by Anne Emery
Eileen saw me and I thought I detected a look of relief. “Get off me,” she ordered Burke.
“Are you going to attack me again if I do?” he asked. She struggled without replying. He relaxed his grip on her hands, then eased himself up and backed away. She lay for a moment, massaging her wrists, then stood. She moved to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and leaned against it, looking from Brennan to me. She wore a pair of light blue pants with an elastic waist, a drip-dry blouse of pale pink, and an old white cardigan. She had fuzzy pink slippers on her feet.
Brennan looked into her eyes, and said softly: “Rachel.” Eileen propelled herself from the doorway and lunged at him, hands going for his throat. He was ready for her. He caught her right arm and wrenched it behind her back, twisting her around in the process. Her left arm flailed harmlessly. He pushed her, not roughly, so that her head was against one of the cupboards. I moved to her side.
“Shall we call the police, or do you want to talk to us?” I asked, but she made no reply. “Can we let you go, or do we have to hold you like this all night till we hear what you have to say? You decide.”
“Let me go if you want me to talk.” Brennan slowly released her. She walked into the living room without giving us another glance and sat in a garish arm chair that almost matched the chesterfield.
“What happened?” I whispered to Brennan. “Why did you rush ahead without me? I know she heard us in the parking lot.”
“She was waiting for me. I knocked and the door was open. I walked in and she launched herself at me with that flashlight in her hand. I don’t know what she was aiming for but I ducked and she got me here.” He touched his hairline. “I landed on my arse on the floor, but I managed to pin her down. Strong woman!”
“It could have been a lot worse for you. Have you forgotten she’s killed two people?”
We headed for the living room, where Eileen sat, glaring with malevolence at Brennan’s approach.
“You’re an intelligent man, Burke,” she began. “But you didn’t figure this out, did you? And why should you? You were hardly aware of my existence. And yet, in a way, I am your creature. If it hadn’t been for you, twenty-two years ago, I would be a different woman today. And two other women would still be alive. Undeservedly so.”
I began the questioning. “What happened twenty-two years ago, Eileen?”
“I told you what happened. But I suppose it was not significant enough to register.”
“You told me about the adoption that fell through. And that was a tragedy for you, I know. But what does that have to do with Brennan?”
“Ask him.” He stared at her without comprehension. “Doesn’t remember. Big surprise. Why would it stand out in his mind, the fact that he ruined my chance to be adopted by the Kernaghans?”
“Did he even know about your hopes for the Kernaghans?”
“He knew, but he didn’t fucking care. He didn’t give me a thought. A little girl named Natalie came to St. Bernadette’s that year. She was five, delicate and adorable, with curly hair and great big, dark eyes. The Kernaghans came for a visit. I was in the parlour, preening myself and waiting, trying not to bite my fingernails. Burke was with the Kernaghans when they came in and he said something like: ‘You know Eileen. And oh, let me go find Natalie. She came to us last month.’ I knew Natalie’s parents had been killed in some kind of tragedy. She didn’t come from a trashy background like the rest of us. The Kernaghans must have thought: ‘Natalie’s so young, not as much damage to show up later. And we can’t leave her here to waste away.’ Who knows? I did hear one conversation about adoption shortly after that. A conversation between Burke and one of the sisters. I heard him say: “Eileen? Oh, she’ll be fine. Now I need everybody over at choir early tomorrow.’ That was it. He just tossed me off. And her! Sister. She knew better, but she went along, didn’t she?”
Her eyes blazed hatred at Burke. Her face was mottled; her hair hung in lank strands and clung to her cheeks; her hands were bunched in tight fists on the arms of her chair as she leaned towards him. Facing her, silent, Brennan was the picture of desolation.
“How did you do it, Eileen?” I gambled that, with her secret exposed, she might take advantage of Burke’s undivided attention to rub our noses in it as much as she could. “It’s not only Father Burke you managed to fool. The police department, the prosecutor’s office, and a jury of twelve were all taken in. How did you manage it?”
