Saints & Spies

by Jordan McCollum

  Father O’Rourke stared at the cobbles as though the limestone would yield an answer. Molly glanced out at the car park. It’d been a beautiful late summer day just like today.

  “It was a Saturday, and I must’ve forgotten to lock up the night before.” Molly walked to the door and tested the knob. “I was comin’ for confession.” Emotion — guilt — strangled off her voice, and she covered her mouth. If only she’d locked the door that Friday night.

  Father O’Rourke placed a hand on her shoulder. “If this is too hard —”

  Molly folded her arms against her middle to allay the anxiety twisting into a coil of nerves there. She could tell this story. She relived it every day, didn’t she? “He was here in the hallway.”

  Molly swallowed past the lump in her throat. She had to admit it; she had to tell the truth. “Someone tried to rob the office. Father Patrick must’ve tried to stop it, and the burglar — his sash.” She finished the story with a gesture at her throat before turning away to rein in the emotion.

  Within seconds, his hand was on her shoulder again. She faced him, and he pulled her close. She leaned against his shoulder and let unbidden tears slip down her cheeks. The church bells pealed in the silence, clanging as cheerily as if Father Patrick were ringing them himself.

  Molly tried to calm herself with deep breaths thick with the woodsy scent of Father O’Rourke’s aftershave. She shouldn’t still be this upset. This wasn’t her first violent crime, and she’d mourned Father Patrick with the rest of them, at the vigil, at his funeral.

  No, she hadn’t. Not really. Because letting herself feel this pain — admitting he was gone — meant accepting that his murder was her fault. An invisible clamp tightened on her heart. She was trained to protect others. And if the Chicago PD had been more willing to hire foreign nationals, she’d be doing that now. Instead, she ended up here, causing her priest’s murder. If she’d only locked the office, the burglar — the murderer — wouldn’t have been here when Father Patrick came.

  “Molly,” Father O’Rourke soothed.

  She lifted her chin to see him, centimeters from her face. Her stomach dipped, and the vise around her heart squeezed tighter.

  “It’ll be okay,” he continued in the same tone. “One day.”

  He didn’t know the truth. She scrubbed at her tears and pulled away. “It’s my own fault.”

  “How can you think that?”

  “The door — if I had only locked the door, the burglar would’ve moved on to an easier target instead of bein’ there when Father Patrick —” Molly broke off and turned away, but Father O’Rourke caught her shoulders again, leaning down to peer into her eyes.

  “This was not your fault.” The conviction in his voice took her aback. “You didn’t make this happen.”

  She looked down, and more tears spilled over. “The door.”

  “Locking the door wouldn’t have saved Father Patrick.”

  How could Father O’Rourke understand? Molly wiped her cheeks. He offered her a handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” Molly tried to clean the mascara from under her eyes, though she hated to stain his handkerchief. But she’d just been crying on his shoulder. She checked; black smudges marred his green vestment. “Sorry about your . . .” She waved a hand at the stains.

  He hooked a finger in his collar to examine the splotches. “Won’t be the last time.” Father O’Rourke offered a small smile of forgiveness. “Now, have you heard if the police have any leads?”

  “Not that they’ve told us.” She knew the odds of finding a suspect now, so long after the fact: almost nil. Unless someone confessed, Father Patrick’s murder would remain unsolved.

  Father O’Rourke glanced behind her and did a double take. She followed his gaze. Father Fitzgerald stood beneath the red maple, waiting for them, arms across his chest.

  Father O’Rourke took one step toward the other priest, but turned back to her. “Molly, this wasn’t your fault. I’ll do . . . anything — almost anything — to prove it to you.”

  Molly fingered the corner of his cotton handkerchief. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Let me try.”

  “All right.” She rubbed the handkerchief hem as Father O’Rourke left her.

  He’d held her. Practically commanded her not to blame herself. And she hadn’t had a priest hug her since primary school. Molly folded the handkerchief pensively. Last night he’d told her she was beautiful, and he almost wished — what?

  But how much credence could she give the ramblings of a drunk?

