—Sorry to hear about Ross. Peace to family members. Remember him at the prom with Mary Ellen Jones?
—Ha, yes. The chaperones? Sister Margaret and Father Callahan? Callahan had him pegged for the seminary—followed him around all prom night making sure he didn’t even get a kiss. Creepy guy. How shocked were any of you when Callahan was caught with a woman? I mean, maybe caught too late, but the woman part? Come on.
—Don’t speak ill of the dead. No idle gossip on here.
—How can this class not gossip about it? It’s all we do gossip about. Father Joseph Callahan’s reputation ruined posthumously. Better late than never.
Joanne printed the comments and copied the web address. Then she started over with a new Google search. Father Joseph Callahan. Saint Francis de Sales Catholic Church. When she clicked on the first search result, her screen was filled with images. She stared for minutes, scrolling down. Reading as much as she could quickly. The priest with the close-set eyes, smiling, next to the scandalous headline. She stared at the date. July 17, 1996.
She flew out of her seat so fast her chair fell to the floor, crashing into the radiator. The noise roused Russell, who appeared at the bedroom door, his hair smashed to the side of his head.
“What’s going on? What time is it? Are you going to that church you were talking about?”
Joanne looked up at him. “Oh, yeah. I went to church and look what I found.” She pointed to the computer screen.
Russell read the article, stopping every second to look at Joanne or comment. “This is it, Joanne, maybe pinpoints the original sin in the whole entire mess.”
“Certainly the genesis,” she retorted. She printed the article and put it in the middle of the table.
Priest and Lover Murdered During Tryst in Chapel at Saint Francis de Sales Church.
Russell perused the article again. “Joseph Callahan? Joseph?” He picked up a Polaroid and read the inscription. “Ave Maria. Joseph too?” He looked at Joanne. “They were referring to the priest when they wrote this inscription?”
Joanne took the picture from him, feeling pieces falling into place. When she turned to talk to Russell he was already headed to the front door. “Let me go home, shower, change. I need to think on this and I need to move when I think.” He pulled on his dirty clothes. “I’ll be back. Oh.” He turned. “I’ll take Ava’s phone.” She handed it to him. “And thank you, so much.”
“For?”
“Not making me go to that church with you. I was dreading it. Bye.” He shut the door.
She stared after him and then down at the article. “Halle-frickin’-lujah.”
CHAPTER 50
Marie sat on the windowsill, staring down at the empty streets below. A mechanic shop across the way was dark. Boat parts were scattered all along the side of the building. Some were up off the ground, some lay torn apart as if disemboweled by animals. The odors of the stale room were getting to her. She opened the window, letting the wet, cold air blow through the room, but the smell of cigarette smoke lingered in her nostrils. The dampness had seeped into her bones, and no matter how hard she rubbed at her arms, it wasn’t leaving.
The world was closing in, getting smaller by the second. She had convinced herself that the whole episode the night before had been a nightmare. A vivid, explosive, unbelievable nightmare. Just a conjuring of her imagination. Believing she’d dreamed it up made her breaths become more even, her heart rate slow, but at the same time her mind was spinning into a whole different dimension of panic. Was she starting to lose it again?
The two years that Anais had put her away in that dark, secluded hospital didn’t seem that long ago, the memories lending themselves to constant fear. And what had she done to deserve it? Moodiness? That was what teenagers were made of—moods and attitude. Was it the drinking? The weekend she ran away to Paris with Giselle and ended up in a strip club in the fifteenth arrondissement? Anais was more embarrassed about having to enter the police station to collect her than she was about the incident itself. Or maybe it was the sex with her boyfriend. Or more like the multiple sex partners.
Marie knew all those things had played into her mother’s decision to put her away, but they weren’t the straw that broke the camel’s back or the icing on an inedible cake. In the end it was the cutting that pushed Anais to sign the commitment papers. Marie’s legs were clean now, only thin white lines nearly invisible against her pale skin, but at one time they’d been carved up with a razor blade and dotted with cigarette burns—all her own doing.
