Twist of Faith

by Ellen J Green

  “Or if it’s abandoned.” Joanne looked like she hadn’t slept in days when she said that.

  Russell nodded. “And I’m going to ask a friend to flag her passport, though I’ve pretty much used up any favors I had from people at the academy, the military. But if she tries to leave the country, I’ll know.”

  Joanne was uncharacteristically mute. She just nodded and showed him out. Russell sat in his Jeep and reviewed the information he’d been able to gather on Jack Quinn. Sixty-seven years old. Last known address was some blocks from the final stop on the Market–Frankford elevated train. He pulled out and made a quick detour to Claire’s house. He had half a hope that he’d see Ava’s car parked in the driveway, but it was empty. He darted up her steps and rang the bell. He heard the faint sounds of Beethoven’s fifth from within. He knocked and rang again, then slid his hand down to the knob and turned it. It moved and then stopped. Locked. Marie, who arguably knew Ava better than he did, hadn’t been concerned—maybe she was more prone to taking off than he realized.

  He headed to 95 North—the traffic was surprisingly light—and took the Bridge Street exit. He knew this area of the city well, lower working class, a bit run down, not great, but not exactly terrible either. Jack Quinn’s apartment was only five minutes from the exit; he was in front of number ten Howell Street before he figured out what he was going to do when he got there.

  It was the end unit, a two-story row home, on the minuscule side. He sat in his car and watched. There was no car parked in front, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe Mr. Quinn was carless at the moment. When he hadn’t seen any movement for ten minutes, he got out and went to the front door and knocked lightly. No sound of stirring from within. He rapped again and then stuck a slip of metal between the door and jamb. The cheap lock popped open within a minute.

  Russell hesitated. This was breaking and entering. If caught, he was going to pay the consequences. He had no reason or explanation for violating this man’s privacy. Jack Quinn had done nothing but round out the numbers in a group of boys in Catholic school fifty years ago. But Russell’s gut said there was much more to it.

  Ava hadn’t called Walter at the old W&K to look at pictures of Loyal and her grandfather or even Bill. She was gunning for Mr. Jack Quinn. His photos had been mysteriously absent from the albums she’d showed him, which meant she had removed them before he got there. She must have had a reason.

  He opened the door wide enough to slide through and then shut it behind him. The room was worn and dated but impeccably clean, uncluttered. The few belongings Quinn had were piled neatly, as if he were getting ready to bolt. A creeping sensation came over Russell, as if something horrible were lurking close by. He imagined Ava’s purse or clothes, or something even more gruesome, in the house. But from a quick search of both floors, he found nothing.

  He walked to the desk. The dark wood was scarred from being violated with a sharp implement, but the surface was clean of papers. Open the drawer. He pulled on the handle of the middle drawer and stared. Four Polaroid images were lined up. Each of a different house. The one Ava had described to him was the second in the line. Destiny calls us, bound by Loyalty. All things that spring eternal can never be crushed. The hair on his arms stood on end. Four photographs meant four potential murders. Was Quinn a serial murderer? But the fourth was of Quinn’s door. It didn’t make any sense. He took the pictures and slid them into his breast pocket. He found a scrap of paper and scrawled a message across it and tossed it into the drawer. I’m coming for you, it said.

  Whatever else you may be, Ava, you’re not a liar.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Delaware River was choppy. Tiny whitecaps dotted the surface, along with the occasional beer can and fast-food wrapper. His footsteps fell heavy and quick as he crossed the Tacony–Palmyra Bridge to New Jersey.

  He and the other three boys had spent many summer nights riding bikes across the bridge when they were kids, either to watch the drawbridge go up to let boats pass through or to find a dry spot in the marshy swamp at the other side and watch the sun setting over Philadelphia in the distance. They would pool their meager funds and buy a soda to share, listening to the frogs and crickets come out as it got darker. Sometimes they would try and start a small fire to keep warm. His fondest memories were of telling stories of mass murderers escaped from Holmesburg Prison. The stories got scarier and more graphic as the night went on. Bill’s eyes would get wide; he was the easiest to spook and was always first on his feet, running back through the brush to the footpath to the bridge. And always the first to reach the Tacony side, breathless from pedaling, the redness in his face blotting out the ever-present freckles.

