Precious Blood (36 page)

Next door to the church was a house made of the same black stone, with a carefully lettered sign that read “Rectory of St.

Stephen’s Church, 1824.”

Slater pulled the truck over and let the engine idle for a few seconds, watching the snowflakes twisting through the beams. Then he shut it off and turned to Jenner.

“We’re here. This is where Father Martin lives.”

The snow crunched softly under their feet as Jenner and Don Slater made their way to the heavy oak door. The rectory was on the edge of the cemetery, and Jenner could make out the white silhouettes of row after row of curved and flat-topped headstones, an occasional cement cross looming among them.

Slater used the old bronze doorknocker, and a few seconds later, the lights in the entrance hall lit up. The door opened, and standing in front of them was a young priest with freckles and unruly red hair, the sleeves of his cas-sock pushed up to the elbow, wiping his wet hands with a towel.

“Good evening,” he said, his expression neutral and sin-cere, ready for whatever type of crisis into which he was about to be thrust.

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Slater introduced himself and explained that he and Dr.

Jenner, an investigator from New York City, would like to speak with Father Martin.

The priest, who introduced himself as Father Dominic, ushered them into a living room and said apologetically,

“You mustn’t have heard. Last month Father had another stroke; the poor man has lost his speech. We have a board and some magnetic letters so he can communicate, but even that is hard for him.”

He sighed and sat in an armchair opposite them, his voice quieter.

“In truth, he’s doing very poorly, and isn’t expected to live much longer. Weeks, maybe days, the doctor said. On top of it all, he’s developed a very painful eye infection, and so we’ve been giving him painkillers to keep him comfortable.

I’m afraid he won’t be able to help you. But perhaps I might be of some service. I’ve been here more than a year now, so . . .”

Jenner said, “Father, we’re trying to gather information about Bobby Farrar. I think he was a little before your time.”

“The lad who painted the rectory sign? We have some of his artwork here—he was a calligrapher, you know? We have a wonderful copy of the Magna Carta he did when he was young, and some Egyptian papyruses, and even one of his paintings.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“No, I’ve never met him. In fact, I know he hasn’t been here for years. Until two or three years ago, Father Martin told me, he would send postcards and paintings every month.

Then they just stopped. It was sad—Father had so enjoyed hearing from Bobby.”

Jenner asked, “Do you have any of the paintings or the letters? Do you know where they were sent from? I’d really like to see them.”

“Oh, I’d need the envelopes for a return address, and
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they’re long gone. New York City, though. The paintings were of New York City—skylines, parks, river views, and the like. I’m no expert, but I thought they were rather well done.”

He gestured to the closed door across the room.

“Father has one of the larger ones framed in his bedroom across the way. I put the rest in storage in the garden shed. It won’t be easy to reach—the drifts are about four feet against that door.”

He paused, then continued slowly, “If you would be as quiet as possible, you could look at the painting on Father’s bedroom wall. You could stand at the doorway—I’d rather you didn’t actually go inside. But we should wait a little. I’ve just given him his new Fentanyl patch, and that usually puts him out.

“Let’s give the man some time to drift off. Some coffee? I was heating up some dinner when you rang—just soup, but if you’d care for some, you’re welcome to join me.”

Both men thanked the priest, and declined.

“Is there anything you can tell us about Bobby Farrar, Father?”

Father Dominic stood and went over to the fireplace, prodding at the logs absentmindedly with a brass poker.

He shrugged. “I’m afraid not, really. He was very close to Father Martin. I know he had some . . . emotional difficulties . . . when he was younger. And I know he’d been injured—Father Martin told me he used to have to give the boy testosterone pills, because of his injury.

“Martin was quite proud of him; I get the impression they had quite a mentor/protégé relationship. I know that he did well in high school, particularly with extracurricular activities—he was a gifted artist. He used to stage the annual crèche for St. Stephen’s, and he designed sets for the high school drama club. Very accomplished!

