Blood Hollow co-4

by William Kent Krueger

  “He says he’s in love with Rose. He wants to marry her. Is that the behavior of a good priest?”

  “I like him.”

  “So do I, but that’s not relevant at the moment. What do we know about his past?”

  “He ran a homeless shelter in Chicago. I’ve heard he risked his life to keep money for the shelter from being stolen.”

  “Maybe that’s the story he tells to explain his scars. Is it true? What else do we know?”

  “What do we know about anybody except what they tell us? My God, Cork, some things you just have to accept.”

  “Not when murder is involved.” He nodded at the kitchen telephone. “Boomer agreed to check out Mal, find out about the incident that resulted in his scars, anything else he can turn up about the priest’s background.”

  Jo shook her head. “This feels wrong.”

  “If Boomer comes up with nothing, fine. No harm done.”

  “Why don’t you just ask Father Mal where he was the night Fletcher and Solemn died?”

  “He’s dead drunk right now. And there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t lie.” Cork sat back suddenly. “But there is someone who might be able to help. What time is it?”

  Jo glanced at her watch. “Nine-thirty.”

  “It’s not too late.” Cork got up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the rectory to talk to Ellie Gruber. Jo, believe me, I’m hoping she’s able to give Mal an alibi.”

  The housekeeper answered the door in her robe.

  “I’m sorry to come knocking so late, Ellie.”

  “That’s all right, Cork. I’ll be up until Father Mal comes in. Was it him you wanted to see?”

  “You, actually. Do you mind if I ask you a question about Mal?”

  “I won’t know until you ask me, now will I? Would you like to come in?”

  “No, thanks, Ellie. This will only take a moment. I don’t know how to phrase this delicately. Have you noticed him acting a little strange lately?”

  “Well.” She clutched her robe tight at her throat.

  “I’m a little worried about him, is all,” Cork went on. “A lot of us are. Do you have any idea what’s troubling him?”

  “If I did, Cork, I’d be doing my best to help him.”

  “Ellie, think about the night Fletcher Kane and Solemn Winter Moon died.”

  “Lord, that’s one night I’d rather forget.”

  “Do you remember Mal? How he seemed?”

  “That was a bad night, to be sure. He got a call and went out. When he came back, he was very upset. Then a bit later he got the call from the sheriff’s office about Dr. Kane. What a terrible, terrible night.”

  “Do you know who that first call was from?”

  “No.”

  “What time did he go out?”

  “Oh, it must have been around nine.”

  “When did he come back?”

  “About an hour and a half later.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not that I recall. He’s usually so pleasant. He likes a little Irish coffee before bed, so I had everything ready. But he didn’t want any. He went straight to his room. I’m worried, Cork. I pray for him a lot these days.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt, Ellie. One more question. Did you spend New’s Year Eve here with the fathers?”

  “Lord, no. I have a life outside this rectory. I was with my late husband’s family, out at Tower.”

  “So Mal and Father Kelsey were here alone?”

  “I believe so. Father Kelsey was probably asleep by nine, so I’m sure poor Father Mal had to see the New Year in all alone.”

  “Tragic,” Cork said.

  Jo was waiting in the kitchen when he got home.

  “Well?”

  “The night Kane and Solemn died, Mal went out about nine. Came back around ten-thirty. Very upset, no explanation.”

  Jo picked up the phone and handed it to him. “Boomer Grabowski called. He wants you to call him back.”

  “That was quick.”

  “The execution of a good reputation goes fast around here.”

  Cork ignored her comment and punched in Boomer’s number.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve already got something,” Cork said.

  “It’s all in knowing who to call.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Remember Dave Jenkins?”

  “Yeah. Shaved head, right? You used to call him Cueball.”

