by James Carver
“Are you sure that’d be okay? With your superiors?”
Stevens shrugged. “Maybe not. But I want to do the right thing here, not the correct thing. I’m the only one keeping an open mind on this case, and I could do with some help. So you let me worry about that. Okay?”
“Okay. Sure. In that case, yeah. I’d be happy to help. Now it’s my turn. Ed… Think I might need a bit of local information.” Devlin pulled out the GPS unit he’d taken from Ed’s cab and turned it on. “It’s Ed’s,” said Devlin.
“Where d’you find it?”
“His truck.” Devlin flicked through the home page to the list of favorite destinations. There were just two. Apart from Ed’s own address, nearly all his journeys began and ended in two places: a zip code on Route 36 and a full address in Columbus.
Devlin handed the unit to Stevens. “You know either of these two places?”
“That’s the Logan Ranch,” said Stevens, pointing at the spot along Route 36. “Clay and Earl’s ranch out east from Halton.”
“I saw the ranch coming into town last night,” said Devlin. “Looked like there was something going on there. Some kind of party. Place was lit up.”
“Yeah. That’s Clay. He’s congressman for the 10th District—a star on the rise, and he throws high-powered get-togethers. He’s like Halton’s own movie star. His brother, Earl, is the one to watch. He’s a mean son of a bitch. Tall and skinny with a nasty sneer plastered across this face. We had to pull him off more guys in more brawls than I can count. It’s a miracle he hasn’t killed anyone. He hasn’t just got a temper; he’s borderline psychotic.”
Stevens handed the device back to Devlin. Devlin tapped on the Navigation button on the screen and then on Recent Destinations. A list of stored journeys came up, and nearly every one started at the Logan Ranch. Devlin passed it to Stevens to see. “Have a look at that. He’s spending a lot of time driving out from the ranch. Maybe Ed was doing some kind of deliveries for the Logans,” said Devlin.
“Could be.”
Devlin considered Stevens for a moment, how much he felt he could trust him. “You’ve been straight with me, Greg, so I’m gonna be straight with you.”
“Okay.”
“Truth is, I think Ed’s in danger. I was tailed down to DC yesterday by two guys. I noticed them in Baltimore, but I think they could easily have followed me all the way from my church in Dover. They were after Ed. I called Ed to check in with him, and he was a very frightened man. I haven’t been able to contact him since. I think he’s on the run from people.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he owes them. Gambling debts. At least that’s how Ed told it. Whoever I ran into last night at Ed’s is one of those people. I guess what I’m saying is, if you pick up anything that might help me, can you let me know?”
“Okay. No problem. You got it.”
A text alert sounded from Stevens’s cell phone, and he swiped it to see who it was from.
“Shit, what now?” Stevens checked his language and apologized. “Sorry, Father.”
“What’s up?”
“You’ll have to excuse me. It’s Brendan. He’s been at the front door ringing the bell. He’s a kid, lives in Halton. In and out of trouble, drugs mainly.”
“I should go anyway. I need to pick up my car, get a hotel room somewhere.”
“You can stay here. Not a problem.”
“That’s very kind, but you don’t need any extra impositions right now. And I’m here in town anytime you need me. For anything. I mean that. I’ll text you my number.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Devlin made to rise and then had second thoughts. “Greg, could I use your laptop? Just for research.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Thanks. Oh, and you don’t have a notebook and pen to hand, do you?”
“Yeah. I’ll get them from the office.”
Stevens fetched Devlin the pen and paper and then went to the front door. Devlin sat at the table, googled Clay Logan, and got his congressional website up. He read through the press releases that had been uploaded and which went back ten years. They outlined the local issues he was most involved with. Then Devlin clicked through to the list of Clay’s Caucus memberships, making notes of any he found most useful. Devlin noticed that Clay had been heavily involved in projects at the Wright Patterson Air Force Base, where Devlin was briefly stationed and Ed was posted. If he rolled up to the Logan Ranch uninvited, he would need to have something to reach for, depending on his reception, a backstory. He shut the laptop and slipped the GPS into his pocket. About half an hour had passed, and Stevens hadn’t returned. He picked up his dirty clothes that Stevens had packed into a grocery bag and made his way to the front door.