  She looked the direction he’d gone again. He hadn’t seemed the slightest bit hungover.

  Father Fitzgerald marched through the chapel, shaking his head. Zach trailed behind, but his mind buzzed with the memory of Molly in his arms and her sweet floral scent clinging to his vestments. Molly smelled like home — like the flowering vine that had half the oaks in his parents’ backyard in a chokehold.

  Zach tried to shake off the memory. Head in the game.

  “Tim, you’ve got to watch yourself with Molly.”

  Fitzgerald was more right than he knew. Flirting might help Zach get ahead in the investigation, but something about it felt . . . wrong. Besides, he couldn’t rule Molly out as a suspect yet, even if she did fall apart over Father Patrick.

  “You know she’s struggling already,” Fitzgerald continued his lecture.

  “She was crying. Would you have left her there?”

  Fitzgerald turned back to him midway down the aisle. “I saw you approach her.”

  Zach fought the urge to roll his eyes. This I’m-the-pastor-and-I-know-what’s-best-for-you act was getting old. But at least it proved Fitzgerald was really buying his cover. “Do you have any idea how upset she is about Father Patrick?”

  Fitzgerald deflated almost instantly. “Aren’t we all?” He sighed. “Listen, it’s natural to care about Molly because you work with her.”

  Zach nodded.

  “Just . . . be careful.” He searched Zach’s face another moment, and Zach hoped his mask of penitence was convincing enough. Fitzgerald came closer. “Listen, I’ve seen this happen before, and — it would destroy you both. You’ve given your word to God.”

  “I know.”

  Fitzgerald cupped his hands together and stepped toward him again. “‘When a man takes an oath, he’s holding his own self in his hands. Like water. And if he opens his fingers, then — ’” He held up empty hands. “‘He shouldn’t hope to find himself again.’ Saint Thomas More.”

  “I’m not going to do that, Bruce.”

  “Good.” He started down the aisle again, but quickly turned back. “I do think you can do this. And I think you’re ready to start working with the school.”

  Zach channeled real enthusiasm into his smile. “Absolutely.” Better than waiting on the mobsters to come knocking. Working directly with their children might be more successful than flirting with Molly, too.

  Unless, of course, she was a mobster. The guilt she obviously felt over Patrick’s murder might not have anything to do with locking a door, and either way, she could be involved in the money laundering. If she was, that also made her the most promising asset he’d found, unless Doyle Murphy came around soon.

  Zach glanced at the crucifix high on the back wall of the chapel. Would it be too much to pray for Murphy to take an interest in the new priest?

  Tuesday afternoon, Kathleen’s first day back from vacation, Zach watched for her to leave for the school. Once she was gone, Zach poked his head in the open office door. He had to make sure Molly’d gotten the keylogger. And with Kathleen out, it was a good time to test Molly again. Maybe ask about her rent deal with Murphy. At her desk, she squinted at her computer, chin in hand.

  “Hey, Molly. Did you get my e-mail?”

  “I did, but I’ve never heard of those films.”

  Then the computer tracker was installed. Sellars would be happy. Molly turned
her scrutiny on Zach. “What exactly have you been doin’ all day?”

  “You know, ministering?” Zach gave an innocent shrug.

  She pinned him with a smirk that said she wasn’t amused — but her eyes said she was. “Are you free for dinner?”

  He raised both eyebrows. Was he coming on that strong?

  “Father Fitzgerald promised some parishioners dinners this week,” Molly rushed to add. “But he’s overbooked.”

  “I’ll do it.” Zach rounded her desk to scan the calendar on her monitor. Only the name Lonegan was familiar — the parishioner at confession. “How about the Hugheses and the Lonegans? I’ve already met Cally.”

  She pressed her lips into a line. “I think the Lonegans wanted Father Fitzgerald.”

  He was taking that dinner whether she wanted him to or not. “I’m sure they all want Father Fitzgerald. Let’s go get a sword.”

  “You’re positively Solomon in all his glory.”

