Make them Cry (13 page)

Maggie was quiet for a moment. “The rain didn’t last long,” she remarked finally. “I should stretch my legs before the drive back.”

She opened her door and climbed out of the car.

Jack stayed behind the wheel. He watched her through the rain-beaded windshield. Maggie’s back was to him as she looked out at the lake.

After a couple of minutes, he stepped out of the car and came up beside her. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

“Jack, how do you feel about me seeing this guy?” she asked, her eyes searching his. “He’s interested in me, and very good-looking. And he’s young—almost too young. Does me telling you this affect you in any way?”

“Maggie, I don’t know how to answer that.”

She turned and gazed out at the lake again. The wind whipped at her red hair. “I care about you, Jack,” she said. “I guess that’s no secret. I’ve humiliated myself with you a couple of times now. I know you have feelings for me, too. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, Maggie,” he admitted. “But I’m a priest. It’s way out of line for me to say how I feel about you.”

She gave a sad little laugh. “If you want my opinion, you’re not a very good priest. You’re not exactly sticking to that vow of obedience. And I don’t think you’re cut out for the celibacy bit either.” Maggie shyly took hold of his arm. “I’ll bet you were much better at being a husband and father.”

“Not me,” he muttered. “A good husband and father doesn’t let his family get killed.”

“Johnny told me they died in an automobile accident. It’s a tragedy, but it isn’t your fault—”

“Let’s not talk about this anymore,” Jack cut in. He handed her the keys, then walked back to the car. “Would you mind dropping me near the library? I want to check out that book on the saints.”

With Maggie at the wheel, they rode in silence toward the edge of campus. The sun was peeking through the clouds, making the wet pavement shiny. Maggie took her eyes off the road every now and then to glance at Jack, who seemed deep in thought.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said finally. “I know what you went through is much worse than my experience, and it doesn’t compare to the time I spent with a stupid husband who treated me like crap.”

Jack smiled sadly. “The one who’ll get a cactus plant on his birthday?”

“I told you about that, huh?”

He nodded. “That night at the Lakeside Inn.”

“I meant it. Once I’m with someone else, I’ll send Ray a cactus plant for his birthday. It’ll be an acknowledgment of my moving on and letting go of all the pain. Can’t you do that, too?”

“I don’t understand,” Jack said.

“Can’t you move on?” she asked. “I know it’s none of my business, and not the same as my situation. But I don’t understand why you’re blaming yourself for what happened to your wife and son three years ago. Why can’t you let it go? A drunk driver ran into your car.”

“He didn’t run into my car. He smashed into my
wife’s
car.”

“Your car, your wife’s car, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is I was in my own car, driving ahead of my wife and my son. We were returning home from a party. We’d come in separate cars. This oncoming car veered into my lane, and I swerved over to avoid him. As soon as I did, I realized what I’d done.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Maggie whispered.

Jack stared straight ahead. He sighed. “You know, there was a moment before I heard the crash—I thought they were all right. And I wondered how I could have forgotten—even for just a second—that they were behind me.

“People who heard about the accident, they just assumed I was in the car with them. The ones who knew we’d taken two cars that night, they figured I was riding behind. After all, what good husband and father would let that happen to his family?”

Maggie pulled the car over to the curb, then shifted into park. She grabbed hold of his hand. “God, Jack, it wasn’t your fault. Why would you choose to take on all that guilt? Isn’t it bad enough that they’re dead and you miss them? Why do you want to punish yourself?”

“Because I screwed up,” he muttered. “You know, with your brother—our friendship, and the way he was like a son to me—I felt as if God were giving me a second chance. Johnny was my opportunity to make things right. But I screwed up on that, too.”

Maggie started crying. “No, you didn’t,” she said, hugging him. “Stop blaming yourself. Johnny loved your friendship….”

She began to kiss his face, but Jack pulled away.

“I—I better go,” he said, wiping his eyes. He opened the car door.

She reached across and grabbed his arm.

“Maggie, I’m sorry—”

“Listen to me, Jack,” she said steadily. “You can’t just retreat from life and join the priesthood because you had a real bad break. You can’t keep blaming yourself either—or you’ll be no good to anyone. A minute ago, you said Johnny was your second chance. Well, did you ever stop to think that maybe
I’m
your second chance?”

With a tortured look, he shook his head. “Then that’s a lousy deal for you, Maggie.”

He turned and walked away.

As he stepped into the library, Jack felt derailed somehow. Maggie was forcing him to look at himself, and he didn’t want to do that—not now. They needed to find Johnny’s killer. There was no time to think about anything else, except stopping this self-proclaimed executioner before he “martyred” another person.