She could almost smell the antiseptic of the room with the white tiled walls where she’d been confined years ago. The paper gowns. The loss of privacy, being forced into restraints. Her body wasn’t her own. People could come and go, touching her, moving her, dehumanizing her. But what was worse was the fear of total loss of control, of not knowing what was real, what to believe. Her senses had betrayed her. She was petrified of going back to that place inside her head again. Of needing to cut to release the pain.
She grabbed her phone and called Claire’s number. That ghost she’d conjured had pulled that unmistakable maroon flip phone out of her pocket, Marie remembered. The call went to voicemail. Then a voice came to her. Wait until noon. She looked at her watch. It was only 8:17. At that moment she saw the cigarette butt ground into the carpet. She crawled on her hands and knees and picked it up slowly, as if her world depended on it. This was real. The ghost had smashed it with her heel. And Marie didn’t smoke, hadn’t smoked regularly in twenty years. But when her eyes lifted up she saw a pack of cigarettes on the table. Marlboro Lights. That had always been her brand. Loose change lay scattered across the table next to it. Was it possible she bought it and didn’t remember?
Marie grabbed her purse and tipped it onto the bed. A wallet, change, glasses, pocket New Testament. A pack of gum. And a crumpled receipt from the general store in Chatsworth. The knife, the Advil, the coffee were on there. No cigarettes. She picked up the pack gently—like it might disappear in her fingers—and opened it. Five cigarettes missing. She put her hand to her chest. Her lungs had felt heavy, her mouth filled with the feel and smell of nicotine, when she’d woken up.
She smacked her cheeks with both hands. Hold it together, Marie. There is another way. Marie grabbed her purse and keys. The words of her psychiatrist from thirty years ago were ringing in her ears. If you’re not sure if what is happening is real, then reality-check it. It’s okay. Question the details. Delusions are always lacking in detail. “Oh, Doctor Rasmussen, this delusion had plenty of detail,” she muttered as she rushed through the lobby to the dingy glass door and out into the street.
Marie jumped in her car and headed down the road. The snippets of conversations she could remember from the night before were on a play-rewind-replay loop, circling her brain. Seven hundred might do for a deposit, but I need more, and I can’t exactly access my own bank accounts, can I? What could possibly cost that much money? A hit man? But who was left to kill? And if she wanted someone dead, why wouldn’t she just do it herself? Unless the person was unreachable or too close. But who? Marie closed her eyes. She and Anais were the only two left. Watch yourself, Marie. That camera is still out there somewhere, and I’m sure there’s more film too. It’s just a matter of finding your door.
Why would she suddenly want to kill her or Anais? Marie’s mind ticked off the possibilities. Money, maybe. Anais hadn’t been generous with her gifts recently. Just the opposite. Every cent calculated and then transferred. Money given for necessities, with a little padding for a few luxuries, but nothing more. By killing Anais, certainly the funds would flow, but at what cost?
She fumbled for the cigarette pack on the seat next to her, put one to her lips, and lit a match. She drew deeply and then blew the smoke out of the cracked window. If this dead woman had crawled back from the grave, dragging something very dark with her, Marie needed to stay alert, play the game. There was nothing to do but go back to the convent and gather some things,
withdraw money from the bank—maybe all of it. If this wasn’t just a symptom of a major psychiatric setback, the truth would reveal itself.
Watch your back. It’s dangerous out there. “It is indeed,” she muttered.
CHAPTER 51
The service had ended, and other than the chorus of flickering candles at the front of the church, it was dark and eerily quiet. Joanne sat in the first pew and watched the glimmers of light bounce off the crucifix hanging behind the candle display. She was mesmerized. There was a quiet calm to all of this that she’d never experienced. Her father was a nonchurchgoing Catholic and her mother was Jewish. Synagogue on an occasional holiday or not at all. She wasn’t used to the soft hush of quietude in religious halls.
