Matt steeled himself to receive the envelope Father Hernandez passed over the desk. Gethsemane again, Where Christ went to contemplate his foreordained suffering and death. And yet the act was not foreordained, according to church teaching; Christ could have refused; that was what made the fruition so significant. Matt never thought for a moment that Father Hernandez was exaggerating his situation.
He drew the rustling bundles of paper from inside the envelope as if they were snakes. He opened one white, business- size envelope, unfolded a crisp piece of typing paper and read.
He read three before he looked up again. Sweat crystallized on Father Hernandez's anxious face. He watched Matt like a child gauging a parent's reaction to a bad report card, uneasy but defiant, afraid but proud.
"And there's nothing to this?" Matt asked.
"Nothing. I swear on the Cross."
"Nor the charges about your previous appointments?"
"Nothing, there or here, then or now. You know what will happen if this . . . garbage becomes public."
"A media circus maximus."
"Bring on the Christians," Father Hernandez intoned with bitter drama. "Bring on the priests."
"So it should be," Matt said, his tone stern as any archbishop's. "Child abuse of any kind is a heinous offense. The sexual abuse of children by the clergy is unspeakable. I confess that I can't imagine how any man of God can shut his eyes to such acts, yet several have been proven to have done just that."
"Not me." Father Hernandez's dark eyes glowed like embers as his fist pounded his chest, not in the humble throb of a mea culpa, but in the emphatic rhythm of a Spanish dancer. "And now it has become fashionable to allege such things. You know how disturbed minds leap in when such ethical chasms open up, swallowing even the innocent. I am innocent!"
Matt spread his hands. "If so, you would be cleared, ultimately."
"Perhaps. And I say only perhaps. But the stigma." Rafael Hernandez held up his pale, damp palms from the glass they curved around. "Stigma. We know where that word comes from, from the nails through the wrists and feet; the stigma is the Crucifixion.''
Matt nodded.
"You know the position the church faces on such matters nowadays."
Matt nodded again.
"What would you have me do?"
Matt said nothing.
"If I went, as I should, to the archbishop, he would be forced to take the most stringent of actions. There would be publicity. Now, the church is anxious to demonstrate its eagerness to root out what it once covered up, and rightfully so. Yet mistakes can be made when such zeal is employed, when an institution of any kind is fighting for its integrity, its reputation. There is a new Inquisition at work."
Matt could not deny that.
"You talk to people on that hotline; you must speak to many disturbed souls, some quite unappealing. What do you think of the writer?"
Matt moved the three envelopes through his hands as if weighing them. "The police could do a better psychological profile. Yes, I know why you feel they mustn't be involved.
I'm no expert on anonymous letters, but I'd say an organized person did this. They seem to be printed on a laser printer, which rules out the ancient clue of the uneven typewriter keys. I sense someone intelligent taking almost a vicious pleasure in the perversity of the charges. Does the writer never ask for anything?"
"Nothing!" Father Hernandez clutched his head instead of his glass, his face taking on a distracted look.
"Then it could be a crank, some disaffected parishioner, or even an anti-Catholic bigot."
"I know what it could be. I also know what will happen if the letters are made public: a full-scale investigation, no matter how unsubstantiated the charges. After that, neither I nor Our Lady of Guadalupe will be worth much. Matthias, I have been a decent priest, perhaps not the brightest or the best, or the humblest, but to the extent of my abilities, I have been faithful to my vows and have tried to be of service to my parishioners and my duties. I don't know what to do. Perhaps this . . . correspondent will tire of baiting me and stop."
"Perhaps he--or she--will go public when you least expect it."
'True."
"The police would be your better bet," Matt said.
"Go to Lieutenant Molina? Never."
"Pride goeth before a fall, to be sanctimonious. Besides, this isn't a case for a homicide lieutenant."
"She would learn of it."