Jack found the book on the saints where they’d left it: on the study desk in the alcove. Joan of Arc stood guard over it.

He started back toward the check-out desk. He noticed a section of the newspaper that had fallen from one of the study tables onto the floor. Jack picked it up and set it back on the table, then he started to move on.

He’d seen the headline, but it didn’t register for a moment. He had to turn back and glance at the newspaper again. The story was on the front page of the regional news section, not so much newsworthy as it was a sad acknowledgment. The headline ran across the bottom of the page:
POLICE CONFIRM DISCOVERY OF JUDGE MCSHANE’S REMAINS
.

They’d found Dorothy McShane’s headless body four miles downstream from where her skull had been discovered.

Jack sank down in the desk chair. He stared at the cover of his book on the saints. Finally, he opened it and paged through to the Ds.

Sitting in the front pew, Irene McShane stared up at the altar. With her nice blue suit, every blond hair in place, and that sad, dazed expression on her face, she looked as if she were daydreaming during Mass.

But she and Jack were alone in the little church. He sat at the end of the pew, some distance from her. She still didn’t trust him entirely, and he knew it. He wasn’t going to get any closer. It was enough that she’d sat still and listened to him for the past few minutes. He could see the tears in her eyes, and he offered her a handkerchief.

She shook her head, then reached into her purse and pulled out a Kleenex. Irene dabbed her eyes and nose.

“A few weeks ago, I heard one of the seminarians—a senior—call another boy ‘morally bankrupt’.” Jack sighed. “I’d never heard that expression before. And I haven’t heard it since—not until you said it a couple of minutes ago.”

“So, you’re telling me this ‘martyr’ killer is one of the seniors here at the school?” she asked.

“It’s possible,” Jack reasoned. “He picked up an expression of Dorothy’s, one she must have coined. Then again, he might have heard the term from Dorothy’s killer. Maybe it’s one of his teachers, or some other priest. I’ll have to look into it.”

She glanced down at the balled-up Kleenex in her hand. “What are you going to do when you find this murderer?”

“I’ll see that he’s put away, of course.”

“And what about the families of his victims? Haven’t they suffered enough?” Folding her arms in front of her, she glanced down at the kneeler. “Didn’t you say that he seduced most of his ‘martyrs’ before he killed them?”

Jack nodded. “It appears that way, yes.”

“How do you think the families are going to feel? Maybe the parents of these murdered boys would rather not hear about their sons’ sexual proclivities. Maybe they’d rather not have it become public knowledge. I know how they feel.”

“You don’t want it getting out that Dorothy had an affair,” Jack said.

Irene shrugged. “With a priest—or a seminarian—no less. And she also had an abortion. All that would come out, Father Murphy.”

“You want me to let it go?” he asked. “To save Dorothy’s reputation?”

“I just don’t want to cause my grandchildren any further heartache,” Irene said. “I’m thinking of the others, too. Haven’t we been through enough? We’ve all buried our dead. We don’t want to go through it again. These ‘martyrs’ aren’t really saints, Father. If this killer is brought to justice, the sins of his victims will be held under public scrutiny.”

“What would you have me do?” Jack asked, leaning toward her in the pew. “Mrs. McShane, since he killed your daughter-in-law, this man has ‘martyred’ at least three more people, including my friend—and those are just the ones we know about. He has to be stopped.”

“I know he does,” Irene whispered, wiping away another tear. “I only wish it could be done quietly.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McShane. I don’t think it will happen that way.”

“Check this out,” he said, picking at his food with a fork. “I ought to look for a pot of gold at the end of this meat.”

Marty Schriver’s gristly roast beef had a rainbow gleam. St. Clement Hall’s cafeteria fare wasn’t any better than the food at St. Bart’s.

He shared a table by the entrance with Jack. The cafeteria crowd had thinned out, and the staff was already starting to clean up the place. One of the workers was setting chairs upside down on the tables so they could mop the floor.

Marty was the other resident adviser on Anton Sorenson’s floor. Jack figured he knew Anton as well as anyone else. He’d had his doubts about Anton back when they’d first met. It was strange how Anton had offered him an alibi without any solicitation. What had he claimed to be doing the night Johnny drowned? He’d gone to the Cinerama Theater in Seattle to watch
The Great Escape
. So, he had the movie and showtime down; it didn’t mean he’d actually gone to Seattle, Some alibi. Jack shouldn’t have let it throw him off. He should have sought out a “character witness” like Marty a month ago.