She saw through me but didn’t care. This was her moment and she was going to live it to the fullest.
“I wanted to help that c —... Leeza Rae.” Eileen could kill Leeza with her bare hands but could not bring herself to use the c-word against another woman. “I got her the job at the centre. I tried to help her fit in and make plans for her future. But she began to confide in me about that monstrous boyfriend of hers. He had raped a teenage girl. She spent half her days at work trying to arrange trips to Dorchester to see him. I nearly tipped my hand to you the first time we talked. I said something about no woman being able to side with a rapist. I had to be careful after that.” No, you didn’t, I thought. I had missed it, as I had missed so much else. “Anyway, I was visiting the law school one day.”
I remembered questioning the librarian about the vandal who had gone along on the career day trip; didn’t she tell me Eileen had her head stuck in a book?
“Fate presented me with a copy of the decision of the Court of Appeal in the rape case. Leeza had collaborated with the boys while they raped and humiliated that little girl. You know how I feel about people who betray children. And betrayal was on my mind a lot last winter, after he arrived on the scene.” She jerked her head in Burke’s direction. “When he showed up at St. Bernie’s, it all came back to me. I couldn’t keep it buried.”
Eileen stopped for breath, then went on with an eerie calm. “Leeza Rae did not deserve to go on living. One can’t expect any better from the males — at least they served some time in prison, though it should have been life. But that’s always the way, isn’t it, Collins?
“I had to remove her from the human race, so no other young girl would ever suffer the same treatment from her and whatever male was directing her life in the future. So, how could I eliminate her, and get away with it? I had no idea where to get my hands on a gun, and if I did, the police might be able to trace it. A skull fracture would have to do. I would strike her in the head until all brain function ceased. I knew it would be messy. I ordered two plain plastic raincoats from a mail order place out west. One for me, one for her.
“It seemed only fitting that Burke should get credit for the murder. After all, if it hadn’t been for him, I would not have been here to do the deed at all. I already knew one useful thing about him: that little scar on his chest. I could not take my eyes off it that day I saw him at the beach. He was the first man I had ever seen half naked, because you’ll remember I never had a father. A crucifix inscribed on his skin! I thought he was a messenger from God.
“If a person commits a violent crime against another, we’re told, he always leaves a trace of himself behind. So I had to deposit some kind of evidence from him —” she looked at Brennan as if he were vermin “— on the body. The chances of close physical contact between him and me were about zero.” Brennan squirmed. “So I would have to be clever. There was a variety show in the works, and I came up with the generous idea of including the choir, and him, in a last-minute addition to the show. How could I get some of his hair? Put a wig on his head! I considered borrowing a clerical jacket and collar and playing the role of Father Burke myself, so I could get threads from the jacket. But that would be too obvious. So I let Erin do the honours, in her own black jacket.”
I took a chance that a question here and there about her methods would not be
unwelcome. This would be my only opportunity to question her. “How did you know Father Burke would not take the wig off when the skit was over?”
“Oh, I didn’t,” Eileen replied. She moved forward in her seat. “At first I just hoped a couple of hairs would stick to the netting of the wig. But I wanted to be sure, so I put a few small dabs of glue in it just before I passed it to Erin to hand to him. Then, when he didn’t take it off right away after the skit, I decided to step in. Some of the children were starting to take their robes off. Burke had been looking for a copy of the program, so I put one on a desk, and he sat down. I got behind him and pulled the wig off, making sure I got a good grip on his hair.” She seemed lost in memory, then continued: “I could scarcely believe my luck when you, Collins, came in to ask about the wig. Oh, you had me worried for a minute there, but then you told me Father O’Flaherty had removed the wig. Burke hadn’t turned around, so he thought it was Mike. At the time, Mike was botching the job of pulling a robe off one of the kids, so I took the opportunity to use his name: ‘Take it easy there, Father O’Flaherty’ or whatever I said. It was at that moment I knew I was going to kill Leeza, and nobody was going to trace it back to me.” Eileen sounded elated. “Two months went by before I got my chance.” Eileen jumped up. Brennan and I tensed. But she turned away from us. “This is where it happened.” She pointed to a simple wooden chair in front of a table, on which rested a dusty plant and a small plate of soda crackers smeared with margarine. “I made plans to meet Leeza after the Valentine’s dance and drive her here. The pretext was that I had found a way she could get a regular ride up to Dorchester to see the rapist. I put a little address book on that table and told her the guy who would drive her was listed under T. Then I went into my room and put on my black raincoat and hood, so I wouldn’t get anything on my clothes and there would be no traces of my clothing on her. I told her I had just bought the coat. Did she think it looked all right? I asked if she had found the guy’s phone number, which she hadn’t of course; it didn’t exist.
