The Church of the Holy Child

by Patricia Hale

  For Mike

  For walks in the woods and dessert at my desk.

  Copyright August 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-940758-59-6 Paperback

  ISBN: 978-1-940758-60-2 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-940758-61-9 Mobi

  Cover Design:

  Published by:

  Intrigue Publishing, LLC

  11505 Cherry Tree Crossing Rd. #148

  Cheltenham MD 20623-9998

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I would like to thank Austin Camacho for taking an interest in my work. His advice and support have been invaluable. Denise Camacho, for her quick response to my questions and expertise in keeping the process smooth and on track. My gratitude also goes to Susan Henry for her guidance through the promotional side of the journey. Melanie Rigney’s editorial skills and suggestions enabled me to create a richer story. My love goes to my children, Jenny, Jeff and Micah for their unwavering support and faith. Lastly, kisses for Enya and Muddy for forcing me away from my desk and into the woods.

  PROLOGUE

  Inside the wooden confessional there’s a man who talks to God. At least that’s what my mother told me the last time we were here. But a month has passed since she disappeared so today I’ve come to the church alone. I no longer believe that she’s coming back for me like she said. Instead, I’ve become her stand-in for the beatings my father dishes out. That’s what he calls it, dishing out a beating, like he’s slapping a mound of mashed potato on my plate. He swaggers through the door ready for a cold one after coming off his seven to three shift, tosses his gun and shield on our kitchen table and reaches into the refrigerator for a Budweiser. I cringe in the corner and make myself small, waiting to hear what kind of day he’s had and whether or not I’ll be his relief. More often than not, his eyes search me out. “’C’mere asshole,” he says, popping the aluminum top, “I’m gonna dish out a beating.” If anyone can help me, it has to be this guy who talks to God. I open the door of the confessional with my good arm and step inside.

  Twenty-three years later

  ONE

  His breath was warm on my neck, his lips hot and dry. His tongue searched the delicate skin below my ear. Heart quickening, back arching, I rose to meet him.

  The phone on the nightstand vibrated.

  “Shit,” Griff whispered, peeling away from me, our clammy skin reluctant to let go. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and flashed me his bad-boy, half-smile. “Cole,” he said into the phone.

  At times like this, cell phones rate right alongside other necessary evils like cod liver oil and flu shots. I leaned against his back and caressed his stomach, damp dunes of sculpted muscle. Not bad for a guy north of forty. Griff still measured himself against the hotshots in the field. But in my book he had nothing to worry about; I’d take the stable, wise, worn-in model over a wet behind the ear, swagger every time.

  He pried my fingers from his skin and walked toward the bathroom still grunting into the phone.

  I slipped into my bathrobe and headed for the kitchen. I have my morning priorities and since the first one was interrupted by Griff’s phone, coffee comes in a close second.

  Twenty minutes later he joined me dressed in his usual attire, jeans, boots, tee shirt and sport jacket. Coming up behind me, he nuzzled my neck as I poured Breakfast Blend into a travel mug. Coffee splashed onto the counter top.

  “Gotta run,” he said taking the cup from my hand.

  “What’s up?”

  “Not sure yet. That was John. He said he could use a hand.

  “Sobering up?

  Griff flinched like I’d landed one to his gut.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Cheap shot.”

  “Woman found dead early this morning.”

  “When’s he going to admit that he can’t run the department with a pint of scotch sloshing around in his gut?”

  “The job’s all he’s got left, makes it hard to let go.”

  “I’m just saying that he shouldn’t be head of CID. Not now. I’m surprised Haggerty has put up with it this long.”

  “There’s a lot going down at the precinct. Internal Affairs is having a field day after that meth bust. They’ve got so many guys on leave right now that a bottle of Dewar’s in John’s desk is the least of Haggerty’s problems.”

  “I just don’t want you to get sucked into CID.”

  He slipped his hands inside my robe and nuzzled my neck. “No chance of that. Nobody on the force feels like this.”

  I pushed him away halfheartedly.

  I’ll call you when I know what’s going on.”

  The door closed behind him.

  I sank onto a kitchen chair and flipped open the People magazine lying on the table. Griff and I had just finished an investigation for an heiress in the diamond industry whose sticky handed husband had resorted to blackmailing her brother as a way around their pre-nup. The ink on her twenty-thousand-dollar check made out to Cole & Co. was still wet. And being that I was the & Co. part of the check, I’d earned a leisurely morning.

  The phone rang just as I was getting to the interview with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell on the secrets of a long-term relationship. Caller ID told me it was Katie Nightingale, our go-to girl at the office. Katie kept track of everything from appointments to finances to take-out menus.

  I lifted the phone and hit ‘answer’.

  “Britt?” Katie spoke before I had a chance, never a good sign.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Missing woman.”

