Saints & Spies

by Jordan McCollum

“Come on,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “You can tell me.”

  She shook her head, staring at his shirt buttons. Or his collar. Zach tilted her chin up so she had to meet his gaze — and then he saw it, the brave front in her blue eyes.

  She was terrified. “Molly,” he said her name yet again, still trying to reassure her, “if you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”

  “You can’t help me at all.”

  He leaned a few inches closer, lowering his voice. “Tell me. Let me help you.”

  She pulled away. “Thank you, Father, but I’ll handle this on my own.” She pushed past.

  “Please.” He’d wanted to sound insistent, but the word came as a plea even to his ears.

  Molly stopped short, her back still to him. “There are things goin’ on in our parish that . . . shouldn’t be. That’s all you need to know.”

  “That’s all I need to know? Are you joking? If there’s something bad happening in the parish, I should be the first to know. Or maybe second.”

  She didn’t move and she didn’t respond.

  “What kind of things?” he asked in a low voice.

  “No, I — I can’t tell you.”

  She did know. He tried to ignore a splinter of guilt. How long ago should he have seen this? “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want you to know about them.” Molly glanced around the room suspiciously, then finally turned to face him. “I’m not sure we should even be talkin’ now.”

  “What are we talking about here — SMERSH or the Spangled Mob?” Despite the half-joking Bond reference, Zach knew his expression must’ve shown how serious he was.

  She stared at him for a long moment, silently imploring him. Did she want to tell him or keep it a secret?

  He watched her another second, until he saw the fear fighting behind her eyes. This was his chance. He’d protect her and he could tell her the truth.

  What? What was he supposed to say? I’m not the person you’ve come to know and trust over the last month; I’m an FBI agent — wanna see my badge? Yeah, that’d go over well. He had to keep up his cover for her own good, if nothing else.

  “It’s the Spangled Mob, isn’t it?” he tried.

  Her chin lifted in slow motion, then she nodded.

  His chest tightened. She knew — but was she involved?

  Wasn’t the answer obvious? “Why are you guarding us with a club all of a sudden?”

  Molly clasped her hands. “I had to go in the cash box for some bank records and someone had been in there, and suddenly it all made sense.”

  “What did?”

  “Certain parishioners takin’ a sudden interest in the office. Ringin’ over and over.”

  Zach squinted to play dumb. “Why would they be calling about the petty cash?”

  “That’s not it — can’t you see? It’s so much bigger than that.” She retrieved the cash box, which did not perform its usual flipping act. Molly set the tray for the money on her desk and picked up the file folders from the bottom of the cash box. “I keep these in here in order.”

  He glanced at the tabs. In his rush to put them away, he’d put them back out of order. Molly was freaking out over his stupid, stupid mistake. “Are you sure you put them back in order?” he asked.

  “Of course, I always do.”

  Zach wracked his brain for an explanation. “When did you have them out last? Friday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When I was giving out to Kathleen?” This was one time it was okay to use Irish, to set her at ease, remind her who she was talking to — she could trust him. Even though he was a liar.

  Molly considered it a moment. “I suppose so.”

  “So maybe you were distracted putting them back?”

  She took a deep breath and released it in a shuddery sigh, sinking into her desk chair. With a weak smile, Molly took the folders back and put them away. “Well, I feel foolish.”

  This was his chance to see how involved she was. He dropped to his knees by her chair. “Why do you think there’s a mob in our congregation after our bank records?”

  “I . . .” Molly bowed her head. “Father, forgive me.”

  He ignored the sinking in his heart. Another confession — but how serious was her sin?

  “I went through the filin’ cabinet over there.” She gestured toward Patrick’s cabinet.

  “You did?” It took little effort to appear appropriately shocked. “When? How?” And did she know the safe was missing?

  “Well, after you asked a few weeks ago, I got to thinkin’. It was Father Patrick’s cabinet, and he had that separate account, and he always gave me everythin’ else, so why keep it locked?”

