VC03 - Mortal Grace (61 page)

“Hand over my bread.”

His body leaned over from the row behind, pressing all its weight against her skull. His hand grabbed for the lunchbox. She didn’t let go.

“Give it up, bitch!”

Something cold and straight-edged and sharp pressed against her windpipe. The salt taste of drowning flooded her eyes and nose.

“Now!”

“I want”—she could barely push the words past the pressure of the razor—“want…to know—”

“You want to die, bitch.”

“Who…is…Damien…?”

His grip eased on her hair but the razor didn’t move. “What the fuck you talking ’bout?”

“The man you’ve been leading the runaways to… Who is he?”

Eff nudged her jaw around with the razor. “A dude tells me his name is Damien, his name is Damien.” Chemically fired eyes blazed into hers. “You tell me you got my money, you got my money.”

“Is he a priest?”

“The dude says he’s a priest, he’s a priest.”

“Is he Joe Montgomery?”

Veins pumped up in Eff’s temples. “Give me my money, bitch!”

“Is he Colin Draper?”

Eff’s hand swooped down again and grabbed for the lunchbox. When she didn’t let go, the razor flew up from her throat and arced down and twisted into her wrist.

It was as though a jet of water had scalded her.

Eff grabbed the lunchbox and slammed it into the side of her head. Sparks perforated her vision. She pitched sideways across the seat.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

I
T WAS LATE AFTERNOON
by the time Bonnie left the emergency room. When she opened the door to her office, the red message light on the answering machine was blinking. She switched on the desk lamp and pressed the
play
button.

The first six calls were from parishioners. And then:

“Hello, Bonnie—this is Collie—”

His tone was urgent, childlike. She knew that tone, and fear skittered on her skin.

“Just wanted to hear your voice. Need to ask your advice. I’m kind of confused. I guess the trouble is, I’m in trouble. There’s a deep analysis for you, right? If you’re there, pick up please…. Guess you’re not. I’m calling because I’m afraid of what’s happening to me and the things I’m doing. This is kind of hard to say. I’m…uh…I had a drink.”

Oh
,
no
, she thought, sinking into a chair.
Please, God, no.

“I guess that means I’ve started drinking again. Bonnie—you there? I wish we could talk about it. I’ll call back.”

The machine cut off. The silence hit her like a ricocheting bullet. She took a moment to breathe deeply, focusing herself, and then she picked up the phone. The fingers of her bandaged hand managed to tap in the number of her brother’s direct line at work. “Ben, it’s me.”

“No kidding.” His voice smiled. “How’s my reckless, feckless little sister?”

“Collie left a message on my machine. He’s drinking.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Isn’t he usually at Redeemer this time of day?”

“They fired him.”

“Oh, no. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Poor guy.”

“You have church contacts. Could you ask around? Maybe somebody knows where he is. Maybe they’re hiding him somewhere.”

“Why would they be hiding him?”

“They’ve hidden him before—when he’s had emotional problems.”

“Look, Sis, isn’t this something that a lawyer would know how to handle? What about David Lowndes?”

“This isn’t about getting his job back. I have to see him myself.”

“You worry an awful lot about that guy.”

“Next to you, he’s my best friend.”

“He’s an adult, just like you and me.”

“But that’s the problem. He’s
not
like you and me.”

Ben sighed. “Okay. I don’t approve, but if it will make my little sister any happier, I’ll try to locate Collie. I’ll call you back.”

“Ben—no. Not on the phone. I’ll come to you.”

“You’re acting as though your phone’s tapped.”

“Let’s just be careful. Other people are—looking for him too.”

“Someday,” Ben said, “you’re going to have to stop rescuing Collie. It never does any good.”

“Please, Ben,” she said.

He smiled wryly, accepting that Bonnie was exactly what she was. “What did you do to your hand?”

She glanced down at the lump of bandage. “It got…caught.”

A stillness flowed through Ben’s office. The room had a few touches of personal comfort, but not many: a storm-at-sea painting, a small table of knickknacks and photos of Bonnie’s children, a wall of books, the bent-wood rocker that Bonnie was sitting in. A faint, pleasant scent of potpourri hovered.

“Did you get a tetanus shot?” he said.