  “That’s him. He’s with homicide out of Area Two. Been there for a couple of years now. You hit the jackpot with the priest, Cork. Before he took over the unit, Cueball got assigned to investigate two homicides in Hyde Park. Somebody iced a couple of punks with rap sheets almost as long as my dick. Turns out, they were the primary suspects in the assault and attempted robbery of a priest named Father Malachi Thorne.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. The bust was bad, and they had to let the douche bags go on a technicality. But get this. Cueball says that for a while the priest was a suspect in those murders. Seems the guys were beat up pretty bad before their throats were cut. And guess who was a hotshot boxer back in college. The priest. Here’s where it gets interesting as far as your situation goes. It wasn’t the first time the priest had been connected with a murder investigation. Sixteen years ago, a children’s home he was in charge of burned down. Arson. A fifteen-year-old girl died, name of Yvonne Doolittle. You sitting down, Cork? This Doolittle girl had accused your Father Thorne of molesting her.” Grabowski was quiet a few moments. “You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not enough evidence to build a case against him. The Church hustled him away from there and hushed things up.” Boomer laughed softly. “One more thing you’re gonna love. The Hyde Park killings? There was something real whacko about them. Seems the perp had himself a feast at the scene after he’d done the deed. Cueball did some digging. You know that knack of his for uncovering the truly weird? This time he looks for weird and Catholic, discovers there’s some kind of old Catholic mumbo jumbo goes along with feasting over the dead.”

  “Sin eating,” Cork said.

  “That’s right.” Boomer sounded impressed that Cork knew. “Another good reason Cueball liked the priest for the killings. In the end, your Father Thorne had an alibi they couldn’t break. Also, there was another double homicide with the same weird MO, and it happened before the priest came to Chicago.”

  “Know anything about those killings?”

  “No. You want I should ask?”

  “Let’s get everything we can.”

  “All right. But you know, Cork, if I were you, I’d put this priest away right now. He sounds to me like one sick bastard. For all you know, you could have your own little serial killer right there in Nowhere, Minnesota.”

  “Thanks for the insight, Boomer. I’ll be in touch.”

  He reported everything to Jo who sat tight-lipped at the table. When he was finished, she stood up, walked to the door, and looked through the screen, where dozens of moths shuddered their wings against the mesh. She said nothing.

  “It makes sense,” he argued quietly. “Solemn thought Charlotte had been seeing a married man. Mal is a married man.”

  “I thought we knew who the married man was. Arne Soderberg.”

  “When I talked to Glory Kane-I mean Cordelia Diller-she told me that Charlotte-Maria-related to her father in a sexual way and that she’d come on to Fletcher, hoping to secure his love that way, too. Mal’s not only married, Jo. He’s Father Mal. And think about the graffiti on the wall at St. Agnes. Liar. Who do you suppose that was directed at?”

  She spoke carefully and with her back still to Cork. “I know you think anyone is capable of murder. That’s how you’ve been trained to think. I find it hard to believe that Father Mal is the kind of monster you’ve painted.”

  Cork followed her to the door. He put his arms around her and spoke quietly. “I wish I had your faith. In God, in people. I don�
�t. I’ve seen too much, I guess.”

  “You believed in Solemn when no one else would.”

  “That was for Sam.”

  “In the end, it was for Solemn.” She laid her head back against his shoulder. “And you believed in us, even when everything seemed hopeless. What do you think faith is, Cork? I think it’s believing in what you care about even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. I care about Father Mal. I want to believe in him.”

  “You still have to ask questions, especially the hard ones.”

  She stepped away from the door. “What about Mal? Tonight?”

  “I’ll take him back to the rectory.”

  “I suppose that’s best. Let’s not say anything about this to Rose. Not yet.”

  “All right.”

  She put her hands gently against Cork’s chest, as if to feel his heart. “I know we have to be thorough and ask the hard questions, but I hope neither of us ever stops believing that the answers can be good.”

  They found Rose sitting in the rocker, which she’d pulled nearer to the bed where the priest slept. The lamp in the corner was on low, and a soft light spread across the room. Mal looked peaceful.

  “How is he?” Jo said.

  “He hasn’t stirred.”

  “I need to wake him up,” Cork said. “Take him home.”