Outside he ran into Brendan and Stevens, who were sitting on the porch. Brendan was a pale, thin, and delicate-looking teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen at most. He wore skinny jeans, a sleeveless top, and sneakers with no socks. His hair was crew-cut at the sides with a thick quiff combed up and back at the top. Around the top of his left arm was an elaborate Celtic cross tattoo. There was a cherubic look about him mixed with a premature world-weariness, and his eyes were red, like he’d been crying.
“Thanks, Greg,” said Devlin. “I’ll be on my way. And just let me know when you need me to help out with that thing we were discussing.”
“Will do. By the way, Father Devlin, this is Brendan. Brendan, this is Father Devlin.”
“Hello,” said Brendan warily.
“Hello.”
“You going running, Father? “ Brendan asked, and Devlin realized he was talking about his clothes.
“Maybe.”
“You been in a fight?”
“I fell.”
“Oh. I see. Onto someone’s fist?”
“Yeah. Onto someone’s fist.”
“While you were running?”
“Stop it, Brendan,” said Stevens, half smiling and half admonishing.
“It’s fine, Greg…see you.” Devlin walked to the front gate.
“Oh, listen, do you want a ride anywhere?” asked Stevens. “It’s a way back into town.”
“You’ve been up all night. I’m happy to walk,” said Devlin.
“I can give you a ride back,” said the kid. “I gotta head to work at the coffee shop.”
“You drive?” asked Devlin.
“Sure, I’m seventeen; I got a probationary license.”
“His license is clean if that’s any reassurance,” said Stevens.
Devlin shrugged and said, “Okay. In that case, show me to your chariot.”
“No need to be a wiseass; it’s me doing you the favor,” Brendan said as he stood and took out his car keys.
Brendan’s car was a twenty-year-old Honda Civic. Devlin managed to squeeze into the passenger seat, but his knees were practically up around his chest. Brendan started the engine while pulling a carton of Marlboro out from his pocket, and with one hand on the wheel, he pecked a cigarette out with his mouth.
He looked at Devlin. “You object?”
“On the contrary,” said Devlin, pulling out a Corona.
“Shit, look at the size of that thing. Don’t only the mafia smoke those?”
“Less talk, more smoke. Light me up, already.” Devlin bit off the cigar end, rolled down the window, and spat it out. Brendan passed Devlin the car lighter, then lit up his own cigarette and planted it back in the dash.
“Jesus!” Brendan said as Devlin let out a thick, pungent cloud of smoke. “Now I know how nonsmokers feel.”
“Can I ask you not to take our Savior’s name in vain?”
“Yeah, you can ask.” Brendan pulled out into the road with a jolt, heading north, up toward West Main. “Where you want me to drop you off?”
“I need to pick up my car. It’s parked up on the other side of town, just off the 36.”
“Why’d you leave it out there?”
Devlin kept the explanation evasive and short. “I was
at a friend’s house. Had a couple of beers. Better safe than sorry.”
As they drove back into the main drag, Brendan put on a CD and cranked up the volume. A short percussive rhythm started up followed by a loud twisting and straining chorus of electric guitars. Brendan glanced sideways to check if the priest sat next to him was reacting with predictable distaste. But Devlin was grinning back at Brendan, his arm resting on the rolled-down window and his relaxed hand tapping the rhythm out on his cigar.
“Loveless. Great album,” said Devlin.
“What? You know this? You know My Bloody Valentine?” Brendan said with astonishment.
“Yeah. I saw them in North Carolina in 1992.”
Brendan stared back at Devlin and said in frustration, “What kind of priest are you? I don’t know whether to like you more or My Bloody Valentine less.”