"Probably, but forget your image in the eyes of a parishioner. Lieutenant Molina is also a professional, and professionals don't buy what every anonymous crank might charge. The police investigate this sort of thing all the time and are well acquainted with anonymous letter-writers. They might give you more benefit of the doubt, and they certainly would investigate quietly. If they leaped to conclusions and filed false charges, they can get sued."
"What you're saying is that the church, my church, to which I have devoted most of my life, is more likely to persecute me than to defend me."
"Now, given the political climate on this issue, it has to avoid any appearance of favoritism, of sheltering anyone."
"So they will crucify me, with a mockery of a trial, as was done to Christ. We priests claim we walk in Our Lord's footsteps, or try to, but confront something like this, Matthias, and say then that you are prepared to face the Crown of Thorns from the hands of your own bishop and the whips and the scourges of the press."
"I believe your innocence," Matt said. "I do believe you, Father Hernandez. And if I do, so will others. Yet I see your point. Why pull down disaster upon yourself? Still, the pressure will draw attention to you in any event."
"You mean this?" He lofted the two-thirds-empty bottle. "I try, but my thoughts run around and around like mice on a wheel. Who? Why? When will the attack escalate? How?"
"That's why the good news of Miss Tyler's bequest hardly seemed to matter to you."
"Money." He shook his silvered head. "It is the means to a good end, one hopes. It is essential to life and bureaucracy. I wish the cats had gotten it, do you understand? No one would accuse the cats of misconduct."
"Father, we both should know more than most that false accusations are a terrible cross to bear. You, too, should ask our Father to take this cup from your lips." Matt pointed to the bottle. "Whatever happens, that is the first bridge to cross."
Father Hernandez shrugged and ran his fingers through his elegant hair, turning it into a ruffled halo. "I'll try. Harder."
"And I'll think about this letter-writer. It could be the same person who called Sister Mary Monica, and who tried to crucify the cat. We could be dealing with a truly demented individual."
Father Hernandez looked up, and actually smiled. "Thank you for that 'we.' That is more than I was willing to grant you when we first met. Forgive me."
Father, forgive me, for I have not sinned. . . .
Matt ran that ironic phrase through his mind as he left the rectory. His watch read, by the candle still burning in the kitchen window, five-thirty in the morning.
Dawn was a vague, teasing lightening of the dark along the eastern horizon. He jammed his hands, cold hands from tension felt but not shown, into his pants pockets and began walking back to the Circle Ritz.
Daylight would begin to shadow him soon, and he was not afraid of the neighborhood. He was not afraid of anything he might encounter on Las Vegas's stirring streets. He had spent two hours staring at the face of true, spiritual fear, and ordinary fear would never look the same again.
Chapter 29
Trespasser and Transgressor
After my fruitless explorations at the cathouse next to the convent, I pad my weary way back home. Interrogating some threescore possible witnesses--or do I mean witlesses?--I am eager to lay my considerable length on the cool black-and white tiles of the kitchen floor and contemplate the full bowl of Free-to-be- Feline while I decide which of Miss Temple's food stores I should raid instead.
Actually, the challenge of finding a suitable substitute
for this odious health food has added a piquant character to my several daily meals at the Circle Ritz, providing an element of uncertainty reminiscent of my untrammeled days on the streets and sidewalks. I need to keep my survival skills sharp, just in case my current cushy situation becomes too confining.
I scale the buildings outside along my usual, well-worn route, lofting from patio to patio to decorative cornice ledge to open bathroom window in the twinkling of a private eye.
My street-worn tootsies make a four-point landing on the bathroom's cool ceramic tiles. Ah, home, sweat-free home, after a hot day on the job.
I hightail it for the kitchen, partly because the tiles there are cool, too; partly to indulge in my daily stare-down with the unbanishable Free-to-be-Feline.
I crouch before the elegant glass-footed banana-split dish that my attentive companion has seen fit to heap with Free-to-be-Feline. There it sits, an army-green mountain of pellets that would serve equally well entering--or exiting--a rabbit. I have seen more appetizing vitamin pills from the health food store.