  Rose looked as if she were about to object, then nodded her agreement. “It’s probably best.”

  Cork leaned over Mal, caught the smell of sweet bourbon coming off his skin. “Mal,” he said. Then louder, “Mal, wake up.” He shook the priest’s shoulder.

  The man’s eyes flickered open and his pupils swam a moment before finding solid ground on Cork’s face. “Huh?”

  “I’m taking you home, Mal. Back to the rectory.”

  The priest considered this, and while he thought, his eyes began to drift closed.

  “Come on, Mal.” Cork slid his arm under the priest’s shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mal mumbled.

  “Let me help,” Rose said.

  They swung his feet off the bed and together helped him up.

  “I don’t feel good,” Mal said, swaying.

  “Hold on to us.” Rose positioned herself to one side; Cork took the other. Between them they managed to get him downstairs and out the door.

  “My car,” Mal said as he slumped onto the passenger side of the Bronco’s front seat.

  “We’ll take care of that tomorrow,” Cork said.

  For a brief moment Mal worked on focusing, and he put out his hands to cup Rose’s face through the open window. “I didn’t want…,” he began, but seemed to lose the thought. “I’m sorry.”

  “Go home, get some rest, and we’ll talk,” she replied.

  Cork backed down the drive, his headlights holding on Rose and Jo, stark and worried in the glare. No sooner did the Bronco hit the street than Mal leaned out the window and threw up.

  “Sorry,” he managed as he settled back. He closed his eyes and within a minute was breathing heavily.

  Cork had wanted to question him, but that was plainly hopeless. He settled on getting him to the rectory and, with the help of Ellie Gruber, into his room and to bed.

  As he headed back to Gooseberry Lane, he considered what Jo had said about believing in the people you cared about even when it appeared crazy to do so. Jo believed in Mal. Rose believed in Mal. So why didn’t he?

  45

  Next morning, Cork woke to a gentle knocking at the bedroom door.

  “Dad? Mom?”

  “What is it, Jenny?”

  “Can I talk to you guys?”

  “Just a minute.” Cork looked at the bedside clock. 7:30 A.M. He’d overslept, but not by much.

  Jo stirred. “What is it?”

  “Jenny wants to talk to us.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “Oh, my.” She was awake. “I have to get ready for work.”

  “Come on in, Jen,” Cork called.

  Jenny stepped in. She was still in her sleepwear, a long Goo-Goo Dolls T-shirt that reached to her thighs. She stayed at the door.

  “What is it?” Cork said.

  “It’s Aunt Rose. She’s in the kitchen, crying.”

  “Rose?” Jo sat up.

  “She won’t talk to me,” Jenny said. “She just cries.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Jo threw off the covers.

  Downstairs, Stevie lay on the floor in front of the television, watching Nickelodeon.

  In the kitchen, Rose sat alone. On the table in front of her was a cup of coffee and an envelope. In her hand, she held a piece of light blue stationery. She was sobbing quietly.

  “Rose?” Jo knelt beside her.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Mal?”

  “I heard his car this morning. When I looked out my window, he was driving away. I came downstairs and found this taped to the back door.” She picked up the envelope from the table. Her name had been written on the front. “He left a note.” She looked down at the stationery in her hand.

  “Rose, would it be all right if I read the note? And Cork?”

  Rose hesitated. “Please,” Cork said. “It’s important.”

  Rose handed it to her sister. Over Jo’s shoulder, Cork read Mal Thorne’s handwriting.

  Dear Rose,

  Forgive me. I looked to you wrongly for a redemption that was not yours to give. This burden I carry, this gluttony for sin, is mine alone. I don’t know if I’ve abandoned God, or God has abandoned me, or if we’re mutually disgusted and have simply turned our backs on one another. I do know that I feel lost and need to find my way again. I’m afraid it may be a very long road ahead. But I will always treasure the lasting memory of the one true beauty I have known in my life, the one perfect thing. A flower called Rose.

  With the greatest affection,

  Mal

  “Gluttony for sin?” Cork said, his voice rock hard.

