Predator and Prey Prowlers 3 (9 page)

They had not talked about that kiss in the weeks since they returned from Vermont, but silently, they had begun to dance around the realization that something was happening with them. Artie’s death still echoed in their lives, and so neither of them wanted to broach the subject of the growing affection between them.

Then today, the conversation.
Is this a date?

Molly leaned on a wooden post that jutted up from the wharf and stared out at what she could see of the ocean between the tour boats. All that she felt for Artie, and for Jack, surged up in her and seemed to be tainted now, like the water that lapped against the pilings below, greasy with leaked fuel.

A pleasant ripple went up the back of her neck, like fingers stroking her there. Molly stiffened, images of Artie in her head. Could he touch her now? Was he there, watching her? How often had he been there in the months since his death? Had he seen her cry for him, stood over her while she slept, watched her with Jack? Had he seen them kiss?

Though she knew it was foolish, she stared around, twirling in circles, wondering if she might catch a trace of him out of the corner of her eye. But only Jack could see the ghosts. That was his curse, not hers. People glanced at her oddly as they walked on past her, on their way to the Aquarium or the Chart House restaurant, or to the hotel. Molly ignored them. She wrapped her arms around herself and finally felt the sun begin to soak into her, warming her at last.

As she stared out past the boats to where the water was clean and deep, she wished she could see the harbor islands.

“How am I supposed to feel now?” she whispered, pretending it was to herself but knowing that it was really to him.

Just in case.

“I can talk to you now. Jack can help with that. And you can speak to me. But you’ve been here all this time, and you never have. So what are we supposed to say?”

Her eyes were dry, but she felt as though she ought to be crying.

“I’m so angry at you. I have things I want to say. But the worst part of it all, the thing that hurts me most, is that now that I know you’re here, I’m not sure if I want you to be. Maybe that makes me a terrible person. I miss you so much. I loved you. But . . . nothing can change what happened to you, and just thinking about it makes all the pain I felt when you died come back fresh.” She raised her hands up and stared at a spot on the water as though it was really him she was talking to.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Still she could not cry, and somehow that hurt even more.

At her side, ethereal, invisible to the world around him, Artie reached out and ached to touch her, to comfort her. His fingers passed right through her as though
she
were the phantom. He pulled his hands back quickly, shoved them in the pockets of his sweatshirt and just stared at her, hating himself for being so helpless.

He wept, but real as they felt, he knew they were only the ghosts of tears.

C H A P T E R 4

St. Anthony’s was on the corner of Prince and Hanover in the North End, a neighborhood that Jack imagined looked pretty much the same as it had a century or more before, only with more restaurants. His own allegiance to Bridget’s notwithstanding, Jack knew that to be guaranteed a decent meal, the North End was the safest bet in Boston. Its narrow streets were lined with dozens of restaurants from tiny, inexpensive holes in the wall to airy, trendy bistros. Competition between bakeries was intense down that way as well.

Once upon a time, the entire neighborhood was occupied by Italians from the old country, and the restaurants and businesses still reflected that influence. But as the property values had gone up, a younger, hipper, more generic crowd had begun to move in. The North End still had its Italian identity and heritage, with parades through the streets on all the major feast days, but Jack had watched over the years as the locals struggled to avoid becoming some sort of attraction, Walt Disney’s version of what an Italian neighborhood should be.

So far, they were succeeding, but the line was a thin one.

As he walked down Hanover Street, he rolled all that over in his head for the thousandth time, mainly to avoid thinking about Molly. He could not get her out of his mind completely, but until she was willing to talk to him, there wasn’t anything he could do except stew about it.

St. Anthony’s was a beautiful old domed church on a piece of property the size of a postage stamp. Jack had been by it hundreds of times but had never been inside. Now he went up the short walk to the front doors, pulled them open, and stepped inside. The place was vast and empty, the echo of the squeaking door still resounding inside. Jack went through the foyer and into the church, feeling a bit self-conscious about being in there alone until he spotted a man snuffing candles up on the altar.