“When she bent over the book again, I was ready. I pulled out my weapon. I wonder if Father O’Flaherty ever noticed that one of his stone crosses is missing, one the size of a small hatchet. You won’t find it here. I should buy him a new one for Christmas! Sign Burke’s name to the card.”
“A Celtic cross!” I burst out. So she had made a slip that day we were painting the church. What had she said to Maura? “At least he didn’t go at you with his crucifix.” Poor Mike O’Flaherty.
“I pulled it out from under the raincoat. And I brought it down on her stupid, worthless little head. Over and over till I knew she couldn’t survive. Carved my signature and yours, Father, into her skin, and waited till she breathed her last.”
Eileen had her back to us. We didn’t say a word, and she resumed her narrative, her voice now overly loud. “Do you hear that?” She pointed to the ceiling, and I realized a stereo had been thumping and pounding the whole time we had been in the basement apartment. She returned to her seat. “It’s always like that. Frat boys. That’s what I have to live with, every night. Can’t afford anything better. It was like that the night I brought Leeza here. I knew I could count on the stereo. Nobody heard a thing. Then I pretended to stagger to my car, propping Leeza up with my arm around her. We looked like two more drunks reeling from the frat house. I had her in the other raincoat by that time. I didn’t want any blood in my car. She had been in the car on the way over, so I vacuumed it the next afternoon at a car wash in Dartmouth. But the police never examined it. Anyway, that night I drove along the service road at the top of the peninsula, till I got to a good spot under the bridge. When I thought the coast was clear, I dumped her out. Once she was gone, I started shaking. I drove home, cleaned the apartment, had a shower, and hosed down my raincoat.
“Tanya Cudmore,” Eileen announced in a voice that was all business. “Same thing pretty much. My pretext for her was something about financial assistance through St. Bernadette’s for bereaved families. Good thing I set it up on the phone. I wouldn’t have been able to keep a straight face in person. Bereaved, ha! ‘What kind of financial assistance, Ms. Darragh?’ How about this: not living long enough to have to pay another month’s rent, you worthless child killer! I warned Tanya not to tell anyone about the offer because other relatives, greedy ones like the child’s bereaved mother, for instance, might want the same. She fell for it and came for the secret rendezvous. I said: ‘Excuse me, Tanya. I have to try on this raincoat. I only have one more day to return it if it doesn’t fit. The papers for the assistance program are there on the table. Is the light okay there?’ Whack, and whack again. One less wicked stepmother in the world. She got the initials and the crucifix too. Credit where credit is due. Of course, I only had one raincoat left so I had to hose it down to get any traces of my clothes off it. It was still wet when I put it on her. Another two drunks stagger out of the frat house in the wee hours. Same routine with the body drop. Same cleanup. Same lack of suspicion directed my way. And how could it be otherwise? They couldn’t pin the Rae murder on you, but there was no room for doubt when it was Janeece’s stepmother.”
Brennan sat there, miserable, shaking his head. Then the telephone shrilled, and all three of us jumped. Eileen got up and answered it. “Oh, hi, Marguerite. No, no trouble. Dinner is long over. I have some friends in this evening.” Brennan and I exchanged glances. “Uh-huh. Both folders are on your desk. You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.” Click. I tried to maintain a neutral expression. Eileen turned to us.
