“Do me a favor, Moll. Leave the lecturing to Father Fitzgerald.”
“As soon as you take time off so he doesn’t come after me for overworkin’ you again.”
Tim grimaced vaguely. “Sorry.”
She stuck the soup bowl in the microwave. “How much medicine have you had?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not ODing. I think.” He laughed, but his mirth dissolved into coughs. Molly patted him on the back, but it didn’t help.
Once his coughing subsided, Molly warmed up the soup. Tim accepted the bowl with thanks, and Molly settled in the worn chair that might’ve once been green, taking the remote from the rickety coffee table. They were silent save for the spoon’s clang on the bowl. Molly scrolled through the television program guide — and tried to think of anything but being alone with Tim.
She settled on a ’60s spy movie. Michael Caine was watching a film brief, exchanging a glance with an attractive woman.
“You know this one?” Molly asked. “The Ipcress File?” She laid down the remote.
“Never seen it.” Tim watched the set for a while, but when she glanced at him again, he was staring at her. “Going to confession tomorrow?” he asked.
She nodded slowly, apprehension already constricting her chest.
“What happened wasn’t your fault.”
So they would discuss it. “Is that your way of offerin’ absolution?”
“You know I can’t do that. But you don’t have anything to be absolved of.”
Molly focused at her hand rubbing her other elbow. Just the reminder she needed. He was a priest and forgetting that — or worse, ignoring it — was wrong.
“It was my fault.” Tim waited until she looked up. “I was the one trying to —”
“I didn’t stop you.”
His gaze returned to his bowl. “You did. I saw it in your eyes. You knew it was wrong.”
“It was,” she whispered, her vehemence surprising even her.
“Yeah.” Tim paused. “I’m sorry.”
Had he already confessed? She could hardly imagine he’d said Mass with this on his conscience. Little wonder Father Fitzgerald had been upset at her spending time with Tim.
They lapsed into silence as Michael Caine’s Harry Palmer cooked for Jean Courtney. In a minute, she’d decline to join him for the meal. The romantic storyline in this movie was hardly a subplot. How did she only seem to see those parts?
“Thanks for dinner.” Tim set his bowl on the coffee table. Molly took it to the kitchen.
She came to stand behind the faded couch with its black-and-neon crocheted blanket. “I should probably go.”
“Guess so.” Tim turned to her. Neither made any move for the door. “I won’t ask you to stay.”
But his eyes did that as clearly as if he’d said the words aloud.
Molly returned to the chair, willing herself to stare only at the television — decidedly not Tim. They passed half an hour in companionable silence before Molly finally broke down and turned to him. He was fast asleep. She tugged the tacky afghan over his shoulders.
A knock at the door made her drop the blanket as though it burned — as though she’d been caught playing with fire. Tim didn’t stir, so Molly answered to the door.
Doyle Murphy stood on the porch. Molly gasped instinctively. He rocked back on his heels, folding his arms as though he was in charge. She gripped the doorknob and shifted to block Doyle’s view. “Father Tim isn’t feelin’ well,” she said. “Can I help you with somethin’?”
Doyle took on a cat-with-cream air. “You work with the school, right?”
“I don’t. If that’s what you’re needin’, Father Tim won’t be much help, either.”
“Hm.” Doyle’s gaze shifted over her shoulder. “What if I told you I could give you what you want most?”
Molly fought off a smirk. “What do you know about what I want?”
“You, Father Tim, together, without anybody saying a word. A blind eye.”
Her insides reacted first, though her gut couldn’t decide whether to be alarmed or elated.
But nothing Doyle Murphy or anyone else did would make that right. “Off you go, now.”
She was already shutting the door when Doyle responded, “Fine. Do it the hard way.”
Molly leaned against the closed door. Even the deadbolt didn’t make her feel safer. But Tim slept on, oblivious. On the television, Courtney took Palmer’s hand and kissed him before she let him leave, the end of the romance in the movie. Because she had to let him go.
Molly’s heart grew cold. She switched the television off and collected her jacket. This had to end. They might be friends, but she’d never have a place in his life beyond that. Time to stop fooling themselves.
Across the car park, Doyle’s black Audi peeled out. All right, perhaps she had no place in Tim’s personal life, but until Doyle was truly gone, she couldn’t leave it either. Molly walked into the drizzle alone.
After the Mass postlude Sunday, Zach hurried down from the choir loft to see Molly. But even the cold medicine couldn’t dampen his instincts when Zach heard his cover’s name carry through the vestibule in a conspiring murmur from the chapel. He pressed himself against the vestibule wall where he could listen unnoticed.
“And then,” continued the first speaker — Kathleen? “Molly said they went on a date!”
“A date?” The second speaker, a man, didn’t lower his voice as much.
“Dinner and a movie at her place — can you believe it? It’s like living The Thorn Birds.”
The man gave a low whistle. “All I ever hear is what a saint he is.”
That wasn’t an allusion to his real identity, was it? Though Zach was already as still as possible, he stopped breathing a brief second.
“Well,” Kathleen said, “he’s a good guy. His heart’s in the right place, I think.”