She nodded.

“You’re running yourself ragged, Sis. You’ve got to slow down.”

She sensed him steering conversation toward brother-and-sister things, comfortable and familiar, like the words of an old song. “I’ll slow down someday—when there’s time. Have you found out anything?”

Ben sat there behind his desk. No reaction. No reply. His desk top was a neat and tidy domain, like Ben himself, papers categorized and stacked, pencils in one cup and ballpoints in another, everything visible at a glance. He moved a pencil into the ballpoint cup. She could feel disapproval radiating from him like energy from a heat lamp.

“Where did you get your tetanus shot?” he said quietly.

“Don’t baby me, Ben—and don’t evade me.” Blood rushed to her face and her gaze dropped to her lap. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I’m in a mess and I don’t know how I got myself into it.” Her eyes lifted. “That’s not true. I do know. I know exactly.”

She felt too restless to sit. She walked to the window.

“One day I looked up from my knitting and thought God wanted me to be a priest.”

“And he does.”

She went to Ben and leaned over and kissed him on the bald spot on the crown of his head, thanking him for his blunt certainty. “But what chaos that simple decision has made of everyone’s life.”

“Stop being responsible for the whole world.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “All right. As soon as I’ve saved it.”

He stared at her, shaking his head. “I spoke with Father Henry’s bishop.”

She knew instantly by the set of his mouth that he had news. “And?”

“He thinks Collie may have been placed in St. Kerry’s.”

Bonnie pulled her Mazda just clear of the gate and stopped. She got out and went back to swing the rectory gate shut and lock it. Her heels clicked quickly against the sidewalk.

She slid back into the small green two-door sedan and angled onto the street. She looked to the left and to the right.

A dark blue Pontiac was double-parked halfway down the block, its turn signal blinking. There was a faint light inside the car, as though the glove compartment were open, and she could see the shadow of someone moving around behind the steering wheel. She waited to see what the Pontiac was going to do, and when she realized it was just going to sit there, she pulled into traffic.

Wheels squealed behind her. She flicked her eyes up to the rearview mirror. Three cars back, the Pontiac had nosed ahead of a checkered cab.

A horn blared.

At the corner of Madison she looked again in the rear-view. The Pontiac was still behind her. She turned north on Madison.

The Pontiac made the same turn.

The situation felt off-centered and unreal. She took the next right. A sanitation department garbage truck was collecting trash. She steered around it.

At the end of the block a
PARKING AVAILABLE
sign blinked like a theater marquee. She slowed.

“Hi. My name is Mel.” A heavyset man in a Panama hat bent down to the driver’s window. “And I’m your favorite street singer.” His voice was teasingly high, as though he were imitating a cartoon character. “I really am.”

He held out a paper cup, rattling the change in it, and began singing the Mickey Mouse Club theme song.

She opened her purse and with her left hand took out a ten-dollar bill. “Mel—there’s a blue Pontiac trying to get around that garbage truck. He’s following me.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Could you do me a favor? Jump on his hood, fall down in front of him, do whatever it takes—but delay him till I get away.”

“I’ll sing him all four verses.” Mel delicately lifted the bill from her fingers. “From the top.”

Bonnie swung down the ramp into the parking garage. She took the blue ticket from the ticket-spitter. A moment later the barrier gate rose. The garage went through the block and she drove straight to the exit on the other side.

The man in the booth looked at her ticket. “You sure didn’t stay long.”

“Changed my mind.”

“It’s still a seven seventy-nine minimum.”

She took another ten from her purse and she didn’t wait for change.

Cardozo had dozed off in front of a Channel Thirteen foreign affairs special when Terri called to him. “Dad—phone call for you.”

He turned down the TV and went to the hallway. She handed him the receiver.

“Cardozo.”

“I lost her,” Greg Monteleone said.

“Don’t tell me you lost her in the porn theater.”

“No, she came out of the Arcadia and went to St. Clare’s Hospital.”

“You lost her in the hospital.”

“No, she came out two hours later with a bandage on her right hand.”

“What happened to her hand?”

“I don’t know. She went back to the rectory and about a half hour later she went to a midtown hunting-and-fishing shop.”

