But the hurt remained in those time-worn eyes.
There was even more press up by the highway. In the paper this would be page four at best. If tomorrow’s six o’clock news was story-hungry enough it would be story three or four.
Wade sat in his car with the door open, facing me. He was a man who knew how to relax. He waggled his cell phone at me. ‘I got the job.’
All I did was nod and walk on past to my own car.
The burly detective who’d arrived just after Showalter was talking to a reporter. He watched me as I climbed inside and started the car. Then he went back to talking.
Forty-Two
Long, long ago, I’d been an altar boy.
The Stations of the Cross on both walls, the statues of the Virgin and Jesus on opposite sides of the altar, the altar itself where nothing less than the Body of Christ was said to reside in the form of small thin wafers of bread, the pulpit from which the teachings of the church were spoken to us every weekend... and the sensual aspects of the altar, the scents of wine and burning candles and on occasion the sweet, almost hallucinogenic, aroma of heavy incense... all this made me feel devout as I served in my pretend-priest costume of white surplice and black cassock...
As I entered St Paul’s now I felt a melancholy usually reserved for lost loves. I don’t recall exactly when I fell out of love with the man-made rules emanating from the Vatican... But I did. Maybe sometime in tenth grade or so.
St Paul’s was so old it smelled of dampness. As I put my hand on the back pew it wobbled. The rubber runner separating the nave was worn so thin there were holes in it. The Stations of the Cross were faded paintings, and even from here I could see how worn the carpeting around the communion rail was.
At one time this had probably been a prosperous working-class church. But five presidents and numerous Congresses had seen fit to ship the bulk of good working-class jobs abroad, so as the parishioners suffered, so did the church.
Many votive candles were now battery operated. You got the glow but you didn’t get the mess. I knew this because an uncle of mine complained every Thanksgiving about how the church had given in to the atheists. That may make sense to you. It never has to me.
St Paul’s votive candles were the real thing — six slanted rows of them flickering now in greens and yellows and reds on a gold-painted metal stand that was shedding its skin. Over the stand, at a slight distance, loomed a welcoming statue of Jesus.
Behind me I heard the heavy doors at the front of the church open. I turned to see Wade rushing up the aisle.
‘I got waylaid by a traffic accident. Had to take the long way around. So what do we do?’
I took the match from my shirt pocket and explained its significance. ‘I assume if he hid it, it’s somewhere around here. We may as well start looking under the candles themselves.’
I walked over to the faux-golden stand, dropped to one knee and began feeling the metal underneath the candles. I pictured a recorder you could put in your pocket. It had to be at least large enough to be prominent under the bottom of the stand. The metal was hot below the candles. Hot and flat.
‘Anything?’ Wade asked.
‘Nope.’
‘I’ll start looking around by the statue. Maybe he hid it behind it.’
‘Maybe.’
I should have stood up and joined Wade in searching the general area, but I decided to make one more pass on the underside again.
Hot and flat.
Then I felt something smooth I’d missed before because it was tucked up in a corner. I ripped it down and examined it.
‘Is that a piece of tape?’
‘Yeah. Grimes must have taped the recorder up there but the tape got warm and it fell down.’
‘Then where’s the recorder?’
A heavy door opened on the side of the large stone building. Footsteps. A person out of breath. Wade and I just watched each other.
This was the night for old men. Grimes, Skully and now a bald, hefty priest who had to be as old as Skully. He wore the black shirt and Roman collar of his calling. He also wore faded blue jeans.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Father Niles. My bedroom window is right above this side of the church in the rectory so I can hear people in here talking. I just came over to see if there was anything I could do to help. Are you men in any kind of trouble?’
All those years of hearing confessions. He would be practically psychic at reading faces and voices. I’m sure both our body language and our expressions indicated that we were troubled.
‘I’m Detective Wade, Father.’
‘A detective — Lord, I hope none of our people are in trouble.’
‘No, Father. Nothing like that.’
Father Niles’s eyes fixed on mine.
‘I’m Dev Conrad. I’m the campaign manager for Congresswoman Bradshaw.’
‘Oh, well, there are a lot of things I like about her, but I can’t vote for her because of abortion.’
He shook my hand anyway.
‘Father, we’re here because of Frank Grimes,’ I said.
‘Frank? He’s a good man. Especially since his wife died. His faith really returned to him. I hope everything’s all right.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t, Father. Frank died earlier tonight of a heart attack.’
‘Oh, Lord. Poor Frank. He was so confused lately. I said a lot of prayers for him. I’ll miss him but I know he’s with his wife again now. He missed her so much.’
‘Father, you said he was confused lately. He sent me a letter about leaving something for me here at the church. I think the two things may be connected.’
The priest paused, then glanced away. He bit on his lower lip, thinking about things.
‘Do you know his granddaughter, Cindy, Mr Conrad?’
‘Yes, I do, Father.’
‘Well, before I say any more I think I’d better talk to her. And it’s too late now to call her. We’d better put this off until morning.’
‘No it’s not, Father. She’s one of the reasons we’re here. I can get her on the phone right now and she’ll talk to you.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Yes, Father. At this time of night.’
I didn’t wait. I punched in my speed dial. Her line rang three times. My words came out in one long sentence.
‘Cindy, it’s Dev. We’re at the church here and Father Niles needs to talk to you so please tell him it’s all right to help us — here’s Father Niles.’
After some reluctance he took my cell phone and said, ‘Cindy, it’s Father Niles. I’m sorry about this late hour. I’ll say the six o’clock Mass for Frank. I’m so sorry about your loss, Cindy.’
I don’t suppose they talked much longer than two or three minutes but it seemed interminable. He wanted our identities verified — she couldn’t help him with Detective Wade — and our relationship to her grandfather clarified. And then he said, ‘Should I tell them everything?’
As he answered his gaze went from me to Wade and back to me again. ‘I’ll be praying for you and Frank both, Cindy. Good night.’ He handed the phone back to me.
‘Thanks, Cindy. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘I just want this to be over, Dev. It sounds as if Father Niles can help you.’
‘I sure hope so.’
When the phone was back in my pocket, I said, ‘Father, we think Frank taped something underneath the votive candles.’
For the first time, he smiled. He wore dentures.
‘Frank didn’t tell me where he was going to put it. If he had, I would have told him that the tape might get warm and not hold it. I found it earlier tonight. It’s one of those modern things. I wasn’t even sure what it was at first. I have a niece who likes to tell me her daughter knows more about this kind of thing than I do. Anyway, I was walking through the church tonight — we leave things open twenty-four hours because we have so many troubled parishioners now and I like to just walk through here in the evening hours — and I found it under the votive lights. As I said, at first I didn’t know what it was. I called Frank’s place but didn’t get any answer.’