The Rule of Sebastian

by Shelter Somerset

  Sebastian’s lake blue eyes remained fixed on the darkened windowpane. He chewed methodically, swallowing with a deliberateness that somehow delighted Casey. Then he turned to Casey. His toothy grin spoke volumes. He might have been preaching from the high altar, swathed in his flowing white cowl, highlighted in the spray of sparkling golden chalices, and gazing at none other than Casey.

  At that moment, Casey knew. He belonged to Mt. Ouray and to Sebastian. Sebastian was not a test of his devotion but an accoutrement. The whiff of a scented candle in a breeze or the rainbow cast across the chapel floor by the stained glass windows. He was as glorious as all that, perhaps more.

  Happily, Sebastian’s blue eyes held no personal remorse. Like all of them, he regretted JC’s tragic death and feared whoever had defiled the commandments, but the downturn of his mouth that cut a fine pleat below his bottom lip disclosed something more than lament.

  Sebastian hadn’t minced words when he’d confessed to Casey in the library that JC had mostly baffled him. “A living and breathing mystery,” he’d said. He cared for JC as one might an old school acquaintance. No more.

  Casey envisioned them as old men, confiding in a postulant or novice about the days past, about the “dark day” they’d found a body in the walk-in freezer. Pumping life into the legend of “the Dalakis Curse.” But always—without fail—Sebastian by his side. Part of his life. His brother. Forever. Growing old together until well into the midcentury when outside, where Christianity faced a final death, they still lived behind the monastery’s secluded walls. Safe and secure. He wouldn’t care about the civilian world. He’d have Sebastian.

  But did Sebastian share such daydreams? Did he want to remain in the abbey for the rest of his life? Casey couldn’t imagine what he’d do if Sebastian ever decided not to profess his vows and leave. Casey might as well have never boarded the Greyhound bus in Hutchinson.

  Casey sighed, permitted a gentle smile to crease his face. He wanted badly to rest a hand on Sebastian’s thigh. To reassure him. So often he’d looked to Sebastian for hope. How strange to be the one to want to provide comfort.

  He set his tray on the floor and stretched his legs, waiting for Sebastian to finish. Sebastian had spent so much of the morning brooding, his food and coffee had gone cold. Casey gestured with his head down the corridor toward the kitchen and made to take the tray from him. Sebastian smiled again, shook his head. No, he did not need Casey to warm his breakfast.

  Casey wiggled his toes, protruding from his sandals, and noticed how he needed to trim his nails. He probably should have Brother Hubert, the abbey’s barber, cut his hair too. Casey preferred to keep his below the ear. He liked Sebastian’s close cropped, which drew attention to the firmness of his jaw and the solidity of his features. Beyond protuberances, his nose and chin seemed extensions of his face, with spirits of their own, as did his hands and feet. Yet they worked in harmony. The purposeful way he’d lift his head, like a dancer at a barre or a lion testing the air for danger.

  Sebastian did that now. With his chin raised, he inhaled and licked his lips.

  “Are you certain you didn’t see anything suspicious the night of JC’s death?”

  His voice, which always sounded as if he were chewing on a mouthful of scrumptious, hearty stew, tickled Casey for a moment. Then he shook himself. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said softly. “I was playing my flute.”

  Sebastian smiled. “Yes, I know. I was listening.”

  Flushing, Casey said, “Should you be asking me this, Brother Sebastian?”

  “There’s something I should share with you, Casey,” he whispered, although the cavernous corridor seemed to pick up his words and carry them afar.

  Casey’s heart drummed against his chest. “What is it?”

  “No one has come forward about JC’s death.”

  Casey looked toward the window. “We figured.”

  “There’s more. Father Paolo has asked me to snoop around to find who killed him.”

  He snapped his head around to face Sebastian. So that’s why he appeared overwhelmed. The father had relegated the responsibility of JC’s murder onto him. There was no need to ask why Father Paolo had asked Sebastian to investigate, as opposed to anyone else in the abbey. Of all of them, Brother Sebastian possessed the most astuteness. Sharp, bright, and authoritative in a good way. A true old-fashioned leader. One Casey could trust. The kind of mentor he’d sought his entire life. He’d make a better abbot than Father Paolo, Casey dared to think, followed by a rapid mental muttering from Psalm 95 to beseech forgiveness.