  “I know, right?” He grinned. “Oh, Father Fitzgerald wants me at the school, too.” In the schedule, Molly assigned him to counsel students in the afternoons. And now it was time to test her. He leaned against the desk. “Found any deals on old film rentals?” he asked.

  “I know where to look.”

  “But can we afford it? I mean, I could front the money.”

  She folded her arms, and a hint of annoyance crept into her voice. “Father, I’ve told you. We’re all right on the budget. Can’t you trust me? I’m the one that handles the books, after all.”

  That was exactly why he couldn’t trust her. “Do the books take up most of your time?”

  “And makin’ sure your life doesn’t fall apart.”

  “No wonder it’s a full-time job.” He let the topic drop for now — obviously she didn’t appreciate his “fiduciary interest.” Then again, she wasn’t the only one in the office. Maybe her coworker did something else related to the mobsters. “And what does Kathleen do all day?”

  “Um, get the mail, handle prayer requests, coordinate with the school and . . . gossip?” She laughed, but refocused on her computer, like thinking of her slacking coworker inspired her to work harder.

  He was losing her. Zach shifted, subtly positioning himself between her and her monitor on the corner of her desk. “I read that book. Catch Me in Zanzibar, from the donations last week?”

  “And what did you think?” A slight tremor shook her voice, a flash of fear or uncertainty.

  “Katya should’ve killed Frank when she had the chance.”

  “Oh, that’d ruin it.” Molly shook her head.

  “Come on. He deserved it.”

  “Sure, he lied, but she loved him.”

  For a split second, Zach felt his calculated cocky expression slip. She had no idea what she was saying.

  “Hey, Father Tim!”

  Molly and Zach both jumped at the call from the open doorway. Two of the basketball players — DeWayne and that blond tutor guy, Paul — leaned in.

  The teenager patted the ball under his arm. “Grab a notebook, padre. You’re about to get schooled. Quit chatting up your girlfriend and let’s hit the court.”

  “DeWayne,” Paul chided. “Father Tim is a man of God.”

  “Whatever, man.” DeWayne scoffed. “Even that won’t help your weak —” He stopped short, obviously censoring himself as he eyed Zach’s collar. “ — moves.”

  As soon as Zach stood, DeWayne shot a quick pass to catch him off-guard. Zach caught the ball and glanced at Molly. “May I be excused?”

  “I can see you have a very important meetin’.”

  Heading out, he passed the ball back to DeWayne. Zach turned back in the doorway. “I said I’d counsel the students, didn’t I?”

  From her desk, Molly gave him one last wry smile. “Go have fun, Father Tim.”

  Was it his imagination, or was there a certain spark in her eyes when she called him by his “first name”?

  And did he care?

  Maybe Kathleen would be a better route to Murphy. Or at least safer. For everyone.

  Molly was still staring out the door after Father Tim when Kathleen returned. “How was your meetin’?” Molly asked, grateful for the distraction.

  “Fine.” She settled into her chair. “Father Fitzgerald’s going to need eight hands to juggle all the counseling appointments, though. The teachers can’t handle it anymore.”

  “Father Tim will be helpin’ him.” But if Molly had to hide every telephone book and parish directory, she wouldn’t let Father Tim eat at the Lonegans’ tomorrow.

  “It’s ‘Tim’ now?”

  “Ah, it’s what the students call him.”

  Kathleen gave her a look of is that your best excuse? Molly buried the urge to groan. She’d called plenty of priests Father Joe or Father Seán or Father Ted. When it came to anything that might be misconstrued into gossip, Kathleen was always on the prowl.

  Molly turned to focus on the present task — the Lonegans. Wouldn’t be too difficult to switch off the parish house Internet for a day or two. The spare paper directories were on top of the filing cabinet. She could hide those easily — but Father Fitzgerald must have a copy or two in the parish house. Could she claim she needed it to make more copies?

  No, if she were going to lie to a priest, she’d just tell Father Tim the Lonegans cancelled.

  She allowed a smile to steal across her face, lifted the receiver and dialed the parish house.

