I think she works there.
His mind glossed over this fact. What exactly Columbia did at the clinic was impossible to imagine. Was she a nurse—assisting, in some unfathomable and horrifying way, a doctor who butchered babies? Morally speaking, it was the worst news imaginable, yet in a way Victor was relieved. Better a nurse than a patient. He would rather think of her killing babies than wantonly fucking, impregnated by some guy who wasn’t him.
He checked his inbox until certain conclusions were inescapable. Anthony had gone dark.
The nurses at the VA dressed in pastel scrubs, mint green or powder blue. In the video Columbia wore boots and blue jeans. She was not dressed for nursing, or any other job he could imagine a female doing.
He watched the video again, which was probably a mistake. The video was like a piece of gum rapidly losing its flavor. He knew that he was using it up, yet he couldn’t stop chewing.
He needed more gum.
19
The messages were incessant. The messages, honestly, were a little much.
Excelsior11: Where are my PIX???
Thinking to buy himself some time, Anthony wrote:
LostObjects1977: You’re right, she definitely works there.
Excelsior responded immediately.
Excelsior11: PIX! I need PIX!!
It was, Anthony felt, an untenable situation. He had promised more than he could realistically deliver. On the one hand, his second-best friend in the world was counting on him. On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine going back to the clinic, now or ever.
（The Latino security guard, big and burly, shoulders straining his shirt.）
To get away from his computer, he put on his coat and set out walking. Mass wouldn’t start for an hour, but he didn’t mind being early. The choir would be practicing, Mrs. Morrison praying her Rosary, Mrs. McGann and her senile husband lighting a candle. The place would be lively as a discotheque compared to his mother’s empty house.
But when he arrived at the church, the windows were dark. The stairs to the front door were covered in snow.
For Christ’s sake, Anthony thought. They couldn’t shovel the freaking steps?
For the Mrs. Morrisons of the world, the church steps were hazardous in the middle of summer. Now, encrusted with ice, they were a danger to every hip in the congregation.
He looked around for a shovel. Finding none, he walked around to the back of the church. The sidewalk was nearly impassable. He tried the door of the parish hall and found it locked. The priest’s black PT Cruiser was parked in the driveway, nearly buried in snow.
“Anthony.”
He turned. Quentin the Quick stood in the rectory doorway. Over his black clericals he wore a down jacket.
“Morning, Father,” he called. “I was just looking for a snow shovel. Those steps are pretty icy.”
“No need. Morning Mass is canceled. I asked the janitor to put a sign on the door.” The priest hugged his jacket around him. “We lost power around midnight. Half the town did, apparently. Everyone east of Lisbon Avenue.”
“I’m on the west side,” said Anthony. “No problems over there.”
The priest zipped his jacket all the way to the chin. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. Won’t you come inside for a moment?”
Anthony followed him into the rectory, stamping the snow from his boots. He’d been inside it only once—twenty years ago, with his father, to see the priest about Grandma Blanchard’s funeral. He’d been struck, then, by the somberness of the place, the dark heavy furniture, the purple-tinged daylight through stained-glass windows. The place hadn’t changed in any way he could identify. The room was so cold he could see his breath.