  The four would part ways after the half-hour ride back to Frankford and Torresdale Avenues. Ross lived south, closer to Port Richmond, Loyal was four blocks north, and Bill was five blocks directly west. They’d separate at the crossroads like four points on a compass splitting apart. Jack’s route took him directly past Saint Francis de Sales and the rectory. If he saw the lights on, he’d stop to see if Father Callahan was awake.

  The truth was, he didn’t want to go home. His father was probably drunk. His aunt, Constance, would be stumbling around, pretending she hadn’t been imbibing, though her wig was often tilted to the side or slipped down onto her forehead. The screeching and bickering between the two of them made his ears hurt. If he wasn’t clubbed about the face, neck, and shoulders for being out past dark, or beaten soundly with a strap, he’d try to find something in the kitchen to eat before hiding in his room with the covers pulled up over his head. Those were the loneliest nights of all. The hours ticking by, unable to sleep because of the banging and yelling. His father crawling up the stairs on his hands and knees, his aunt passed out on the floor in the hallway. His stomach twisted at the thought.

  Father Callahan had provided him human comfort that was rare. Attention, encouragement. The smells of the church, the warmth of the Father’s arms around him, made him feel safe. It was a haven, exciting, confusing, devastating, and necessary all at once. With time he grew to understand their relationship and the tacit agreement that went along with it. And in that same amount of time, he became more upset at the fact that he had compromised everything for a man who really only tolerated his company because it was given and convenient. Father Callahan had never truly loved him. He gave his attention freely to Bill and Loyal as well. They were all interchangeable. Any of them would do. The only one who stood above them was Ross. And that was an ember of jealousy that would eventually burn out of control.

  He finished crossing the bridge and found his way to Palmyra Cove, a nature park created in the marshes at the foot of the bridge. It was visited daily by hordes of schoolchildren piling from school buses or climbing from cars. Jack made his way to a bench and watched intently. Wondering if any of the children were lonely. Or needed comfort, afraid to go home with the adult holding their hand. He would watch for hours. Never approaching, never causing a problem. He had impulses, but he never allowed himself to act on them. He’d witnessed the devastation that came from such things. Very up close. But just sitting here, whiling away the day, watching, made him feel like he was closing the circle. The spot where he’d sat with his friends to watch the sun set wasn’t far. Sixty years had passed. They were all dead, but here the memories were still alive. And they weren’t all bad.

  By the time he’d made his way back home, darkness was setting in. He entered his house and locked the door behind him. Always happy to be in his little cocoon. Though by now he’d gotten rid of most of his belongings to lighten the load for the road. All that was left were the basics. He went to the kitchen and got a glass of tap water. He drank it straight down and then filled it again.

  He flipped on the television and wandered to the desk. Every night he’d stare at the pictures, trying to figure out why they’d been taken, if Marie could have been behind all of it. The thoughts were stronger now after witnessing her vengeance with Ava. Maybe he sh
ould have killed Marie too.

  But when he pulled open the drawer it was empty. He stared again. The paper was there, staring back at him. Blinking, almost. I’m coming for you. He stumbled backward and fell, clutching his chest. Marie. His breaths were heavy, his left arm tingling. He lay on his side with his face in the dark-green matted area rug, feeling like he was going to die.

  CHAPTER 34

  Marie dumped the box onto the floor and stared at the contents. Ava’s school pictures fluttered to the floor. The little dress followed. She picked it up and turned it over. A hippo was embroidered on the back. Someone had sewn the dress by hand. Not someone. Her mother, probably, or grandmother. Her real mother. The stitches were neat, tight and exact. The sewing was flawless. If she hadn’t known it was handmade, she might have mistaken it for a mass-produced dress sold at an upscale children’s boutique.