“Then he went on to college, and took up computers, and did very well for himself. Martin had a theory that Bobby’s
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interest in ancient languages gave him the edge over his colleagues, his fascination with symbols and syntax; I could see where that sort of skill set might come in handy for a computer programmer.

“After college, he founded a software company, and developed a database system for medical and insurance records. Hugely successful, made him a fortune. He created databases for some of the biggest schools in the Northeast, I believe.

“But I’m afraid that’s all I know. He ended up in New York City, as I said, but Father has had no news of him in some time.”

He paused.

“May I ask . . . Is Mr. Farrar in trouble?”

Slater spoke up. “Just routine inquiries, Father. Routine inquiries.”

The priest nodded. “Ah. Routine inquiries. Very good.”

He glanced down at his watch.

“It should be safe now. The drug eases the pain for a few hours, but he wakes at the drop of a pin.”

He stood, and they followed him to the bedroom door, where he turned and put a finger to his lips. He gently turned the knob and pushed the door to Father Martin’s bedroom open.

The ceiling lamp, apparently on a dimmer circuit, seemed to cast more shadow than light. The room was a sickly green in the weak light.

Jenner could hear the rattling tide of Father Martin’s breathing. The old priest was half hidden behind the door, the foot of his hospital bed sticking out beyond it.

Father Dominic pointed at the far wall. There was an or-nately framed, large-scale watercolor, painted almost exclusively in shades of red. In front of a long-haired, bearded king on a throne was a kneeling man with a silver halo, arms lifted, palms upward in supplication, eyes raised to heaven.

Two Roman soldiers held him down by his shoulders, while
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a third squatted in front of the kneeling man, a short, curved blade in his hands. The man with the knife was carving symbols across his victim’s forehead; thick crimson rivulets covered his face like a net.

The priest closed the door.

Don Slater touched the priest’s arm and said, “Father, what was that painting of?”

The priest smiled a little. “Striking, isn’t it? It’s a portrait of Theophanes. In Constantinople, sometime in the eight hundreds, he spoke out against the Emperor Theophilus, who had insisted that religious images be destroyed. When Theophanes refused to shut up, the emperor had his men cut a long verse onto his face; supposedly it took them two days to complete it.”

“Father Martin tells me it was Bobby’s absolute favorite subject to paint.” He grinned at them. “What
is
it about young people that draws them to the macabre?”

They sat down, back in the living room.

“Father, can you think of any other place where some of Bobby’s letters might be? Perhaps in Father Martin’s room?”

“Well, I suppose it’s possible. But I’m afraid we really can’t go looking through there tonight—the man needs his sleep. I’m very sorry.”

Jenner glanced at Slater, then looked at the priest.

“I have to tell you that this is a matter of life and death. Mr.

Farrar may be involved in the killing of a series of university students in New York City, and we believe that he may have abducted a young girl. Our backs are against the wall here.”

The priest nodded gravely.

“With all due respect, Doctor, Father Martin hasn’t received a letter from Bobby Farrar for some time now. It seems very unlikely indeed that there’d be anything of relevance to the current situation in old letters. I’m happy to give you access to the shed, but, as I’ve said, you’re going to need several men to dig it out if you’re actually going to get
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in. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you into Father Martin’s bedroom tonight.”

Don Slater began to speak, but Father Dominic silenced him with a wave. “I’m sorry, but he’s a dying man, and suffering terribly. You’re welcome to wait until he wakes, but that may not be until morning.”

Jenner nodded.

“I understand.”

He leaned back, then turned to Slater.

“I should probably be getting back to New York. Do we have enough time before we head out for a cup of coffee?”

Slater said, “Up to you, Doctor. Shouldn’t dawdle too long, or we’ll never get back up out of the damned valley. Pardon my French, Father.”

The priest stood with a smile.

“I’m delighted to have the company. Sometimes the rectory seems a little too quiet, with just Martin and I. And I rarely have visitors—too new in Snowden, I guess. It’ll take me just a couple of minutes.”

