On a Quiet Street

by J. L. Doucette

  “You caught me red-handed—a nasty habit for a priest,” he said affably. “Don’t tell anyone, please; a priest and his image are one and the same.”

  He led us inside to his private office quarters, an architectural extension of the church. It was a masculine room, dark and cool, with ornate stained glass windows above mahogany walls. A flickering, mottled light played across a red-and-gold-patterned oriental carpet.

  “This is Dr. Hunt, Father,” Antelope said as we settled into the chairs the priest waved us toward. “She’s a clinical psychologist who works for the county and helps out with some of our investigations.”

  When I worked my first case as a police psychologist, Antelope and I discussed the best way to introduce me when we did interviews together. We came up with this dumbed-down version, vague enough that it didn’t create suspicion or invite questions.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hunt,” Father Bellamy said, seating himself in a chair facing the two we were occupying. “Detective, welcome. You have good timing; it’s time for a break from my reading for next Sunday’s sermon. I assume you’re here about Stacey Hart. I don’t envy your line of work. Like my own, it brings you in contact with the sorrows of the world. At least I also have the opportunity to celebrate the joyful times. How is the investigation going?”

  “This early in the case we don’t have any solid leads,” Antelope said casually. “We’re talking to everyone who knew the victim. The more we know about Stacey, the better chance we have of finding her killer.”

  “How well can anyone know a woman? They’re mysterious creatures. Men are from Mars and women are from Venus, right? And in my opinion, Stacey was more elusive than others. I’m not sure I ever knew the real Stacey. That being said, I found her to be a delightful person, friendly and truly caring. I can’t imagine anyone would have reason to hurt her.”

  “How long did you know Stacey?” Antelope asked.

  “Since my first year at Our Lady of Sorrows—that would be fifteen years, since I arrived here in 2003. I came fresh out of seminary up in Spokane, wonderful country up there. Such great fortune to get a church of my own as a young priest. Stacey participated in my first Confirmation class. I got to know her quite well—as well as she allowed, that is. She was studious and devout.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?”

  “I’m going to give you the standard answer I hear on the police shows: she didn’t have an enemy in the world until she was murdered.”

  “Have you given any thought to who might have killed her?”

  “I assume it was random. The world is changing, and Rock Springs is changing right along with it. Right across the street we have an adult club drawing patrons from all over the West. It’s only my opinion, but the kind of men who travel here for the purpose of seeing naked women may not be the highest-caliber creatures. If the wrong person walked by late at night and saw Stacey in a house alone, all the lights on, he could be tempted.”

  “Would she have come to you if she’d been experiencing a problem with someone, if she felt in danger?”

  “Now there’s a question I can answer. Yes. I’ve been her confessor since she was a child.”

  “So it’s safe to say she trusted you?”

  “I hope so. I believe she trusted me completely as her pastor and confessor.”

  “But would Stacey really be likely to come to you with a personal problem, Father? You say she was elusive.”

  “My personal mission is to be the kind of priest my parishioners come to in times of distress. The Church is changing, and a parish priest needs to be accessible to his people. Ask anyone who worships at Our Lady of Sorrows: my door is always open.”

  “What about Max Hart and Connor Collins?”

  “I knew all the altar boys. Max and Connor started serving when they were eight years old, after first communion, and continued right through the summer when they all graduated. Of course, I only came on the scene a few years before that, when they were already teenagers. But all the teens, the entire youth group, took to me. And those young men in particular—Max, Connor, and their friend Tim—took advantage of everything I offered. I thought highly of them—just the best, all of them stars, what a crew! Nothing short of tragic what happened to them.” He bowed his head. “I’m sure you know by now about the accident in which Tim lost his life and Stacey’s brother sustained brain damage. It was a truly sorrowful time, a very bleak time, for the young people of this church. My relationship with the youth group solidified around the tragedy.”

  “What about more recently?” Antelope asked. “Did you ever notice anything of concern in Stacey’s life?”

  The priest pursed his lips, as if thinking, then shook his head. “I know it sounds strange to you. I can tell by the look on your face. But Stacey seemed to lead a charmed existence. She derived strength from her spiritual life. She lived her faith. She was a special person, mature beyond her years—a perfect fiancée for Connor. The two of them stood out among their generation. No one can say a bad word against either of them. I think you’ll find that to be true as you question those who knew Stacey.”

  I looked at Antelope. His face was impassive; he was giving nothing away.

  “Can you tell us about her relationship with her brother?” he asked.

  “Close, but rocky. There was a lot of love there despite Max’s volatility, his constant moods due to his brain injury. Stacey reacted to all the changes admirably, handled the relationship well, in my opinion.”

  “How about recently? How rocky would you say things were?”

  “I noticed some tension in her. His name came up when we met last week to plan the wedding rehearsal. Stacey made an offhand comment about how she hoped the two of them would be talking to each other again by the day of the wedding. She wanted him to walk her down the aisle. I didn’t get the impression she was seriously worried about it, though.”

  “I understand Connor Collins went on the camping trip to Flaming Gorge?”

