Muscle Memory (24 page)

I parked across the street and sat there in my car with all the windows rolled down and the sunroof open. It was around twenty to ten, one of those intoxicating New England June mornings when birdsong and flower scent saturate the air. As good a day as any for the funeral of a murdered young wife and mother and teacher.

I could watch the front entrance of the church from where I sat. The double doors were wide open, and already people had begun to cluster on the sidewalk and front steps. Some of them were already drifting inside. They came in singles and pairs and groups and whole families. The teenagers—Kaye’s former students along with friends of Danny and Erin, I guessed—clung to each other in bunches. The girls wore pastel dresses and straw hats. The boys, awkward in their suits and ties, were tugging at their shirt collars and rolling their shoulders inside their jackets.

After about ten minutes, I climbed out of my car. The funeral cortege had not yet arrived, and I wanted to be already seated inside when it did. I crossed the street and weaved among the crowd gathered outside the church, nodding to the strangers who nodded to me, then climbed the steps.

Mounted on the outside wall beside the church doors was a brass plaque like the scores of brass plaques scattered around the history-rich town. Lexington calls itself “The Birthplace of American Liberty.” On its village green the American Revolution began when a British soldier fired “the shot heard ’round the world.” The Minutemen got clobbered, but history records the event as “a glorious morning for America.”

This plaque read: “Constructed in 1768, this is the oldest continually active Roman Catholic church in Massachusetts. Here on April 19, 1775, a wounded British soldier found sanctuary during the retreat from the Battle of Concord. This church was an important way station on the Underground Railroad. When a fire set by antiabolitionists gutted its insides in 1856, it was rebuilt with donations from townspeople of all denominations.”

I went inside. A cranberry-colored carpet covered the wide central aisle down to the altar. Tall stained-glass windows on both side walls filtered in rosy sunlight. It was airy and bright and altogether cheerful in there, although the faint, sweet scent of incense brought back old feelings of awe. An organ was playing Mozart’s “Ave Verum Corpus,” itself not an uncheerful tune.

The old wooden pews were nearly half-filled already. Many folks were kneeling with their forearms braced on the pew back in front of them, heads bowed, hands clasped together. A few of the older women fingered rosaries and wore veils over their faces.

I paused at the rear corner of the church, scanning the faces, looking for any that I might recognize. I spotted Barbara Cooper, Kaye’s lawyer, and Ron Moyle, her principal. The rest were strangers to me.

I moved around to the side aisle and slid into a pew near the back. I didn’t kneel and I didn’t pray, because I had never been taught how to do those things.

But I tried to think about Kaye Fallon, and to mourn her in my own inept, pagan way. I realized that I barely knew her—had, in fact, only met her once, at Mick’s deposition. I had probably not seen her at her best that day.

I tried to conjure up her face in my mind, but the image that kept appearing was that of Meg Ryan, the actress. Close, but I knew that wasn’t quite right. Kaye was actually prettier, though not quite as cute as Meg.

But even though I couldn’t picture Kaye, I felt that I knew her. I knew that people liked her. Many of them loved her. She’d done nothing wrong. She’d just wanted to carve out some happiness for herself in the eyeblink of time that was her life.

And I thought of poor Darren Watts, and wished I had the powers to pray for him.

I became aware of someone standing in the aisle beside me, and when I looked up, I saw that it was Mitchell Selvy, the guy who lived across the street from the Fallons. He was wearing a gray suit and a plaid tie, and his Clint Eastwood face looked even craggier than I’d remembered.

“Oh, hey,” he said when he saw who I was. “How you doing, Mr. Coyne?”

I smiled and nodded. Selvy dropped quickly to one knee in the aisle and crossed himself, then stood and slid in past me. He sat in the pew beside me, pulled out the kneeler, knelt on it, and dropped his forehead onto his clasped hands.

After a minute or two, he sat back, gripping his thighs. “We buried my wife from this church,” he whispered to me.

The people were arriving in a steady procession now, and I watched all of them. Many were young people. Kaye had had a lot of friends. I thought it would please Danny and Erin to see the church filled.