Jack strode up the aisle, torn for a moment as he wondered if he ought to kneel or something. Then the man—a deacon or lector or something—turned and saw him.

“Can I help you?” the man said amiably.

“Yeah. Sorry to—” Jack gestured back toward the doors, then shrugged lightly. “Anyway, I’m looking for Father Logan. Is he available?”

With the metal instrument in his hand, the man snuffed two more candles even as he replied. “Mass ended just a few minutes ago. You can probably catch Father Logan in the sacristy still.”

Sacristy,
Jack thought. He hadn’t been to mass regularly since before his mother died. He had no idea what a sacristy was. When the deacon or whoever turned around again, that fact must have been plain on Jack’s face, for the man sniffed imperiously and pointed off to the left of the altar.

“The first door on the left. Just knock.”

Jack thanked him, though reluctantly given the man’s attitude. Before turning away from the altar, he seemed to recall some ritual whereby he was supposed to cross himself or kneel, but since he was not sure and did not want to look the fool in front of this man, he just walked off. Once he had left the main hall of the church, he found the sacristy easily enough, a tall wooden door with iron straps across it that made it look medieval. With only a moment’s pause, he knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called from within.

As he pushed the door open, Jack had a moment of panic. Father Mike had been a comfort to his mother when Jack was very small, after she had been abandoned by his father and was striving to create something out of the pub. He had performed her funeral mass, and had checked on Jack and Courtney from time to time for years. He and Courtney still talked a couple of times a year, but Jack had never felt as close to the priest as his sister did. Not close enough to have this conversation.

But it was too late to stop now.

Father Mike was hanging his priestly vestments in a closet on the other side of the room, but turned as Jack walked in. He was perhaps an inch shorter than Jack, with thinning hair that had once been a rich brown but was now mostly gray. He wore round glasses that made him look a bit more dignified, but even with the spectacles and the black clothes and white collar, he still had a broad Irish face, pale skin with a flush to his cheeks.

The priest smiled as he looked at Jack, but it was just Father Mike’s benevolent grin, with no trace of recognition in it.

“Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Father, hi. I’m Jack Dwyer. Courtney’s brother?”

Father Mike’s face lit up. “You’re not.”

Jack laughed. “I am.”

The priest studied him. “Good Lord, Jack. I’m sorry, it’s only that we haven’t seen each in four or five years and, well, you’re not a boy anymore, are you? I might’ve passed you on the street and not known you. How old are you now?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen,” Father Mike repeated. Then he stepped forward and they shook hands. “You make me feel old, Jack.”

“Well, we’re even then, Father. You make me feel like I’m still ten.”

“Good one, lad,” the priest said. “What brings you down to see me? Now don’t tell me something’s happened to our dear Courtney?”

Jack smiled. Father Mike was in his early fifties, as best he could remember, and had grown up in South Boston. His parents were from County Cork in Ireland, but he himself had not visited Ireland until he was in the seminary. Still, there were times when he slipped into the vocal cadence and inflection of the Irish. It wasn’t quite a brogue, but a hint of one, picked up from his parents. Something else that seemed out of place in the North End.

“Courtney’s doing all right,” he assured the priest.

“Good, good,” Father Mike replied. “I’m pleased to see you, Jack. It’s been far too long. I don’t imagine you’ve come just to make a social call, though. How can I help?”

It was silent in the room save for the loud ticking of the clock on the wall. Out in the church the candlesnuffer was probably still going about his business, maybe locking up the place until the next mass; if they locked the church between services. Otherwise it was just the two of them, back in that very plain room with a crucifix on the wall, a table with four chairs, and a small sofa against the far wall.

Backstage,
Jack thought.

Father Mike gazed patiently at him.

“Maybe we should sit down,” Jack suggested.

“All right.”

They moved to the table. Jack pulled a chair out and slid into it. Father Mike turned his chair backward and straddled it much as a much younger man would. It was a habit Jack remembered from years before. The priest leaned on the back of the chair and studied him, a frown of concern etching lines in his forehead.

