Saints & Spies

by Jordan McCollum

  Right?

  “You can’t do this here.” Fitzgerald punctuated each word of his fierce whisper with a jab to Zach’s chest. “How dare you betray their trust — my trust — God’s trust?”

  “I haven’t done anything.” He leaned forward, matching the older priest’s emphatic tone with an extra note of defiance.

  “You’ve done too much already.” Fitzgerald clamped onto Zach’s shoulders. “I won’t let you do this to them!” His eyes seethed with rage. His fingers dug in, inching closer to Zach’s neck. Zach’s throat instinctively constricted.

  He wrenched himself free of Fitzgerald’s hands. “Get ahold of yourself.” Zach pushed the older man away, but instead of falling back, Fitzgerald lunged at him. Zach sidestepped the attack. He grabbed Fitzgerald’s arm and twisted it behind the priest.

  “I said calm yourself,” Zach growled. Fitzgerald struggled to get free; Zach pinned him against the door. He held Fitzgerald there, counting each pant. After a dozen gasps, Fitzgerald’s labored breathing changed from incensed to injured.

  “Let go.” Fitzgerald grimaced, and his free shoulder twitched with the pain.

  Zach released him and backed away, his mind still racing through the nearest escapes. “What are you thinking, attacking me?”

  Fitzgerald swallowed hard, gaze on the ground. “I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t know what came over me.” He stood there a minute, then slunk away under Zach’s wary gaze.

  No way was he staying in a house with someone with that kind of rage issue. Zach strode from the parish house. He’d take his chances with the drafty chapel over one more night with Fitzgerald in the next room.

  He sank onto a hard wooden pew, the last of the adrenaline draining from his muscles. He could still see Fitzgerald’s eyes and their unbridled fury.

  And then the pieces fell together so smoothly they made an almost audible click.

  Zach hopped up. He paced the chapel aisle twice, trying to unthink his conclusion. Because that had to be wrong.

  One way to be sure. He let himself into the cramped sacristy and locked the door behind. He didn’t have a secure connection, and the ASAC would ream him out for this, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. Zach dialed Sellars.

  He picked up on the third ring. “What?”

  “I need to talk to our guest.”

  “Why?”

  Couldn’t Sellars just cooperate? “Have to ask him something. Now.”

  Sellars hesitated, then grunted. “Hang on, I’ll get the number.”

  The wait felt like forever, but within fifteen minutes, Zach was calling Lonegan. Someone — a U.S. Marshal? — answered the phone. “Yes?”

  He hoped this marshal was familiar with the case’s paperwork, and thus, Zach’s name. “Special Agent Zachary Saint, FBI, to talk to Cally.” He held his breath, though odds were low anyone was listening, electronically or otherwise. “Pertaining to an ongoing investigation.”

  “One minute.”

  Zach leaned against the low dressing table with his vestments. On the phone, a television in the background grew louder, then the marshal’s distant voice: “Phone.”

  “Hello?” Lonegan — or whatever his new last name was — asked tentatively.

  “Cally, it’s Father Tim.” He rushed on before Lonegan could respond. “The first time I came over to your house, Lisa said this was about Father Patrick.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, what they were gonna say he did — he’s a priest!”

  Zach frowned. “You don’t know anything about what happened to him? It wasn’t your people, or Ian or your rivals?”

  “No, no. You’d know if it was. They don’t exactly do things quiet.”

  He forced a note of relief into his sigh, though he was anything but reassured. “You have no idea who killed him?”

  “Thought it was a robbery.”

  “So did I,” Zach murmured. “I’ll be seeing you.” He tucked his phone in his pocket and surveyed the cluttered sacristy where they dressed for Mass every day.

  The archdiocese was sending his replacement in less than twelve hours. Would that be long enough to make sure he was right?

  Molly checked on the sealed envelopes in her handbag and stepped into the chapel far too early the morning after the talent show. The letters were not why she was here, more composed, at dawn, though she was finally ready to give Tim his — as soon as she was done serving as a last-minute substitute for perpetual adoration. And then she’d tender her resignation letter to Father Fitzgerald.

