by Susan Cox
By the time the fire truck and the EMTs arrived, I had managed to uncover Matthew’s chest, so at least he was able to breathe, but he had lapsed into unconsciousness. He was looking terrible. His face was badly scraped up, he’d bled heavily from a head wound, one of his hands was crushed, and one of his legs looked broken. And heaven knew what kind of internal injuries one of those toppling mountains had caused. The wheezy breaths continued, but they scarcely moved his chest at all, and I was afraid that each one would be his last. The EMTs pushed their way to us, hauling their cases and pulling on latex gloves, moving sideways so their shoulders wouldn’t catch on anything. I got out of the way, which wasn’t easy since there was so little room to maneuver, and slipped and stumbled back to the door. The EMTs made it clear they needed Nat to stay, and as I brushed past him he was resolutely holding back the slanting, unstable tower, looking anywhere but at Matthew’s bloody wounds or at his own torn and bleeding hands. Mine were no better; they were scratched and filthy, and my nails were ragged.
When Matthew was stabilized enough to move, they brought him out on a sort of clamshell stretcher, closely followed by Nat. As they reached the door, the teetering tower they’d just left behind crash-landed, making a horrible noise and producing clouds of stinking dust that reached me standing just outside the door, and made all of us cough.
The firefighters had used bolt cutters to remove a section of the fence and roll it aside. The EMTs were in a hurry, and I had to shout at their backs, “Where are you taking him?”
“St. Mary’s!” one of them yelled back.
His partner yelled over her shoulder as they transferred Matthew into the ambulance. “You need tetanus shots, and you might have inhaled something toxic. There’s another unit on the way. Wait here.” They stepped up into the ambulance, I got one more glimpse of Matthew looking small and pale, the doors closed, and with hardly a second’s delay they drove off with a splashy display of synchronized lights and sirens. Their speed was heartening; they’d only hurry like that if Matthew were still alive.
I leaned back against Nat’s Jaguar, shaking from the adrenaline. I said to him as he joined me, “Come on, Nat; let’s go to the hospital.”
He had cobwebs in his hair and smears of black and green stuff on his sweater. I supposed I looked much the same and brushed my hands down my jeans. “Ow,” I said. My hands stung.
He gave me an exasperated look and made a futile effort to brush himself off. “The gal said to wait.”
I opened the passenger door and talked to him over the roof of the car. “I know, but we can get checked out at St. Mary’s. And I should call Father Martin.” I got in, pulling out my phone. He climbed in behind the steering wheel with a resigned sigh.
Father Martin arrived at the hospital, flustered and demanding news. He was wearing a thin purple brocade scarf around his neck and carrying a small zippered pouch. I joined him at the reception desk, and we spoke briefly before he was allowed back into the emergency medical bays.
Nat and I sat in the waiting room surrounded by misery and anxiety. People were quietly bleeding or holding crying babies, and in all it wasn’t a restful place to wait. Nat and I were obviously low on the priority list, but we were eventually given tetanus and antibiotic shots and antibacterial salve and gauze for the cuts on our hands. I mentioned the toxic air in Matthew’s place, but since we weren’t coughing or turning blue, the doctor told us to check back with our own doctors and mention inhaling possible particulates to see if we were at risk for what he called chemical pneumonia. If we started to get short of breath, began a fever, chest pain, or swelling of our eyes or tongue, we should get ourselves back to an ER.
I could see Nat running his tongue around inside his mouth. The doctor smiled at us both. “I think you’ll be fine,” he said. “The injuries to your hands shouldn’t get infected.”
Nat stopped feeling his neck glands and looked closely at his hands. “How are we gonna know if they’re infected?”
The doctor’s lips twitched, but he answered seriously enough. “The scratches will get red and swollen. But I’ve pumped you full of antibiotics, and I want you to get these filled and take them for ten days.” He tore off two prescription sheets, handed one to each of us, and returned the pad to the pocket of his white coat.
I managed to get Nat back to the waiting room, where he kept clearing his throat and asking me every five minutes if I thought his eyes looked red.
“What was in Father Martin’s little bag thing, do you think?” I asked in an attempt to distract him. “And why was he wearing that scarf?”
“The scarf is called a stole, and it’s what they wear when they administer the sacraments.”
“Sacraments? Is he saying Mass back there?”
“He’ll be givin’ Matthew the anointin’ for the sick—it used to be a sort of final blessin’ if you looked as if you were checkin’ out.”
I gulped. “Does that mean that Matthew—”
He patted my hand. “Nah. Now priests can give it to you if you’re just sick, even if you might be recoverin’. That’s what he had in that little pouch prob’ly—it includes a blessing with holy oil.”
“Huh. How do you know so much about it, anyway?”
Nat just shrugged. “Early trainin’. It never goes away.”
“Are you Catholic?” I was surprised because I knew the Catholic Church didn’t exactly embrace gay men and women. Or anyone, really, who wasn’t heteronormative. Say what you will about the Church of England, and God knows I’ve said a lot, they’re an accepting bunch.
“I wanted to be. But they don’t want me, so…” He shrugged again.