“Not worried about his heart. But come to think of it, I heard him say she was beautiful.”
The gossipers moved into view — Kathleen and Doyle Murphy.
“Did I tell you about the time I caught him attempting to flirt? Embarrassing to watch.” Kathleen took Murphy by the elbow and leaned in to launch into her next tidbit.
“I heard,” Zach began in his own furtive whisper, “he even gossips.”
Murphy and Kathleen jerked around. “Oh, Father, I —” Kathleen choked out.
Zach pushed off the wall and approached the pair. “I don’t care what you say about me — but dragging Molly into this? Aren’t you the closest friend she has in this parish?” She bowed her head, but he wasn’t done yet. “Did you think about what your overactive imagination would do to her reputation?”
“I — Father, I — I mean —” She surrendered into silence.
He patted Kathleen on the shoulder. “‘Go and sin no more.’”
She nodded and hurried away.
“Certainly know how to handle your people,” Murphy said once the echo of Kathleen’s footsteps faded.
Zach kept his gaze level. If that were true, Kathleen never would’ve said those things in the first place.
“But Kathleen’s the least of your worries.” Murphy took two paces toward Zach.
Zach folded his arms, fighting back his defensive reflex. “Oh, really? Why’s that?”
“You’ll see. Soon enough.”
“Doyle?” came a timid call. A short woman with the heavy-lidded eyes that came from years of submission shrunk back a step from the exterior doors. “Are you ready to go?”
Doyle watched Zach a moment longer. “Yep. Got everything I need. Just you wait.”
Zach let them go, refusing to rise to Doyle’s bait. As soon as Doyle was out of sight, Zach grabbed his phone and dialed Lonegan, but there was no answer.
If Kathleen had given Doyle everything he needed, then Zach wasn’t the only one in danger.
Molly was wrapping up her work Monday when Father Tim came to th
e office. He appeared about as ill as he had Friday night, but without the languid listlessness.
She busied herself with the last email check of the day to keep herself from remembering everything they’d said that night or her decision not to go to confession Saturday. “Afternoon, Father. I cleared your schedule today, and I moved your school counselin’ to tomorrow. Other than a few dinner appointments, that’s everythin’ for the week.”
Father Tim took on a skeptical expression. “I’m not an invalid. I can do more than one thing a day.”
Molly glanced at Kathleen. “We’re supposed to make sure you don’t overwork yourself while you’re recovering,” Kathleen said. She seemed to address Father Tim more gently today. If that was how she treated someone on the mend, maybe Molly should play the convalescent.
“Father Fitzgerald acts like no one’s ever been sick before. This was his idea, wasn’t it?”
“Apparently he thought you were at death’s door.”
Tim smiled weakly. “Yeah, it was touch-and-go for a while. Watch out, the Chicago cold epidemic will claim more lives before the year is out.”
“We’re glad to see you in good spirits, at least.” Kathleen returned his smile, though hers was oddly empty.
“Owe it all to good soup.” Tim turned up one corner of his mouth. “Hey, Molly, I need to get on that account. Can we go by the bank?”
Molly’s hands balled into fists. After she’d caught him palling around with Doyle and his ilk this week, she had no intention of adding Father Tim as a signatory. He still didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. She was trained to handle criminals.
She willed her fingers to relax. “They’ll be closed by the time we get there, and I have to get to rehearsal.”
“Tomorrow then.” He didn’t meet Molly’s gaze as he left.
She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. One last thing to take care of. She picked up the phone and dialed Doyle Murphy. His wife Claire answered. Molly introduced herself and silently wished her good luck would hold. “I need to leave a message for —” She checked on Kathleen, busy sweeping an armful of paper into the waste bin. Was she listening, too? “ — your husband,” Molly finally finished. “Father Tim’s just getting over something, and he won’t be able to keep their appointment. We hope you understand.”
Claire made some noise of assent, and Molly bid her goodbye. She’d bought him another week. “See you tomorrow, Kathleen.” Molly collected her handbag and started for the door, almost late for her family’s dance rehearsal. She’d only made it to the car park when her mobile phone rang.
The missionaries. Molly rubbed her lip, contemplating her mobile. They’d already rung her twice this week to remind her of her commitment to pray about the Book of Mormon. She still hadn’t, and they were meeting tomorrow. Though she really didn’t need another reason to feel guilty, Molly pressed the button to ignore the call.
She got into her car and stared at the steering wheel. Her life had been just fine two months ago. Now she was driving herself mad trying to keep Father Tim — and her heart — safe. And then she’d promised to pray about the Book of Mormon, when she’d always been taught the Bible was the only book of scripture.
But who was she to disregard what might be God’s word? After all, reading that book had been the only thing that felt right — that brought her any sort of peace — since Father Tim arrived and made all of her prior refuges unsafe.
Molly waited until Kathleen left for the day, then went back to retrieve the book from her desk. She only had a little time until dance rehearsal, but she’d given her word, now, hadn’t she?
Molly traced the grain of the faux cherry conference table, waiting for the first of her two nerve-wracking appointments Tuesday. At least the missionaries hadn’t asked her to take two hours off work for their meeting tonight, as the FBI had.
