The Priest's Graveyard (13 page)

For a long time neither of us spoke. I realized that my hand on his was making him uncomfortable, and I suddenly felt awkward,
so I removed it and folded my hands in my lap.

“I suppose we’ve all been deeply wounded at one time or another,” he said. He shrugged. “I grew up in Bosnia. I saw some things
there that left an impression on me. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Bosnian war, 1992?”

“No.”

He gave me a strange look. “They say it was an ethnic war between Croats and Serbs, but it was just as much a religious war.
Bosnian Serbs, mainly Bosnian Orthodox Christians, adopted a policy of ethnic and religious cleansing—the relocation and slaughter
of Roman Catholic Croats and Muslims. It escalated into the systematic rape of women and the mass killing of non-Serbs, all
done in the name of Christianity. They came into the small valley my family and I lived in. We were Croats.”

Croats? The Catholics who were cleansed? My breathing stalled.

He shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I want to know,” I said. “Because you need to tell someone. Because maybe we are the same.”

He chuckled, but it was a nervous reaction. I didn’t let him off the hook.

“So tell me,” I said.

The muscles along his jaw firmed up. “My mother and my two sisters were raped and killed by Christian Serbs because they were
Catholic. I was fifteen.”

“Oh no!”

“As you can imagine, my life was shattered. I joined the militia and learned how to fight. After the war I came to the United
States, determined to honor the death of my family by being a good Catholic priest. And here I am.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt such a bond with him in that moment, because he’d faced what I had faced. Worse! Much worse!

“So you see, Renee, I do know what it means to suffer and lose something precious.”

“But you became a priest? Serving God, who let you down?”

Danny nodded. He closed his eyes briefly, then unfolded his legs and stood. “Would you like to come inside for a moment? Have
some hot tea?”

“Tea?”

He slid the door open and stepped into his house. I stopped at the entrance and looked around. His house was furnished simply:
a kitchen table, one leather couch, one stuffed leather chair, two floor lamps, and an armoire, which held a big-screen Toshiba
television. The floors were covered with wood and tile—no carpet.

It was clean. Not as clean as I would have liked it, but cleaner than I expected.

“Coming?”

He was at the stove, heating a pot of water.

“You’re clean!” I said.

Danny grinned. “I am? Tea?”

“Tea. Yes, I can have tea as long as it’s a fresh bag with boiled water.”

Three minutes later we sat around a small oak table with steaming cups in front of us.

He looked down at his tea. “So. I became a priest. To do God’s work—true religion. Cleansing the world of evil and serving
orphans and widows. If people knew my story, they might question my occupation. Even I do sometimes.” He lifted his eyes.
“I’m not a typical priest, I assure you. And I could leave it all if I felt so compelled. I’m sure that day will come. But
for now, serving God suits me.”

I thought I understood and I said so.

“Then maybe you can also understand why I spot the evil in people like Jonathan Bourque so easily. Faith isn’t about a list
of rules and regulations, it’s about love.”

I wasn’t sure where he was headed, but I let him talk because he had done the same for me.

“But I am deeply offended by injustice, if by your actions you abuse the rights of another. This is what I learned in Bosnia
as a teenager. Innocent men, women, and children lost their right to life, in the name of God.”

“Lamont was innocent. Jonathan Bourque killed him,” I said.

“God will be his judge.”

“Do you believe in the death penalty?”

He answered slowly. “Yes.”

“Then why can’t you help me? I’m an orphan
and
a widow. I need help. I need to kill the pig who killed Lamont.”

“That is not for us to do. You and I should concern ourselves with loving others, not extracting revenge.”

“Surely God uses people to carry out his will. Would you kill the butchers who killed your mother if you had the chance?”

“I believe I did.”

“Really? When you were fifteen?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“And did God approve?”

“I believe he did.”

“But you won’t help me—”

“Please, Renee! You’re trying to convince a priest to help you kill someone. I might have an obligation to turn you in to
the authorities.”

“You won’t. If you wanted to involve the police, you would have done it last night.”

“You’re missing the point. You are on a dangerous path that will end badly for you. These are youthful fantasies, and however
much I might empathize, you have to forget them! Look at you!”

“Maybe I should be God’s servant, too,” I said. “If you killed the men who killed your mother, why shouldn’t I do the same
for Lamont?”

“Because you’ll only be killed yourself!”

He had a good point. What if Danny did turn me in?

“You’re young, naive, and inexperienced. Bourque will crush you with one blow.”

I took a sip of tea, feeling deflated. But even then I didn’t waver in my resolve to end Bourque’s life. My convictions ran
too deep. I suddenly wanted to leave.

