“Drake? What the fuck are you on about?”
“Mary Shelby, before she died—was murdered—she noticed the church’s donations declining. She went to David since he was the chair of the board, but he must’ve been in on it somehow, I don’t know. Father Mathew killed Mary and made it look like an accident. Rachel must’ve figured it out. The day she disappeared, he took her and the boys hostage; he’s got them in the church basement right now.”
I ran out of wind. Backtracked through what I’d said and realized how wild it sounded.
“Are you high, Drake? You still huffing gas?”
“No, listen to me. There’s documents—spreadsheets Mary made up tracking the money being skimmed off donations. David Barren and Ryan Vallance owed money to someone, and I think they were getting cash from Father Mathew.”
The more I talked, the crazier it sounded, and the more I felt I was right. The pieces fit. The whole picture wasn’t there yet, but it would be. I knew it.
“Pardon my French, but you’re a fucking loon. Do you know how batshit you sound? Seriously.” He paused, and I could almost hear him reloading more insults. “But now that I think of it, none of this shit started until you moved back here. Is that a coincidence? I get a real funny feeling about you, Drake, whenever I see your face. You know things and you’re not saying. You and that sister of yours. Probably your old man too, who knows?”
“Detective, please. Just hear me out.”
“I’ve heard enough. You think you’re some kind of quasi cop because you write that shit? You don’t know anything about the job. Nothing. Now leave this to the professionals or I swear to God I’ll have you brought in for interfering in an ongoing investigation.”
“At least check the basement. Please.” But I was talking to myself. Spanner was gone.
Decisions, decisions.
Not really. There was only one path. I saw that now.
If you looked back over your shoulder at the days before, you’d see it, the road that brought you here, and you’d think to yourself that the path was paved with your decisions, your choices. And that’s what made the path meander to the left or right or go straight. Ahead you wouldn’t be able to see too far because you’re not God, but the kicker is he can’t see where it goes either. He doesn’t know, and neither do you, but each paver stone laid down, each decision is what it was always going to be. There was never any choice; it was always going to happen this way—the decisions are already made way before they need to be.
I walked up the street, past Rachel’s, past Crane/DeMarco’s, moving with a purpose I hadn’t felt in a while. Crane himself was on his porch smoking a cigarette. Tosca yapped twice at me, then sat down and panted, his tail wagging a little bit. I gave Crane a small wave, and he barely nodded. I’d have to apologize to him when this was all done. Because he wasn’t involved at all, just a former mob connection in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe I could bake him something.
I left the sidewalk and walked on the grass up the hill toward the church. The sun drifted lower in the sky, throwing long shadows. The shade of the church steeple and its coolness washed over me. The parking lot had few cars in it, but it would fill up soon for Wednesday-evening Mass. Father Mathew would be preparing for the sermon, and the lower level would be quiet and empty.
Inside the back entry, air whispered in ducts, and the door’s pneumatic hinge closed quietly behind me. There wasn’t a soul visible in the hallway ahead, only a view out into the atrium, the doors to the sanctuary propped open to welcome parishioners. I took one step into the hall, and Father Mathew walked out of his office a few feet away.
He was in a hurry, already wearing his ceremonial gown, and he didn’t so much as glance in my direction. I stood there, emulating a statue as best I could, hoping he hadn’t forgotten anything in his office and would suddenly turn around. When he was a dozen paces away, I took two steps and left the hall for the stairway landing.
The stairs stretched down into the bowels of the building, a single overhead lamp at the top landing cutting only some of the darkness away.
I was seven again, not wanting to go down there but knowing I had to.
I could see the scene a week ago. Rachel coming here to pick up Asher and Joey and finding Father Mathew waiting for her instead.
My feet made dry rasping sounds on the treads, like a dying man taking his last few breaths.
He’d lured her down here with some promise. What had he said to get her to come with him? She must have already known about the money, known he was involved somehow. If I was a betting man, she would’ve been leery of him, so whatever he’d told her must’ve been persuasive.