  The older priest brushed past her in the aisle, barely acknowledging her. She could wait to give him his letter. She climbed the marble steps to the side chapel and signed the book on the podium. With a nod to Kathleen, leaving from her turn at adoring, Molly took her place in the adoration chapel. The soft overhead lights glinted off the gold leaf of the sunburst statuette that held the wafer of the Host. Above, the crucifix motif in the blue-toned window was still dim.

  An hour of perfect solitude to search for the peace she needed. Molly settled into the leather chair back and tried to think of the Lord. She stared up at the white and gold altar. Father Fitzgerald had suggested adoration, but how was this supposed to help?

  Molly closed her eyes and made her breathing deep and even, trying to recall the feelings of reassurance and peace she’d had only days ago. But all she could see was Tim gazing at her as he sang his song. Her body might have been in the chapel, but her mind was still rooted in the cafeteria.

  She was weak.

  Should she give him her letter now? It was early, but he was probably up.

  She opened her eyes again. The stained glass window glowed with the growing light. But as the only adorer, she had to stay in the chapel — and so far, it wasn’t bringing her the solace she needed.

  What was the scripture Lucy had first shared with her? Something about coming to the Lord in faith and humility, and He’d make weak things strong. He would strengthen her weaknesses.

  Maybe He already was. Weren’t the letters in her handbag tangible proof?

  She smiled slowly. He could make this right.

  But her focus was short-lived. A soft sigh echoed in the chapel behind her. She didn’t have to turn around to recognize him, but turn she did. Father Tim sat on the steps to the sanctuary, slumped forward, his head in one hand.

  An aftershock of the ache she’d felt the night before rippled through her. He was suffering as much as she was.

  “There you are,” came a voice from the far end of the chapel. Father Fitzgerald walked down the aisle to the foot of the steps. Shouldn’t a priest have a bit more consideration for the adorer twenty feet away? Then again, with the chapel’s acoustics, he probably wasn’t speaking that loud. “About last night —”

  Father Tim cut off his statement with a sharp, dismissive chop.

  Father Fitzgerald leaned closer to peer into Tim’s face. “You look terrible. Did you sleep in here?”

  “No.” He stood. “I mean, I was here. But I didn’t sleep. Bruce, there’s something I need to tell you.” Father Tim sighed and looked down. “I’m no priest.”

  Molly’s heart nearly sprang from her ribs, but her stomach dropped. Was he leaving the priesthood — to be with her?

  “Oh, my son.” Father Fitzgerald moved up a step. “What have you done? Is it Miss Saint?”

  Father Tim — or was it just Tim now? — pulled back in obvious surprise. “I wouldn’t touch Lucy with a . . . pole of any length imaginable, ever.”

  Father Fitzgerald lowered his voice to an imploring whisper. “Tell me it’s not Molly.”

  “Again?” Tim shook his head. “You, Kathleen, Teresa Hennessy — why is it nobody thinks I’m capable of behaving when there’s a pretty face around?”

  Father Fitzgerald’s eyebrows drew together. “Why is it you act that way whenever she’s around?” He climbed another stair, finally making him taller than Tim.
>
  Molly shifted in her chair. How many times had Father Tim and Father Fitzgerald had this conversation? Was this the reason he was leaving the priesthood?

  “Glad to know you hold Molly in such high regard, too.” Tim climbed the steps to tower over Father Fitzgerald.

  Father Fitzgerald abandoned any attempt to keep his voice down. “You’re the one in a position of authority. It’d be totally understandable if she fell when you abused that trust.”

  “If you can’t believe I have a tiny scrap of self-control, at least give Molly some credit.”

  “Self-control can only do so much when you insist on putting yourself in temptation’s way. Both of you.” Father Fitzgerald circled Tim — like a vulture.

  Molly had never heard Father Fitzgerald use such a condescending — or angry — tone. She hardly recognized either of her priests, the way they were acting. Clearly something was going on here beyond the argument.

  “Why don’t you just admit what you two have done and make it easier for us all?” Father Fitzgerald demanded.