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Renee,” Danny said softly. “And I won’t betray you to the authorities. I won’t need to,
because you’re going to leave the state.”

“I can’t.”

“You must. I’ve seen enough people around me die.”

Now he was telling me I was going to die and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—help me stay alive. I felt terrible and small. What had
I been thinking, coming to a priest to help me kill a man?

It only showed how ridiculous I was. Maybe the heroin had wiped out more of my mind than I’d realized.

“You’re right.” I stood. “I should be going.”

“I’m sorry, Renee,” he said, standing. “I’m begging you, forget this.”

“Yes. Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s stupid.”

“I can still help you. I can put you in touch with good people who will take you in.”

“No. No, I’m good. I can leave town on my own. I’m not
that
stupid.”

“No. I’m sure you’re not.”

We stood like that for a moment.

“Can you call me a cab?”

“Nonsense, I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, you’ve done too much already. I’d like to take a cab.”

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be a problem. It’s the least I can do.”

“No. I like cabs.”

He watched me.

“Okay. But promise me you’ll forget all this nonsense about Bourque. Let God deal with him.”

“I promise,” I said.

I was lying through my teeth.

The world’s orbit,
once in a constant rotation that could not be altered by anything even as cataclysmic as an encounter with a massive comet,
had faltered. Perhaps even stalled. A young bleached-blond woman who couldn’t weigh more than Danny’s left leg had smashed
into it and forever altered its course.

At first Danny couldn’t understand why Renee’s visit made such a devastating impact on him. After the Yellow Cab took her
away, he’d gone about his business, determined to shrug off their meeting. He washed the cups and wiped down the counter and
prepared himself a Cobb salad and watched some news.

But after thirty futile minutes of not hearing what was said on the tube, he gave up. The matter was fairly simple. Renee
had managed to enter his mind and was refusing to leave.

In a matter of minutes they’d bonded. She’d simply walked through the barriers he’d carefully built around himself as if she
were a ghost who could walk through walls.

He’d sat listening to her talk about her husband, but his mind was preoccupied with fending off an insane desire to grab her
hand and tell her everything.

You’re right, Renee. I know you’re right because I’m just like you. You’re like me. We’re the same, you and I. Your life has
been ruined by a beast who will only ruin more lives if we let him live.

At least three others in Bourque’s organization had gone missing that very month.

Now one more had come to light. Lamont Myers, who was evidently farther up the food chain. Bourque would have cloaked his
disappearance with special care, but he hadn’t taken into consideration the widow left behind. Renee.

Danny’s and Renee’s paths were already inseparably linked.

She was idealistic enough to believe, truly believe, that she was meant to destroy Jonathan Bourque. Even more, she believed
that she was morally obligated to kill him. Looking into her eyes, Danny had known beyond the slightest doubt that she would
not be dissuaded from that conviction.

In this way, she was his twin.

He lay awake trying to remember precisely what he’d said to her, what words he had chosen, and whether those words would betray
him in any way.

He’d said too much, far too much. Without meaning to, he’d given her all the moral reasoning she needed to feed her obsession.
Though he’d insisted she was foolish for even thinking of going after Bourque, was it enough?

That depended on how intelligent Renee was. Where at first he had seen only naïveté and idealism, he understood she possessed
a simple logic that cut through all the fog that kept most people scratching their heads.

It was no secret that most people were like sheep, content to eat the grass at their feet and join the herd at a shepherd’s
beck and call. This was why whole nations followed the smooth tongue of a dictator. This was why good men and women massed
to salute Hitler as he rode by in his motorcade. This was why decent people had raped and slaughtered their neighbors in Bosnia.

Danny managed to fall asleep sometime shortly after two in the morning, but his rest was fitful. When he rose at eight, the
matter seemed even more dire than it had during the night.

He could not just dismiss his encounter with Renee.

He slipped on his clerical collar, studied his image in the mirror, then grabbed an apple from the kitchen before heading
to his first appointment, a dreaded budget meeting with the administrative staff.

He had a clear choice, one fraught with moral implications.

Consider:
Renee was like him in too many ways for him to ignore.

Consider:
She was directly involved with Jonathan Bourque, his own target, and could prove to be an invaluable source of information.

Consider:
He liked her. In fact, in some ways he liked her very much, in the same way he imagined he might like a soul mate. This sentiment
surprised him, because he hardly knew her.

Granny Smith apple in hand, Danny climbed into his white Chevy Malibu and backed it out of the garage.

Consider:
Renee was in danger. The thought of harm coming to her disturbed him considerably.

Consider:
She might have an insight into him that could undermine his objectives.

