Tangled Souls (13 page)

Archie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Elliot?”

“That’s the man.”

Archie shook his head. “I still don’t get that one. One minute the guy’s a cop, and then he’s sporting a collar.” He paused for emphasis and asked, “What are you into?”

O’Fallon went for broke. “I’m trying to find a stolen rosary—it came up missing after a suicide at the LeClaire. I’ve tracked it as far as the investigating detectives. They say they never saw it.”

Archie crossed himself reflexively. It was his turn to look around as he leaned over conspiratorially. “There are three pawnshops the cops use downtown. I’ll give you the addresses. Just play it cool with them, okay?”

“Understood.”

Archie removed a pen from his shirt pocket. It looked expensive, just like the rest of the man’s accessories. He pulled a napkin over and started writing.

“You ever heard of a cop named Harve Glass?” O’Fallon said, pitching the name out like an ante into a poker game. Archie’s eyes rose to check out the room again. Offering no answer, he returned to penning the addresses.

“Here,” he said, pushing the napkin across the table. “Maybe that will help me get into heaven, you know?”

He stood, dropped a twenty on the table, and then flashed a gleaming smile at O’Fallon. “Be smart about this, okay? You made it too many years to not enjoy your retirement. I’ll send you a postcard from Mexico. Come visit us . . . and I mean that.” Without waiting for an answer, Archie turned and strode out of the diner.

O’Fallon scrutinized the napkin. Three pawnshop addresses were listed in a scrawling hand. Beneath the addresses was a single line, in block letters:

BEWARE OF GLASS.

* * *

Pawnshops always reminded O’Fallon of his two failed marriages—good intentions gone awry. He sneezed the moment he stepped inside the door, the dust irritating his nose. He was zero for two so far, and this was the last shop on Archie’s list.

The Korean shop owner acted as if he didn’t speak much English, though O’Fallon doubted that was the case given the
LA Times
on the counter. It was turned to the sports section. O’Fallon briefly glanced toward another customer, who seemed overly fascinated with the rack of guitars in the far corner.

O’Fallon systematically scanned the display cases. A vast array of merchandise presented itself: gold and silver necklaces, earrings, watches, a used camera, and a video recorder. Someone had even pawned a toaster. He wondered if it worked.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Leaning forward, he brushed some of the grime off the dirty glass counter for a better look. Shifting the
Times
out of the way, he pointed.

“Can I see that?”

“Nice.” The owner grinned, exposing a gold tooth. Had someone pawned that as well? When the pawnbroker tried to hand the rosary to him, he shook his head.

“Put it on the counter,” he ordered. The impressions he’d received in the hotel room had been devastating enough. The price tag said thirty-five dollars. The pawnshop owner clearly had no clue how much the antique rosary was worth.

“I’ll take it,” O’Fallon said. He extracted the money from his pants pocket, his wallet remaining out of sight, and slid two twenties across the counter. The pawnbroker held up each of the bills in turn to check the watermark. O’Fallon didn’t know if he should be amused or offended. As he waited for the change, his attention wandered through the contents of the nearest case.

“I’d like to see that, as well,” he said, pointing to a silver medallion. The owner placed it on the counter. O’Fallon began to reach for the object and then pulled his hand back immediately. “How much?”

“Fifteen.” O’Fallon pulled out another Jackson and pushed it toward the pawnbroker. While the store owner verified the bill was genuine, O’Fallon wrapped the holy artifacts in his handkerchief, careful not to touch either one. He placed the handkerchief deep within his inside coat pocket.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You come back,” the owner said, his gold tooth gleaming as he handed over O’Fallon’s change.

“Maybe I will. I might want a new toaster someday,” O’Fallon said, shoving open the door. It chirped in response and then closed with a bang behind him.

Outside on the street, he tapped his coat pocket, a slow grin crossing his face. He’d found the rosary and the kid’s Virgin Mary medallion.

But despite his success, he still had no notion why Benjamin Callendar had killed himself.

* * *

Avery appeared at ease in the paint-streaked jeans, his Palm Sunday obligations complete. His T-shirt proclaimed him a fan of the Dodgers and, minus his clerical collar, he might be any other guy in his midfifties. He was working on the church courtyard’s fence, slapping on paint in broad strokes.

Despite their blowup the day before, O’Fallon adopted a light tone. “Not bad, van Gogh,” he said, grinning.

Avery placed the brush on top of the paint can and wiped his hands with a cloth. He returned the grin.

“Our new gardener has a case of shingles.” He rose and dropped the cloth to the ground near the can of paint as his face changed from bemusement to concern. “How are you doing?”

“Better. I did as you suggested.”

“And?”

“There’s no mention of my father’s name on the Internet, at least none that I can find.”