The priest came into the chapel; she didn’t see him, only heard the gentle rustling of his robes as he moved closer.
“Sister Christine said you wanted a word?” His voice was soft, patient.
Joanne stood up and turned to face him. “Oh, yes, Father Ryan. I do.”
“I have a meeting with the youth organization, but I can spare a minute. What can I do for you?”
She looked down at the polished wooden floor, trying to think of how to say it without causing offense. “My friend, Ava . . . Well, no, let me start over. I’m very much trying to sort out some business for a friend, and the more I search, the less I find, but the one thing I do know is that it all leads back here.”
His head tilted. “Here at the church? How so? I don’t understand.”
“My friend? Her grandfather went to church here as a boy.” She caught his eye and knew what she was seeing. His guard was rising. “He’s passed away now, but there are so many questions.”
“About his faith?”
She smiled. “No, I think his faith was fine. I think her questions are more concerning Father Callahan.”
The priest’s head dropped so she was looking at the bald patch in his thinning brown hair. “I don’t believe I’m at liberty to engage in any discussion about that. He’s been gone for almost twenty years.” His head snapped up. “What possible questions could I answer?”
Joanne clasped her hands together. “Maybe we could begin with exactly what happened to him? It haunted her grandfather. And maybe even killed him.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re looking for gossip. This parish suffered terribly, and I’m not interested in rehashing.” He took a step back. “Good day.”
“I’m so sorry if that’s what you thought I was doing. It’s not. I don’t want to gossip and rehash. I want to find my friend, who’s been missing for over a week. Which, believe it or not, is connected to Father Callahan’s death somehow. Sorry to have wasted your time.” Joanne picked up her purse and started to head out. Inside she was fuming. More fueled by her embarrassment than anything else.
“What happened to your friend?” His voice came as she was walking away.
Joanne turned around, her purse held tightly in both hands. “She disappeared last Saturday. She was looking into the death of her grandfather and his friends. The one thread connecting it all was this church. And I think, Father Ryan”—she took a step closer to him and lowered her voice—“I don’t want to start trouble, but I just need to understand. If I can figure it all out, maybe I can find her.”
He listened without speaking and hesitated for half a minute. “Come to my office? We can talk there.” He turned and started walking, assuming she would follow him.
He led her through main areas where a few congregants milled about in choir robes. Somewhere deep down she felt she’d violated something by being here. Or that she was opening a door and peeking inside at something better left unseen.
He came to an office and waited for her to enter in front of him. The room was functional—desk, chair behind it, dark-gray couch, a few guest chairs. She sat on the edge of the couch and waited. He shut the door and then took a seat behind the desk.
He held his hands as if praying, his fingertips touching. “So you understand, we—this church—don’t talk about these past events. The canon lawyers have barred everyone from discussing this matter with anyone outside of the order.”
“It was almost twenty years ago. I’m not interested in suing or publicizing or anything. I just want to find Ava.” She sat back on the couch and crossed her legs. She knew getting him into this office to continue the discussion was major. She wasn’t giving up now.
He mirrored her and leaned back in his chair, his hands relaxing. “What did you want to know? And I have to ask, how could this priest’s death possibly relate to your friend’s disappearance?”
“Not sure yet. But she was very interested in her grandfather’s death. And the death of his three friends. One of them was a priest—”
“Really? A priest here?”
Joanne shook her head. “No. And his death was ruled accidental, but it’s suspicious.” She had Father Ryan’s full attention now. “Then it was Loyal—”
“Is that a name?”
“Yes. It’s a name. Loyal Owens. And he was murdered in his house. Bludgeoned to death. Then it was her grandfather, Ross. And then—” She stopped herself from mentioning Jack. She hadn’t seen anything in the papers about his death. It was possible he was still lying on his living-room floor, decomposing.
“And then?”
“She started trying to figure out how or why they all might be killed. The one thing they had in common was church. And the priest at the time was Callahan.”
