"The first man was of earth," he read, "formed from dust. The second is from heaven. Earthly men are like the man of earth, heavenly men are like the man of heaven. Just as we resemble the man from earth...”
Carella studied the small group of assemblel mourners.
Father Michael's sister, Irene Brogan-who made the arduous trip from Japan via Los Angeles order to be here for the funeral today- stood by graveside now, listening intently to Father Oriella' carefully chosen text. Martha Hennessy, the priest't housekeeper, had introduced her to Carella he'd arrived. A petite woman with eyes, she told him she'd be happy to help with investigation in any way possible. Carella said was eager to talk to her, and asked if he could have moment of her time after the service.
"... to tell you a mystery. Not all of us shall asleep, but all of us are to be changed - in instant, in the twinkling of an eye, at the sound of last trumpet...”
The forecasters had promised continuing weather for the entire Memorial Day weekend. blazing sun shone down mercilessly on the black top of the coffin poised above the dozen or more young people stood beside the grave, listening to Father Oriella. Carella reco in the group of teenagers the two young girls spoken to yesterday. They were dressed sedately today, not in black- this was a alien color in a young person's wardrobe - dark shades of blue that seemed appropriate to day's burden.
They stood side by side, the one the black hair (Gloria, was that her name?) and blonde girl, Alexis. Both girls were crying. For that matter, so was the entire group of young people with them. He had been a well-loved man, this priest.
"... then will the saying of Scripture be fulfilled: "Death is swallowed up in victory. Oh, death where is thy victory? Oh, death, where is thy sting?' The sting of death is sin, and sin gets its power from the law.
But thanks be to God who has given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ...”
Poking about the fringes of the crowd like scavenger birds were half a dozen reporters and their photographers, but there were no television crews in evidence, and this surprised Carella. The priest story had received extensive coverage, especially on television, ever since it broke last Thursday. Carella was aware that this was already Sunday. The clock was ticking and the older a case got, the wider became the murderer's edge.
"Lord, hear our prayers," Father Oriella said. "By raising your Son from the dead, you have given us faith. Strengthen our hope that Michael, our brother, will share in His resurrection.”
Here in the sunshine, the assembled priests paid honor to one of their own, standing in solemn black at the edge of the grave, listening to Father Oriella's final words. Highranking police officers were here, too, in blue and in braid, a show of color and support .to let the citizens of this fair city know via the newspaper people that the police were still on the job, if only to weep huge crocodile tears at the graveside.
"Lord God, you are the glory of believers and the life of the just. Your Son redeemed us by dying and rising to life again. Our brother Michael was faithful and believed in our own resurrection. Give to the joys and blessings of the life to come. We this, oh Lord, amen.”
“Amen," the mourners murmured.
A hush fell over the grave site.
There must have been a signal, someone have pressed a button because the coffin on its strap,. began lowering hydraulically, a photo op that could not and would not be missed by paparazzi, who moved forward as the coffin between heaven and earth, silhouetted against the piercing blue sky. Another si perhaps, because the lift stopped, and the coffin suspended now some several inches below the lip the grave, and Father Oriella said another almost a private communication between him his slain brother in Christ, whispering, his moving, and then he made the sign of the cross the grave and knelt to scoop up a handful of spring earth and sprinkled it onto the coffin gleaming in sunshine.
The mourners came now with baby ros distributed by the funeral home, came in a orchestrated effort to lend dignity to death, came staged and solemn farewell, each passing this for the last time, pausing at the grave with its shiny black coffin waiting to descend, tossing the roses onto the coffin, the priests from churches all over the city, the brass from Headquarters downtown, the priest's sister Irene Brogan, and some forty parishioners from St. Catherine's, and the dozen or more teenagers from the church's Catholic Youth Organization, all filing past to toss their roses in farewell, and now the pair from yesterday, Gloria, yes, and Alexis.
And then it was over.
As they moved past the grave and away from it, starkly illuminated in a clear sharp light the photographers must have loved, there was another unseen signal, and the hydraulic lift began humming again, and the coffin dropped slowly into the grave, deeper, deeper, until it was completely out of sight.
Two gravediggers freed the canvas straps from beneath the coffin. They were beginning to shovel earth onto the coffin and into the grave when Carella walked over to where Irene Brogan was standing with Father Oriella, telling him what a beautiful service it had been.
He stood by awkwardly.
At last, she turned from the priest who had replaced her brother, and said, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Please forgive me.”
Tear-streaked face. Blue eyes shining with tears.
Close up, in this harsh light, she looked to be in her early forties. A woman who just missed being pretty, her separate parts somehow not adding up completely satisfying whole. They walked to to where the funeral home limousines were wai in line, shining in the sun. Standing beside the of the closest limousine, Carella watched mourners moving past behind Irene, heading their cars or the closest public transportati Riverhead was a long way from home.
"Mrs., Brogan," he said, "I don't mean to on your family privacy...”
She looked at him, puzzled.
"But in the course of the investigation.., early as a matter of fact...
I read a letter you wrote to brother. Which was when I started calling you in Diego.”
“I think I know the letter you mean," she said.
"The one referring to his letter of the twelfth.”
"Yes.”
"In which he told you... I'm just putting all together from what you wrote, Mrs. Brogan. Bu seemed he was deeply troubled about something "He was.”
"What would that have been?”
Irene sighed heavily.
"My brother was wholly devoted to God," said.
"I've no doubt," Carella said.
And waited.
"But even Christ was sorely tempted in wilderness," she said.
And still Carella waited.
"Let's... can we get in the car?" she asked. lie opened the back door of the limousine for her and then followed her into an interior as secluded as a confessional. The door closed behind him with a snug, solid click.
And now, here in this dim and secret space with its tinted windows and its black leather seats, Irene Brogan seemed to find the privacy she needed to tell her brother's story. She described first the receipt of his letter... "It was postmarked the twelfth, but I didn't get it on the Coast till the following Thursday, the seventeenth. My husband and I were leaving for Japan that Saturday. He sells heavy machinery, this was a business trip, he's still there, in fact. I... I called my brother that Friday. And when.., when he told me what was really troubling him.., the letter... you see, the letter had only hinted at it... but when I called him that Friday...”
At first, he is reluctant to speak about it, The Priest.