  “Perhaps Connor has suffered the most, being the only true survivor of the incident.” The priest’s forehead creased. “He required countless hours of spiritual counsel for his overwhelming guilt. With the Lord’s help, he got through it and became the fine human being we all know him to be. And now this has happened.” He expelled a heavy sigh. “Connor knows he has my support. Hopefully, he will take advantage of it and the healing power of the sacraments. He has a long life ahead of him—a very bright future. If only he can remember that through the dark hours of the next days and months and not let his grief take over.”

  “Your parishioners are fortunate to have you, Father Bellamy,” Antelope said.

  “When we share our troubles with another, they are made more bearable, as you know, Doctor”—he turned his gaze on me now—“from your own work. When it’s paired with spiritual guidance, it’s an unstoppable combination. Are you a Catholic, Dr. Hunt?”

  “I was baptized in the Church,” I said. “My life experience has led me to a spiritual place that doesn’t include organized religion.”

  “One is always saddened to encounter the loss of faith.” Father Bellamy pressed his hands together. “But faith is an individual matter, and not something to be coerced. I’m sure you know the Church waits with open arms for the lost. You are always welcome here at Our Lady of Sorrows.” He looked at Antelope. “And you, Detective, may I ask your religious affiliation?”

  “I don’t have one. But like Dr. Hunt, I was baptized in the Catholic Church.”

  “Interesting, don’t you think, that both of you chose work that takes you into the heart of human suffering? Which is another way of saying you witness Satan’s power on a daily basis. Two lapsed Catholics doing God’s work without God . . . or so you think.”

  “I understood your question to be about the Church, not about God, Father,” I said.

  “And that is your mistake, Dr. Hunt, to think it is possible to separate the two.”

  I s
miled slightly. “That’s a discussion for another day.”

  “Thank you for your time, Father,” Antelope said, standing. “By the way, I noticed Father Leo Emery from the reservation preached here last month. Will he be coming down again?”

  “Yes, he’s here the first Sunday of every month. He fills in and frees me to do my missionary work at the prison in Provo, Utah.”

  “I’ll make a point to stop over and say hello. It’s been a long time. In the meantime, I’ll be back if I think of anything else I want to ask you.”

  “Agreed, Detective, your important work awaits. A killer walks among us.”

  CHAPTER 25

  It was standard procedure in homicide cases for detectives to attend the victim’s funeral. Aside from showing sympathy to the family, it was a time-honored portion of the investigation. Antelope didn’t know of any studies that documented how often a killer showed his face at the funeral, but he didn’t need science to confirm what his gut told him: Stacey Hart’s murderer would be among those who came to pay their final respects.

  Funeral parlors all look alike no matter how hard they try to be something else. Chase Brothers Family Funeral Home was built on a concrete-buttressed hillside near the I-80 overpass; it looked like Dracula’s castle.

  Chase’s parking lot was full, so Antelope rode past, surveying the vehicles on the street as he went. He looked for a white van and wondered where Swailes had gone off to.

  It was an open-casket funeral. When Antelope approached to pay his respects, he supposed it was Fern Hart who chose to have Stacey buried in her wedding dress.

  When he read Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations in high school, he’d found the story of a woman living a life obsessed with a man who’d deserted her at the altar pathetic and frightening. The idea that love could derail a whole life made him wary of feeling anything for a female. For a long time he’d been haunted by the image of Miss Havisham, the fictional character who wore her gown to tatters.

  The high lace collar covered the evidence of the lethal assault—he’d give Mrs. Hart that much. The official copy of the Medical Examiner’s report had arrived in his email just before he left the office. “Death by asphyxiation due to manual strangulation” was listed as the cause of death.

  Though seeing Stacey in her wedding gown unsettled him, it also focused him on the job of finding her murderer. He made his way back to the entrance of the room and watched a line of mourners pay their respects to Fern and Max Hart, looking at every face, searching for signs of guilt or regret at the sight of the corpse in the coffin.

  The job set him apart from the rest of the world at those times when others were part of a community, but he was no stranger to this kind of loneliness. Except for a few loyal people who would never let him go, he’d lost his own community when he left the reservation. The deal was sealed when he signed on with the Sheriff’s Department. It’s one thing to be a reservation cop, another to join forces with the legal institutions of the white man’s world.

  By six o’clock, the rush of people coming to pay their respects to the Hart family had slowed down. Father Bellamy arrived at six-thirty and announced that the evening hours would conclude with a prayer service and the holy rosary.

  Antelope stepped outside. On the porch, a group of smokers congregated near a large outdoor incinerator decorated with angels. They talked and smoked and laughed like a group of coworkers on break. The night had turned chilly. Above the Green River Cliffs, the sky was a bold rainbow of layered colors that stood in stark contrast to the dark gray sky looming in the east.

  He spotted Kelly Ryan in her Volkswagen, parked at the far end of the lot. She exited the car with her cell phone pressed to her ear, and moved slowly toward the parlor, seemingly in no hurry to get inside. She looked up and saw him and he held her gaze as she came toward him; as she passed by him she nodded her head but gave no indication that they were acquainted.