I will, of course, not touch one crude pellet. I contemplate busting into the lower cabinet for a raid on Miss Temple's hidden stock of Finny Flakes, a toothsome, sugar-coated cereal product thoughtfully shaped into the miniature likeness of our piscine friends. Yum. I can put away whole schools of these little nibbles.
Then I notice a new variation in the unspoken food war that has been waged between us ever since my usually sensible roommate saw fit to introduce the foul Free-to-be-Feline to my menu.
Another bowl--in fact, a pink Melmac saucer from the upper cupboard--of the questionable comestible sits beside mine, this mound of pellets surmounted by a suggestive valley at the apex. Has some intruder been at my rejected food? My rear extremity swells to irritated proportions as I growl to myself, "Who's been eating my Free-to-be-Feline?"
The usual suspects come quickly to mind: the invasive mouse (but my alert presence alone would banish any vermin of that persuasion); the rapacious insect (but even the largest cockroach could not dispose of the apparent amount of missing FtbF); the unexpected visitor (but neither Mr. Matt Devine nor Miss
Electra Lark has previously shown the slightest inclination to snack on my food, whether I favor it or not).
There is, of course, one party so depraved, so predictably greedy, so . . . unclassy as to vacuum up any foodstuff to be found on a floor. I refer, naturally, to the domesticated dog.
I have become lax on my own turf, I realize, and did not sniff for intruders before bounding to the buffet. I lift my head and sniff for dog. Actually, dogs possess an overbearing scent that I should have noticed even in my mad dash for the eats.
I do not sniff dog. Instead, I detect a delicate scent of an unknown nature, not unpleasant, but not native to this environment. I press my sniffer to the floor near the second bowl of FtbF and reel at the flagrant trail of a foreign feline.
Now that I am alerted to the intruder, I race into the living room . . . to find a stranger ensconced on the off-white sofa, fast asleep.
My proprietorial instincts have given way to something quite different. Both my nose and my eyes are right on target: the individual who has been tastelessly filching my Free-to-be-Feline is a dainty, nubile number who is not hard on either of my prime senses, who is, in fact--free, black and female!
In an instant, I bound up beside her, anticipating a most enjoyable interrogation.
In the same instant, she is awake and transformed into a hissing banshee with a croquet-hoop back, bushy tail, poisonously slit golden eyes, bristling silver whiskers and as many sharp white teeth--all showing--as a barracuda with an overbite.
"Whoa! Wait a minute, Miss," I soothe in my best growl, which is only slightly intimidating.
She is having nothing of it, but backs against the rear sofa cushions, her admirably unclipped claws snagging the fabric, a phenomenon that will not please Miss Temple Barr.
"These are my digs," I point out diplomatically, "although I do not mind an occasional attractive visitor."
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law," she responds without softening her defensive posture.
I hold my temper and back off to the sofa's far end. It is obvious, despite her furry fireworks, that my intruder is of a tender age and experience; so young, in fact, that she has not yet had that odious operation known euphemistically as "fixing." Obviously, she needs someone to show her the ropes.
"You must have sensed my previous possession," I point out.
She shrugs, allowing the ebony halo around her head to settle down a bit. "It was either this or Murder Inc."
"I take it, then, that my tenderhearted roommate has saved you from the animal pound."
"I encouraged her to intervene, yes."
I nod sagely. "She is a delightful companion, Miss Temple Barr, but not the best cook. Did you really eat that Free-to-be-Feline?"
"It is a highly nutritious food, well balanced in all essential vitamins and minerals."
"I can see that you and Miss Temple hit it right off," I note sourly. "I can be magnanimous. However, I must insist that you desist from eating Free-to-be-Feline. I am training Miss Temple to forget it."
"I will eat what does me the most good." She looks me up and down with less than an admiring flick of her long, black mascara-coated eyelashes. "It would do you a lot of good, too."