“So that means—”

O’Fallon waved him off. He’d already had to listen to his gran give him an earful about his stubborn streak. Avery would only pour more salt into the wound.

He purposely changed subjects. “I found the kid’s rosary.”

The priest shook his head in apparent amazement. “I figured it was long gone.” Avery pointed toward the fountain in the church courtyard. “Come on, I need a break,” he said.

They sat on the same bench they’d occupied the afternoon before.

“I didn’t see you at mass this morning,” Avery said.

“Sorry, I was otherwise occupied.” O’Fallon opened his jacket and extricated the handkerchief, placing it on the bench between them. He carefully flipped back the corners of the fabric, revealing the contents.

“That’s it,” his friend said. “I see you found the medallion, as well.”

O’Fallon nodded. “You didn’t mention it, but it was at the pawnshop.” He hesitated and then added, “I sensed it was his.”

Avery observed him with kind eyes. “Never apologize for your gift, Doug. Is it still like . . . how’d you put it? Like being sucked through a jet engine?” the priest asked.

“Yeah, most of the time. The hotel room . . . that was hell.” O’Fallon looked away, studying the closest cherub to take his mind off the images trying to bulldoze into his brain. The fountain burbled in a reassuring tone as sprays of water jetted from the mouth of a dolphin. “Do you believe God forgave him?” O’Fallon asked, his question barely audible over the sound of the rushing water.

“I do. God knows what’s in our heart even when we reject His most precious gift.”

O’Fallon returned his gaze to the rosary. “I sensed so much sadness in that room, so much regret. I’d like to think the boy is at peace.”

“He is.”

O’Fallon raised his eyes to meet those of his old friend. “You say that with so much certainty.”

“I have to believe that God is all-merciful. If not, what’s the point?” the priest asked, spreading his hands.

“I suppose you’re right. I just wish there was some way we could know for sure.”

“You always were a skeptic,” Avery gently chided. There was a lengthy pause, as if neither was sure where to go next. Avery changed subjects abruptly. “Adam said you were at the precinct the other day.”

“I’m hearing that most of the cops in that precinct are dirty. I’d bet a month’s pension the detectives ripped off the kid’s rosary and pawned it.”

Avery rose, shaking his head. He looked older in the sunlight, his face displaying a subtle undercurrent of anger. The expression remained in place for a few seconds and then vanished.

“I’ve heard the same. I’ve been pushing Adam to get out of there,” he replied sternly.

“That would be for the best.” O’Fallon slid the handkerchief and the medallion free of the rosary. “I’d like to keep Mary with me a little longer, if that’s okay.”

Avery nodded his approval. “Think it will help?”

“It can never hurt,” O’Fallon said, tucking the cloth-wrapped Virgin into his breast pocket. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Be careful, Doug,” the priest said, looking him full in the eyes.

O’Fallon didn’t understand the nature of the warning, only that his friend felt the need to utter it. A spike of apprehension coiled up his spine and lodged at the base of his skull. He left the courtyard feeling alone despite Mary resting heavily against his left breast.

He seemed relieved at the suggestion and staggered down the hall, using the walls for support.

Oh, boy
, Bart whispered.
Serious meltdown.

“Yeah,” she muttered, shaking her head. Another thump, and she looked upward. “What is going on up there?”

Nothing good.

Gavenia paused outside the child’s bedroom. This time the sounds were not of a little boy at play, but of something more sinister. An odd aroma filtered into the hall from behind the closed door. She gave her Guardian a bewildered look.

“Lavender?”

Bart didn’t reply.

She touched the doorknob and cried out, jerking her hand back. It showed no damage, though it felt as if it had been seared to the bone.

“What is going on in there?” she demanded.

Before Bart could answer, from inside the room came a whimpering cry that wrenched at her heart. Gavenia took a deep breath and put her quaking hand on the doorknob. Once again it flamed as if immersed in molten steel. She turned the knob and pushed her way into the room. The door swept open, bulldozing a sea of stuffed animals. The room was in shambles—bedding scattered in all directions, toys upended, and books flung like leaves on the wind. The shelf of bears was completely empty, the occupants scattered on the floor. The scent of lavender redoubled, making her eyes water and her throat burn.

Searching through the debris, she spied Bradley in a corner clasping his big teddy bear to his heaving chest. A nervous whimper came from his lips. A fierce anger rose in her breast along with the overwhelming desire to protect the little boy, to hug him close and make the fear go away. Her eyes swept the room again, keen to find the source of this chaos and give her anger an outlet.

She found the entity hovering in the air as if suspended by wires. It wore a deep-purple cloak and had dark hair and unfathomable eyes. It wavered, a semisolid mist illuminated by the light coming through the window.