  “What we’ve done?” Tim turned to face Father Fitzgerald, still circling. “I could never — do you have any idea what that would do to her?”

  Father Fitzgerald continued his circuit, closing in on Tim. “Then stop trying to find out. Don’t you understand what it means to make a vow?”

  Tim held up a hand, visibly biting back another argument. “This is irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant? Your sacred obligation is irrelevant?”

  “I don’t have a sacred obligation! I’ve never received Holy Orders. I. Am. Not. A. Priest.”

  The room began to rotate, and Molly grabbed the back of the chair. A cottony hollow filled her chest. Never received —?

  Father Fitzgerald’s volume crescendoed. “You’re not a priest?”

  “You heard —”

  Father Fitzgerald ripped the white insert from Tim’s clerical collar. “You’ll be excommunicated!”

  “Probably would be, if I were Catholic.”

  “You’re not even —?”

  “Federal agent.” Tim pulled a notecase from his jacket and flashed a badge.

  Father Tim wasn’t a priest. Molly’s lungs closed on themselves, forcing out all her air. This couldn’t be happening. She tried to stop the spinning, to swallow, to think. Federal agent?

  Tim’s voice barely reached her through the blood rushing in her ears. “When exactly did Ian tell you Father Patrick abused him?”

  “I told you, I don’t remember exactly.”

  “September thirteenth?”

  The day Father Patrick died? She fought off the onset of shock, but her breath still came in short, silent spurts. She dug her nails into the back of the leather chair.

  “Yes.” Father Fitzgerald’s voice was only a pained pant.

  “Is that why you killed him?”

  Molly drew a noiseless gasp. No. This had to be a nightmare.

  Father Fitzgerald drew back, stopping short of the stairs. “What are you —?”

  “You confronted him, didn’t you?”

  “I — I —”

  “Come on, Bruce. Look at how you reacted to me flirting with Molly.”

  Fitzgerald shook his head vehemently. “That isn’t the same.”

  “No, it’s not. There’s no way you could let Father Patrick do that kind of thing here.”

  Father Fitzgerald stumbled backward off the stairs, but caught himself. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

  “You found out about Ian.” Tim turned to Father Fitzgerald, his back now to Molly. “And you came and strangled Patrick with his stole.”

  “But —”

  “Maybe you thought, if you stayed here, you could make it up to the parish. To God.” Tim advanced on Father Fitzgerald. “You’d never do it again, right?”

  “I didn’t — I couldn’t —” He broke off and pivoted away.

  “But, you see, the thing about anger is once you give in, it only gets easier to do it again. That’s why you attacked me.”

  Father Fitzgerald threw up his hands. “No, that was a mistake.”

  Tim grew even more acerbic. “And killing Patrick wasn’t?”

  “If you would just listen!” He clenched his fists together.

  “See what I mean about anger? And once you kill, there’s no going back.”

  Father Fitzgerald grabbed at Tim, but Tim blocked Molly’s view of the exchange. “You don’t understand,” Father Fitzgerald shouted. “Colin molested Ian! For years! And who knows how many other innocent children! Such a sin, such a betrayal —”

  “He deserved to die?”

  “Yes!” Father Fitzgerald thundered.

  Father Tim wasn’t a priest. Father Fitzgerald was a murderer. Molly couldn’t begin to wrap her brain around this.

  The echo of the priest’s voice slowly died. Tim’s shoulders fell. “He didn’t, Bruce.”

  “What?” He pulled back a step, into Molly’s line of sight, his brow furrowed.

  “Doyle Murphy was extorting him, and he made all that up to force Patrick into it.”

  What? Father Patrick was innocent — and Father Fitzgerald was guilty. And Father Tim was an undercover federal agent. Molly’s head swam.

  “But . . .” Father Fitzgerald looked around as though he’d lost his way without any hope of finding it. “Why would they say that after he died?”

  “To show me they meant it. They wanted me — had people ready to say I was sleeping with Molly. Which, by the way, I didn’t do, either.”

