Dying for Mercy

by Mary Jane Clark

  The one glitch had been Eliza Blake and Mack McBride. Trying to kill them with a car, instead of something from the ancient list, had been a mistake. Throwing the thirty quarters on the Volvo, while in keeping with the grisly symbolism, didn’t provide any real satisfaction—since they had both lived.

  So far, all of it was done to make sure that the Pentimento puzzle would never be solved and that the threat of exposure would remain just that—a threat. So far, only the old accident on West Lake Road and a murky role for Nine Chimneys had been uncovered as a result of that damned puzzle, but none of the details of what had actually happened so long ago were apparent. Everything else was still a secret.

  Only Father Gehry—because of the confessional—knew the whole story. And Eliza Blake was probably still determined to unravel the puzzle at all costs.

  The next kill would stick to the original plan.

  CHAPTER 113

  Sunday was always a long day for Father Gehry, and today was no different.

  He’d said three of the four Masses in the morning, and while the twelve-fifteen Latin Mass was being celebrated by a visiting priest, he’d met with the parents of the First Communion class in the parish hall, answering questions about white dresses and blue suits and whether flashbulbs could be used during the ceremony. He skipped lunch because he’d promised to check in on the sister of the parish organist who was in a nursing home, and after praying with her he’d sped to the hospital to visit five of his parishioners. On the way home, he remembered to stop at a convenience store, buying a quart of milk for his coffee in the morning.

  Pulling into the rectory driveway, Father Gehry knew he didn’t have time for that nap he’d promised himself. The entire month of October was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and the eleventh was the church’s old feast of the Divine Motherhood of Mary. Some parishioners would be praying their beads tonight.

  With quiet resignation he walked over to the church, leaving the carton of milk on the front seat.

  After slowly reciting fifty Hail Marys and giving a brief impromptu meditation on Mary’s virtue, Father Gehry said his farewells to the pious men and women as quickly as they let him. He then fetched the green velvet sack from the sacristy and walked back into the church to collect the candle money and empty the poor box of its meager contents.

  Rehearsing in his head the list of everything he had to do the next day, he suddenly sensed someone behind him. He turned.

  “Hello, Father.”

  Father Gehry nodded. “Were you at the rosary tonight? I didn’t see you.”

  “No, Father. I just got here.”

  “Do you need something?”

  “Yes, I do, Father. I’m sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk to you.”

  His first impulse was to explain how long a day he’d had and suggest meeting tomorrow morning, but the priest thought better of it. “All right,” he said. “Why don’t we sit right over here?”

  He chose one of the pews opposite the poor box.

  “What is it you want to talk about?”

  “I think you know, Father.”

  “You’ll have to tell me what it is. Say it out loud. You’ll feel better for it, I promise you. It will be a relief to get it out in the open.”

  “It can never be out in the open, Father. You know that. My life would be ruined.”

  He struggled a few moments for a way to respond. “Then let’s pray together,” said Father Gehry. “St. Raymond is the patron saint of secrets, so let’s ask for his special intercession.” He knelt down and bowed his head. “We come before you, St. Raymond, with many secrets locked in our hearts. So many innocent people have been hurt. We humbly beg for the assistance of your prayers from heaven. Watch over us, we pray, and keep us safe. Through Christ our Lord.”

  While Father Gehry had his head still bowed, waiting silently for an “Amen” that didn’t come, a knife was shoved deep into the left side of his chest.

  On the right wall of the sanctuary was the ambry and, inside, three bottles filled with the church’s holy oils.

  It was too late for the Oil of the Sick. And what the hell was the Oil of Catechumens?

  The third bottle, with the words SACRED CHRISM etched into its surface, was filled with a thick liquid, a warm yellow instead of the cool olive green in the other two.

  This is it.

  Sacred chrism, which had been rubbed into Father Gehry’s palms on the day of his ordination, was poured over the dead priest’s head, just as Jesus had been anointed with fragrant myrrh before he was wrapped in a shroud and laid in the tomb.