  Antelope was listening to Mozart’s “Don Giovanni” on his cell phone and watching the comings and goings at the entrance of the funeral home when Kelly came out twenty minutes later. At the far end of the porch, she leaned against the filigreed wooden post and lit a cigarette. Blue smoke swirled in the dim light of the dusk. She pulled a black lace shawl tight around her bare shoulders.

  A minute later, Max Hart joined her. He stood beside her, their shoulders touching, both of them looking straight ahead into the shadowed woods of Expedition Island. She handed him her cigarette and lit another for herself, then turned and touched his cheek—a tender, intimate gesture, even from a distance. Max bent to kiss her and she let him, only their mouths touching, the red tips of their cigarettes burning in their hands, held at their sides. It lasted a long time; eventually, though, Max broke away and walked back inside.

  Kelly finished her cigarette, adjusted her shawl, and scanned the parking lot and the street. She lit another cigarette.

  At eight o’clock, the door opened and people started to file out. Kelly joined the group, hurried to her car, and drove off.

  The kiss he’d witnessed hadn’t been casual. No one he’d spoken to had mentioned Kelly Ryan and Max Hart being in a romantic relationship, now or in the past. He wondered about the need for secrecy, especially among a group of people who’d been openly known to be friends for decades.

  And if they didn’t want anyone to know about it, they’d taken a huge risk kissing out in the open like that, where they could be easily discovered.

  CHAPTER 26

  When Kelly left the wake, she didn’t feel like going home. She felt afraid to be alone. It was early, and for some strange reason seeing her friend lying dead like that made her want to do something crazy. She wondered if Max would be interested in hooking up. She should be ashamed of herself for thinking about it. In the morning, they would bury his sister.

  The strange, long, unexpected kiss they’d shared on the porch had taken her breath away. God, it made her want him. The sex on Saturday night had been so different from any of their other times together—both of them hungry and raw, two lost animals coming together out of need.

  The other times they’d hooked up had come about for other reasons; one or the other of them would be lonely or bored to death and would text the other to meet up, have sex, and share a smoke. Afterward, they went right back to what they were doing before. No one got hurt. It worked for both of them. But it didn’t feel right to try to go there tonight, though the loneliness felt like a pressure on her heart. This terrible, crushing pain she might have to live with.

  As she drove away from the funeral home, her hands shook on the wheel, every nerve in her body switched on. Grief, a physical thing, like an injury, was taking hold of her body. Her sorrow over Tim had come back, piling on top of what she felt for Stacey.

  The sight of her friend, so still and white in her wedding gown, had made her feel light-headed and cold. She’d forced herself to stop and give her condolences to Fern and Max, and then she’d hurried out to get some air. After that, she couldn’t go back in.

  The thought of being alone in her empty house started a queasy feeling in her stomach.

  At the entrance to the interstate, she headed east, toward Rock Springs, without a plan, just a need to be away from Green River. She wondered if Max would stay at his place or with his mother.

  At the first Rock Springs exit, she followed Dewar Drive and turned up White Mountain Road. After a half mile the paved portion ended and she was on the twisting dirt road that hugged the side of the mountain.

  As she rounded the last turn to the summit, headlights flashed in her rearview mirror. A truck came fast around the hairpin turn and rode her tail.

  She sped up and he followed. She maneuvered to the right, as far as she could, to let the idiot pass.

  But the truck didn’t pass; instead, it slid to the right and matched its speed to hers, inches behind her. Her heart beat faster and she made a quick decision to get out of there. There were sixteen miles of backcountry road ahead
of her before the intersection with Highway 191.

  She hit the gas and her little Volkswagen jumped and spun ahead. She planned to make a quick U-turn at the summit and gun it back down the mountain road.

  Behind her, the truck picked up speed too.

  She made it to the summit. The moment she had room, she turned her wheel hard to the left. Her tires squealed and she almost lost control of the wheel, but she completed the turn. She started to gun her way out of there—then saw the truck sideways in front of her, blocking the road.

  She slammed on her brakes and her engine stalled. Her headlights lit up the side of the truck; the rest of the night was pitch black around her.

  Trapped, she restarted the car, put it in reverse—and slammed into a boulder.

  She opened the door to run. The passenger door opened as she started to get out and a rough hand grabbed her arm, pulling her back inside. He caught her wrists in both his hands. Then he laughed and let go.

  “What the hell, Jack, you scared the shit out of me!” She broke free and punched his chest with both fists. “What’s wrong with you? My friend got murdered! Are you crazy?”

  He grabbed her hard by her shoulders, his fingers digging into her bare arms. “Stop it. Relax. Just a little excitement.”

  “You’re hurting me. Let go.” She struggled to get free of him.

  He held on tight, gave her a shake, and dropped her arms. “Calm down.”

  She rubbed the places where his fingers had touched her skin. “I’ll have bruises tomorrow. You’re an animal, Jack. Why do you have to be so rough?”

  “You love it.”

  “There’s a time and a place.”

  “I don’t play by the rules, remember?” He cupped her chin in his hand—a familiar gesture, sweet and sincere. “Look at me.” He smiled. “Let’s start this night over again. Hello, Kelly.”

  She didn’t return his smile. “Why’d you take off? The cops think you did it.”