Then the organ stopped playing. The sudden silence was filled with the creaking of the pews, an occasional cough, and the soft buzz of whispered voices. A priest had appeared down front. He knelt with his back to us and crossed himself perfunctorily, then stood up, climbed the two or three steps up to the altar, and began moving around, as if he were double-checking that everything was in place. He had thinning white hair and a gap-toothed smile that reminded me of Ernest Borgnine.

The organ started a different tune, something slower and more somber that I recognized but couldn’t quite place. Bach, maybe.

Two men in black suits marched very slowly down the aisle, each bearing a spray of flowers. They placed them on the altar, then retreated.

Then the priest, with his hands folded in front of his belly, started up the aisle. Everyone stood and turned to face the back of the church.

Gretchen and Lyn Conley entered first. They were followed by four men and two women I didn’t recognize flanking the bronze casket on its rolling casters. Behind them came Danny and Erin Fallon, with their heads bowed and their arms around each other’s waists. Ned and Linda Conley followed Danny and Erin.

The priest met the little contingent of mourners halfway down the aisle. He touched hands and whispered to each of them, then turned back to the altar. The organ stopped, and then a soprano, without accompaniment, began singing “Amazing Grace.” Her voice was so clear and sweet that it brought tears to my eyes.

As she sang, the casket and its bearers moved to the front of the church. I became aware of Mitch Selvy beside me, craning his neck. Then he poked me with his elbow and pointed with his thumb.

It was Mick.

He had not been in the church before Kaye’s casket arrived. He’d waited until everybody’s eyes had turned to the rear. Then he’d materialized near the front, close to the altar, and slipped into a pew along the side aisle six or eight rows from the front, a couple dozen rows directly in front of me. I noticed a curtained entryway on the side wall. He must have slipped in from there.

The priest was reading Scripture. I kept my eyes on Mick. His head was bowed and he had his face in his hands.

I wondered if Danny and Erin had spotted him.

The funeral mass proceeded exactly like all the others I’d ever been to. I hoped the believers who were there were more comforted than I was by the familiarity of the words and rituals and prayers and songs.

The priest delivered a short homily on the subject of life everlasting, the sacrifice of Jesus, and the blessing of faith. His singsong voice was gravelly and hesitant, as if he were trying to find the right balance between grief and celebration. He spoke of Kaye’s important roles as mother, wife, friend, and teacher, and I got the impression that he hadn’t known her all that well.

He concluded with a quote from Scripture, said “Amen,” nodded toward one of the front pews, and Gretchen Conley stood up. She hesitated, and I saw Lyn reach up and give her hand a squeeze. Then she moved to the dais and laid a piece of paper on the lectern.

She cleared her throat, looked at us, tried to smile. “Kaye…” she began. She stopped, looked down to where Danny and Erin were sitting, and gave her head a little shake. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, coughed, cleared her throat again.

“Kaye Fallon,” she began, and this time her voice was clear and firm, “was my friend.” And then she spoke lovingly of Kaye’s goodness and generosity and loyalty, the special friendship they’d shared for so long, Kaye’s love for her children, all that she’d contributed to her students, the lives she’d touched. She told stories about their college days and the times when they’d both had young children, and in a couple of places soft laughter rose up from the mourners.

It wasn’t until she said, “Good-bye, my dearest friend,” that she shook her head, covered her face with her hands, and began sobbing. The priest moved to her side, put his arm around her shoulder, and guided her back to her front-row pew, where Lyn stood up, hugged her, and helped her to sit down.

The priest returned to the altar, mumbled a benediction, and then the organ began to play. Everyone stood, and the pallbearers and Danny and Erin and Gretchen and Lyn began moving back up the aisle with Kaye’s casket.

I looked down front for Mick.

But he had disappeared—slipped out the side entrance when everyone was looking in the other direction, I assumed.

The church emptied from the front to the back, and I had to wait my turn. By the time I got outside, Kaye’s casket had already been loaded into the hearse, and the funeral cars were lined up behind it with their engines running, ready to begin their procession to the cemetery.

A crowd was milling on the steps and the sidewalk in front of the church, shaking hands with the priest and murmuring their sympathies to Danny and Erin, who were standing on the top step.

