“But the boy is lying... ”
It didn’t matter. They’d shipped him off to the foul-smelling little apartment in New Orleans, sent him to work for Father Soileau, and the anger burned in his heart. But he was working with the teenagers again, the ones who needed him, and while he’d been released from his vows, he kept them.
But Molly... Molly changed everything.
She made him feel like a man again. She awakened the feelings, the emotions that had lain dormant for so long.
He prayed for guidance, but none came. He found himself thinking about her, worrying about her while he attended Mass. He found himself going to confession at St. Louis, unwilling to confess his feelings to Father Soileau. He received his penance, said his prayers, counting the beads as he repeated the words over and over again. And he worried about her, where she was sleeping, what she was doing for money. So many of them sold their bodies to strangers for a warm bed and a twenty-dollar bill, for something warm to eat. They were so fearless yet somehow wary at the same time. But there was pained innocence in her eyes, and he longed for her to tell him her story, what had led her to the streets of the French Quarter. He warned her, over and over again. There was a killer stalking the alleys of New Orleans, mutilating young girls, raping them and then mutilating them. He begged her to go home, to call her parents. The streets were not safe at night.
She would just smile, and shake her head. “The streets are as safe as anywhere.”
Was that what the dream had meant? he thought as he stared into the rain. That Molly was in danger? That Molly was dead?
He went cold, and sank to his knees in front of the crucifix again. Please, God, watch out for Molly, she is just a child, for all her bravado and airs. Hers is an innocent soul, protect her from the evils that lurk out there in the night and the rain, bring her safely home...
He was climbing out of the shower when the knock came on the door. He wrapped a towel around his waist and peered out at a tall black woman in a dove-gray suit, shaking off a dripping umbrella with one hand. He opened the door without removing the chain. “Can I help you?”
She smiled, flashing a badge at him. “Michael O’Reilly?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Venus Casanova, New Orleans police. May I come in and talk to you?”
He felt a wave of nausea, the coffee he’d drunk burning an acidic hole in his stomach. “I just got out of the shower. I’ll be a moment while I get dressed, is that all right?”
“Take your time.” She kept smiling as he shut the door again.
He dressed hurriedly, his mind racing. This was how it started back in Chicago: The police showed up at the rectory with the boy’s accusations and their knowing smiles. Calm down, he told himself as he finished buttoning his shirt. There’s no need to be afraid.
He walked back to the door and opened it. He smiled. “Sorry, I was...” He stood aside to let her in. “Come in. Would you care for some coffee?”
She shook her head, giving her umbrella one last shake. “No, I thank you, though.” She walked in, glancing around the apartment and then giving him a big smile. She was beautiful, her hair cropped close to the scalp, with high cheekbones and strong white teeth. Her face was unlined; she could have been any age between thirty and fifty. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, Mr. O’Reilly.” She sat down in the worn thrift-store reclining chair. “This rain is something, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “Everyone complains about the heat and humidity, but I just hate rain.”
“It’s depressing, isn’t it?” he replied, and his voice sounded false.
Detective Casanova nodded. “Yes.” She reached into her bag, removing a small spiral notebook and a pen. “Have you been reading the newspaper, Mr. O’Reilly?”
He shrugged, and felt his hands start to shake. He grabbed the sides of his own chair. “Sometimes.”
“Then you know we have a serial killer here in the Quarter preying on runaway teenaged girls?”
“Yes, I work with the street kids over at St. Mark’s, so I know about it, yes.”
“There was another murder last night. Another runaway girl, couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Unidentified, of course.” She clicked her tongue. “She was found this morning in Pirate’s Alley, right beside the Cathedral.”
Like in my dream! he thought, biting his lower lip. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. It was Molly, it had to be Molly, why else would the cop have come to him? Father, why hast thou forsaken me?...
“I’ve just been by St. Mark’s, and Father Soileau sent me over here.” She reached into her bag again. “He thought maybe you knew her.” She pulled out a Polaroid and handed it over to him. “Do you recognize this girl?”
He took the photograph, his hands shaking, and forced himself to look at it. He let out his breath in a rush. This girl had black hair, no dreadlocks, her face pale and eyes closed. Thank you, Lord... “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know this girl.”
She took the photograph back and slipped it into her bag. “Each one of these murders has something in common, besides the fact that each is a runaway teenaged girl. Something we haven’t allowed the press to catch on to.” She gave him a searching look. “You do a lot of good for these kids, and I know you care about them — and obviously, they aren’t too interested in talking to me or the uniformed police. Have any of the kids you work with said anything? Do they talk to you about this?”
He shook his head. “Only in general terms.”
She reached into the pocket of her jacket. “Each one of the victims had one of these in her hand.” She held up her hand.
A strand of black rosary beads dangled from her fingers.
“And between her breasts, a cross was carved.”
The beads swung in her hand, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He glanced over at his own rosary, still on the scarred coffee table. “That’s — that’s just sick.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “It’s blasphemy.”
“I think it’s some kind of religious freak,” she said slowly. “Someone who sees these poor girls as evil — most of them are working as prostitutes, after all — and he is cleansing the world of their sin by sending their souls to God; he probably thinks he is saving them as well.” She shook her head, standing up. She placed a business card on the coffee table. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. If any of the kids who come by St. Mark’s say anything — anything at all, no matter what, please give me a call right away. We have to catch this guy.” She walked to the door, shook his hand. “You’ll call me?”
“Yes, of course.” The moment the door shut he ran to the bathroom and threw up. He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth again, and stared at his red eyes in the mirror.
He watched for Molly all day, hoping that she’d break her usual pattern and come into St. Mark’s during its normal hours. As he ladled soup into bowls, cut sandwiches, handed out towels, he listened to the kids talking. No one was talking about the latest victim — maybe they didn’t know yet, which would be unusual. Normally, that kind of news spread through the street kids in no time flat. No, there was talk about the usual inane things — good corners to ask for money, places to avoid, business owners who chased them off and others who were good for some money or something to eat, a great place to get cheap clothes, and on and on and on. He looked at them with their multiple piercings, tattoos, and wild hairstyles and colors, and wondered, as he often did, what drove them to the streets. He opened his mouth a few times to ask about Molly, but then closed it and said nothing. She never came in during this time, and who knew if they would even know her as Molly?