  “I’ve seen you, Casey,” he said. “The past few months, I’ve studied how you look at everything. You’re sharp-eyed. Perhaps more than me. I could use a man like you. Would you care to assist me?”

  Casey swallowed hard, drugged by Sebastian’s caramel-smooth voice. “Assist? I would like that. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “All I ask is that you keep your eyes and ears peeled.”

  “I will.”

  “I know you,” Sebastian said. “I can trust you.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “I’m sure the others will find out in due time,” Sebastian said. “But let’s try to keep this between you and me for as long as we can.”

  A secret. Between the two of them. Casey’s head swirled with the thrill. “Sure,” he said. “But shouldn’t Father Paolo notify the authorities?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “He has his ways.”

  “I guess there’s no use, anyway, what with the storms.”

  Sebastian gazed into the snowy garden, his food and coffee cold and forlorn on his tray. “Nothing to do about that now.” He smiled at Casey. “I’m glad you’re on board. But don’t ask too many questions or make yourself obvious,” he said with a solid nod of his poised head. “Be yourself. Keep alert.”

  “Yes, Sebastian. Sure thing. You can count on me.”

  “Good.” He stood with a crack of his lanky bones. “Let’s clean our dishes and head to Lauds. And remember now, you’re my secondary.”

  CASEY sat at his morning work station in the administrative office, answering prayer requests and postulant inquiries, eying the computer across the room accessible only to Brother Hubert, and most likely Brother Lucien and Father Paolo. They used it to update the abbey’s website and keep the books. And to do “research” for articles. He was compelled to help out Sebastian in more ways than to “keep his eyes and ears peeled.” Sebastian had given him an important role, and Casey would rather die than disappointment him.

  He might be able to find something useful on the Internet. Something on JC. Any information about the man they still knew scarcely anything about. A clue that might answer why he’d come to them—leading to the answer of who and why someone had murdered him.

  Stowed away behind the door to the office, Casey stewed. Save for the occasional indifferent brush from Brother Lucien, who came and went from Father Paolo’s private office, Casey was left devoid of interference from anyone. Briefly, he wondered what Brother Lucien might do if Casey were to strut to the off-limits computer and try to log on. Was there a way to access it without a password?

  Brother Lucien disappeared into the abbot’s office and shut the door, followed by the click of the lock. Casey stared at the door. Heat on his cheeks made him look away. Many times he’d sat in the office when the lock to the abbot’s door had clicked with Brother Lucien and, more recently, JC on the other side, and he’d tried not to imagine what went on.

  Typical dread tracked his thoughts. He’d come to Mt. Ouray seeking a life of contemplation and seclusion, dedicated to prayer and labor. To do what the Trappists demanded, willingly and openly. How could he imagine making love with one of his fellow monks?

  He threw his head back and beseeched God for mercy, uttering a few verses of Psalm 23. The pain of love—the worst punishment man could endure.

  He almost wished Sebastian had not lived among them. He’d have no physic
al attraction to any of the others. Then again, if not for Brother Sebastian, Casey’s life at the abbey would rumble past in isolation and drudgery.

  And Sebastian needed him. Sensations as glorious as the breezes in the alpine meadows had swathed Casey when Sebastian had appealed for his assistance. He was his secondary, whatever that meant. But it sounded nice. Eyes and ears peeled.

  On the computer screen, Casey spied the corners of his mouth lift. A rose in bloom set on time lapse. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the father and Brother Lucien remained in the private office and did not detect his impish grin. He needed to focus on work. Prayer requests demanded attention. Discerning “healthy, virile young men” begged for guidance.

  The phone rang. Startled, he lifted the receiver. “Mt. Ouray Abbey at Monfrere, how may I assist you?” A woman’s voice. From New Mexico. She wanted to know if they were taking guest reservations for summer. “We don’t take reservations until the first of May, ma’am,” he told her. “We’ll be happy to assist you if you call back then.” She thanked him, and he wished her, “God Bless.”