  “How’d you get in?”

  Molly pulled a set of lock picks from her purse. Zach drew back in a mix of surprise and admiration. Was it legal for a civilian to carry those around in Illinois? “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “My father was a locksmith for a while. I haven’t done anythin’ illegal, unless — oh, is it illegal to go in his cabinet?”

  “Nah, parish property.” He grabbed her chair arm, pretending to be eager. “What’s in it?”

  “Records.” Her expression grew pensive. “Don’t know what they have to do with the account.”

  Zach put on a frown. “Can we start at the beginning here? What’s this other account?”

  “A few years ago, Father Patrick said we should open another account to handle money comin’ into the parish for the school. Their finances are mostly separate, now, but a lot of our donations are marked for the school. I opened the account for him, but he said he’d handle everythin’ else. I never saw the bank statements and he didn’t ask about the donations. I figured he’d forgotten about it.”

  He had to test her. Zach rotated her chair toward him. “You saw statements from the account in the filing cabinet?” Impossible, unless she put them in the safe in the first place.

  “Contracts and a datebook.” Molly paused, thinking. “But why would they target Father Patrick?”

  “Who?”

  “The people in the datebook — they’re in this . . . outfit. Now, I don’t know for certain, but —” She glanced at Kathleen’s empty desk. “Rumor has it right after we opened this account, this outfit started supplyin’ the school’s lunches. But, Father, the amounts listed on that datebook — it’s more than twice what the food would be worth retail. I used to handle those books; I know.”

  Ridiculous markup on goods run through a legitimate organization — gouging, bribes and kickbacks, sounded like. Almost everything they needed for a RICO case, if they could corroborate it.

  Zach gave a low whistle. “Are you sure about all this?”

  Molly lowered her gaze. “I am.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “I only opened the filin’ cabinet a bit ago,” she said, gaining speed with each syllable. “After Cally Lonegan’s been ringin’ so much this week, I started thinkin’ and then I saw the files mixed up, and I just knew they’d been in here —”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” he interrupted, hoping to stave off her resurging paranoia. “Cally Lonegan’s been calling?”

  “Yes, but — I’m tied up in all this.”

  He gripped her chair tighter, held his breath involuntarily and waited for her to continue.

  “My name is on that account, only my name and Father Patrick’s. If they want that arrangement of theirs to keep workin’, they’ll have to come after me for it —”

  “Molly,” he said, his tone firm. “I won’t let them. Add me to the account and we’ll take care of this. We’ll end it.”

  The steel returned to her voice. “You don’t know these people. You can’t.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just add me.” He checked the clock. Almost four. “Here, why don’t you go on home? Obviously you’ve had a stressful day and you’re probably no good to us here.” He gave her a
small encouraging smile.

  “I can’t leave. What if someone needs somethin’?”

  “You’d beat them with a stick?” He patted her shoulder. “You’re not in any shape to worry about helping other people. Or to stay here.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” The fear had finally begun to dissipate from her gaze when suddenly it came flooding back. “But I can’t go home — they’re in my buildin’, now.”

  “Then I will go with you.” Zach stood and helped her to her feet, before Molly could formulate a counterargument.

  She shook her head and looked into his eyes. “You’re just gettin’ yourself involved.”

  “I don’t care.” Unfortunately, that was the truth — and he should care, since this account might be his ticket in with the less penitent mobsters. But all he was really thinking about was Molly. Zach slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  Molly pulled on her jeans and T-shirt. Father Tim had insisted she take a shower — to help her calm down, he said. And it’d helped until she got out and realized he was still there. The memory of the comfortable weight of his arms set her stomach trembling.

  No, this was perfectly normal. She’d had priests to dinner before. And if he left, she’d be alone in her building with the mobsters. The mobsters she was already in the process of turning in. If they had any idea . . . Terror flickered at the back of her mind.

  Father Tim could stay. They were friends. Only friends. If Father Tim could believe that, so could she.

