Kirsten stepped aside as a woman slipped past her and left, not speaking or even looking at her. A man in a sport coat and tie was gathering papers from the table near the bar and looked up and caught her eye. “Good morning!” he called, in a deep pleasant voice. “Can we help you?” All heads turned her way.
“No thanks,” she called back. “I’m just … ah … just here to pick someone up.”
“That’s my niece,” Michael said. He disengaged himself from the group and hurried toward her. “Kirsten, how in the world did you find me?”
She didn’t answer, but just stared at him. Gray stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and his thin grey hair was matted and uncombed. His face was even more pale than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot. Walking as though his knees were stiff, he carried a cup of steaming coffee at arm’s length, taking great care not to spill … the way a drunk carries his drink.
Michael wasn’t drunk, though. Not now. But this had been an AA meeting, and it was clear why that young boy heard him say he felt “terrible.”
“Where’s Habi?” she asked, when he stopped in front of her.
“Habi? How do you—”
“The janitor.” Despite the coffee, she could smell alcohol on his breath … or maybe he’d spilled it on his clothes. “Didn’t he bring you here?”
“Yes … but he didn’t stay. He insisted he’d take a bus back home and—” He stopped. “But how do you know Habi? I mean … I guess I don’t know what I mean. Anyway, I’m glad to see you.”
“Where is Anthony Ernest?”
“He’s … I promised not to tell anybody, but Tony’s determined to stay in that janitor’s room, Habi’s room, as long as he has to. I went there to talk him out of it, but I couldn’t. Then it got late and I was afraid to go home and … well … I spent the night with them. Habi had some apricot brandy—I guess he’s not a practicing Moslem—and a jug of cheap wine, and—”
“And you got drunk.”
“Yes. And then sick as a dog. That hasn’t happened in ten years.”
“Ten years? I thought you hadn’t been drinking since … since the time of the girl, and—”
“Not often, but I’ve had my lapses. Three or four. I guess just to … to remind me I have a disease.” He shook his head. “But this time I was lucky. Those other times I drank for days, sometimes weeks, before I stopped. But this time Habi—he’s Syrian, and I don’t think that’s his real name—anyway, we shared the brandy and then he watched me knock down the better part of that jug of wine before he realized I … I had a real problem. When it was gone I’d have run out for more, but he wouldn’t let me. He’s a pretty strong guy. I didn’t sleep much, and this morning he brought me here. And now it’s over.” She heard a strange gurgling noise, and realized it was Michael’s stomach growling. “And I’m sober again. I haven’t touched a drop in … what?… eight hours?”
She could tell he wasn’t joking, just calculating his latest period of sobriety.
* * *
All Kirsten wanted to do was get Michael back to Villa St. George, but she knew he should eat something. She walked him to a nearby diner and ordered coffee for herself and bacon and eggs for Michael.
He seemed terribly embarrassed. “I must look like a bum, huh?”
“Actually, you do.” She wasn’t kidding. All those years she’d had a wonderful uncle, a priest. A hero. Kind, but also strong enough to overcome his alcoholism. Then two years ago she discovered he was a man who had betrayed everything he stood for. And now? A drunk. “You smell of alcohol,” she said.
“I’m not surprised. It’s…” He sighed. “How did you find me at that Elks Club?”
“It’s one of the things I do, you know? My job.”
He shook his head. “It’s strange. Why last night? I mean, I stayed sober even two years ago when I … when I was sued, and everything bad came out. Of course I went to an awful lot of AA meetings during that time, and talked an arm and a leg off my sponsor—you know, the AA person you sort of latch onto for support? And I managed to stay sober through the worst time of my life. Losing all I had left of my family. Losing you. And still I stayed—”
“So this … this sponsor,” she said, “did he— Was it a man?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him about … you know … about the girl, and that you were a priest? And all of it?”
“I did. I told him.” The waitress brought his food, and when she left he said, “I’ve had different AA sponsors through the years, and I told them all. That goes along with making amends, and the whole AA program. I did it all.”
“Really? You told all those damn strangers? But you never told me? Your only so-called ‘family’?”
“No, I—”
“Do you know how upset I was when I learned you were named in that lawsuit? I said it couldn’t be true, and got Dugan to help you. And then … and then … I hated you for what you’d done. And for never telling me.”
“That’s what I was afraid would happen … that you’d hate me. That’s why I never told you.”
“Right, but you told these ‘sponsors.’ What did they think? What did they say?”
“They thought it was a terrible thing … but they’d all seen a lot of terrible things, a lot of lives ruined. They’d all seen a lot of drunks, and the horrible, disgusting things some of us do. They—”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying you had sex with that girl, got her pregnant, because you were an alcoholic? Jesus, is that your excuse? ‘Don’t blame me, ’cause I was drunk!’ Is that it?”