He made for the kitchen. Slater stopped him, saying, “Sir, my son’s outside in the car—mind if he joins us?”

“Good heavens, no! Bring him on in—we don’t want him freezing out there.”

The priest went into the kitchen, Slater through the front door. Jenner stepped quietly into the hall. He probably had about four minutes, five if he was lucky.

He reached for the bedroom door handle and was about to turn it when he heard the priest call out, “Doctor, you’re in luck! I have some Starbucks Rift Valley blend! You’ll feel just like you’re in the city—”

Jenner stepped back into the living room. “Sounds great!”

He returned to the bedroom, turned the handle, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

The old priest lay there in the bed, his breathing regular and dry. He was tall and thin, his bones almost visible
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through translucent skin, his shriveled hands clawing the sheet to his neck. There was water and a medicine bottle next to the lamp on the bedside table.

Jenner scanned the room. The bookshelves were packed, but scrupulously neat. The desk, though, was covered with papers, apparently a way station for the priest as he sorted his mail. Jenner started to sift through the memos and calendars on top of it, then turned his attention to the drawers, quickly tugging them out one by one. In the lowest drawer, he found what he was looking for: a small wad of postcard-size linen stationery, bound with a purple silk ribbon. The topmost was a view of Manhattan from the Brooklyn Bridge in maroon ink.

He closed the drawer, and straightened. There was a click, and the bedside lamp flooded the room with light.

Father Martin was sitting propped up in the bed, his fingers trembling against the switch on the lamp cord. His face was thin and pale, the cheekbones prominent, his hair a brush-cut ruff of white. His eyes were unblinking, bright green blue, his left eye deeply crusted and bloody.

Jenner walked to the bed, flashed his shield, and said,

“You’ll have these back within the week. You should get some rest now.”

He reached over, tugged the switch from his hand, rotated the lamp so the priest couldn’t reach the switch, then turned it off.

Then he turned his back on the upright shadow in the bed and left.

The two Slaters were standing in the hallway, Andy confused, his father unruffled. Don gestured to the living room, and they sat without talking. Seconds later, the priest walked in with a tray holding a large French press coffeepot, cream, sugar, mugs, and a plate of Pepperidge Farm Milanos. He nodded a welcome to Andy Slater, and then started to pour.

*

*

*

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Where do you go when your body’s there, but you aren’t? In the days lying in the dark, shivering under the blankets, Ana slipped away, her body now just a beaded curtain wrapped around her, her spirit slipping past the silvery chains, leaving them swaying as she left.

She didn’t look down from space and see her body; it wasn’t like that, not at all like that, not mystical and groovy and life-affirming. But there was tranquility in the absence.

She would go back to Florida, back to Silver Lake. Lying by the swimming pool with Carmen, her hair smelling of chlorine, her skin warm and tan.

And she would be okay for a while, remembering the heat and light on her skin. But then it would abruptly break, and she’d feel herself tumble out of space back into her body, jerking into consciousness with a gasp, sobbing as she found herself on the mattress in the freezing dark, the coarse blanket chafing as she tried to get warm.

When she was awake again, awake and fully conscious again, it was hard, because she’d start thinking about what the man was going to do with her, and she’d lie there feeling her tears cool as they coursed down her filthy cheeks.

She’d once read that people who set themselves on fire don’t feel anything because they’re in some kind of trance state. When he killed her, she wanted to be in a trance state.

When he started cutting on her, or drilling her, or whatever he was going to do to her, she wouldn’t be in her body. She was going to leave it; not so much leave it as disappear inside it, find some spiral staircase inside herself and walk down it, go down deeper and deeper inside until she was gone, like one of those monks burning in kerosene.

The thought of being deep inside herself, locked away inside, far from him, made her warm again; and then she could think about Silver Lake, and Carmen, and the sun. At least for a while.

monday,

december 23

Jenner had left one of the windows open in his loft, and the room was freezing; in the lamplight, he could see his breath fall and disappear.