Make them Cry (6 page)

Anton was a bit too helpful, too eager, and too quick with his alibi. His strange enthusiasm was almost as suspicious as the denials from John’s alleged boyfriends. Jack swung by the college library and browsed the current newspapers and periodicals. He looked up the lifestyle section in Wednesday’s
Seattle Times
. There was a ten-o’clock screening of
The Great Escape
at the Cinerama Theater.

Anton hadn’t been lying about the movie. But three sophomores on Anton’s floor had indeed lied to him. They were the ones with something to hide.

Jack wandered out of the library into the damp night air. He turned up the collar of his jacket as he wandered through the maze of old, ivy-covered buildings toward the faculty boat dock. At the edge of campus, he walked by Our Lady of Sorrows Church. Jack hesitated, then he glanced up at the tall, Gothic edifice.

“
There’s this window to the church basement, the lock’s broken…. We’d go into the catacombs under the church…. I know he met John Costello there several nights
.”

Jack turned, then slowly circled around the church. Looking past the bushes and flower beds, he studied the basement windows for one with a broken latch. He found the window on the lake side. A few old cigarette butts scattered on the ground gave it away. He picked up one of the butts: a Winston Light, Rick Pettinger’s brand.

Jack glanced around to make sure he was alone. The muddy ground felt soft beneath his feet as he moved closer to the side of the building. Bending down, he pushed at the window. With only slight resistance, it swung open. He dug a miniflashlight from his coat pocket. It was on his second key ring, along with a spare set of keys for St. Bartholomew Hall.

He shined the light into the darkened basement. A squat cabinet had been shoved against the cellar wall beneath the window. Jack could see shoe prints on top of the cabinet. It was obvious how the boys had climbed down into the basement. He wondered if John’s shoe prints were amid the many left there.

Jack crawled through the small window. He almost tipped over the cabinet as he climbed down into the dark, dank cellar.

A dim light filtered from the stairwell, and Jack could make out an array of old, broken-down altar fixtures, standing crucifixes, and even a couple of receptacles for holy water. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Jack gazed at all the abandoned artifacts, then he saw something that made his heart stop.

He pointed the miniflashlight at the tall, thin shadowy figure. “Oh, shit.” He laughed. It was a life-size statue of St. Joseph. The paint was flaking off his face, and he had a haunting, pious gaze that seemed almost demonic. Sitting through Mass and staring at that thing must have given churchgoers nightmares.

He’d been in this cellar once before, when another priest had given him a tour his first week at the school. Jack remembered the catacombs were on the other side of the large, dull metal door, which looked like the entry for a bomb shelter. The door wasn’t far from where St. Joseph stood glaring at him.

Jack pulled at the elongated handle. Locked. He searched around for the key. He thought about switching on the light, but didn’t want anyone to know he was down here. After a couple of minutes, he finally found the key under an old pulpit.

The metal door was heavy, but swung open easily. A button fixed to the door frame triggered the catacomb lights—a series of bare, low-watt bulbs that hung several feet apart from a cable down the center of the tunnel-like cavern. A few of the bulbs had burnt out. Jack directed his flashlight at the dusty cement floor. More shoe prints.

He couldn’t believe that anyone in their right mind would want to have sex in such a god-awful, creepy place. Then again, these were horny teenage boys. They entered this place with a friend, a sex partner, and it was an adventure.

Jack figured that he must be the crazy one, sneaking down here alone at night. He trained his flashlight toward an alcove on his right. Floating dust caught in the beam of light like tiny moths. In the alcove, a cement crucifix served as the grave marker for a priest who had lived from 1872 until 1921.

Jack moved deeper into the recesses of the catacombs, all the while aiming his light on the trail of shoe prints. They bypassed a number of alcoves on either side of him. With a glance over his shoulder, Jack checked the door in the distance behind him, but he could barely see it anymore.

