who looked like Karen.

  She was beautiful, every man’s wish fulfillment. But Hunter was drawn to something else. The strange juxtaposition between the conservative outfit and slapping a beer on the bar, for one thing. The way she arched a single, perfect eyebrow, and then, now, was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. It painted an odd portrait of crazy and seductive. The woman dripped sexuality and schizophrenia.r />
  Hunter watched her, eyes bright, and took another drink. “So I guess it’s safe to assume you’re not a priest either?”

  “What makes you think you can assume anything at this point?”

  “What? I can’t be a priest enjoying a drink and you can?”

  Karen arched another eyebrow and Hunter’s pulse quickened. The wooden armrests of the stool were slick with sweat as his fingers tightened. He couldn’t pull his eyes from Karen’s long fingers as they wrapped fluidly around the glass bottle, raising and lowering it from her lips.

  She kept her silence well, Hunter thought; most strangers would try to fill the emptiness with small talk. And yet…just for a moment, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, Hunter got that uneasy feeling again.

  Deep black pools.

  He turned back to his own beer and shook his head. Too little sleep and too much booze. It was probably just his innate ability to drive people away that had him on edge. He could already see the bartender’s attitude changing, saw how his eyes tightened every time he looked at Hunter, how his frown deepened and his nostrils flared. Any moment now Karen’s mouth would suddenly pucker, and she would find some reason to visit the bathroom. Hunter had met plenty of gorgeous women who’d been happy to know him for a minute or two, then in a hurry to leave after a few minutes more.

  “So,” Karen said after a minute of nothing but the quiet murmur of the college kids in the corner. “What brings a man pretending to be a priest to a bar like this?”

  “Oh, same thing that brings most men I guess.”

  “Pussy?”

  Hunter choked on his beer, spilling a portion over the front of his robe. He turned to Karen, eyes wide, “Christ, you’re bold.”

  “Ah hah!” Karen pointed at Hunter. “See, a priest would never take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “What, are you an expert on priests now? How do you know I don’t talk to Jesus all the time?”

  Karen smirked. “Not buying it. For one thing, a priest would never look at me the way you do.” Hunter opened his mouth, closed it, then opened again. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and turned away. Would you stop it already, you keep blushing like a damn fourteen-year-old.