The senior had long, ratty black hair, a stubbly beard, and tired-looking brown eyes. He appeared as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and Jack guessed that he probably always looked that way. He wore a rumpled, untucked oxford shirt.

With the fork, Marty held up the piece of meat. “I know we have several seminarians from foreign countries who might consider this gourmet fare, but we’re in the U. S. of A. now. Do you know what I ate here for dinner last night?”

Jack shook his head.

“Same as I’m gonna eat tonight.” Marty dropped the fork on his plate, then picked up a slice of bread. “Jell-O and white bread. If not for beer and beef jerky, I’d starve to death in this joint. So…Father, tell me more about this Big Brother organization for next year.”

“It’s still in the development stage,” Jack lied. “The guys starting their theologate would spend time with the freshmen at St. Bart’s. We’re screening some of the applicants. I was wondering if you thought Anton Sorenson would be a good Big Brother. I understand he’s…a bit eccentric.”

Marty chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“How well do you know him?” Jack asked,

Marty scooped up some lime Jell-O with a spoon. “We were freshmen together at St. Bart’s. I did my best to avoid him.”

“Why is that?”

“Anton was always getting into trouble. He’s bigger than most of the other guys. Of course, he had a couple of years on everybody.”

“He’s older?”

“Yeah, I think he’s twenty-three. His folks held him back a couple of years in school or something. I don’t think they knew what to do with him. He’s one of those guys who got shipped off to the seminary because he was a problem kid. I remember his first week at St. Bart’s, he grabbed one of the smaller freshmen and held him out the fourth-floor window for several minutes, all part of some joke. Anton was the only one who thought it was funny. The poor kid wet his pants. They almost expelled Anton, but I hear his old man smoothed things over with the big shots in administration. Anton was always pulling stuff like that.”

Marty finished up his Jell-O. “Is any of this going to get back to Anton?” he asked warily.

Jack shook his head. “Nope, this is all confidential.”

“Well, then here’s my own personal Anton story,” Marty said, pushing his tray away. “This happened back in St. Bart’s. I was in my room, sitting at my desk, minding my own business. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I had my door open a crack. So Anton saunters in with his shirt off. He still does that, patrols the halls practically bare-assed. I guess if I had his body, I’d want to show it off, too. But to a bunch of guys? It’s kind of creepy. Anyway, I didn’t know him very well at the time, but I have to admit, I was a little scared of him—especially after hearing about how he held that kid out the window.”

Jack nodded. “I’d give him some distance, too.”

“Yeah, so he walked into my room with his shirt off. And he said—pardon me, Father—he said, ‘How would you like to blow me?’ Then he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his dick—pardon me, Father—and he started stroking it.” Marty shook his head. “I tried to laugh and make like it was this big joke. But he was serious. He even started to get hard. He was coming at me with it, like he expected me to go down on him—whether I wanted to or not. I mean, I really thought he was going to force himself on me. All this time, my door was open. So I finally yelled at the top of my lungs, ‘Get the hell out of here, you pervert!’ or something along those lines. I could hear someone coming down the hall, and I think that made Anton back off. I don’t know what he would have done if I hadn’t yelled out.”

Jack stared at him. “And they made Anton a resident adviser here? After that incident with the other freshman and what he did to you?”

Marty tossed his napkin on the tray. “Well, I didn’t exactly broadcast to anyone what he did to me. Besides, not long after that, Anton suddenly turned superstraight, Mr. Model Seminarian. But I think he still has a wild streak in him. He did a really weird thing later that year at St. Bart’s. I don’t know if it’s true or not, I just heard it. He asked for a room reassignment. He wanted to move into Room 410. You know, where that murder-suicide happened?”

Jack squinted at him. “Did he give a reason?”

“Huh, not that I know of.”

“You and Anton were freshmen when Oliver Theron hung himself. Were either of you acquainted with him?”

“I wasn’t. I can’t speak for Anton. That was a bizarre year. We had a kid who drowned, too.”

“Julian Doyle. Did Anton know him?”

Marty shrugged. “Beats me. Anton and I didn’t exactly travel in the same circles.”

“Did you ever see him with John Costello?”

“You mean the kid who drowned a few weeks ago?” Marty said. “I never actually saw him on our floor, so I can’t say.” His eyes narrowed at Jack. “Do you think Anton had something to do with all these people who died?”

“Oh, no,” Jack said. “I just got sidetracked.”

Marty slouched back further in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Well, to answer your question, I don’t think Anton Sorenson would be such a terrific Big Brother for your program. I know he’s supposed to be reformed and all that. But I see him wandering the hallways half-dressed, and I can’t help thinking maybe he’s still doing to some of those guys what he did to me that one afternoon.” Marty shrugged. “Except for St. Paul after he fell off his horse, I don’t think people can really change that much.”