He pulled back as though she’d slapped him, then slowly leaned forward again. “I wasn’t drunk when we … when it happened. I was drinking every day, but I wasn’t always drunk. There was no excuse. She was … she seemed older … but I knew she was seventeen. She had problems, and I thought I was helping her. I was going on thirty, and I’d been out of the seminary five years and I might as well have been fifteen myself, for all the experience with women I’d had. A few months went by and I thought I was in love, you know? Stupid, but inside me I was thinking I might leave the priesthood and we’d get married. I never realized how much she must be looking up to me. I thought we were just … equals, somehow. I thought we loved each other and … and then one night we slept together.” He stared down at his untouched breakfast. “And then I got really guilty and I went on a binge, and I lost track of everything and … and the next thing I knew she was dead.”
“You didn’t know she looked up to you? She was a kid and you were her priest, for God’s sake. You didn’t know she trusted you? You didn’t know she thought—”
“All those things are so obvious … now.” He sat back, his shoulders sagging. “What I did was wrong, Kirsten. I had no excuse then, and I don’t have one now. But you asked me, and I—”
“I wasn’t asking for explanations. I was just—” She drank some coffee and it was cold. “Eat your eggs and let’s get the hell out of here.”
* * *
After breakfast Michael still looked exhausted, but he swore he couldn’t fall asleep now if he wanted to, so Kirsten let him drive his car. She drove behind him all the way and went over their conversation a hundred times in her mind. She’d never before actually told him that she’d hated him. But she’d also never given him an opening to talk about what had happened with him and the girl. Maybe she should have.
When they got to Villa St. George they parked in the lot and she walked him into the building. There was a security guard in a patrol car out front, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be anybody around.
When they reached his door he opened it, then turned to face her. “Look, Kirsten, I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.” He looked gray, and old … and small.
Without thinking, she reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I know you are,” she said. She squeezed his shoulder and could feel his bones through the thin jacket. He stood there, stiff, as though not daring to move, and it struck her that she had
n’t touched him—not once—in over two years. Not since he admitted what he’d done.
“Thanks,” he said, finally. He was trying to smile, and she felt a strong urge again to hug him … to tell him everything was okay.
But instead, she withdrew her hand and slipped it into her coat pocket. “Talk to you later,” she said.
* * *
The guard out in front lowered his window and told her she’d find Harvey Wilson in the “Administration Building,” and directed her there.
She walked into Wilson’s office and told him, “I brought my uncle back.”
“Man, that’s a relief,” he said. “The FBI’s not around, but I should talk to him. Maybe he knows where Father Ernest went.”
“Forget it. He can’t help you on that. He’s an alcoholic, you know? He went on a binge. Or at least he started a binge, but luckily he didn’t get far. He’s in his room, not in very good shape. Anyway, he had nothing to do with Anthony Ernest’s leaving.” All of which was true. “And he has no idea where Ernest is.” Which wasn’t true.
But it also wasn’t up to her to get a man picked up and deported after he’d gone so far out of his way to help both Anthony Ernest and Michael. Nor was it up to her to give away Ernest’s hiding place when she couldn’t guarantee he’d be safer where she thought he should hide. Besides, if the guy could resist answering when she rang the hell out of that buzzer, maybe he knew how to stay out of sight.
* * *
When she got home there was a phone message from the doctor’s office, reminding her she had an appointment the next day, Thursday, and asking her to call back and confirm. She’d put the appointment off before, a couple of times, citing an overbooked schedule—not that the gynecologist needed an excuse, but Kirsten did.
Tomorrow really wasn’t a good day, either, not for the examination and tests and consultation, and possibly discussing and scheduling some additional tests. So she picked up the phone and called the number to cancel. A woman answered and put her on hold, and while she waited her mind drifted to those two beautiful women in bright saris, and the shy, proud smiles on their faces … and their strollers. And that ache in her belly was back again.
The woman came on the line and apologized for making her wait, and probably didn’t believe Kirsten when she promised she’d keep her appointment this time.
46.
Kirsten took a cab home late Thursday afternoon. She dragged herself up the stairs, and checked for phone messages. There was only one, from Dugan, calling to leave word that he was alive and well. She could tell he was on a high. His team had made it to the semifinals and she shouldn’t try to reach him until tomorrow evening because they’d be practicing late tonight and doing their mock trial all the next day.
It was just as well. She’d have something comforting to eat, take a bubble bath if she could stay awake long enough, and then go to bed.
She’d spent the afternoon at her gynecologist’s office. The doctor had been late and got way behind, and Kirsten sat in the waiting room reading People and Family Circle, and smiling at radiant, round-bellied women and the noisy, inquisitive toddlers it seemed they all hauled around with them.
She finally saw the doctor and was examined and answered a million questions—including telling another human being about what happened to her in Florida for the first time since Michael had come to her rescue and taken her home. She was amazed at how ordinary the whole incident sounded, telling it to a doctor she really didn’t know very well. But still … she broke into tears at the end.
Then she’d scheduled some further procedures, primarily a laparoscopy. Her doctor said they wouldn’t ordinarily go ahead with these invasive tests until after they’d ruled out the husband as being the source of the difficulty. Kirsten’s response—as far as she could remember it—had been vague and probably made no sense. She doubted the doctor believed her, but Kirsten could be hard to say no to when her mind was made up.