  “What is it?” Rose said.

  “It’s nothing. Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry.” Jo put her arms around her sister.

  “He’s leaving Aurora,” Rose said. “He’s talked about it, now he’s going to do it.”

  “Leaving for where?” Cork said.

  “I don’t know. That’s never been clear.”

  “I’m getting dressed.” Cork started out of the kitchen.

  He hadn’t gone far when Jo grabbed his arm.

  “I need to get some answers,” he told her. “Before the chance is gone. You know I do.”

  He could see the struggle reflected in her face. Finally she released her grip.

  The morning outside was deathly still, but high up, an unseen wind pushed scattered clouds relentlessly across the hard blue sky. The sun intermittently splattered the Bronco’s windshield with blinding light, and Cork squinted to see his way. There seemed to be a restlessness in the atmosphere, but he chalked it up to his own unsettled mind.

  He was surprised to see the Nova still in the drive at the rectory. He jumped from the Bronco as a huge cloud swept across the sun, and he waded through deep, blue shadow toward the rectory door. Ellie Gruber answered his pounding.

  “I need to see Mal,” Cork said.

  Ellie wrung her hands and didn’t answer.

  “I know he’s here, Ellie.”

  “He’s in a state, Cork. I don’t know.” She looked behind her in a frightened way.

  Cork put his hands firmly on her shoulders and urged her aside. “It’ll be all right, Ellie.”

  He entered without her uttering an objection.

  The door to Mal Thorne’s bedroom was open, and Cork found him packing. A big suitcase lay open on the bed, and beside it a pile of clothing. The priest stood carelessly folding a pair of pants.

  “Leaving Mal?”

  The priest looked up, startled. “Cork?”

  “Taking off without saying good-bye?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”<
br />
  “Where are you going?”

  “Not sure.” Mal went to the dresser and opened a drawer.

  “Leaving the parish high and dry, aren’t you?”

  “There’s always Father Kelsey.”

  “Right.”

  “The diocese will send somebody. Somebody better than me.”

  “You sound like you’ve lost your faith in yourself.”

  “You could say that.”

  “A gluttony for sin?”

  The priest swung around. For a moment, he seemed upset, then it was as if he simply shrugged it off. He resumed his packing.

  Cork stepped nearer to the bed. “Mal, you told Annie a story a while back. Something about a sin eater.”

  Mal Thorne stuffed a handful of assorted socks into the suitcase. “It’s something I tell all the kids I work with. I use it as an example of how the substance of Christianity is sometimes warped by church doctrine. It’s a little on the ghoulish side, but it gets their attention.”

  “You don’t believe in sin eating?”

  Mal glanced up. “This day and age you’d have to be a little crazy to believe something like that.”

  “I see. But it’s perfectly sane to believe in, for example, a virgin birth?”

  “Why are we having a theological discussion?” The priest squeezed his temples, as if pressing against a headache. He reached into the suitcase, pulled out a fifth of Southern Comfort, and unscrewed the cap. As he brought it to his lips, he said, “Hair of the dog and all that.”

  “Sure. Got a lot on your mind, I imagine.”

  “Glad you understand.”

  “Are Fletcher Kane and Solemn part of it?”

  The priest took a long swallow. He looked at the bottle and shook his head. “Big help there, wasn’t I?”

  “The night they died, where were you?”

  Mal Thorne hesitated. He glanced at Cork, then away. “I was here.”

  “At the rectory?”

  “Yes.” He bent to his packing.

  “The whole evening?”

  “I may have stepped out for a minute.”

  “Try an hour and a half.”

  The priest shot him a killing look.

  “Where were you in those ninety minutes, Mal?”

  “With all due respect, that’s none of your damn business.”

  “Ellie told me you got a call about nine o’clock and hurried out. Was it Fletcher Kane calling? Did he call to tell you what he’d done? What he was going to do? Did you rush over there and find out you were too late? And did you sit down at the table that had been set for a meal and consume the sins of the two men you couldn’t save?”