"Listen, I am head dude around here. You'll do as I tell you.
If you're nice to me, I might even let you stay a while."
"What does that mean?" she snarls quickly.
I have never heard such ugly sentiments coming out of such a beautiful little doll-face before. I wonder where she got her feisty temperament. A life on the streets can do that to some, but it is a shame to see such a comely little doll so warped.
"I mean that it is my place, and if you want to stay, you have to play to my hand of cards, and right now I am holding all the aces."
"If you mean to imply that I must extend you any personal favors because I happen to need a home for the moment, that is an extremely sexist and patriarchal statement, not to say coercive. I am sure, however," she adds with a satisfied purr, "that you did not mean any such thing."
"Uh . . . no." I frown, which wrinkles my broad forehead and is--I am told--a dignified, attractive expression. Her last statement sounded oddly like a threat of some kind, which I am not used to hearing at my size and age, and especially from a petite little doll of tender years. No doubt her rough months on the streets have made her somewhat . . . touchy.
"What is your name, kid?" I ask in a kindly, avuncular manner that it costs me much effort to produce.
"They call me 'Caviar.' "
I nod, savoring the moniker. "A tasty choice. I sampled some of the best beluga from Russia when I was house dick at the Crystal Phoenix. You have heard of the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, of course, the classiest joint in Vegas?"
"No," she says shortly, sitting down to lick her luxurious rear extremity into shape. I admire her tongue-and-teeth work.
"Anyway, this beluga stuff is like little black pearls, very costly and quite succulent, full of the salt of the sea. My old man has his own yacht, and is quite an expert in seafood, wherever he is."
"How nice. My old man was a scamp and a tramp and he left my mother flat. I do not care where he is, and I do not judge anyone by paternal lines. We cannot help who our fathers are."
"I can see that you have had some tough times, kid," I growl.
"You need someone older and wiser--and bigger--to look after you."
I get a solid gold eye cocked full at me. What gorgeous--and searing--peepers this doll has!
"I do not think so," she says.
"What are your plans?"
"To rest for the moment. I am tired of cages."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I have been in the stir a few times myself, even with a sixty-hour death penalty."
She eyes me with respect for the first time. "Why are you still here?"
>
"I broke myself out."
She looks impressed, a little. "I guess you are big enough to manage it."
"Actually, I used brains, not brawn."
Now she stares at me again, as if I am a bowl of Free-to-be- Feline and she is on a diet. "You are quite amusing," she concedes.
Well now, this is progress. I stretch out along the sofa, until my mitts are almost within touching distance. I have met these embittered street girls before. They take delicate handling, but soon recognize the wisdom of putting themselves under the protection of a powerful dude, like yours truly.
"I have to warn you, if you stay here, you are in some jeopardy."
"Miss Barr seems most thoughtful and civil."
"Yeah, but she has scruples. These are things people get from time to time. She will probably have you undergo an unpleasant operation that will not do much for your future sex life. I know you are a young thing and not aware of what you might be missing, but believe me, this 'spaying' is a fate worse than death."
"I am quite familiar with this form of birth control," she says coolly.
"I can find you a cozy place nearby where you will not be subject to forced sterilization."
She eyes the comfy surroundings, then me. "Some hole-in-the-wall love nest? With you? I think not. I prefer the knife."
"You do not know what you will be missing?" I argue, appalled.
"Oh, but I do know. I have had these alley dudes trying to jump me since I was a kit. No loss."
"But these were not worldly, suave, accomplished dudes--"
"Can it, bud. I have seen it with my mother and others. Some dude jumps you from behind, and all you get out of it is a bite on the back of the neck, some pawing and mauling and a lot of hungry little faces nobody wants who are doomed to be run down, locked up or gassed at an early age. No thanks."
"You do not want kits?" I try not to sound too skeptical, as I never did either, but I was a guy and that was natural.
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