  Marie knew the dress was handmade, because she’d ripped the tag off herself. The little white one sewn to the top that had the girl’s name on it. That topic was one that led to a huge falling-out. The two sisters didn’t speak for over six months, and Anais had to intervene, though she agreed with Marie. Change the girl’s name. Claire had resisted. She knows her name, it’ll only make things worse, Claire had said. She won’t forget her name. But Claire came around, and eventually she did forget, and Ava Hope she became.

  The dress fabric was clean now. Marie had scrubbed the blood from it with her knuckles back then. Made it new again and let little Ava Hope wear it until it became a problem. She knew the hippo. She knew the hows, whats, wheres of the hippo, and would run her fingers over the doubled thread and cry for her mother. The crying was endless. Screaming. Until Claire became so frantic she ripped the flesh on her own face with her fingernails. The neighbors heard the commotion and were starting to complain, to question. So Claire moved from Brooklyn to Revere, Massachusetts. And then to Clinton, New York. And the list went on. Until she wasn’t running from questions, but running for her life.

  Marie dropped the dress into the box. Did Ava remember any of it? She knew pieces, that was certain. And with enough pieces she’d be able to make a whole pie. The photograph and the little hippo dress were enough to make a whole buffet of pies. The worst fear of the past nineteen years was that the girl’s memory would kill them all eventually. But Claire wouldn’t throw the dress away. No, it’s the only thing left to her. Leave it in a box. What harm can it do? Claire, a combination of warm heart and cold hands, face, language. The weirdest of mixes.

  What will you do when she starts asking questions, when she challenges your baby-at-the-church story, Claire? It’s going to happen one day. The golden question. No one had an answer, and when the day finally came and the questions burst forth like a volcano erupting, they’d never come up with a better plan than to deny all knowledge. But Ava was whip smart. Smacking her face didn’t stop it. She wasn’t going to let it go. Ever.

  Marie went to the living room and opened the fireplace damper. The kindling was ready. She lit a match and saw the flame, heard the crackle. Ava was physically gone; now it was time to wipe her existence off the map. The album went first—the awkward elementary-school pictures, crinkling and dissolving in the flames. The little girl’s face would be nothing but memory. Then middle school and high school. The collection was eclectic. Twenty different schools, maybe.

  The hippo dress was harder. She held it in her hands. Part of her understood why Claire wanted to keep it. She turned it over and looked at the tiny remnants of the white thread that had held the tag. Giada had been written there with dark marking pen. Ava’s name had been Giada. The last remnants of the past. She held it over the fire for a minute, watching the flames dance around it, then dropped it. It landed hippo side out. Just then, the doorbell rang. Merde.

  She pushed at the dress with the poker and then pulled herself up to open the door. “Yes?”

  “Sister, can I bother you for a moment? It’s important.” Russell slid into the living room, then turned to face her, his feet planted.

  Her hands fluttered out from her sides. “Is this an official visit? Officer—”

  “Not exactly. Just looking for Ava. Is she here? I haven’t talked to her in a few days.”

  Marie half turned around, as if startled. “Really? I thought she was out and about with friends. Or visiting—”

  He looked over and saw the flames licking the brick around the fireplace. His face showed no expression whatsoever. “Is this a housewarming?” The dress was only beginning to succumb to the heat. The print of the dress, the hippo, were still plainly visible.

  Marie tried to move subtly in front of it to block his view. “Ah, a joke, yes, a housewarming.” She saw Russell’s eyes glued to the mantel.

  “The room certainly looks better. Getting rid of things?”

  Marie held the flaps of her cardigan together with her fingers. “Ava’s strength doesn’t lie in housekeeping.” Her mind was whirling. “Is there anything else you needed?” She noticed the light-brown color of his eyes, the intensity of the stare. His wheels were turning, she could tell.

  “It smells like burning plastic. You’re not putting plastic in the fireplace, are you? That’s really dangerous—”

  “No. No plastic. The fireplace hasn’t been used in a while. You’re just smelling disuse.”