  When Molly finally ventured into the living room, toweling her hair with an old T-shirt, she found Father Tim lounging on her slate gray sectional, watching television. The delicious aroma of onions, parsley and bacon filled the air.

  “You made dinner?” she asked.

  “Just some white coddle. He craned his neck toward the kitchen. “Won’t be ready for another ten minutes.”

  He’d made her an Irish stew. She couldn’t ask him to leave without eating his own meal. “Anythin’ good on?”

  “The Man Who Knew Too Much.”

  Molly checked the TV, though a spy movie wouldn’t help her get over her scare. “Peter Lorre or James Stewart?”

  “Jimmy Stewart.” He finally met her eyes. His faint smile faded, leaving behind a look that was almost — Tim turned back to the television. Molly ducked back into the bathroom to rake her leave-in conditioner and curl cream concoction through her hair.

  “You know,” Tim began when she returned, “Peter Lorre had to learn his lines phonetically because he didn’t speak English well enough for the first version of this movie?”

  “You know Jimmy Stewart doesn’t wipe the dark makeup off Bernard’s face, he wipes on white makeup?”

  “No.” He looked back at her and pointed at the photographs on the green accent wall behind him. “I like your pictures. Ireland?”

  Molly nodded. “Thank you. My sister took them.” She glanced at the trio of large photos hung in wide white mats: skeletal trees and an ephemeral sunset reflected in a lake, the arch of a stone bridge climbing out of thin fog, frost-tipped greenery surrounding the arched doorway of an ancient castle.

  “I thought Castleknock Castle was in ruins,” Tim said.

  “It is. That’s the Blackcastle in County Tipperary.”

  “Family vacation?”

  “Bridie was visitin’ me at Garda College.”

  Tim gave her a look of you’re codding me. “You were . . .”

  “A Garda.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I thought there weren’t any female Guards.”

  “Maybe you were in Ireland a while ago; a quarter of Gardaí are women now.”

  Amusement still lurked behind his knowing eyes. “I just can’t picture you as one of them.” The movie went to commercial, and he grabbed the remote to mute the television.

  “Here, so.” She sat on the couch next to him and pulled a photo album from the bottom shelf of the coffee table. Tim leaned closer as she flipped it open near the middle and turned a few pages. “Graduation from Garda College.” She offered him the picture of her in full uniform and watched his eyes for his reaction.

  “Wow,” he murmured, his mirth plain.

  “What do you find so amusin’ about this?”

  “Nothing. But now I understand why you were coming after me with a stick.”

  She folded her arms. “You’re lucky you called my name first. I could’ve really hurt you.”

  “I believe it.” Tim tapped his fingers on the photo of her graduation. “What made you join?”

  Molly hesitated. How many times had someone said her secret ambition was stupid or unobtainable? But if anyone would understand, it’d be Tim. “Eventually, I wanted to be in the NSU.” At his mystified squint, she added, “They’re covert Irish intelligence.”

  Before she could anticipate his reaction, his face lit up. “You were really doing it — not just reading and watching movies.” He indicated the television. “You were really going to be a spy.”

  “Now,” she demurred, ignoring a gratified flush, “who’s to say?”

  “I dunno, Moll. Today I’ve learned you’ve picked locks, analyzed documents and arrested criminals. I’m surprised the NSU didn’t grab you when they had the chance.”

  Molly tried to downplay the blush she could feel blooming on her cheeks. “They never had much of an opportunity. We emigrated a few months after I graduated from Garda College.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “My family was comin’ to the States, and I didn’t want to be away from them until my paperwork went through again.” The full story of an IRA splinter group trying to recruit her parents was far more complicated, but it didn’t make a difference now. Soon enough, she’d have her citizenship and apply to the FBI. “And why didn’t you join up? Live the dream, mar dhea.”

  Tim laughed. “I am living the dream — I’ve never wanted to do anything else.”

  “That’s admirable.” She realized she was rubbing the gray fabric of the couch and folded her hands into her lap.

