“So you two watched the football game at York’s.”
“And I got drunk, and Frank had to drive me home. I’m not... I’m not sure what happened how after that. Here, I mean. I do know we had... Well, one thing led to another. I swear to you, though, I never... I didn’t think about the possibility...” Tuglio’s voice trailed away.
“But the next day, you decided to tell him.”
“I had to, and I did. I drove to work that Tuesday morning because with the hangover, I was late as it was. At lunch, I slipped out of St. Damian’s and drove to Meade. From the driveway, I could hear Theresa practicing in the church itself, so I parked around back by Frank’s office in the annex. I went in; he seemed so glad to see me. He was... he was packing up, putting some things in a box on his desk.”
“Things like his chalice.”
Tuglio flinched. “Yes. I asked Frank what he was doing, and he said, ‘Getting started on a new life. Here.’ He showed me the draft of a letter he’d done on his computer. A letter of resignation, saying he’d decided to ‘follow his spirit elsewhere,’ with me.”
“I’m genuinely sorry, Mr. Tuglio.”
“Thank you.” A hesitation, then, “I tried to tell Frank slowly, indirectly, but it wasn’t working, and his face grew... Oh, it was like implying to him that he’d made a huge mistake, that Frank was wrong about ‘us.’ And I couldn’t stand that, so I told him flat out, that I... that he might have become... infected.”
“And what did Father Riordan do then?”
Tuglio brought the hand with the handkerchief up to his eyes.
“He went berserk, tried to choke me. I was bent over his desk, fading out of consciousness and scared, Oh God, I was so scared. I reached and felt something heavy and just swung it, to knock Frank off me. But I caught him hard above the ear, and the base of his chalice was so heavy, his eyes just rolled up into his head, and he just... went down...”
“So you had to take the chalice.”
“And the computer. I didn’t know his system, and anyway I couldn’t take a chance on what else he might have written. So I threw everything including the draft letter into the packing box and just got out of there.”
“Where’s the box now?”
“In the basement here. I have a storage area.”
I leaned forward. “How do you want to handle this?”
“My life’s as short or as long as it’s going to be, Mr. Cuddy. But I don’t think I can stand a trial. I’ll just—”
“Maybe there won’t be any prosecution.”
Tuglio searched my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the police have no suspects, including you. If I bring Father Riordan’s box back to the church, it’ll be up to Monsignor McNulty to do something about it.”
Tuglio was trying to process what I’d said. And meant. “Won’t the... That is, the police—”
“Will be coming or not, depending on what my client does. But I need for you to give me the box of Father Riordan’s things.”
Anthony Tuglio sat back on his couch, trying to decide what would make the rest of his life better. Or worse.
When Monsignor McNulty opened the annex door, I went through it, carrying the closed box in front of me.
“Mr. Cuddy, what’s going on?”
I moved into his office and set the box on the chair I’d used during my first visit there. “How do you mean?”
“Theresa was here not an hour ago. Beside herself, crying so hard I couldn’t make sense of her.”
“Better sit down, Monsignor.”
“And what’s all this?” he said, indicating the box.
“Please. Sit.”
He went around his desk and lowered himself into the seat.
I opened a flap of the box and with a handkerchief of my own, lifted out the chalice.
McNulty started out of his chair. “Frank’s...? It is, my God in Heaven, where—”
“Let me tell you.” And I did.
McNulty sagged halfway through, burying his face in his hands by the end. “No. No, Frank, no, no...”
“What do you want to do?”
“Do?” McNulty dropped his hands to the desktop. “I want the killer punished. Or I did. But this, this... abomination. It’s unbelievable.”
“I believe it, but you’re the client.”
McNulty seemed lost. “Meaning?”
“Meaning no matter how bad it looks or will sound, I think it was self-defense. And everything will come out. Or be whispered about via the media and word of mouth.”
“But, but I’ve never... What should I do?”
“Sleep on it. Call me tomorrow.”
Turning, I left the office and went through the annex door to the outside world. On my way, Monsignor Joseph McNulty had begun to cry, and I wasn’t sorry when the closing door sealed that sound within his house of stone.
The Drum
by David Ely
© 1997 by David Ely
One never knows how to categorize a David Ely story. As his agent puts it, “his work is wonderfully off center.” He always skirts the edge of the mystery/suspense genre, offering pieces that are eerie and threatening even when a crime is only hinted at. One of Mr. Ely’s early novels, Seconds, became a movie starring Rock Hudson. Also see Journal of the Flood Year (1992).
The beat was steady and low-pitched. Mr. Chance suspected that he must have heard it long before he became consciously aware of it. How long before — days or even weeks — he had no idea. Nor could he be sure where it came from. It seemed sometimes to rise out of the marshes, sometimes from the scrub woods beyond the old sawmill; at other times it seemed to float down from Great Hill, a rise of land that overlooked the country club.
Mr. Chance had thought at first that it came from a construction job, but he realized it didn’t have any of the whine or stutter or boom of cutting or digging equipment, and it kept on going, day in and day out. He even heard it at night. It didn’t annoy him; actually, he found its regularity somewhat soothing.
He mentioned it to his friends around town, but no one else seemed to be aware of it, except for Jake Stolles, the druggist, who said he thought he heard it now and then. L. B. Knowles, the police chief, who was deaf in one ear, said he hadn’t noticed it, but from Mr. Chance’s description he said it might be drumming.
“Could be a couple of Indian boys out there,” he said. “Got their drum going. You know — practicing. I haven’t heard that in years, though.”
Mr. Stolles said he doubted it was drumming because there were hardly any Indians left in town, and most of them were old-timers. Besides, he said, there wasn’t any singing, and didn’t Indians drum and sing at the same time?
The only Indian John Chance knew personally was Charley Bartlett, who worked part-time at the post office and had been chief some years ago when the tribe had lost its land suit against the town. One day Mr. Chance asked him about the drumming.
“What drumming?” Mr. Bartlett said.
Mr. Chance got him to come out from behind the counter and through the little lobby to the walkway outside. “Now you can hear it,” he said. “That sound out there. That’s a beat like a drumbeat.”
“I don’t hear it,” Mr. Bartlett said.
“Well, it’s not very loud,” Mr. Chance said, thinking that the old man was probably hard of hearing, “but who’s out there drumming? You know who’d be doing that?”
Mr. Bartlett shook his head. “Not us,” he said. He was a big man with a heavy, solemn face, deeply wrinkled. “We don’t drum anymore,” he said, and he went back in the post office.