One of the cleanup staff started to turn off the lights in the cafeteria. Jack glanced around and noticed that he and Marty were the only customers left in the place. “I think somebody’s giving us a hint,” he said.

When they stepped out to the lobby, Jack shook Marty’s hand. “Listen, thanks for your honesty, Marty. I was going to talk with Anton tonight. I’m glad I spoke with you instead.”

“Well, you couldn’t have seen Anton anyway,” Marty replied. “He checked out this afternoon. Won’t be back until tomorrow. That’s another reason he’d make a crummy Big Brother. He’s never around, He comes and goes at the weirdest hours. Practically every weekend, I have to cover for the SOB.”

“Do they keep records for when people sign out?” Jack asked.

“Nothing permanent,” Marty said. “They keep a note on file while a resident adviser’s away, but when he comes back, they toss out the note.”

“I’m just curious,” Jack said. “Do you have to say where you’re going when you sign out?”

“You can if you want. But it’s not mandatory—not like at St. Bart’s.”

“Do you know where Anton went tonight?”

“Sorry, Father. I have no idea where Anton is most of the time.” He gave Jack a crooked smile. “I’m still keeping my distance.”

Jack thanked Marty once again, then watched him head toward the stairwell. He stood by St. Clement Hall’s front entrance for another minute.

“Hey, Chad, I locked myself out again!”

Jack stepped aside as a student who smelled of beer came in the front door. He ambled up to the front desk. “Chad, I need my key.”

The tall, lanky seminarian behind the desk gave the other boy a deadpan stare over the black rims of his glasses. Chad had a brown crewcut. He muttered something to the other young man, but Jack couldn’t hear.

He watched as Chad turned and opened a cabinet behind the desk. The cabinet held scores of keys, labeled and hanging on hooks. Chad found the key for his friend. The seminarian teetered toward the stairwell. “I owe you, Chad!” he called over his shoulder.

Jack waited another minute, then limped up to the front desk. He made sure Chad saw his last few faltering steps.

“Evening, Father,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“You sure can,” Jack said, leaning on the counter. “Somebody called me last night, saying my sweatshirt is down in the laundry room here. I lost it about a week ago, and I’d really like to get it back.”

“Oh, well, you can go ahead, Father,” Chad said. “The laundry room is down the stairs, then you take a right—”

“Actually,” Jack interrupted, “I did a number on my ankle while jogging this morning. I’m trying to stay off it as much as I can. Could you check the laundry room for me? In the meantime, I’ll watch the front desk here for you. Okay?”

Chad shrugged. “Sure, I guess it won’t be a problem.” He stepped out from behind the desk.

Jack took his place, hobbling around the counter. “A gray sweatshirt with
Murphy
on the name tag sewn inside,” he said. “Thanks a lot. I owe you.”

Chad didn’t find a sweatshirt in the laundry room, but Jack found a key in the cabinet behind the front desk.

When Chad returned from the basement empty-handed, Jack thanked him anyway, then limped out from behind the counter. He said something about needing to see a seminarian on the second floor, and he hobbled toward the stairwell.

The third floor seemed deserted. All the doors were closed. Jack didn’t hear anything except the muffled noise from a TV in a room down the hall.

He unlocked Anton’s door with the stolen key. The dark room smelled of Old Spice. Jack quietly closed the door behind him, then he moved over to the window and shut the drapes. He made his way in the dark to the light switch, then flicked it on.

Anton’s room was extremely tidy. The neatly made bed could have passed a military barracks inspection. In the corner of the room were a set of weights and a padded bench. Flemish prints—one of the Last Supper, and another of the Crucifixion—decorated the walls.

Jack peeked inside the closet. The perfectly lined row of conservative shirts and trousers was disrupted by two loud, Hawaiian short-sleeve shirts. There was also a black jacket, along with a clerical shirt and collar on a wooden hanger. The seminarians at Our Lady of Sorrows usually didn’t receive their clerical garb until after they’d graduated from the college and started their theologate. Anton shouldn’t have had those clerical clothes yet.

Moving to the desk, Jack noted the same kind of thin, metal crucifix that was in every seminarian’s room. Aside from the lamp, it was the only decoration on the desktop. Jack started riffling through the drawers. One of the drawers was full of junk: scrap paper, old receipts, rubber bands, paper clips, and matchbooks. Jack checked all the matchbooks, hoping to find one from Parker’s Pantry, but he didn’t have any luck.