“Ah,” said Gregor. “I see.” He didn’t really. O’Bannion seemed to have sent him Andy Walsh’s assistant, and that didn’t make any sense at all. But then, Gregor thought, O’Bannion had never made any sense to him. The man’s mind seemed to work on a different track from other people’s.
Declan Boyd was hopping from one foot to the other, with the natural restlessness of a man who had once been athletic. “The Cardinal sent me to get you,” he was saying, “because he’s tied up in church and so is Father Dolan and so is everybody, even the nuns, because tomorrow is Holy Thursday. You wouldn’t believe what goes on around here on Holy Thursday. This is a very Catholic town.”
“I’ve noticed,” Gregor said. He had, too. Threaded among the icons of ultracute were notes of a more serious nature. The Knights of Columbus had been allowed to put up a table to collect money for the homeless. The Archdiocese had been allotted a small square of billboard space—clearly marked “a public service announcement,” to let everyone know it had been donated—for a poster that said, He died on the Cross. All He’s asking you to do is get up a little earlier on Sunday Morning. Most telling of all, the signboard at the front door included directions not only to City Hall, the Colchester Arcade and the Museum of American Indian Art, but to Holy Name Cathedral. Gregor wondered just how Catholic a town had to be before its train station put up signs telling people how to get to church.
“It’s wonderful being here,” Declan Boyd said. “I was brought up in Missouri, where practically the whole state is Protestant. When I came to St. Bonaventure for college, I could hardly believe it—”
“St. Bonaventure is a local college?”
“Right over the city line. It was wonderful. You have no idea. I just knew I wanted to be ordained here instead of back at home.”
Obviously, Gregor thought, Declan Boyd was the kind of man who told anyone and everyone the story of his life—and, in all likelihood, the story of everybody else’s as well. With a little more intelligence or a taste for malice, he would be an uncomfortable man to know. Fortunately, on the surface, he showed no signs of either. Gregor wondered what he had to say about the Cheryl Cass mess. People like Declan Boyd often saw and heard and knew more than anybody expected them to.
At the moment, the good Father was chattering on, reaching for Gregor’s suitcase and heading for the front door all at the same time. Gregor couldn’t help smiling to himself. If the man was what he appeared to be, he could turn out to be an asset—but he’d always be an asset it was impossible to control.
“The Archdiocese is always such a mess during Holy Week,” he was saying. “You probably expected Father Dolan instead of me—”
“Father Dolan is the man I’ve done the most talking to,” Gregor said, “next to your Archbishop.”
“Oh, we always call the Archbishop the Cardinal. I mean, he is a Cardinal Archbishop. He said you’d probably be looking for Tom. He’s a wonderful man, you know. The Archbishop, I mean, not Tom. He always comes right out and admits it when he’s been wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” Gregor asked desperately.
“About you and Tom Dolan, of course. He said he’d given you the impression and he really shouldn’t have. That it would be Tom who was coming, I mean. And you wouldn’t know Tom never goes anywhere practically—”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Declan Boyd stopped in midstride. They were halfway to the front door and the sign marked taxi stand, surrounded by the first eddying waves of rush-hour commuters. No one was paying attention to them, and because of that several people bumped into them. Gregor was hit by a small round woman in a brown alpaca coat and lake alligator shoes. Declan Boyd bounced a businessman in a toupee that came loose at the first hint of collision. Declan Boyd didn’t notice.
“Father Dolan,” he said, flinging out his arms for no good reason Gregor could see, making himself look like Charlton Heston making a speech in a movie about Moses, “is a very busy man. And he’s an order priest besides. He’s practically a monk. Don’t you see?”
Gregor did not see. He had no idea what an “order priest” was, and he was fairly certain the Cardinal would not have a real monk as a chief aide. On the other hand, O’Bannion being O’Bannion, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that he might. Gregor would have killed for a chance to ask for amplification.
He didn’t get it. As soon as Declan Boyd dropped his arms, he shot out a hand and grabbed Gregor by the shoulder. Moments later, they were both on the sidewalk outside, pumping toward the taxi stand with all the mindless dedication of runners on the last lap of a relay race. Boyd had his coat flapping open and his Roman collar clearly visible, making it possible for him to shoot to the head of the line without protest from the other people waiting. He jerked open the door of the nearest cab and pushed Gregor inside.