  After basketball finished up, Zach headed for the parish house — and found Kathleen waiting on his front porch. He’d hoped to wait until he’d had a shower, but this was his chance to recruit a willing asset. “Hey, Kathleen.”

  “Father, I wanted to talk to you for a minute about an issue with . . . the office. Staff.”

  Zach sighed inwardly. Great. He’d have to settle some silly argument between Kathleen and Molly first. He showed her into the parish house, tugging on his shirt to fan himself. “What’s up?”

  “Molly is a good person, you know. We’re friends, of course — we’re very close.”

  Would Molly have agreed? “Is something the matter with her?”

  “That’s not what I mean. I just know her really well.”

  Maybe Kathleen was here to tell him about Molly’s involvement in the mob. The anticipation of a case-breaker mingled with the residual adrenaline in his veins. He clamped down on the rising excitement. “What’s up with Molly?”

  Kathleen pushed past him to sit on the couch. “It’s not exactly her. I mean, not just her.”

  Sellars would love this story. “Maybe it would be easier if we stopped dancing around this. What’s going on with Molly and . . . ?”

  “You.”

  Zach jerked back. “Me?”

  “Well, Molly’s a pretty young girl, and you’re fairly good-looking, for a priest —”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Kathleen stood. The smoker’s wrinkles around her lips drew together — no, not smoker’s wrinkles. Judgment wrinkles. “You know what I mean.”

  “Not really.”

  She shifted her weight onto one hip and crossed her arms. “You two just need to be careful.”

  Zach nodded slowly. Why did everyone assume he couldn’t keep a vow with a beautiful woman around? Father Fitzgerald was one thing, but Kathleen hadn’t caught him comforting her, or flirting with her. So much for Molly helping with the case.

  He opened the front door. “Thanks for your concern, Kathleen, but I really think you might be reading too much into things.”

  She raised her eyebrow, nailing him with a patented mother-knows-better-than-you look.

  Zach did his best to match her arch glare. “Did I cross a line?”

  “I’m not saying you’ve done anything; I’m only trying to make sure you see you could, and avoid it, you know. Nobody’s perfect.”

  He should’ve known she’d somehow backtrack and twist things around to make hi
m the villain. “I see your point. I won’t pretend like Molly’s not pretty, but give us some credit. It’s not like we’re making out in the choir loft after work.”

  She set her jaw. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “It’s a little funny — but I take my vows seriously. I won’t do anything I shouldn’t.” Zach gestured to the open door.

  “Hm.” Kathleen marched past him. “Pride goes before a fall,” she tossed over her shoulder. Her light tone belied the threat lurking there. She probably thought it was her duty to make sure the “fall” part was very, very public.

  Ten bucks said if he checked the choir loft at five, he’d find Kathleen waiting to pounce on their illicit rendezvous. He rolled his eyes at Kathleen’s retreating figure — and then he noticed the maroon sedan across the street.

  Time to get that license plate to Sellars. Maybe this guy could be his in. Zach grabbed a pen from by the kitchen phone, but stopped short when he saw the answering machine light blinking. He hit PLAY.

  “Father Tim,” Molly said on the message. “I just spoke to the Lonegans and, em, they said tomorrow night doesn’t work for them anymore. So scratch that off your schedule.”

  Zach deleted the message and headed out. But Molly’s tone of couldn’t-quite-put-his-finger-on-it evasiveness suddenly worried him more than the maroon sedan.

  Molly had gone too far, and she knew it. At work the next day, she flinched at every knock, afraid it might be Father Tim come to call her bluff — or worse, one of those criminals. Could they possibly know what she’d done?

  Of course not. They couldn’t have bugged the parish house answering machine. Right?

  Despite her own reassurances, Molly’s nerves were near their breaking point by the end of the day. She was almost done balancing the books when the door swung open — and the lights went dark.

  She clamped a hand over her mouth, but a single gasp slipped through her fingers.

  The lights flickered on again. “Molly?” Father Tim stepped in, brushing raindrops from his hair. “I thought you’d left.”