  He shrugged. “It chose me.”

  The word neither of them dared to say, that unnamed vocation, echoed in the silence. Was he thinking his profession was keeping them apart, too?

  Apparently not: he shifted to prop his arm up on the back of the couch, comfortable as could be. “Remind me why you’re a parish secretary these days?”

  “Because Chicago PD is only interested in hirin’ American citizens.”

  Tim glanced at the television. The commercial break had ended long ago. His gaze flicked to the remote, but he turned back to Molly. “You’re going to let that stop you?” he asked.

  “Actually, I amn’t. I have my citizenship test tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You’re becoming a citizen?” He leaned forward.

  Molly nodded modestly. “I hope so, anyway. I wanted one last chance to get ready.”

  “Need any help studying?” Tim smiled — a friendly smile. Maybe this was all right.

  “Sure now.” She moved closer to take the photo album back.

  “What’s that scent?” he asked.

  She slid the album under the coffee table. “What, are you burnin’ the coddle?”

  “No.” His face grew thoughtful. “It’s . . . you smell like home. I mean,” he rushed to add, “this plant — flower in my parents’ backyard.”

  Molly tucked a curl behind her ear. “Could be somethin’ I use in my hair. I think the bottle says it’s wisteria.”

  “Wisteria. That’s it.” He smiled at her again — and really looked into her eyes. In that sublime second, he was only Tim O’Rourke, the man with understanding blue eyes. The man comforting her and cooking her dinner. The man she loved.

  Her heart slid into her stomach. She turned away. “Is dinner ready?” she murmured.

  “Probably.” Tim — Father Tim stood and walked into the kitc
hen. “Go get your study guide,” he called back, “and I’ll dish us up some coddle.”

  She hurried to retrieve the list of possible citizenship questions. And though she knew it was hardly wise for him to stay longer, Molly didn’t dare say it.

  Apparently she hadn’t learned nearly enough from the speaker at Lucy’s church. She was still weak, so very weak.

  Zach slowed in Molly’s hallway and glanced back at her door, the stress finally easing from his shoulders. She was innocent. He could’ve kissed her once he was sure.

  But he’d been careful to keep his distance. They’d eaten the coddle and watched The Man Who Knew Too Much, then moved on to ice cream and citizenship questions.

  He started away from her door. Molly would ace that test tomorrow. And as a US citizen, she could apply for the Bureau. With her qualifications, she had a better shot than he’d had. Was there some chance they’d meet up at work? That was probably the only way he could tell her the truth without losing his job.

  He tried to quash the flash of hope in his heart. Molly didn’t mention the FBI, and the Bureau wasn’t exactly recruiting the children of former terrorists — wait, would the Guards have wanted her as the daughter of IRA activists?

  Not that it mattered. He was only supposed to be flirting with her for his job.

  Zach stopped at Cally Lonegan’s apartment door. No wonder she’d freaked out at the prospect of returning home to half of Murphy’s pack.

  It was too late for a social call, but if Lonegan had been trying to reach him all week, he’d be okay with finding his new favorite priest on his doorstep.

  Zach knocked at the Lonegans’ door, and Lisa answered. “Father Tim. Come on in.”

  “Thanks, Lisa.” As he entered, he realized he hadn’t heard his title once at Molly’s.

  Lonegan slumped at the end of the couch, his oldest son sprawled over the rest of it, both engrossed in a crime drama. They didn’t get enough of that in their real lives?

  The show went to commercial just as Lisa shook her husband’s shoulder. He grunted. “Father Tim.” Lonegan rose and kicked his son’s legs to edge his way past.

  He settled at the kitchen table, his shoulders still slumped. Either he was angling for an Academy award, or the man was feeling the weight of discouragement. Zach pushed aside his own disappointment. It didn’t matter whether Lonegan wanted to repent or not. This wasn’t that kind of mission — but that meant Lonegan still wasn’t ready to think about the FBI, either.