They turned onto the main strip, passed by the police station, and continued back out east. Brendan lit up another cigarette. Devlin had let his cigar go out and looked out the window, studying each store and building as they flashed by. From time to time, Brendan sniffled and wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. He was clearly still upset about something.
Eventually, Devlin asked, “You okay?”
“I’ve been better. I just broke up with someone.”
“Did they do the breaking up?”
“No. I did.”
Devlin considered this and blew a trail of smoke out of the window. “I know it’s an obvious thing to say, but it gets better.”
“You’re right, it is an obvious thing to say…” Brendan sniffed again and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be snappy, but everything just looks like shit to me at the moment.”
“I know. That’s the way it is when you’re at the end of something.”
Brendan sucked hard on his cigarette and blasted out a thin spurt of smoke through pursed lips. Then he asked, “You ever been…at the end of something?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I have,” replied Devlin.
“You had your heart broken?”
“Yeah.”
“Who was it?”
“My wife.”
“She left you?”
“She died…so, yes, she left me.”
“Oh, God, I’m…I’m sorry.”
“It’s a long time ago, and I’m better now. So all I’m saying to you is, anyone who hasn’t been in pain because of love doesn’t have a certificate for being a fully paid-up human being.”
“I’m in pain all right… But it had to end…it wasn’t right. In fact, it was about as wrong as it could be.”
“Sounds like you did the very best thing. And the pain goes. I promise.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You’re not in pain about your wife?”
“Nope. Time. It’s all about time, Brendan.”
But of course, Devlin was lying.
8
The silver Chevy’s engine died, and Bradley put his head back against the headrest. “Pretty.”
“Picture-postcard pretty,” replied Otterman. “Seems like only yesterday we were here.”
“That’s ’cause it was yesterday, dumbass,” said Bradley.
They were sitting in front of a pristine whitewood church. A tall bell tower protruded from the middle of the building and divided it into two halves. On the left side of the tower was the church hall which was end on. On the right was a single-story house with two windows either side of a double door made out of light cypress wood and shaded by a pillared portico. Laid out in front was a glimmering green lawn, tidy and striped from recent mowing. Around the house was a low natural-stone wall. Behind the wall was a neat garden hedge that an elderly man in slacks, a short-sleeved shirt, and sandals was pruning back with great care.
“He looks about a hundred years old,” murmured Otterman.
“Yeah. Happy though.” Bradley sniffed the air. Then he sniffed again, and his expression soured. “Jesus! It still stinks of gas in here. I hope to Christ we get our deposit back on this thing.” But Bradley’s concern about their car rental was cut short by the chorus of “La Bamba” suddenly blaring out.
“Change your ringtone for Christ’s sake,” barked Otterman. Bradley noted the number coming up on the screen and straightened up in his seat, clamping the cell phone to his ear.
“Mr. Stein, hi…”
Eight hundred miles away, Trayder Stein sat in his cream leather, high-backed, executive swivel chair. He was looking out through his tinted office windows over the busy six lanes of East Broad Street in downtown Columbus.
“Morning. Where the fuck are you?”
“We’re in Dover, Massachusetts, like you said, Mr. Stein. Outside Devlin’s old church.”
“Okay. Well, he ain’t there.”
“What?”
“My client got a helpful call from their inside guy at Halton Springs PD. Apparently, he turned up there last night looking for Ed James. The cops picked him up at Ed James’s place. Say, you guys didn’t give anything away to Devlin yesterday?” Bradley’s stomach turned a somersault. He was pretty sure Devlin turning up in Halton was down to him having taken Ed James’s Greyhound ticket, but he instantly went into full denial.
“No way. Absolutely not, Mr. Stein. James must have got in contact with him somehow.”
“Yeah. Maybe so. Fortunately, though, Devlin doesn’t seem to be any wiser about his whereabouts than we are.”
“So, I guess that’s it. There’s nothing more for us to do.” There was a silence at the other end of the line. “Mr. Stein?”