At last, the door swung open. An African American in a dark suit ill-fitted to his girth entered and shut the door behind him. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Reginald Sellars introduced himself and shook her hand. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Of course.”
Sellars slid a manila folder across the table. Molly accepted but didn’t open it. She slipped back into the familiar power structure of law enforcement as though she’d never left. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
“We need a little more information. We have an agent on this case full-time —”
“You?”
Sellars smirked. “Aside from me.”
“Perhaps it’d be easier for me to speak to him.”
“Don’t worry about that.” His smirk deepened into full-blown amusement.
Molly fixed him with a look to take him down a notch. Did he think she was that ignorant? “I know how these things go. Wouldn’t it be simpler for me to speak to your agent, instead of havin’ him hear it secondhand?”
“You’re right.” Sellars leaned back in his chair. “But that’s not going to work for us now. So, about these pages?” He flipped open the folder.
“I’d really like to speak to your man.”
Sellars simply grinned. “I bet you would. But I promise to take good notes for him.”
Molly pursed her lips and turned to the pages from the datebook. “What do you want to know?”
“Why do you assume organized crime is involved here?”
She didn’t need the datebook for that. “I can read, Agent Sellars. Everyone knows what they’re up to — and you do, too, if you’ve an agent on the case already.”
“Then what are they after?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ on that, and I may finally have it.” Molly reached for her handbag and pulled out a sheaf of folded paper. “I’d almost forgotten about this — not part of my job — but there is a bit of money associated with the school.” She gave him the papers.
Sellars studied the top page. “What’s this?”
“The school’s trust. Been goin’ nearly thirty years, since the parish first decided they wanted a school. Some smart investin’ has made it basically self-sustainin’. It covers grinds — tuition — for charity slots and any of the original investors’ children and grandchildren, which is how Doyle’s son ended up enrolled.”
“This number right?” He pointed to a spot on the page. “Thirteen million?”
Molly nodded. “Thought that might attract their attention.”
“One more thing — we have some bank records that don’t match up with this appointment book. There’s a monthly charge for $450 we can’t trace.”
Her stomach sank. It was true then. “That’d probably be rent on a condo. For parish staff.”
“Ah.” Sellars thumbed through the pages. “We appreciate this information.”
She knew a dismissal when she heard one. She stood and started for the door, but doubled back before she walked out. “Would your man happen to be Cathal Healey?”
Sellars lifted his gaze slowly. His expression remained unchanged, but Molly saw the shadow that flitted behind his eyes. “Who?”
“No one.” Molly strode out. With the evidence in the FBI’s hands, Father Tim would be safe for good — and she might not have to worry about Cathal anymore, either.
Zach headed to the parish office Tuesday evening. Day three that Lonegan didn’t answer his phone. Zach puffed out a cloud in the chilly air. He’d had little excuse to stop by the office since Molly lightened his priestly load, but now he had a legitimate reason: he promised to protect her from the mobsters. With Lonegan avoiding him, he still needed Molly’s signature to get his name on the bank account to seem like he was cooperating.
But once again, Molly was making his job anything but easy. He steeled himself for the coming conflict and opened the office door. Molly stood behind her desk, pulling on her green jacket. “How was your counselin’ today?” She picked up her purse and rounded her desk.
“Oh, you know.” Zach laughed, his voi
ce still husky from his cough. “Half the kids are only there to get out of class and the ones that really need it won’t come.”
She shook her head pityingly and maneuvered past him to the door.
“Ready to head to the bank? They’re open late today.”
“Sorry, I’ve an appointment this evenin’ and I can’t be late.” With that, she stepped out of the office, closing the door behind her.
He frowned and looked to Kathleen. “Has she done that to you before?”
“What, walk out while I’m talking to her?”
“No — it’s still quarter till.”
Kathleen checked her watch. “She usually stays late. But I think she’s earned fifteen minutes off.” She turned back to her game of computer solitaire.
Zach nodded absently. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t answer yesterday when he said they’d go to the bank today, and she ended the conversation when he brought it up. Was she trying to get out of putting him on the account? Was she up to something?
Frowning again, Zach turned to Molly’s desk, dragged her phone over and picked up the receiver. He hit the redial button. Before he hung up, a familiar phone number registered on the phone’s display. Doyle Murphy’s.
Molly was a signatory on the account. She refused to add Zach. She called Doyle.
She was taking them on all by herself. Dread and fear clamped down on his chest.
“Later, Kathleen.” Zach strode to the parking lot, but Molly was already gone.
How soon could he get the Bureau’s transcript of that call? It’d take days.
Sellars’s counsel came ringing back to Zach’s ears: don’t let it get personal. But if Molly was taking those mobsters on her own for his sake, he hadn’t let it get personal enough.
Molly rounded the corner from the elevators and stopped short. Two skinny teenagers in suits stood at the Lonegans’ door, shifting as if they’d knocked and were waiting for an answer.
And yet the jitters she expected to beset her heart didn’t come. Instead, her pulse kept steady with the calm she’d felt when she’d knelt to pray last night — and the confidence she could get them away from the Lonegans.
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