The elevator took her down to the lobby. Out on the street, an officer was standing by her car, issuing a ticket. She reached the car just as the officer was lifting the windshield wiper to leave the ticket.
‘Excuse me, officer.’
‘Is this your vehicle?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know this space is reserved for loading and unloading merchandise?’
Without a word, Vivien flashed her shield.
Grumbling, the officer removed the ticket from the window. ‘Next time make sure you show the sign. That way we don’t waste time. Either of us.’
Time, in fact, was the one thing Vivien didn’t have. Not even to counter a neighbourhood cop’s reasonable comments. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t my intention.’
The officer walked away, mumbling a goodbye. Vivien got in her car and started the engine. She again used the flashing light. She headed north, took the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and then followed the 278 until, after the bridge, it became the Bruckner.
During the journey, after a lot of thought, she tried calling Russell a couple of times. His telephone was still off. To counter her own bad mood, she told herself she had done the right thing. With the best will in the world, she had to admit that part of her had gone with Russell when he had left.
She forced herself to go over the whole story in her mind, examining each aspect to see if they had overlooked anything. Ziggy, the letter, Wendell Johnson, Little Boss, that bizarre three-legged cat. The bombs a madman had planted before his death.
And finally that crazy cat lady, Judith. Was she to be trusted or not? Russell had seen a man in a green jacket leaving Ziggy’s apartment. A man wearing the same kind of jacket had been seen in the other apartment. The question was: Was it the same person? If it was, it couldn’t be a tenant, because the captain had said that the apartment had remained empty for a year. The reason for his presence there wasn’t clear. Unless, together with the letter, the father had also sent his son the keys to his apartment. If that was the case, then the person they were so desperately seeking really had been in that apartment.
She deliberately left Father McKean’s tense, anxious voice out of the equation, even though it was still echoing in her ears.
It’s to do with those explosions, may God forgive me …
She didn’t know what to expect.
Time and speed seemed to be going in two different directions. One was too fast, the other too slow. She tried once again to call Russell. More to pass the time than out of real interest, she told herself.
Nothing.
The telephone was off, or unobtainable. She yielded to her human feelings and allowed herself the fantasy of being somewhere else, with him. She felt a warm stream of desire lapping at her groin. She told herself that this was wrong, but it was the only sign she had that she was still alive.
When she turned on to the unpaved road, and after a few bends the roofs of Joy appeared, a sudden dread seized hold of her. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know what Father McKean had to tell her. She slowed down. The priest was waiting for her on the edge of the garden, a black stain against the green of the vegetation. She saw that he was wearing his cassock. As she got out of the car and walked towards him, Vivien had the impression that this choice was not a random one, but meant something specific. As if Father McKean needed to assert his own identity in some way and was doing it with the only means at his disposal.
When she got close to him, she realized that her suppositions were probably not far from the truth. His eyes were lifeless and evasive. Not even a hint of the vitality and benevolence that were usually an integral part of his character.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he said.
‘Michael, what’s so urgent? What’s happened?’
Father McKean looked around. A couple of kids at the far end of the garden were repairing a perimeter grille. A third was standing next to them and handing them the tools.
‘Not here. Follow me.’
He started walking to the house. They passed the main entrance and came to the door of the room next to the office, which functioned as a small infirmary. Father McKean opened it.
‘Come in. No one will disturb us here.’
Vivien followed him. The room was completely white: the walls and the ceiling and on the right, against the wall, a metal bed covered in a snow-white sheet. Just beyond it, in the corner, was an old hospital screen, restored and upholstered in cotton that was still white. On the opposite side was a small medicine cabinet of the same colour. The priest’s cassock stood out like an inkstain on snow.
Father McKean came and stood in front of her. He didn’t seem able to look her in the eyes for more than two seconds at a time. ‘Vivien,’ he said, ‘do you believe in God?’
Vivien wondered why he was asking her that. He couldn’t possibly have summoned her with such urgency only to question her about her faith. If Father McKean had asked her that, she decided, there had to be a reason.
‘In spite of the work I do, Michael, I’m a dreamer. That’s the most I can allow myself.’
‘That’s the difference between us. A dreamer hopes that his dreams will come true.’ He paused, and looked at her with eyes that for a moment looked as they had always done. ‘A believer is certain they will.’
He turned and went to the cabinet. He placed a hand on the top and stood looking at the boxes of medicines inside.
He spoke without looking at her.
‘What I’m about to tell you goes against that certainty. It goes against the teachings I’ve followed for years. Against everything I’ve learned. But there are times when the dogmas of the Church become unintelligible when confronted with human suffering. So much human suffering.’
He turned to look at her. His face was ashen.
‘Vivien, the man who set off the bombs on the Lower East Side and the Hudson confessed to me.’
For Vivien, it was like diving into the icy waters of the Arctic. And she stayed under for a long time, until she was able to resurface and find her breath again.
‘Are you sure?’
The question had come to her instinctively and carried with it many implications. In return she got a calm, measured reply, the reply of someone able to explain something that is difficult to believe.
‘Vivien, I have a degree in psychology. I know the world is full of crazy people ready to confess to all the sins on earth in order to get their fifteen minutes of fame. I know how difficult it is in certain cases for the police to concentrate on searching for the guilty party and avoid wasting time on people who merely claim to be guilty. But this is different.’