  MONDAY OCTOBER 12

  CHAPTER 114

  Hearing noise coming from the other twin bed, Unity rolled over and switched on the light. She squinted as she read the numbers on the clock.

  “It’s after midnight, Fitz,” she said. “Why are you still awake?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Unity. Go back to sleep.”

  “Are you crying?” she asked incredulously. She took her glasses from the bedside table, put them on, and leaned closer to see his face. “You are. You’re crying. What’s wrong?”

  He ran his fingers through his white hair. “I don’t know how long before it’s going to be exposed—before I’m going to be exposed,” Fitzroy answered, his voice cracking.

  Unity closed her eyes as she decided how to respond. “Let me tell you something, Fitz,” she finally answered. “There isn’t anyone around here who doesn’t know that you burned down Nine Chimneys for the insurance money. I’ve never asked you about it, and you’ve never told me, but believe me, everybody knows. I never mention it you, they never mention it to us, but everybody knows. So don’t worry about being exposed now.”

  “That’s not it,” said Fitzroy.

  “What then? What else could it be that has you so upset?”

  His words came pouring out. “After Nine Chimneys burned, several years after, after the insurance company completed its investigation without proving any wrongdoing, I did something wrong, much worse than setting fire to a house.” His shoulders shook as he began to sob.

  Unity threw back the blanket and got out of bed. She joined Fitzroy on his bed and sat next to him. “What?” she asked softly. “What did you do?”

  “I’ve got to get it out, Unity. I’ve got to tell somebody about it.” Tears ran down his cheeks. Unity couldn’t ever remember seeing such a tortured expression on her husband’s face.

  “All right. Tell me, then,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.

  “I set fire to a man,” he blurted.

  She stiffened. “I don’t understand.”

  “I set fire to a human being, Unity.”

  “You set fire to him while he was alive?” Unity asked with horror.

  “No, he was dead. I set fire to his body so he couldn’t be identified. And later we buried what was left of him at Nine Chimneys.”

  “Who was it, Fitz? And why?” Questions flowed from Unity. “And who are the ‘we’ who buried him?”

  “Marty O’Shaughnessy,” answered Fitzroy. “It was Marty O’Shaughnessy I burned.”

  Unity’s eyes widened. “You were involved in all that back then? The car accident, his disappearance?”

  Fitzroy hung his head.

  “But then you knew he didn’t run off and go to Ireland or somewhere,” said Unity. “You knew he was dead?”

  Fitzroy nodded and rubbed his eyes with his pajama sleeve.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” asked Unity.

  “Believe me, the police knew,” Fitzroy said sarcastically. “Clay Vitalli knew all about it.”

  “Clay was in on it?”

  “Absolutely,” said Fitzroy. “And so was Peter Nordstrut. We were all in on it, to protect Valentina and Innis. The three of us were incredibly devoted to them. We were the ones they could trust to do anything that needed doing. We were determined to win that gubernatorial campaign.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Unity. “Protec
t them from what?”

  Fitzroy shook his head. “No. I’ve already said too much. It’s just that I’m trying to rack my brain for ways to make sure that the whole truth doesn’t come out. Yet I think part of me would actually be relieved to finally have everything out in the open. It’s been horrible to have all this on my conscience for so long and to live in fear of it all coming to light.”

  Unity digested the information. “Well, how in God’s name is anyone going to find about all that now? It happened so long ago.”

  “As I said, Unity, I’ve told you too much. I don’t want to get you involved in all this and make you some sort of accessory or something.”

  Unity stood up and went back to her own bed. As they lay in the dark, trying to fall asleep, she had a thought. “Fitzroy, you could talk to Father Gehry about this, you know. He might be able to help you, make you feel better. You could unburden yourself.”

  Fitzroy rolled over and pulled the blanket close to his chin. “Forget it, Unity,” he said. “That’s not an option.”