Something fluttered in Jack’s stomach. He uttered a nervous laugh. Father Mike sat up a little straighter, his expression serious.

“Just talk to me, Jack. It’s all right,” the priest said.

And, oddly enough, it was.

“No matter how I say this, it’s going to come off strange,” Jack said. “But I don’t know how else to talk to you about it. I guess the way to start is just to ask you if you believe in ghosts.”

Father Mike blinked. “Well, now. Of all the things I might have expected to come out of your mouth next, that one wasn’t even on the list.”

Jack stared at him. “That isn’t an answer.”

The priest nodded grimly. “Right enough. The answer is I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a ghost myself, but the core of our faith is the belief in the everlasting soul, that heaven awaits those who follow the word of God, and damnation those who spurn him.”

“But some of them get lost along the way,” Jack muttered to himself as much as to the priest.

Father Mike nodded. “That may well be. Though you sound fairly certain. You’ve had some experience in the matter, then? Something that convinced you?”

Jack splayed his fingers across the oak table and gazed down at them, feeling the grain of the wood, solid and real. He nodded.

“A lot of somethings. I guess you find that pretty hard to believe.”

“Let’s say I try to keep an open mind,” Father Mike replied. “I said I’ve not had any experience in that area myself, but I’ve heard stories, Jack. Many, many of them, and some from sources I trust a great deal. I’m not ready to discount anything at this point.” For a long moment Jack let that sink in. Then he took a deep breath and let it out, and at length, he glanced up at the priest again. “Some souls get . . . they get lost, Father. On the way to wherever they’re going. For whatever reason, they stick around. Confused or angry or what have you. That’s what ghosts are.” Father Mike crossed his arms on the back of the chair and propped his chin on top of them. Behind his glasses, his eyes looked too large. “If you say so. You sound like an expert.”

Frustrated, Jack sat back in his chair. He studied the priest, clock ticking seconds away. Then he shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of things, Father. I won’t try to convince you. That’s not why I’m here.”

“I never said I didn’t believe you, Jack.” Father Mike acted concerned that he had said the wrong thing, and his tone was placating now. “Catholic doctrine believes in purgatory, a place where those sinners who have offended God with their actions but not enough to deserve damnation might suffer a kind of aloneness and despair for their sins. That might account for stories of ghosts, or it might not. The church hasn’t a formal position on the matter, and frankly neither do I.”

Jack was disappointed, but he tried to mask his feelings. “I understand,” he said. “Just . . . you said you’d heard a lot of stories. Have you ever heard of anything that—that
eats
ghosts? Something that attacks people who are already dead?”

“Wow,” Father Mike said, sitting up straight and taking off his glasses. “And wow again. Maybe we
should
talk more about this, Jack. It sounds like you’re really going through something here.”

When Jack did not respond to that, Father Mike went on. “The answer’s no. Of course there are demons, the fallen angels of prehistory, whose work it is to tempt mankind to sin. But our belief is that they prey upon the living, and upon those already damned.” Not long into the conversation, Jack had gotten a feeling it was going nowhere. Now his instinct was confirmed. He slid back his chair and stood up. “Thanks for your time, Father. Sorry if this was all too weird for you.”

“Jack,” the priest said kindly, also rising. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about this some more? I think it might do you some good.”

“Maybe another time,” Jack replied, offering a smile that felt hollow to him. “I’ll come back and see you.”

“All right,” Father Mike said reluctantly. “Make it sooner than five years this time.”

“I will.”

The conversation with Father Mike had Jack frustrated and at a loss as to what to do next. It wasn’t as though he could just flip open the Yellow Pages and find a medium, and calling the Psychic Hotline wasn’t going to get him anywhere. The only good thing about the visit was that he could now scratch the Roman Catholic clergy off his list of possible information sources . . . and being so perturbed had distracted him from thinking about Molly for a while.

Now, though, as he walked up Nelson Street toward Bridget’s, he could not help but let his mind stray to her again. He wondered if she was back, and hoped that she would be willing to talk, but dreaded it at the same time.