Dear Old Dead(83)

Up on the wall next to his door, Eamon Donleavy had a crucifix. It had a brass corpus on a walnut cross. On the other side of the door, he had the framed print of the Constantinople Madonna that had hung next to his bed all the years he was growing up. Both these things seemed to be connected to the phone. The phone is going to ring, Eamon thought, and it did. The man on the other end is going to be that son of a bitch from the Chancery.

Eamon Donleavy had never used the words son of a bitch in his life. He had never even thought them before.

He picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”

There must have been something in his voice. There was hesitation on the other end of the line. There was coughing. Finally, the Cardinal Archbishop said, “Father Donleavy? Please excuse me if I’ve disturbed you at work. I hadn’t heard from you for quite some time.”

There’s been nothing to hear, Eamon Donleavy wanted to say, but he couldn’t. That boy was downstairs, poisoned. The world was falling apart.

“We’ve been very busy here,” he said. “We all have been.”

“I got a call a little while ago, Father Donleavy. I was told there had been another—attack.”

“There seems to have been another poisoning, Your Eminence, yes. The victim was a member of the Holly Hill Christian Fellowship. You know those people. He came to the center every day and carried a protest sign.”

“A pro-life protest sign.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Have you talked to Gregor Demarkian in the last day or two? I haven’t talked to him at all.”

“He’s been here almost continuously, Your Eminence.” Eamon Donleavy didn’t like Gregor Demarkian, but if he had to choose between his Cardinal Archbishop and anybody, he almost always chose anybody. “He’s been very busy. And he’s managed to gain the cooperation of the police.”

“Is that good?”

“I think it is, Your Eminence, yes. It saves a lot of trouble. And it gives him access to information he couldn’t get otherwise. It gives us access, too.”

“I don’t like the way this is going,” the Cardinal said. “Demarkian’s been here almost a week. I thought it would be settled by now. When he went up to Maryville for John O’Bannion, he had the whole mess cleared up in three days.”

“When he went up to Colchester for John O’Bannion, the mess took two weeks. I don’t think you can put time limits on murder like that, Your Eminence. It’s not a calf-roping contest.”

“I know that.”

“Besides, I think he’s close to a solution. He’s out in the stairwell with Detective Sheed, making Victor van Straadt run up and down and up and down, over and over again. I think it has something to do with establishing the times.”

“For Charles van Straadt’s death?”

“Yes.”

“Demarkian suspects Victor van Straadt?”

“I don’t know that he does. He asked Victor to help him out. That’s all I’m sure of.”

“He doesn’t suspect Michael Pride?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Or you?”

“Why would he suspect me, Your Eminence?”

“This is New York, Father Donleavy. If they can pin it on the Catholic Church, they will. You know they will.”

No, he didn’t. “I suppose so, Your Eminence. Your Eminence, I’m sorry to cut this short, but with all the trouble we’ve had around here lately, I’m a little backed up. I’m late for an appointment.”

“Of course, Father Donleavy. I’ll let you go.”

“If there’s any news here, I’ll call you, Your Eminence.”

“That will be a novelty, Father Donleavy. But don’t strain yourself. I’ll call you.”

Eamon Donleavy heard a click in his ear, as sharp and lethal as a gunshot. He put the phone receiver back in its cradle and stared at it. Why bother to call the Cardinal Archbishop? The Cardinal Archbishop had spies. The Cardinal Archbishop knew everything. The Cardinal Archbishop probably had the whole damn building bugged.

Eamon got out of his chair, and went into the hall. Victor was still on the stairs, running up and down. The voices of Gregor Demarkian and Hector Sheed drifted up through the well. Eamon got the impression of calm and deliberation, but no actual words. He crossed the hall and looked into Michael’s office.

Michael’s office looked the way it always looked. There was mess. There was clutter. There was no religion. Michael didn’t keep crucifixes on his wall. He didn’t keep prayer wheels or mezzuzahs. He didn’t have plastic statues of the Virgin on his file cabinets or a copy of the Koran tucked away on a bookshelf somewhere. Michael always said he was a man without God, and tried to mean it. What confused Eamon Donleavy was that what Michael meant by being without God was not what all the other atheists meant by it. With Michael, nothing came out right, nothing was the way it was supposed to be. With Michael, when you signed on for the ride, you never knew where you were going to end up.