  CHAPTER 115

  Confronting him with the information about the staged murder scenes and the religious symbolism used in the attacks, Annabelle was able to persuade Tuxedo Park police chief Clay Vitalli to appear exclusively on KEY to America Monday morning. She suggested that KEY News send out a transmission truck and do the interview in Tuxedo Park, but Vitalli refused. He would come to the broadcast center in New York City.

  Linus Nazareth himself went over all the questions Annabelle had prepared in advance. A video package, narrated by Eliza Blake and scheduled to run in KTA’s first half hour, would lead to the live interview with Vitalli.

  Annabelle was called when Vitalli arrived. She went to meet him in the lobby and escort him to the KTA studio. As they walked to the elevator, Annabelle informed him of the plan.

  “We have time to stop in hair and makeup,” she said.

  “If you haven’t noticed, I have a crew cut,” Chief Vitalli said gruffly. “And I don’t want any makeup.”

  A battery pack was clipped to Vitalli’s belt, and the wire, running to the microphone attached to his lapel, was hidden. He took his seat in the chair Annabelle indicated and listened while Eliza Blake, at the news desk, introduced the packaged report.

  “Tuxedo Park, New York, a historic, wealthy, and exceedingly private enclave about forty miles north of Manhattan, has had more attention in the last week than it perhaps has ever had, beginning with the bizarre suicide of Innis Wheelock, husband of Valentina Wheelock, former governor of New York and United States ambassador to Italy. Wheelock killed himself by stigmata, stabbing himself in the five places where Jesus Christ’s body was pierced at the crucifixion. Two murders have followed, and on Saturday night fellow KEY News correspondent Mack McBride and I were forced off the road in Tuxedo Park, our car sent tumbling down a steep hill. Mack was seriously injured but is in stable condition.”

  Vitalli watched a monitor at the side of the studio as the picture switched from Eliza at the news desk to a shot of the exterior of Zack Underwood’s office. Eliza was no longer speaking live. The story and her narration were now on tape.

  “Zack Underwood, the award-winning architect of the Wheelock estate’s renovation, was strangled in his office last Wednesday evening.”

  The shot changed to show the front of the Patterson home as Eliza continued speaking. “Aurelia Patterson, Underwood’s assistant, was bludgeoned to death as she walked her dog on Friday night. KEY News has learned that each murder scene was manipulated, as if the killer were leaving a message or signature.”

  The police chief’s jaw clenched as he saw the surreptitiously obtained video. Next, on the screen, pretaped video appeared of Eliza in front of a blown-up aerial map of Tuxedo Park and the area immediately surrounding it. As she talked, she indicated the places where the murders had occurred.

  “In the Underwood case, the body was positioned in a chair and the dead man’s hand wrapped around a long reed. Mrs. Patterson was found with a pair of dice clasped in her hand.”

  Now Eliza pointed to the spot on the map where her Volvo had been forced off the road.

  “When our car left the road here, it tumbled down the hillside and came to rest at the bottom, near the lake. With no cell-phone service, I had to leave Mack alone while I went for help. As I got up to the road, the vehicle that had rammed us returned. I kept out of sight of the attacker, whom I did not see. I did hear a metallic sound, but I wasn’t able to identify it. Then the attacker drove away, and I ran to summon help.”

  Pictures of the badly damaged Volvo appeared on the monitor.

  “In the investigation at the crash site, police officers found quarters strewn on the car’s roof and scattered on the ground around the car. Altogether, thirty quarters were counted.”

  Finally a graphic appeared, showing illustrations Annabelle had found on a religious site on the Internet to illustrate the story. The first third of the screen showed an image of Jesus Christ scourged and holding a reed in his hand while being mocked by his tormentors, the middle third showed an image of Roman soldiers gambling for Christ’s garments, and the last third showed Judas Iscariot and his change purse filled with thirty pieces of silver.

  Clay Vitalli observed the graphic while Eliza left the news desk and took her place in the chair across from his. He looked angry now as the last lines of narration were heard.