“Do you go to church? Why don’t I know this about you?”
“You don’t know everythin’ about me, English,” he said, but now he was smiling. “I go sometimes. I don’t know this Father Martin too well; I can tell you this much—there are people on both sides of the aisle who wouldn’t mind him crossing over; know what I mean?”
“You think you’re being subtle, but yes, I get it.” I rolled my eyes. “Is he gay?” I added after a brief pause.
“Dunno.”
I frowned. “But—”
“It’s actin’ on it that’s the problem for them,” he said. He was putting on a careless front, but I decided the Catholic Church could bite me. I held his hand gently in mine, avoiding the sore spots on both our hands. We sat quietly for a while.
Time stopped meaning very much in that weird way it does in hospitals. Eventually, Father Martin came out through the double doors. We stood up and waited for him to get to us. “Matthew’s still with us,” he said quietly, gesturing for us both to sit. “I gave him the sacrament, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. They said it could be hours yet. You two look as if you could use a shower and some rest. I’ll stay for a while and let you know if there’s any change.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I telephoned Inspector Lichlyter as soon as I got home and, while I didn’t think she would help me, stranger things have happened. I got the information I wanted, but I can’t say the conversation was a complete success.
“I was wondering if you could put me in touch with Katrina Dermody’s office assistant. Her name is Janine something; I met her at Katrina’s memorial.”
“You want to contact her?”
“Yes. I … er … wanted to call her, or maybe send her a note. She seemed so upset at the memorial, and I thought of writing to her. A note. Of condolence.”
“I can’t release her address or phone number.” She sounded very firm. “But her last name is Ryan.” After another brief pause she added, “Her husband is Liam.”
“Is the investigation doing well?” I gave myself a mental bitch slap. “I mean, do you have any more suspects?”
“We don’t usually need more than one when the evidence is compelling. If that’s all, Ms.… Bogart, no doubt you’ll let me know if there are any other condolence notes you want to write.”
I thoug
ht Janine was probably the only person who knew about the day-to-day running of Katrina’s law practice. Her paralegal had recently resigned, and Gavin only went to the office occasionally. I was clutching at straws, but I hoped she could give me some new information, some new leads to follow. She might also be the only person to know if Katrina were the mother of Sergei’s son, Pavel, and if he’d ever visited her at her offices. With Haruto’s help, I found Janine and Liam Ryan in Montara that afternoon. I telephoned her and left a message. That evening I heard back from her husband.
“I’m just returning your call because you haven’t heard the news, and I wasn’t sure…” His voice faded.
“What news?”
He cleared his throat. “Janine is in the hospital; she was in an accident ten days ago.”
My heart sank. “I’m so very sorry. A car accident?”
“Yeah, she liked that she had to be in the office so early because she missed most of the early morning traffic. Janine”—his voice broke—“doesn’t remember, and so no one’s sure what happened. She might have taken a curve too fast. She went over the cliff on one of those bends along there. The police are still investigating.”
Suddenly feeling that Janine’s information was much more important than I realized, but unable to talk to her, I wasn’t sure where to take the conversation. I’d thought she and I could just chat casually in case she knew something helpful. Liam was waiting, and I said the first thing that occurred to me. “We met at Katrina Dermody’s memorial, and it was obvious that Katrina relied on her quite a bit.”
“She loved her job because she was given so much responsibility.” I thought cynically that Katrina probably loaded her up with too much work.
“So she was more than an assistant,” I said, still finding my way. “Janine told me about taking responsibility for a report or something, was that right?”
“Janine realized some report was overdue, so she pulled it together, cleared it with Ms. Dermody, and sent it off. Janine felt her contribution was valued, you know?”
“So she was in Katrina’s confidence; she probably knew a lot about St. Olga’s orphanage. That was a surprise to most of us,” I said.
“She did. The report she wrote was something to do with the orphanage. She thought of Ms. Dermody as a role model.” I swallowed a snort as he cut himself off. “Look, I have to go; I’m heading back to the hospital. I appreciate your call and I’ll let Janine know.”
“Please tell her I hope she’s back on her feet very soon.”
I finished the call, convinced someone had tried to silence the only person to shed a tear over Katrina’s death. But why?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I heard the doorbell ring in the rectory and stood on the wide steps behind St. Christopher’s, waiting for Father Martin to answer the door, thinking that I’d been foolish to come alone. Maybe he’d want another priest to hear his confession; wasn’t that what Catholics did?
The door flung open and he appeared, handsome and scowling, dressed this time in a dignified black suit.
He led the way to his office and waved me to a chair, but I stayed standing in case I needed to make a quick getaway. Remembering his impatience on my first visit, I said quickly, “I know you stole the photograph of Katrina, and I think you took the doll, too. It was the one with the teacup, the one in the photograph. Am I right?”