“Mmmm, I’m thinking. If Devlin’s looking for Ed, then he’s a live threat. Maybe it’d be useful to do a little digging. I’ve been looking into this guy Devlin’s history. It’s quite a formidable track record. Before he got the God bug, he started out as pararescue, a medically trained paratrooper, like a male nurse with wings. He got bored with that and then trained as a special agent with Air Force Special Investigations, joining Region Seven—counterintelligence and special access programs, high-up stuff. If he’s in Halton sniffing around Ed, then it might be a good thing to find out a bit more about who he is. Above and beyond the public military record—more…personal information.”
“How do we do that?”
“You’re the PI, Bradley. You work it out. And you have the best day, y’hear?”
“Wait—Mr. Stein?” But Stein had hung up.
“Anything I need to know?” asked Otterman.
“Devlin isn’t here,” Bradley replied.
“What?”
“Apparently he’s back in Ohio looking for Ed.”
“Oh, shit. The ticket.”
“It’s okay. Stein doesn’t seem suspicious. Looks like we’re in the clear on that. But he wants us to do some digging on Devlin. Get some dirt. Fuck knows how though.”
Otterman scratched his ragged goatee thoughtfully and said, “I reckon we go with the ‘kind visitors’ schtick.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I think.”
“It’s a bit of a reach, isn’t it?”
“Nah! Come on! What happened to Narcotics Detective Second Grade, Bradley? Huh? The guy who worked a case until it squeaked? It’s one of your favorite plays.” Bradley looked over at the old man gardening and then back at Otterman. It was true; Bradley was better than this. Better than just some guy sitting in a car with a fat moron like Otterman for twelve hours at a time, listening to him break wind and whine nonstop about 9/11 conspiracies. Just one stupid procedural error in a drugs case laid bare in court had got him ejected prematurely and unfairly from the work he loved: the work of police law enforcement. He was better than this, and he was certainly better than Otterman.
“Okay. Let’s do it. But I do the talking,” said Bradley.
“That’s my boy!”
They got out of the car, and Bradley opened the trunk. Under their carryalls, cases, coats, and gasoline-riddled suits he found what he was loo
king for, a square box wrapped untidily in gaudy gold and purple paper. He blew the dust off it and did his best to wipe it clean with his jacket sleeve. Then they walked toward the church with Bradley carrying the box. The old man who had been hunched over and moving at the speed of tai chi suddenly leaped into life when he saw the two men approaching and scuttled toward them waving his hands and shouting, “Off! Off!”
“What the fuck is he—?” Bradley began before realizing what the fuss was about. “Oh Christ, we’re on the lawn!”
Bradley and Otterman shouted sorry a couple of times and tiptoed apologetically off onto the asphalt that ran up to and around the church.
“I just did the lawn this morning!” whined the old man.
“We’re really sorry,” said Bradley.
“So sorry,” said Otterman.
“Can I help you?” asked the old man.
“Well, Father, perhaps you…”
“Oh no. I’m not a priest. I’m the sacristan. Name’s James Barroso.”
“Oh, okay,” said Bradley. “Well, Mr. Barroso, we were just looking for a very old friend of ours. Father Gabriel Devlin.”
“Father Devlin?”
“Yes,” said Bradley, turning on all the warmth he possessed. “We knew Gabriel…I mean Father Devlin…back in the Air Force, and we had a get-together with some of the other guys recently but couldn’t get hold of him. So we were traveling down through Massachusetts and decided to come look him up.”
“Oh. Well you won’t find him here I’m afraid,” said Barroso.
Bradley feigned disappointment. “You’re kidding… Why not?”
“Well, he’s…well, the truth is he decided he wanted a break from his duties here at St. Jude’s. He’s left.” Both Bradley and Otterman’s eyes lit up at this new piece of intelligence.
“Oh no!” Otterman said with all the feeling he could muster. “When did he leave?”
“He resigned from the post formally a few weeks ago. But he didn’t really leave properly until yesterday in fact.”
“So sudden,” said Bradley sympathetically.
“Yeah, it’s a real shame. He was a great priest. A great man. We’re all broke up about it,” said Barroso.