“Hunting and fishing?”

“The Fish and the Fox.”

“The Fish and the Lamb.”

“Right. She spent about a half hour there, and back to the rectory again. About an hour later she comes out in her car.”

“Where was she driving?”

“I don’t know—I got stuck behind a garbage truck and this nut started serenading me with the Mickey Mouse song and I lost her.”

“That’s the dumbest excuse I ever heard.”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s what happened.”

“Find her and call me when you do.” Cardozo slammed the phone down.

He spent the rest of the evening in front of the TV, waiting for the phone to ring and brooding.

Terri was used to his moods. She didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t try to cheer him up. As he was turning off the eleven o’clock news, she set a cup of hot milk at his elbow and kissed him good night.

“Get some sleep,” she said.

He tried. At two in the morning the phone still hadn’t rung. He made himself another cup of hot milk. It didn’t work any better than the first had.

At 4:30
A.M.
he heard someone knocking and buzzing at the front door.

“Did I wake Terri?” Esther Epstein, crackling with urgency, walked into the apartment. “I only wanted to wake you.”

“That’s okay. Terri’s asleep and I wasn’t.”

She was wearing a pale pink dress that looked as wild on her as a brilliant red dress would have on a younger woman. “Vince, you’ll never guess what. That mix of medications your friend is taking—Colin Draper? I had the computer search to see if anyone new started the same mix when Colin Draper dropped out.”

She opened her purse and took out a lace-edged handkerchief. She daubed at her lips for a long, teasing moment.

“Esther, this is the wrong time of day for drama. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t found something.”

Her smile slid out from behind the hankie. “Just before I got off my shift, the computer found one. He’s at the V.A. hospital in Mount Kisco. He started two days ago—first time ever in our records. No previous medical history, which is possible. No armed services history at all—which is impossible. He’s taking the exact same mix, plus benzetac.”

“What’s benzetac?”

“A generic. It aids withdrawal from alcohol.”

“Are you going to tell me this man’s name?”

“I think it’s a phony name.”

“What’s the phony name?”

“I could be wrong. Damien Cole. Doesn’t that sound like a phony name to you? It does to me.”

“Esther, you’ve saved my life.”

“Good.” She took his hand and laid it against her cheek. “Maybe you’ll get some sleep now.”

Two minutes later Cardozo was telephoning the V.A. hospital in Mount Kisco. They confirmed that Damien Cole was a patient, but said they could give out no further information till office hours.

SEVENTY-NINE

A
T FIVE MINUTES AFTER
nine in the morning, Cardozo was standing at the reception desk of the V.A. hospital in Mount Kisco, trying to charm a woman whose name tag said Ms. Sheridan. “You have a patient here by the name of Damien Cole.” He laid his ID and his shield on the countertop. “I’d appreciate it very much if you could let me visit him.”

The lobby smelled of ammonia, and Ms. Sheridan was having none of Cardozo’s charm or his ID. “As the sign says, visiting hours begin at two
P.M.
” She pushed buttons on a keyboard and referred to a computer screen. “Besides, Damien Cole isn’t here.”

“I was told he was.”

“You were not told right. Damien Cole’s an outpatient.”

“Do you have any idea where I’d find him?”

“Well, since you’re a cop… He’s over at the monastery—St. Kerry’s.”

Cardozo looked at Ms. Sheridan blankly.

Her forefinger played with a coil of blond hair, slowly pushing it back from her brow. “You mean to say I have to draw a New York City cop a map?”

“It would help.”

St. Kerry’s—a two-story half-timbered building on eight wooded acres at the edge of town—looked new, as if Disney had built it last year as a monastic theme park. Cardozo pushed the buzzer and a recorded bell chimed.

The short, stocky, middle-aged man who opened the door was not Cardozo’s idea of a religious brother. No brown robe, no tonsure, no clicking wood rosary at the belt. Blue jeans and Nike high-tops and a T-shirt that said
Gold’s Gym.
He looked as though he not only worked out with weights, but binged on steroids.

“Hi. I’m Brother Tom. Can I help you?”

Cardozo showed his ID. “I’m looking for Damien Cole.”

Brother Tom took a moment to reflect. “No, we have no brother by that name.”