  While speaking with the woman, he’d toyed with the idea of whispering for help. Insisting that she notify the proper authorities on a murder that had taken place inside their abbey. But what would the father do to him once he found out? Would he be forever separated from Sebastian? Besides, it was Sebastian who’d requested help from him. In all likelihood he’d be defying Sebastian’s trust as well. Best to mind Sebastian and keep his mouth sealed.

  Alone in the still office, the rebellious desire to help Sebastian grew stronger. Sebastian would be proud of him if he were to find anything on JC. Perhaps he could use it to lure more of Sebastian’s attention. Sebastian would appreciate Casey’s ingenuity. He’d think him a good soul. Smart and forward thinking. And the quicker he learned that JC was nothing but a scoundrel who’d come to the abbey to steal from them and cause trouble and had it coming to him….

  Casey breathed. He was acting worse than the vagabond he’d created in his mind.

  Holding his breath, he glanced back and forth between both doors to ensure no one was coming. From experience, he knew Father Paolo and Brother Lucien would be at least fifteen minutes. He bit back his apprehension and tiptoed to Brother Hubert’s computer.

  Another quick glance to make sure no eyes spied him and, without sitting, he tapped the keyboard. A light clank met his ears. For a moment he worried someone might hear. He peeked over his shoulders. Still alone.

  The first sight on the computer display: a box requiring a password. He tried the obvious, the name “Hubert.” Unsuccessful. Brother Huber’s last name, “Nusselbaum.” Nope. “Mtouray” also failed to grant him access. He drummed his chin with his fingertips. What other options had he? “Fatherpaolo.” Fail. “Lucien.” Again, nothing.

  He was about to walk off, dejected, when an idea whispered to him. Ensuring once again no one saw, he gently opened the top drawer to the desk. Notebooks, papers, envelopes, and pencils were jammed inside. He slid the drawer open wider and rummaged through the contents, stopping when his hand hit a piece of paper with scribbling on it. Odd scribbling. Different from normal English. Gibberish mixed with numbers. Casey nearly chuckled out loud.

  Exactly what he’d been searching for. Passwords. He guessed the middle-aged Brother Hubert might’ve jotted down one for the computer in case he’d forget. But he’d written five. Casey inhaled, tried the first. Then the second. He gnawed on his knuckles, thinking of the old adage “Third time’s the charm.” The computer lit up, blue and alive, simulating the Rocky Mountain summer sky.

  He recoiled when the computer sang out. He flinched back, expecting Father Paolo to rush in to investigate. His heart beat against his chest, and his fingers trembled when he pulled up the browser. He waited. Silence behind Father Paolo’s door, save for an occasional moan. The clock above the wall cabinet ticked. He should have several more minutes to spare before Father Paolo and Brother Lucien finished whatever they were doing.

  Temptation to research more than JC stalled Casey’s shaky hands over the keypad. From the first time he’d met Sebastian last summer, he’d wanted to research his name, find out more about him. He often did so with the men he’d fancied back home or at college.

  Unable to hold back, he typed “Sebastian Harkin.” No hits related to his Sebastian appeared until he came to the second page. He pulled up one. Then another. No way was any of it true. But there it was. In black and white, sometimes blue and orange. One from the Philadelphia Inquirer. Another from the City Paper. Must be lies. Conjecture and yellow journalism.

  Under “images” he found Sebastian’s photograph, the one they used in the abbey’s website, smiling above his white cowl. A surge of love swept Casey. Then there were other images. He was dressed differently, dressed in business suits. Captions underneath confirmed he’d worked for the Philadelphia Police Department, matching the descriptions of the articles he’d scanned. In one photograph he looked dejected, beaten. A photographer had taken it for a newspaper’s front page. And there was another one of him in full uniform, smiling for a department photo.