  “The manner of each of the attacks has a clear association with the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus Christ. While Innis Wheelock’s death was suicide by stigmata, Tuxedo Park is being brought to its knees by someone inflicting violence and death of a grotesquely blasphemous sort.”

  The taped piece ended. A two-shot of Eliza and Clay appeared on the screen.

  “Clay Vitalli, chief of the Tuxedo Park Police Department, is with us this morning,” said Eliza. “Thank you for coming in, Chief.”

  Clay nodded curtly.

  “What is the latest news on the investigations, Chief Vitalli?” she asked.

  “I really must say, I think the story you just showed was an irresponsible piece of work,” said Clay.

  “Really?” asked Eliza. “In what way?”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information. Those details were not released by our department.”

  “Are you saying they aren’t true?” she asked.

  “I’m saying that you have no right scaring the public, in particular the residents of Tuxedo Park, without official corroboration.”

  “There are other channels of information, Chief Vitalli,” said Eliza. “And in fact we did get some of the information from one of your own officers.”

  Clay’s eyebrows rose. “Name him,” he said.

  “You know I’m not going to do that, Chief,” Eliza admonished. “But let’s move on, if we can. Do you have any suspects yet?”

  “I really can’t say. It could jeopardize the investigation.”

  “Well, what do you make of this seeming connection between Innis Wheelock’s suicide and the manner in which these crimes are being committed?”

  “It’s too soon to know—if there even is a connection,” said Clay.

  “Come now,” said Eliza. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Look,” said Clay, “I’m not even confirming that everything in your report is true.”

  Eliza looked down at her notes. “At your news conference yesterday, you said you had no plans to call for help from other investigative officials. Do you think that’s wise, Chief?”

  “I feel confident that our police department can handle what’s going on.”

  “Two murders in less than a week and what was certainly a murder attempt on Mack McBride and me would seem to be too much for such a small police force,” said Eliza. “Why not call in help from outside?”

  “Because we don’t need it,” said Clay as he reached for his microphone. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to get back to.”

  CHAPTER 116
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  Ever since the maintenance man retired some four years earlier, seventy-two-year-old Mary Meehan had volunteered to open the church for the morning weekday Mass. Driving into the empty Mount Carmel parking lot, she chose the space closest to the sacristy.

  As she walked the few steps from her car to the sacristy door, Mary realized that she practically lived in the church these days. It had been only twelve hours since she’d finished praying the rosary. She loved everything she did at her beloved Mount Carmel, and she felt especially privileged to open the church each morning.

  There was no need to rush, as she had a full hour to fill the cruets with water and wine, select the chalice and fresh linens, move the ribbons in the sacred books, and set out the celebrant’s alb, chasuble, and stole before Father Gehry would come shuffling in to vest. He always said, “Thank you, Mary,” just before he rang the bell to signal the start of Mass, and Mary couldn’t imagine a nicer start to the day.

  The liturgical calendar indicated that it was a simple Monday in Ordinary Time, but the civil calendar marked today as Columbus Day. Mary wondered what that would mean: Would there be more people at the eight A.M. Mass or fewer? She counted out twenty Communion wafers and placed them on the paten, along with the priest’s host, hoping there wouldn’t be an unexpected crowd.

  Mary walked to the light panel on the sacristy wall and flipped the “Daily Mass” switches, illuminating the nave, side aisles, and sanctuary with “just enough” light, as Father Gehry always said—not too much and not too little, but “just enough” for all the worshippers to see what they needed to see, walk where they needed to walk, and read what they needed to read.

  She had to get to the front doors of the church and unlock them for her fellow parishioners. Walking down the side aisle, she stopped at the first candle stand. She wanted to light one for her husband, who had gone to God over ten years earlier. Though she was certain that George would ultimately make it to heaven, she thought the candle each day, and the prayer she said when lighting it, was a good insurance policy.