He followed the shoe prints as they diverted from the dimly lit center pathway. A niche on his left seemed to be the lure. Jack pointed the miniflashlight on a long slab of marble, two feet high. The marker for the final resting place of Monsignor Thayer Swann (1859–1931) almost looked like a bed. A couple of burnt-out votive candles had been left at the foot of the slab. Jack picked up one of the votives. The candle was pine scented.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something shiny behind the head of the stone. Jack trained the light on it. Bursting at the seams, a black plastic trash bag had been crammed between the catacomb wall and the head of that grave marker.

Jack nudged the trash bag with his toe. It felt soft. He unfastened the twist-tie. Inside the bag were two pillows and an old, pale blue comforter. The boys weren’t exactly roughing it down here, with their scented candles and soft bedding. And Monsignor Swann wasn’t complaining.

Jack started to shove the bedding back into the plastic bag, then he heard something. It sounded like a door shutting. But it couldn’t have been the door to the catacombs; the lights would have gone out.

Quickly, Jack tied up the bag. He started to pull out the tiny flashlight again, but he heard another noise—louder this time. He dropped his light on the dusty floor. It illuminated the side of the marble slab and a series of rust red specks. Something had splashed on the side of the grave marker, something that looked like blood.

Jack remained very still for a moment. He waited for another sound, but didn’t hear anything.

He took one last look at the dried crimson stains, then ducked out of the alcove. In the dim light, he couldn’t see the door at the far end of the cavern. On either side of him were the shadowy grave sites, one after another. “Is anyone there?” Jack called. He heard a tiny scraping sound; it could have been a rat or something upstairs. The acoustics in the place were crazy.

Jack started walking faster toward the open doorway ahead. But he stopped in his tracks as a large shadow swept across the wall. “Who’s there?” he called.

No answer, not a sound.

He moved toward the open door. The shadow continued to dance across that wall in a rhythmic pattern. Then Jack saw it was one of the hanging lights, the second from the doorway, swaying back and forth. He wondered why none of the other lights were moving. Why just that one?

“I know someone’s here,” he announced, stepping toward the door. The shadows and light kept rippling against that wall. “Talk to me,” he said.

Again, no response.

Jack emerged from the catacombs. He was almost relieved to see old, demonic-looking St. Joseph again. He pulled at the door. “I’m locking up,” he said out loud. “If anyone’s in the catacombs, you’re screwed. This is your last chance….”

Jack closed the old metal door and locked it. He pocketed the key and glanced around the darkened storage area. He told himself he was alone down here. Yet as he climbed out the basement window, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Father Tom Garcia sounded groggy over the phone. Jack knew he’d woken him. The digital clock on his desk read 11:11.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Jack said. He sat at his desk. “It’s about John Costello’s drowning. I followed a lead, and snuck into the church basement. I just came back. There’s, something in the catacombs I think you should take a look at.”

“What did you find?” Garcia asked.

“A few of the boys have been using one of the grave sites for a meeting place. I found something that looks like blood on one of the stones.”

“Was the blood still wet?”

“No, it was dry.”

“Well, we can’t do anything about it now,” Garcia said, yawning. “Let’s wait until morning, Jack. I’ll meet you in front of the church at six. If this…um, blood is already dry, it’s not about to evaporate before then.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Father.”

“Call me Tom. Oh, and Jack, you haven’t told anyone about this…new discovery, have you?”

“No, nobody.”

“Let’s keep it that way for now. Okay? See you in the
A.M.
”

Jack hung up the phone. He started to pull off his dirty trousers. The phone rang. He thought Tom Garcia was calling back, and he grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Father Murphy?” It was a woman, her voice raspy. In the background, Jack could hear music, and people chattering. “It’s Maggie Costello, Father. Did I wake you up? Were you sleeping?”

“No, it’s okay. How are you?”

“Well, I’m not so hot,” she said. “I missed you this afternoon. I drove up to collect Johnny’s things.”

“Oh, I wish I’d known you were coming by.”

“Listen, are you busy right now?” she asked. “I’d really like to talk with you. I don’t have anyone else I can talk with. I—I’m here across the lake from you at the Lakeside Inn. Will you come have a drink with me?”

“With all the people I talked to yesterday, why didn’t anyone tell me about this other boy who drowned in Lake Leroy?” Maggie asked him. She took a sip of her drink. “The waitress said they hushed it up. So tell me what’s going on. Are they trying to hush up Johnny’s death, too?”