I scanned the crowd. I wondered if Mick had managed to slip into one of the funeral cars.

Then I saw Patsy. Or maybe it was Paulie. In his dark silk suit, he could have been mistaken for a pallbearer or a funeral director. He was moving among the people. Now and then he stopped and went up on tiptoes. As I watched, he paused at the sedan that was waiting in the line directly behind the hearse, shielded his eyes, and looked inside.

He was looking for Mick. I figured he wasn’t the only one.

I went over to the priest, who was bending to an elderly woman and holding her hand in both of his. I grabbed his arm. “Excuse me, Father,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

He turned and frowned at me. “Not now, my son.”

I pulled him to the side. “I’m sorry, but this can’t wait.”

“Can’t you see—”

“Where’s Mick?” I said.

He shook his head and turned away from me.

I yanked at his arm. “Listen,” I said in an urgent whisper, “there are men here who want to kill him. I’m Mick’s lawyer. I’ve got to get to him before they do.”

“This is God’s sanctuary,” said the priest. “He is safe here.”

“Like hell he is. I don’t know what he’s told you, but—”

“I heard Michael’s confession this morning.”

“Well, good,” I said. “If he told you the truth, then you know I’m telling the truth, too. Vincent Russo’s men are here, and if they get to him before I do…”

The priest jerked his head back. “Russo? Here?”

I nodded.

He fingered the cross that hung around his neck, narrowed his eyes, and scanned the crowd. Without looking at me, he said, “I gave Michael my word. God’s word.”

“The only sanctuary for Mick is with the police,” I said.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned to me. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”

I hastily fumbled a business card from my wallet and slipped it to him. He glanced at it, mumbled something that sounded like a prayer, then whispered, “The rectory.”

“Where?”

“I don’t want to point,” he said. “Those men might be watching us. If you look off to my right across the lawn, you’ll see a white house. Michael is waiting in my office, in the rear, on the first floor.”

I glanced over and saw a big old white colonial set well back from the street and surrounded by ancient maple trees. “How’d he get there without being seen?”

“There’s a tunnel. From the Underground Railroad days. You should take it, too. So they won’t follow you.”

He told me how to find it, said, “God speed,” crossed himself, and turned away from me.

I slipped back into the church, went down to the front, and ducked through the curtained archway at the side. A narrow stairway led down to a big meeting room in the church basement. Folding metal chairs were arranged in rows facing a podium, and tacked to the walls were childish crayon drawings of animals.

I crossed the room, followed a long corridor, and found the furnace room. I slipped inside, pulled the door shut, latched it from the inside, and stood there, trying to control my breathing while my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

The metal sliding door that the priest had described was directly behind the big oil burner. It had no knob, and except for the fist-sized hole that served as a handle, it blended in with the wall.

As I began to slide the door open, I heard the rumble of a voice from outside the furnace room. I froze. There were two male voices. Then the door rattled.

I wasn’t going to wait. I slipped through the doorway, slid the metal door shut behind me, and found myself in a cool, musty, absolutely dark place. The priest had said the dirt-floored tunnel went under the lawn for about a hundred yards and ended at stone stairs that led up into the rectory.

I moved as fast as I dared in the darkness, trailing my right hand along the damp granite wall and holding my left arm up in front of my face to fend off cobwebs. I kept listening for footsteps behind me. But aside from the echo of my own shuffling feet, I heard nothing.

The sliding wooden door at the top of the stairs opened into an empty closet, and the closet door opened into a bathroom. I stood there for a moment, blinking at the light, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

Then I went directly to the priest’s office.

I tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. I tapped softly on the door.

A minute later I heard a soft voice. “Who is it?”

“Mick, it’s me. Brady. Let me in.”

“Go away. Stay out of this.”

“Russo’s boys are looking for you. They might have followed me. For Christ’s sake, open the door.”

He waited so long that I thought he might’ve slipped away. Then the door pulled open a crack. I pushed my way inside, and Mick shut the door behind me. He stood there leaning back against it, frowning at me. “How’d you find me?”