He was probably in his fifties, and I wondered for the first time if priests retired on a pension and what they did after they retired. After a few seconds of stony silence, he turned to open a drawer in the small table next to the beaten-up leather chair and scrabbled for a second before pulling out the matryoshka. He held it so tightly his knuckles were white. He waved me to the hard-backed chair again, and this time I sat down. He leaned over to open and close a drawer in the desk, then turned and abruptly shoved the stolen photo of Katrina at me. It was the one of her with the young man. I realized with a mild shock I was sitting across from the same man, with the addition of three decades and a clerical collar. He threw himself into the chair and held the doll in his hand for another moment, his expression bleak, then he pushed that into my hands, too. I put the photo and the doll on the table next to him.
“It was an impulse. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said dismally. “I bought Katrina that matryoshka thirty years ago.” He looked down at his folded hands. “Have you ever read a priest’s obituary?”
“Not that I remember, why?”
“There are never any survivors; no wife, no children, no grandchildren, often no siblings left alive. Katrina and I had a history. I liked knowing that there would be someone to care; someone to come to my funeral. Instead I went to hers.”
He sounded remarkably like Jacob, the spy. I barely resisted promising him I’d attend his funeral.
“How did you know each other?”
The impulse to explain was stronger than his impatience. “We were girlfriend and boyfriend when we were just kids.” He scowled at me. “I resisted my vocation for a long time because I wanted to be with her.” He clenched his hands into fists, and I pressed against the back of my chair to put as much distance between us as I could.
“Katrina didn’t take it well when I entered the seminary, and by the time I was ordained she had moved away. We wrote occasionally, so I knew when she married, when she moved to this country, when she divorced. I’ve lived in America myself for years now, mostly in the Midwest. When I was told six months ago I’d be posted here I contacted her. I wasn’t sure she’d want to see me, but we were gradually able to repair our friendship. Of course she’d changed,” he faltered. “But then so have I.”
I thought of the laughing young couple in the photo album and then of the somber middle-aged people they’d become. “What kinds of things did you talk about? Did she tell you about her son?”
He paled. “No. She never mentioned that she had a son. How old was he, do you know?” I could see him rapidly doing some arithmetic.
“He could be anywhere from a teenager to a grown man. No one seems to know anything about him.”
“She didn’t include him in her estate plan? That doesn’t sound like Katrina.”
“You said she’d changed a lot. Gavin says she left everything to St. Olga’s, the orphanage she supported in Kiev.”
“Gavin? Do you mean Gavin Melnik?” He looked startled.
“Yes, Gavin is her cousin. He doesn’t inherit anything, but he’s her executor.”
“I had no idea. He never mentioned—well, why would he? He didn’t know that Katrina and I knew each other. When he started to volunteer here last month, I think I was away on retreat. Our clients like him. He seemed to have a special connection with Matthew.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I should break the news about Matthew’s accident to him.”
“You were right about the fingers belonging to a priest,” I said. “Did you know him, the priest who was killed? He was from South America. His name was Sergei Viktor Wolf.”
“He doesn’t sound very South American,” he said brusquely.
“No, but he lived in Kiev for a time. Like Katrina. Like you.”
“All roads lead to Rome, is that it?” he said wearily. “No, I didn’t know him. But I knew Katrina had a lover called Sergei, back in the day. She was beside herself with rage when he entered the priesthood. She was angry with God, and I feared for her soul.” I always find talk of souls a little disconcerting, but he did it without any self-consciousness. “Years later, she told me she’d given the two men she loved to the Church, that she was giving them nothing else. But she wanted to do something for children without parents. I thought she was referring to herself, but now you tell me she had a child—”
“Is that where the idea for St. Olga’s came from?”
“She was proud of St. Olga’s as an alternative to the huge state orphanage she’d experienced. More like a home, really. She refused to allow the local diocese any oversight, but she said she had a sort of bagman
running interference, and he was able to finesse things so that they provided a small group of sisters to run the home. She said it was being run by a small group of Olivetans.” He huffed in what was almost a laugh. “She didn’t know anything about them, and said they sounded like an Italian soccer team. I told her they’re a teaching order, and some of them are nurses, part of the Benedictines, so they’re ideal for working with children. A bit unworldly, but kind-hearted women and very hard-working.”
“So if I have a question about the orphanage, I should ask Gavin.” My heart sank a little. I wasn’t sure he could be objective.
He shrugged. “Katrina just referred to her cousin; I didn’t realize she meant Gavin. I know she trusted him and, truthfully, she didn’t have any time to do anything except work. I don’t think she ever took a weekend off.” He frowned. “She’d heard from a priest in Kiev about some kind of problem, and since Gavin was already over there, she was getting him to sort it out.”
“Do you remember the name of the priest who wrote to her?”
“I probably still have the e-mail; is it important?”
“I think it is.”
He opened a laptop on the desk and spent a couple of minutes scrolling through. “Here it is. It was a Father Ponomarenko.”
“Did Katrina say what the problem was?”
“Just that the priest must be fairly junior, because he wasn’t aware of St. Olga’s. She responded to him eventually, but he didn’t get back to her.”
I nodded and tried to think of another way around to what I needed to know. In the meantime, he was looking impatient, so I asked the first thing that came into my head. “I’m not Catholic myself,” I said. “And I’ve always felt those long black outfits with the—you know, wimples”—I felt proud for remembering—“were sort of severe, scary for kids.”