Jack shrugged uneasily. People were staring at them: a priest and a pretty woman sitting at the window table, wrapped up in quiet conversation. He shouldn’t have worn his clerical collar here tonight.

Maggie looked beautiful, her red hair and pale skin illuminated by an amber neon light in the window. She wore a black, scooped-neck pullover. She’d clearly had a few drinks; her speech was slightly muddled.

“I don’t think they’re trying to ‘hush up’ John’s death,” Jack said carefully. “Until they find out exactly what happened, they’d like to avoid a lot of bad press and gossip.”

“Did you know about this other boy who drowned?” she asked pointedly.

“Not much, but it sounds similar to Johnny’s situation. He was a freshman, swimming back from a party one night.” Jack glanced down at the varnished tabletop. He didn’t think he should tell her about Julian Doyle’s missing fingers. He wasn’t even sure if Maggie knew that a couple of Johnny’s toes had been severed. What was to be gained by citing those grisly similarities?

He sighed. “Anyway, this other drowning happened three years ago, before I came here.”

Maggie studied him. “I think the school is keeping certain things from me, Jack. Tell me the truth. Was Johnny involved in something shady? Is that why he was killed? I keep wondering about that money he had hidden.”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know how he got that money.” He couldn’t say anything more. He thought about the evidence down in the catacombs—and the string of so-called lovers Johnny was supposed to have. This was her baby brother. She didn’t need to hear these things now—especially when he wasn’t even certain they were true.

He sipped his beer. “I’m still interviewing and investigating,” he said. “As soon as I find out something definite, I’ll let you know, Maggie. I promise.”

She reached over the table and placed her hand over his. “I’m counting on you,” she whispered.

“Can I get you folks another round?”

It was the waitress.

Maggie pulled her hand away. “Nothing more for me,” she said.

“We’re fine, thank you,” Jack said.

Maggie watched the waitress amble back toward the bar. She sighed and looked down at her near-empty glass. “I’ve had too much to drink.”

“You better not drive,” Jack said. “Why don’t you get a room here at the inn tonight?”

She nodded. “Good idea.”

“Is there someone you need to call?” he asked. “Someone who should know where you are?”

“No,” Maggie said. “There’s nobody.”

Maggie Costello seemed to glow under the amber neon light in the tavern’s window. She looked quite pretty tonight. He could tell, even at this distance. He stood behind the shack where the Lakeside Inn rented fishing and boating equipment for its guests. He knew she couldn’t see him amid the shadows outside.

He turned up his jacket collar from the damp cold near the lake. He’d been watching Maggie in that window for almost two hours. She’d had three drinks, and one little crying jag. He knew the reason behind her tears, and he had to smile. He liked to make them cry.

Father Murphy had arrived about twenty-five minutes ago. Even at this distance, he could tell the good father wanted her. It was so obvious. The people in the bar probably saw it, too. Poor love-starved, love-struck Father Murphy.

He watched Murphy pay for the drinks, then help Maggie to her feet. They started to move away from the table—and out of his line of vision.

Nothing would ever happen between those two. Murphy didn’t have a chance.

He would see to it. He would make Maggie Costello his. And once he was through with her, he would keep a lock of her beautiful red hair—along with the usual souvenirs.

The middle-aged woman at the registration desk kept glancing at Jack, then at his priest’s collar, then at Maggie. Her stare—from behind a pair of cat-eye glasses—graduated from curious to disapproving; so by the time she handed Maggie the room key, the woman was almost scowling at them.

“They’ll be gossiping about us tomorrow,” Maggie said, as Jack walked with her down the inn’s second-floor corridor. She was weaving a tiny bit.

He kept his hand poised by her arm, ready to catch her if she stumbled. “Let them talk,” he said.

She shrugged. “I’m used to it anyway. When I left my husband, I was the bad guy, the talk of the parish. Everyone loved him. No one knew what an asshole he was to me.” Maggie stopped by the door to the room. “Can I tell you something kind of crude?”