  “Since when?”

  “Last night.”

  “What makes her missing? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”

  “The woman who called said her sister was leaving an abusive husband and was supposed to let her know when she was safe by ringing the phone once at seven-thirty. The call never came. Now she can’t get hold of her. She said her sister carries your card in her wallet.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “The woman who called is Beth Jones. Her sister is Shirley Trudeau.”

  I nodded into the phone. I can’t remember every woman I encounter, but Shirley’s name rang a bell. Since giving up my position as a Family Law attorney with Hughes and Sandown, I’d been offering free legal aid for women who needed advice but couldn’t afford it. Mostly I worked with wives trying to extricate themselves from abusive marriages. Given the reason I’d abandoned my law career, it was the least I could do. Shirley hadn’t been living at the women’s shelter, but she’d spent enough time there to have Sandra, the shelter’s director, hook her up with me.

  “And Beth thinks Shirley’s husband found her?”

  “That’s what it sounded like once she’d calmed down enough to form actual words.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I set the phone down, making a mental note to call Sandra. She’d upgraded from a caseworker in Connecticut
to Director in Portland, Maine a few months ago. I’d stopped by her office to introduce myself when she started and left my business cards. Our paths didn’t cross that often but we respected each other’s work and always took a few minutes to chat. I knew she’d been on the swim team in college and that she could bench-press her weight. We were close in age and like-minded when it came to the politics of non-profits. No doubt Beth Jones had called her too.

  After a shower and a quick clean-up of last night’s wine glasses, Chinese takeout containers and clothes that we’d left strewn around the living room, I locked the apartment door and began my fifteen-minute trek to our office on Middle Street. I savored my walk through the Old Port, the name given to Portland, Maine’s waterfront. The summer heat that a month ago had my shirt stuck tight against my back was a thing of the past and the snow and ice that would make walking an athletic event had not yet arrived. The cool, crisp air was like a shot of espresso. As long as I didn’t let my mind wander to what nature had in store, I could enjoy the rush.

  I hit “contacts” on my phone and scanned the names for Sandra’s.

  “Sandra, it’s Britt,” I said when she answered. “I wish this was a social call, but it’s not. Shirley Trudeau is missing.

  “I know, her sister called this morning. I’m on my way in now. How did you find out?”

  “Her sister hired us to find her. “Was someone helping her leave?”

  “She had a caseworker, but I wasn’t in on the plan. I’ll know more once I get to my office and talk to the person she was working with.”

  “Okay if I call you later?”

  “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to tell you. You know the rules. If she was on her way…”

  I stopped mid-stride and lowered the phone from my ear. Sandra’s voice slipped away. That dead body that Griff went to look at…my gut said, Shirley Trudeau.

  “Bless me Father.”

  “What are your sins?”

  “I have no sins.”

  “Only God has no sins.”

  “It’s God’s sin that brings me here.”

  “And what sin has He committed?”

  “Neglect, indifference, call it what you like. He’s forgotten the children.”

  “What children?”

  “The ones they leave behind. Now, it’s up to me to save them.”

  “Save them from what?”

  “Abandonment. Last night was number eight, but numbers don’t matter. Those bitches will die until they’ve learned.”

  “Who will die?”

  “The mothers.”

  “Are you asking for forgiveness?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. They get what they deserve.”

  “Only God can pass judgment.”

  “I said, God’s not doing his job or weren’t you listening? ‘I’ll be back for you,’ they say. It’s what my mother said to me, whispered it as she hovered over my bed in the middle of the night. I never saw her again. I used to feel sorry for her. But when she never came back I knew she deserved the beatings he gave her, every last one of them.”

  “Maybe there was a reason she didn’t come back.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t.”

  “She was selfish, like all the rest.”

  “Maybe she was afraid.”

  “You think she didn’t know that I would take her place once she was gone? Women like her have to be punished.”

  “That’s God’s decision, not yours.”

  “God doesn’t make good decisions.”

  “You have to trust that He knows what He’s doing.”

  “Open your eyes, Father. He makes mistakes.”

  “You must ask for His guidance and His forgiveness.”

  “I asked for His help when I was seven years old and locked in a closet. It was dark. I was cold and hungry. My arm was broken and by the third day, my pants were full of filth. I asked for it again within these very walls. You know what I got? Nothing. The priest told me to go to the police. The problem was, my old man was the police. So, the priest told me to pray; a useless load of crap that turned out to be.”

  “We can’t always understand His ways, but we have to believe that He knows best.”