  He clicked out of the browser and reproached himself while he fumbled for the cache to remove traces of his search. He was unsurprised to find that Brother Hubert had been conducting searches for missing persons. Was he trying to impress Sebastian with his efforts to uncover vital information? Or had Father Paolo done the research? Casey was about to return to his own research on JC, when an odd group of websites left in the cache stole his attention. Sites he’d heard of but never visited.

  Out of curiosity, he clicked one. He nearly dropped to his knees when a site popped up full of naked men engaged in sex. That must be what those other passwords were for. Brother Hubert, or maybe even Father Paolo or Brother Lucien, who also had access to the computer, might have created them when they joined the adult sites.

  He recalled the friend of his mother whispering about her run-in with Internet porn while working for the local Catholic parish. The offending priest had forgotten to delete the website from his desktop.

  Though he wanted to look away, the pictures reawakened his longing for Sebastian. One couple reminded him of the two of them—the way he’d fantasized they might look together: a tall and redheaded man with one who was shorter and dark-featured.

  He was tempted to try the other passwords and view more, but knew he shouldn’t. Besides, Casey wanted more than the illusion of being with Brother Sebastian. Either the real thing or nothing: it was one of the reasons why he’d figured monastic life might suit him. He could go without if need be. And he still wanted to do research on JC.

  The murmur of voices from Father Paolo’s office snapped him to attention. His cheeks burning, he deleted the page and signed off the computer. Safe at his desk, he flashed Brother Lucien a winsome smile when he stepped back into the main office, his scapular askew.

  “Is everything all right, Brother Casey?”

  “Yes, Brother Lucien. Everything is fine.”

  Brother Lucien left the office, and Casey cursed himself for allowing his curiosity to squander his chance at helping Sebastian. Some secondary he made. But what of his discovery about Sebastian? He needed to find an appropriate time and place to confront Sebastian and get his side of the story.

  Chapter Twelve

  FATHER PAOLO had not excused Sebastian from his regular abbey duties, so Sebastian waited patiently for his work period to end before he could slink off undetected and examine the abbey for clues. He spent the last two hours beside Brother Eusebius, fashioning rosaries while encased in silence. Though the hunt for JC’s killer excited him, it also repulsed him. He had to live with an escalating distrust. With each speculation of who had killed JC and how and for what reason, he must accept that he brushed shoulders with the killer each day—standing in line to plate his meals, seated or standing at the pews for Mass and the seven prayer stations, and now, working side by side with one of his best friends inside th
e abbey, Brother Eusebius.

  He wanted to gaze at him, to use his skills and decipher his thoughts from the movement of his eyes, the twitch of his mouth. Sebastian eyed the flex of his hands while he toiled. Steady, committed to his task. Brother Eusebius had expressed contempt for JC—but many of them had. Difficult for Sebastian to forget the burning behind Brother Eusebius’s dark eyes when he’d confessed his loathing of the sexual dalliances that took place under their noses. Could those hands, which worked with such dedication to fashion rosaries, kill a man?

  All the brothers fell under suspicion—all except for the feeble Brother Augustine. Eeny, meeny, miney mo. Which one had done it? To the innocent brothers, Sebastian, too, was a suspect. Even more reason to keep quiet about his snooping. They’d accuse him of dishonesty and concealing his own tracks.

  Pleased with the quiet of the sacristy, Sebastian allowed his mind to ruminate over JC’s death and the possibilities while his hands worked analogously to Brother Eusebius’s. Reliving his stint back at the PPD, he made a mental checklist of feasible scenarios, pieces of the puzzle he might have overlooked.

  Odd he’d found JC wearing a cowl, with his street clothes underneath, along with his sneakers. JC had foregone wearing the Trappist garments days before his death. No reason why he’d have worn a cowl in the middle of the night when no one would have even seen him. The blood pattern on the inside of the cowl indicated the killer might have dressed JC after he’d bludgeoned him. Streaks of blood went from the neck to the waist, along with a spot on the inside of the hood that matched the wound on his left temple.

  He clutched a completed rosary, one he’d been working on for most the morning. Normally, after two years of practice, he’d finish an average of three rosaries each work period. The feel of the coffee beans, the bite of the cross in his palm brought a reality to their ordeal.