  Father Fitzgerald’s jaw dropped, and the dread in his eyes rekindled. He glanced to where she sat in the side chapel. Tim whipped around to look, too. He met her gaze, and realization dawned in his eyes, along with horror.

  Physical pain tore through the numbness to sear into her chest. Molly shook her head — how could he? — and his gaze fell in shame.

  “Come on, Bruce. The police are outside.” Tim took Father Fitzgerald’s arm and pulled him toward the aisle.

  “Who’ll take care of the parish? Not you, I hope.”

  “The archdiocese is sending a replacement for me. Do you want him to get here before or after the squad car leaves?”

  Father Fitzgerald allowed himself to be conducted out of the church, leaving Molly in a stupefied silence.

  Tim wasn’t a priest at all. He was a federal agent.

  And he was gone.

  She turned back to the altar and settled back in her chair, the leather upholstery sighing for her.

  He had to know what he’d put her through over the last two months — and that was all for nothing? She would have understood if he’d told her. He knew she would’ve understood, and he still hadn’t told her.

  No, he’d lied. And lied. And lied.

  Did he really feel anything for her, or had it all been designed to provoke Father Fitzgerald into a confession?

  By the time the next adorer arrived, anger had begun to gnaw at the edges of Molly’s shocked stupor.

  She was a fool, and he’d certainly played her for one.

  The parish house door fell shut behind Zach for the last time. His replacement, Father Gus, knew as much as he needed to: Fitzgerald was in Chicago PD custody and Doyle Murphy and his gang were in jail.

  And he’d been wrong — again — about tying up all the loose ends. How could he have been so stupid? He always forgot about perpetual adorers in the chapel, but couldn’t he have at least looked around?

  Habit more than hope took him past the parish office. He should’ve told her last night. Or at her place the night before. Or the first time he saw her. No matter what it cost him. What had his selfishness cost her?

  Zach stopped at the end of the arched hallway. Beyond the bare maple tree, Sellars waited to take him away from here. Away from her.

  Like she deserved.

  Zach stepped out toward the skeletal maple, and Molly rounded the corner. They
locked eyes and froze. This was his chance. He had to tell her the truth.

  “Molly, I —”

  She held up a hand to cut him off. “I don’t care.” Tears shone in her eyes, but her voice was firm.

  Zach broke their gaze, nodding. She clamped her mouth shut and waved him aside. He started for Sellars’s car again. At the sedan, he took one last look back at St. Adelaide, his case, his job, and his home for the last two months.

  He’d been so worried about this assignment — worried he was betraying his faith, worried he was making a mockery of the Catholic Church, worried he’d mislead faithful members. But in the end, he’d done some good. He’d helped Cally. He’d found Father Patrick’s murderer. He’d freed the parish and the school from the mob.

  In fact, there was only one person he hadn’t done right by. Molly still stood at the corner of the church, hugging her heavy green coat close around her. She stared back at him, and the wind tugged her dark curls into her face. Couldn’t he try to tell her one last time?

  “Hurry up,” Sellars barked from the car.

  He couldn’t explain this. Even trying — it was just him being selfish again. As he got into the car, the look on her face said it all. He could’ve told her the truth a thousand times, but her answer would still be the same as Moll Dubh’s to her suitor in his song last night: Ó imigh uaim ’s nach pill go brách orm.

  Depart from me and do not come again.

  Molly shoved the last of her moving boxes into the corner of her parents’ living room, and the house fell silent again. When her parents told her they’d be spending Christmas with Bridie and her children in their new home across the country, Molly had known she’d be alone for the holiday. But not this lonely.

  Was Tim alone now? Did he have a family?

  Molly shook off the thought and puffed out a breath. It had been almost three weeks. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking of that liar.

  She opened the box and pulled out — a secondhand Bible. Father Gus had brought it by the office, saying one of the priests had left it. She couldn’t open it to settle the nagging matter of religion and faith, and she couldn’t bring herself to donate it yet. Just like she couldn’t bring herself to delete the last voicemail Tim had left her, warning her to go somewhere safe while they were arresting the mobsters.