“That’s an error in thinking. They lived in the same neighborhood, maybe their parents knew one another, did they play sports together, have the same coach? The list goes on and on.”
“But the one commonality they all had that was unifying and horrible was Callahan’s death.”
“What are you saying?” He shifted in his chair. “How can you know that?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Father Ryan smiled. “This is all speculative. Maybes and perhapses. I’m not sure they’re connected at all. But I will give you a few facts, since you’ve held my interest this long. Father Callahan is a touchy subject. Not a model priest. It’s perhaps lucky for the diocese that he passed away when he did.” Joanne was concentrating on every word. “There had been rumors of indiscretions. Now”—his voice rose—“nothing was substantiated, so I don’t feel at ease openly discussing this.”
“Please. You’ll never see me again. I promise.”
“Are you Catholic, Mrs.—”
“Watkins. And it’s Ms. And no. My father was, but he got out . . . Oh, sorry, I mean he didn’t attend services. And my mother was Jewish. So no.”
“Hmmm, so this is all just scandalous to you. You have no investment in the church.”
Joanne stood up in frustration. “I’m not looking to denigrate the church. I like the church. Or the idea of it, anyway. I’m just trying to tie up loose ends and figure this all out.”
He motioned for her to sit down and then looked at his watch. “I’ve only a minute, but here it is. Father Callahan was rumored to like the company of children, boys specifically. The whispers were getting louder within the diocese, and they were considering transferring him, from what I know. But he was killed the night of July sixteenth, nineteen ninety-six, right here in the chapel. And of all things, he was with a woman. The worst of indiscretions. And, quite frankly, shocking to all that knew him.”
“Worse than with kids?”
He leaned forward. “Of course not. But to be caught without clothes, you know, and to be in the chapel itself? Not in the rectory or one of the halls?” His eyes showed weariness. “It was blasphemous. And it’s taken years to try and put this congregation back together.”
“They were naked? Who was the woman?”
“That’s the odd thing. Unknown. Never identified. Her picture was widely distributed at the time. No one responded. Early twenties. Caucasian. She wasn’t a member of the congregation.”
“Seriously?
How is that possible, that she was never identified? She had to have family, someone.”
There was a soft rap on the door and it opened. A boy of about sixteen stood there in robes. “Father, I’m sorry to disturb you, but the youth organization is waiting for you.”
Father Ryan raised his palm. “Thank you, Peter, I’ll be right there.” The door closed. “The Internet was just in its infancy at the time, but I believe the case is still open with the police. The only images they had of her were death photographs and an artist’s rendition. Not inspiring likenesses, I’m sure.” He stood up. “I’m afraid that’s all I know. Please?” He motioned for her to follow him out the door.
“Where could I see those photographs, do you think?”
He strode down the hallway, forcing her to make painfully quick steps in her heels to keep up with him. “The Philadelphia police, I presume, which is perhaps where you should have started before you came here.” He stopped short. “Now, I hope you will keep your promise to me?”
“Which is?”
“That you will keep your mouth shut and I will never see you again,” he responded and then hurried away.
She left the church and rushed to her car, only to find all four of her hubcaps missing and large scratches near the lock mechanism, as if someone had attempted to break in. “Fabulous. Just fabulous. Thank you, Philadelphia.”
CHAPTER 52
Russell opened his eyes to see Juliette standing over him. “I come bearing gifts.” She placed a mug of coffee on the coaster. “Late night?”
He rolled over and felt a bolt of pain shoot through his lower back. He’d come in earlier, dropped onto the couch in exhaustion, and dozed off. “Terrible night.”
She tightened the belt on her thick blue robe and sat on the couch near his feet. Her hair was pulled up off her neck; some pieces fell forward in little curls around her face. It looked all I-just-got-out-of-bed messy, but he knew it was actually artfully constructed with hair spray and bobby pins. He’d seen her spend thirty minutes in the bathroom mirror just to hang around on a lazy Sunday morning.
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