  “No, burning plastic has a distinctive smell. Maybe plastic ties on the logs? Do you want me to check?” He stepped around her toward the fireplace.

  Marie glanced back. The dress seemed shrouded by the protection of God. It appeared untouched by the heat and flame. “No, it’s fine. I’m just burning some old things I wanted to get rid of.”

  “Part of the reason I’m here is that I’ve misplaced my wallet. I’ve taken my house and car apart and can’t find it.”

  “I’ve not seen it.” It came out clipped and sharp.

  “Could you look in Ava’s room? Maybe it fell under the bed?”

  Marie shuddered at the man coming here and insinuating something that crass and then daring to ask her to search for his missing item. “I can do it for you but I don’t have time now. I’ve got an appointment, so you’ll have to leave.”

  He looked down, studying her shoes, then his head snapped back up. “My driver’s license is in there. And my badge. Can’t work without it. So, if you don’t mind? I’ll search her room, if you’d rather.”

  Marie moved to the steps, then looked down at the fire, torn. “No. I’ll look. In her room? Anywhere else?”

  “The office. We were in the office together. Maybe her bathroom? I took off my pants—”

  “Fine.” She darted up the steps to get away from him, before she could hear any more details.

  She scanned Ava’s room. She’d gone through most of her things already. The bed had been cleared. She dropped to her knees and looked under. Other than a few wayward cups that had rolled underneath, there was nothing. She crossed the hall and surveyed the office. Tidy, neat, and though she knew the closet had been violated, she wasn’t searching through boxes to find a missing wallet.

  She raced down the steps to find Russell sitting on an ottoman, staring into the flames, deep in thought.

  “Nothing there. I’ll leave a note for Ava to get in touch with you.” Her hands were trembling again as she reached for the doorknob.

  He stood up. “Thanks. Are you selling this place? Looks like you’re packing up.”

  She half nodded. “With Claire gone, Ava and I decided it was for the best. She was supposed to help me pack, actually. Her job was the kitchen. But she’s always been unpredictable, so I should have known not to count on her.” She smiled, but her cheek muscles twitched. “Here one minute, off doing God knows what the next.”

  “Right.” He walked through the open door and she shut it quickly behind him, flipping the locks into place.

  She ran to the fireplace and prodded the logs with the poker. Fragments of blue threads from the hippo remained. The plastic buttons gave off a terri
ble smell. The rest had disintegrated in the heat. She kept poking at the embers, sparks flying up at her, landing on her hands and arms, until she gave up, dropping down onto the ottoman. Her face was red, not from the fire but from the tears that were streaming down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER 35

  Joanne stared down at the four photographs lined up on her dining-room table. “This scares me, Russell. I mean really scares me. Four murders?”

  “Or maybe not. It doesn’t all make sense. One is of Jack Quinn’s door. Is he dead, do you think?” He took a bite of pizza and dropped it on his plate, then wiped his fingers on the napkin.

  “Or maybe it was just a threat?”

  “So the killer is still out there? Targeting Quinn next. Makes sense. But the fact that Quinn is still alive is a bit different.”

  “True. So tell me what happened, Russell. With Marie?”

  He shook his head. “It was bad. She’s burning things most people wouldn’t burn. Like clothing.”

  Joanne’s head dropped. “Ava’s things? Getting rid of evidence? What?”

  “A dress. Little dress. With a blue animal on the back. I saw that when I was coming in. And the place smelled of burnt plastic.”

  Joanne stood up. Her eyes were large. Her hands curled into fists. “That was the dress Ava showed me that was in the box with the photograph. It was a blue hippo—a sort of checked pattern, white and dark blue, maybe?”

  He nodded. “Exactly. It was in the fireplace.”

  “Why get rid of her stuff?”

  His chin was in his hand. “And the plastic? I don’t know what it was. Maybe just the buttons on the dress. I was trying to see when Marie ran upstairs, but the fire was too hot, with sparks everywhere. It looked like metal and plastic.”