“Imagine you two being here. How does it compare with the place you lived in in Rome, Father? Even the mouldings were made of marble, I heard you tell someone. Well, no mouldings here, marble or otherwise. Not what you’re used to either, eh, Collins? Somebody told me you have two houses. It’s not the home I had hoped for, to say the least. But here I am.”
Eileen walked to the end of the living room and turned: “Come into my room. I have something to show you.” She caught us exchanging glances, and gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t worry. Not that. And, it’s not booby-trapped. After all, I wasn’t expecting you.”
She opened the door and preceded us in. She flicked on a low wattage lamp on her bedside table, and sat down on the narrow bed, with its white chenille bedspread. “Have a look around. Is this the room of a self-confident woman, or what? Confident the police would never suspect me. And confident that nobody, but nobody, would ever be joining me in my bedchamber. Guess I should have been the one to make a vow of celibacy, eh Brennan?” He stood in the doorway, unmoving.
On her bedroom wall was a large photo of a weeping woman, the text of Matthew 2:18 printed beside it: Rachel weeping for her children. On the opposite wall was a poster showing a baby’s foot, with an inscription from William Blake: “The angel that presided o’er my birth said: ‘Little creature, formed of joy and mirth, go, love without the help of anything on earth.’”
“So, who figured out the code for Matthew 2:18? I didn’t think it would be that difficult. The letters are useful in another way, too. Both killers got to sign on. I, Brennan. I, Rachel.” She turned and looked at Burke. “I think I got that cross just about where it is on you.” She rose, went towards him, and put her hand on the hem of his T-shirt as if to pull it up, but he grasped her hand and held it still.
For a moment I thought he was going to throw her across the room. Instead he wrapped his arms around the woman and held her close. “Eileen, if your quarrel was with me, why did you take it out on those two women?” He spoke quietly, keeping her in his embrace. “Why didn’t you try to kill me, if you hate me this much?”
Eileen began to tremble, and to weep. No one spoke. If Burke had not been holding her, I suspect she would have collapsed. After two or three wordless minutes, she began to speak in a broken voice. “I couldn’t kill a priest. You have the power to change b
read and wine into the real presence of Christ. And you have been marked by God. How do you think it feels to be betrayed by someone marked by God with His sign? When I heard... when I heard that you weren’t wearing a cross around your neck when that image appeared, it was all I could do to keep from screaming out loud in the courtroom. What had I done? I knew I had done the right thing to eliminate those two people, to protect other children from them. To send them to hell. But was I wrong about you? If you were God’s instrument, chosen to do His work, then who was I to question the decisions you made, even about me? But no.” She wrenched herself away from Burke, sat on the edge of her bed, and fixed him with a look of utmost condemnation. Her voice grew harsh again. “What you did to me could not be called a decision, could it? You didn’t give me a thought. You were so offhand about it, the day you cancelled my life. ‘Eileen? Oh, she’ll be fine.’ Fine? Without parents, without a family, without love? Do I look fine to you, Father?”
Brennan slid down the doorframe till he was sitting on the floor, elbows on knees, head in hands. “I don’t know what I can possibly say to you, Eileen.”
“But the worst...” she broke in as if he had not spoken “... the worst moment of all was when I heard in court...” She turned her ravaged face to me. “You saw me that night when the jury went out. You thought I was falling apart about him going to jail. And in a way, you were right. The reason I lost control that night,” she said, turning to Brennan, “was that I had heard you say in court that you were the father of a child.”
Brennan opened his mouth, but he was either unable or unwilling to speak. I sat in the corner of the room running the numbers through my head. He had entered the seminary in 1962, and his child was born in 1963. Twenty-seven years ago. Surely Eileen could not be... It was 1968 when Burke arrived in Halifax, and later that year he “betrayed” Eileen by introducing a more lovable child to the Kernaghans. Didn’t Eileen say she was eight years old at the time? That would make her thirty; she looked older, but a hard life will do that. Had the orphanage photos been dated, or had she supplied the dates when describing them? But surely, she could not possibly think —