  “He doesn’t hear the children, Father. I’m their savior now. “

  TWO

  Father Francis barely heard the words spoken by his next three parishioners. Inside his wooden confessional, he stared at the scarred inner walls while the sinners droned on about jealousy toward their neighbor or the backhand they’d delivered to a disobedient child. One had the nerve to lament over a stolen Milky Way bar. He’d given them each three Our Fathers and Three Hail Marys and hoped that would be enough to square things with the big guy. He wondered if any priest who’d sat inside this cubicle before him had encountered a confession like the one he’d heard today. And if so, what had he done?

  He mulled over the question while waiting his usual twenty minutes to assure that the last of those confessing had left the church. He never wanted to see them in person after they’d unloaded their sins. The embarrassment would have been too uncomfortable, theirs not his. He’d been a priest at The Church of the Holy Child for the past ten years so their unique tones did not escape him.

  He genuflected in front of the altar, nodded to the six-foot, porcelain Jesus affixed to an oak crucifix hanging from the ceiling and made his way across the red oriental rugs into the sacristy. Lifting his vestment over his head, the silk caught against his clammy palms. He dropped it into the chair in front of him and sat on top of it.

  “Why me?” he whispered, hoping God might still have an ear in his direction even though the last of the sins had been absolved and the church was empty. “Why the hell, did I have to get that one?” He rested his elbows on his knees. Hands clasped together into one oversized fist and waited for an answer. None came. He stood and walked to the window. The churchyard lay bathed in red from the stained glass. He gazed over it, considering the killer’s words or more accurately boast, maybe even taunt.

  “God doesn’t make good decisions the voice in the confessional had said. He makes mistakes.”

  Wasn’t the person who’d confessed a mistake? And who was to blame God or humanity? Mankind has free will. But God has the ability to stop violence before it strikes. He pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes and shook his head angry with himself for daring to question God. He tried to focus on the voice instead of the words. It was not familiar to him. Not one of his routine Saturday sinners. It had been surprisingly soft. The tone in direct contrast with the message,

  Wiping moist palms against his denim-clad thighs, Father Francis turned and reached for a hanger. Wearing jeans under his cassock reminded him that he was just a working guy like the rest of them, no more than a go-between for the parishioners and God. It’s what had led him to the priesthood in the first place, his desire for people to know that Jesus lived among them, not in some gilded cloud up in the sky. He believed that the church with all its ornate riches had placed God out of reach for the average Joe. Father Francis hoped to bring Him back to the people at the most basic level, to be an organic farmer of sorts, with God as his crop.

  But nothing he’d heard today was average. And according to the Sacramental Seal there was nothing he could do about it. He hung his cassock inside the closet and pulled a t-shirt over his head. Imagine was written across the back, a picture of John Lennon on the front. He slipped his feet into a pair of black clogs and took long strides across the polished cherry floor.

  On the second story of the rectory, in a twelve by twelve-foot room, Father Francis sank onto his four-poster bed holding a leather-bound book. Inside was the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

  “Given the delicacy and greatness of this ministry and the respect due to persons, the Church declares that every priest who hears confessions is bound under very severe penalties to keep absolute secrecy regarding the sins that his penitents have confessed to him. He can make no use of knowledge tha
t confession gives him about penitents’ lives. This secret, which admits of no exceptions, is called the ‘sacramental seal,’ because what the penitent has made known to the priest remains ‘sealed’ by the sacrament.”

  He laid the book on his goose down comforter. On the soccer field across the street practice was just starting. Kids streamed onto the grass while their mothers stood in little clusters, chatting. He watched the women interact. Occasionally one of them would turn away from the group to glance out at her child, sending a quick wave, an encouraging smile or a clap of her hands when the ball they dribbled found its way into the net. Tonight, it could be one of them. Father Francis raised his eyes to the ceiling. “A test of my faith or my humanity? Which is it?”

  THREE

  I passed beneath the Cole & Co. sign, opened the outer door and started my climb to our third-floor walk-up. I’ve been after Griff to change the sign from Cole & Co. to Cole and Callahan. We’ve been a team now for three years and dating for six. But according to him, I’m still on probation…professionally that is.

  I relinquished my career as a Family Law lawyer almost four years ago after losing a case that culminated in the death of the woman I was representing, shot in the head an hour after returning home from court where her husband had been acquitted of abuse charges. He’d followed her home and killed her along with their four-year-old son. After six months of therapy and piecing together a fragile attempt at self-confidence, Griff suggested I take the PI exam and join his firm. Without him I’d probably still be in fetal position.

  Katie was already perusing the day’s agenda when I came through the door. Following me into my office, she set a latte on the corner of the desk.

  “Shirley has a daughter, doesn’t she?” I asked taking a sip of coffee and burning my lip.

  Katie nodded. “Brooke. Shirley dropped her off yesterday with Beth. The plan was that she would send for her once she got resettled.”

  “I advised her to get in touch with the Domestic Violence Hotline and start planning an exit strategy. She didn’t have a dime to take legal action. Her best shot was to disappear.”