The Schwarzschild Radius (9 page)

It was a victory that earned him an audience with the Archbishop of New York. Once again, Massey had the admiration he yearned for. So when the young man was told he had a vocation, he was receptive. The thought grew in strength, getting a purchase on his ego, and eventually his will. He enrolled in seminary studies on a trial basis. If nothing else, he could complete his degree and walk away from the priesthood with certainty. The Church had need for men of keen intellect and action, Evan Massey was told.

In the heat of the moment, he enrolled in the St. Bartholomew Seminary in Brooklyn. He completed his studies, all the time maintaining a visible presence in the community. Soon afterwards, he took his vows as a Claretion priest.

Father Massey immediately distinguished himself as a sharp speech writer and fund raiser. At twenty-seven, he established First Step, a place where the homeless could get a bath, haircut and fresh set of clothes, and be pointed in the direction of a job. First Step had only moderate success, and moderation was never his objective. Massey reasoned that the less-than-spectacular results were due to the fact that most of the homeless did not want to be helped. He resolved to focus his efforts almost exclusively on children and young teens that were more receptive to change.

Transcendence House was established on the principle of tough love. Those who resisted change were culled, leaving only those who were truly committed to self-improvement.

This approach led to media-worthy results: former drug addicts and prostitutes scoring 1420 on the SAT’s; a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old making forty dollars an hour writing databases for Fortune-500 companies where nine months earlier, he had attempted suicide. A junkie graduates the program and goes on to become a U.S. Marine, returning to give testimony in dress uniform. These stories put Massey back where he needed to be―at the center of attention. He was able to raise enough money to buy forty state-of-the-art computers for the center and invited whiz kids from Stuyvesant High School and the Bronx High School of Science to volunteer their time instructing their less fortunate peers.

He held a weekly forum online to discuss issues affecting youth. Transcendence House sweatshirts and T-shirts, as well as other Catholic supplies, were sold throughout the country, generating still more income for the organization.

Massey himself spent hours every week combing the Internet for anything of value to his organization. Along the way, he stumbled upon electronic bulletin board services.

He began downloading X-rated pictures catering to every sexual preference. Sado-masochism, interracial, teen sex. There was one BBS that promised anything―absolutely anything―but one of the conditions was that members had to contribute pictures of similar caliber. There were several levels of security on the BBS, depending on what sort of photos a member contributed.

Massey couldn’t enter the Romper Room Corner without a good submission of his own. He remembered the pictures he had taken in India, images he had not looked at in years.

When he took them out of the box in his closet, he was amazed at the number of photos he had taken. They were in the hundreds. At least three dozen girls under thirteen years of age. These images resurrected all that was good and bad about Krupal. He weighed the photos against the good he had done, the lives saved. In a few days, the scales had settled.

His own submissions got him access to the child porn area. Soon, he lived only for this.

Now the feelings he had so long suppressed about his kids were given full reign again. Massey started to flirt with the young girls who came in off the streets.

The first had been a fifteen-year-old from Alabama. It was hardly her first time, but she was young and he was a priest, so it was a conquest for both of them. Soon she was back on the streets, and he moved on to the next girl.

The thrill he got out of these liaisons was indescribable. In his public life, Massey was the paragon of integrity. Plaudits were heaped on him from both the Church and the public, and his successes kept him from confessing his sins. The sex was drawing him in deeper by the day. Bondage, S&M, humiliation… small, writhing limbs beneath his body were the thoughts he went to sleep with and woke up to.

It made him reckless. He had brought Gabriella to the yearly retreat. They went off into the woods together and, inevitably, made love. The sound of a snapping twig had made him look up and he saw Olivia, not a hundred feet away, watching them.

want to congratulate you on behalf of the President and myself on the passage of Dina’s Law,” said the First Lady. “It’s a significant step forward and will raise awareness of the plight of abandoned children.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. That means a great deal to me, and I’m sure the kids at Transcendence House will be heartened to know that you’re in their corner,” responded Father Massey, untangling the telephone cord.

“As you probably know, the President is creating a special office that will handle the problem of homeless and abandoned children,” continued the First Lady. “This has been a personal crusade of mine for fifteen years. We’ve finally been able to get the funding for it―not enough to run it the way we want, but as we get results, I feel the funding will increase. Even the political opposition finds it difficult to disagree with this cause. We need someone with extensive experience in this area whose views are in line with the Administration’s. I’d like to invite you to come to Washington next Tuesday.”

“I’m at your command.”

Massey’s lunch with the First Lady went superbly. He was offered, and accepted, the position of Director of the Office of Abandoned Children, the brain-child of the First Lady. He wore the suit for that one.

He had been the perfect candidate for the job: experience in the field of runaway children and an impeccable background. This last qualification was a must as so many of the Administration’s appointees had lately fallen at the hands of the scandal-mongers. But Father Evan Massey was a Roman Catholic priest with vision. That’s how he’d been described in the Washington Post the day before accepting the job.

This would be the radical change he needed in his life. Here, there was power, money, position. Finally, he had come to a place that was big enough for his talents. He envisioned the founding of dozens of centers like Transcendence House all over the country. On this pulpit, he could raise millions.

Of course, he would no longer be able to personally administrate Transcendence House; this task would fall to a priest of his choosing. All this would be hammered out when he returned to New York.

Massey spent the rest of the afternoon looking at townhouses in Georgetown. The rents were nearly Tribeca-league, but this was a lot more to his liking than Manhattan. Here, there was power.

“Step this way, Mr. Massey,” said Miriam Bannister, the real estate broker from Henley Group, a prestigious firm that handled the housing needs of secretaries of state and diplomats in the D.C. area. The First Lady herself had recommended her.

“We have here a lovely high-floor five-room with English country house ambiance in a top pre-war building. Exceptional views from a beautifully proportioned living room, refinished hardwood floors, and twelve-foot ceilings. Through here we have a sunny oak-paneled library that looks south. You strike me as the kind of person who has a lot of books―am I right?”

“I’d make good use of that.”

“I thought so. Again, high ceilings in the dining room with plenty of windows. A wood burning fireplace in the master bedroom and a walk-in closet. Truly one of a kind.”

His new job came with a small paycheck―ninety thousand a year. The job did, however, provide an expense account and a credit card, which was as good as cash. This would enable him to accept the job, and it looked great from the ethics standpoint. The monthly rent for this apartment―$3,200―was within his budget if he included his $1,800 monthly stipend from the Diocese.

“My needs are simple. I’ll take it,” he said.

He picked up the afternoon paper on the way to his hotel. After a quick shower, he decided to order room service instead of stepping out again to a restaurant. He finished off the lamb’s rump and half a bottle of Arrowood Reserve cabernet, then settled down with the paper.

The second story on the front page made him freeze.

The body of a sixteen-year-old girl had been found in the Bronx. She had been brutally murdered.