Then she found out the laparoscopy would be done in the hospital and was apparently a bigger deal than she had thought. At first she said she’d call back in a week or so to schedule it for a more convenient time. But the doctor—as sweet as she could be, but equally difficult to contradict—said there’d be a two-week wait anyway, and convinced her there’d never be a really convenient time. “And Kirsten,” she said, “if you’re serious about wanting to conceive…” So a date was set.
While she’d been waiting she checked in with Harvey Wilson a few times, but nothing happened to give her any excuse to run away. Her big concern, actually, wasn’t that she was taking time to do something for herself while Michael was in danger. It wasn’t even apprehension about what all these exams and tests might reveal. The main thing was guilt, because she hadn’t told Dugan about any of this and, in fact, was taking advantage of his being out of town. What kind of wife kept such secrets?
She hadn’t been getting enough sleep and the whole doctor thing exhausted her, but finally it was over and they called her a cab. When she got home she had a bowl of oatmeal and some toast. She took her bath, too, and that was wonderful. And then she fell into bed to sleep off the fatigue and the stress and, yes, the guilt.
She vowed she’d tell Dugan everything the minute he got home from Asheville. About seeing the doctor and scheduling the laparoscopy, about the pregnancy and the botched abortion in Florida, about how selfless and kind Michael had been … about everything. It was so clear now that she had been foolish not to tell him, and she knew she wouldn’t flinch this time.
* * *
She woke up Friday morning feeling more rested and hopeful than she had in weeks. She was hungry, too, and decided to go out for waffles and sausage. She would walk to and from the restaurant, to make it easier to convince herself that her hips were probably smaller, not larger, than they’d been before breakfast.
She went downstairs and out the door into bright sunshine. She’d persuaded the owners on the first and second floors that they should all keep the wrought-iron gate locked, which meant she had to lock it herself. So she did, and when she turned around all the hope she’d woken up with drained away, as if someone had pulled the plug.
The sidewalk was blocked by two tall, clean-cut young men in dark suits and ties, showing her their FBI credentials.
“What happened?” she managed. “What’s wrong? Is somebody—”
“You’ll have to come with us, ma’am,” the darker agent said. He took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and waved it at her. “I have here a warrant for your arrest.”
She ignored the paper and pulled her phone from her jacket pocket.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to give that to me, ma’am,” he said.
“Yeah? Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to call my lawyer first.” She started entering the number, but the man snatched the phone from her hand.
“Sorry about this,” the other man said, as he snapped cuffs on her wrists. “I’m sure the special agents who obtained the warrant will afford you all of your rights.”
“Which agents?”
“We’re transporting you to the offices of the FBI, ma’am. Dirksen Building. Downtown.”
* * *
They were the same two agents who’d shown up at Kirsten’s on Sunday morning. Again the thin one did the talking, starting with, “Do you remember my telling you to keep your nose out of this investigation?”
“Am I under arrest?” she asked.
“Did they show you the warrant?”
“I want to call my lawyer.”
“You don’t need a lawyer,” he said. “We’ve conferred further, and decided not to charge you … at this time.”
“Not charge me with what?”
“Not with anything … at this time. A brief chat should be sufficient.”
“I’m not giving any statements,” she said, “or answering any questions. Not without my lawyer present.”
“I don’t need to ask you any questions. Here’s the story. Wednesday morning y
ou learned that a man named Anthony Ernest had sequestered himself in a certain basement apartment in Chicago, with another male individual.” He waited, but when she didn’t comment he continued. “You knew this because you were continuing to pursue an investigation, contrary to the direction of an agent of the federal government—namely, myself.”
“I was looking for my uncle, not pursuing an investigation.”
“Uh-huh. So you agree you went to the building. At any rate, you came into possession of, and did not reveal, information which you knew or should have known would be useful to law enforcement authorities.” His tone was flat, as though he were reading. “Information relevant to the possible identification and apprehension of the individual or individuals responsible for a series of homicides of priests and former priests.”
She stood up. “If I’m not being charged with any crime, I’m leaving.”
“Fine,” the man said. “But criminal charges or not, actions have consequences.” He stared at her. “Maybe you considered that janitor to be just another illegal alien of Arab descent, and Anthony Ernest to be a worthless individual who’d done sick, repugnant things. But if you hadn’t withheld information, and in addition lied about what your uncle knew, and instead had acted responsibly, a serial killer might have been apprehended.”
“What?”
“And those two men might still be alive.”
* * *
The FBI agents had shown Kirsten the door at that point. They told her that “further interference” by her would result in charges including “obstruction of justice.” They said she’d be hearing from the State of Illinois about her PI license. They refused to tell her anything else about the deaths of Anthony Ernest and the janitor who had taken him in.
The rest of the day was a nightmare. Even Danny Wardell in Rockford wouldn’t take her calls, and she had to learn what she could from news reports. She drove up to the seminary and spoke with Michael. He’d been woken up in the middle of the night and had told the police about his finding Anthony Ernest, and about Kirsten coming to get him. He was feeling as bad as she was, blaming himself for the two deaths.
All the Dead Fathers Page 20