Consider:
The mystery that surrounded her had become a serious distraction to him.

The moral implication was quite clear. He had to know more both for her sake and for his.

Danny stopped his car at the end of his driveway and made a decision. He picked up his cell phone, selected the church’s number
from the list of contacts, and called Regina. She answered on the second ring.

“Good morning, Regina.”

“Well, good morning, Danny. You’re on your way in?”

“Actually, no. I’ve had an emergency come up and can’t attend the budget meeting. I’m needed. Please extend my apologies and
tell them to go on without me.”

“Oh? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes of course. A personal matter, actually.”

“No problem. I’ll let them know.”

“Thank you.”

He pulled back into the garage, hurried to his bedroom, and reemerged wearing jeans and a black polo shirt. It took only a
few minutes to find the address of the only Staybridge hotel in Long Beach. He left the house and headed south, objective
clear.

He called the hotel and asked for Renee Gilmore’s room. From what he’d learned the night before, she left her room only to
shop or to conduct surveillance, however ill advised and amateurish, on the Bourque Foundation. He had to give her credit,
though; she had more of a backbone than she might realize.

She picked up on the tenth ring.

“Hello?”

Danny disconnected. She was home as expected. He would have to wait, but waiting was a task with which he was well acquainted.
At least he knew where she was. He doubted her enemies did. The fact that she lived in a hotel was to her advantage.

Twenty minutes later, he parked his car in the strip mall across from the Staybridge and settled down with a full view of
the front entrance. A quick drive around the property had revealed two other exits, but when she emerged it would be to take
a cab, her preferred means of transportation, and she would meet it at the front.

No doubt the money she’d spent on cabs these past few months could have purchased her a car. He didn’t know how much cash
she’d packed into the pajama bottoms before escaping Lamont Myers’s house, but she obviously wasn’t concerned with small details
like money. She existed solely to bring justice to Jonathan Bourque’s doorstep.

His wait lasted three hours.

She stepped out dressed in a pink T-shirt, her shoulder-length bleached hair blowing in the wind, and walked toward a Yellow
Cab that had pulled up five minutes earlier.

He had to admire her nerve, so great for such a tiny thing. Renee might step on a ladybug and not have the weight to crush
it. She seemed to float more than walk.

The cab door shut with her safely inside and motored away.

Danny exited his car and hurried across the street. There were a number of ways to learn the room number of a hotel guest,
and though all were quite simple, none was easy. It often took more than one attempt.

He approached the front desk, relieved that the man on duty was young with black hair that flopped over his left eye. It was
always easier to convince a rebellious spirit to bend the rules. Older people who’d grown comfortable in their boxes were
the worst.

“Can I help you?”

Danny held out the manila envelope, on which he’d written Renee’s name. “I hope so. I’m from the law offices of Morton and
Laurence and I have a document that must get into the hands of Renee Gilmore as soon as possible. I understand she’s a guest
of yours.”

“She just left.”

“Ah.”

“But I can take it for you.”

He pulled the envelope back. “Sorry, state law. I can’t actually deliver it into the possession of any other person. But I
could slip it under her door. Or I could put it in her mailbox. Anything as long as I don’t physically give it to another
person. I know that sounds crazy, but that’s California for you.”

A whimsical smile crossed the clerk’s mouth. “We don’t have mailboxes. She has a slot, but no door on it.”

“That could work. Show me.”

The young man walked to a bank of slots to his right. “Right here.” The slot that belonged to Renee Gilmore was marked 232.

“Should work,” Danny said. “Just make sure no one but her touches it. You think that’s okay?”

“Not a problem.”

He handed the envelope over the counter. “Do you mind?”

“Sure.” The manager slipped the envelope into the slot.

Danny thanked the young man and left. He rounded the hotel, walked in past a guest who was leaving through the back entrance,
and made his way up the stairs to the second floor.

Three minutes later, he sprang the lock on number 232 and stepped into Renee Gilmore’s current place of residence.

The room appeared hardly lived in. It was, as the name of the hotel claimed, a suite, with a door that led into a bedroom.
One couch and one chair bordered a scratched but polished coffee table. A laptop computer sat open on a small desk in one
corner, and next to that desk, a new red Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner.

The worn carpet had the telltale markings of a recent vacuuming. The kitchen counters, bared of all but one sparkling glass
half full of water, were spotless. Clean.

She’d been pleased that his house was clean. Even in this way they were similar.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Small bottles of pomegranate juice filled the top shelf in perfectly
aligned rows. No milk. No butter. No cheese. No meat. No condiments. Two opened boxes of baking powder occupied the bottom
shelf, one on each side. Vegetables filled both of the bottom drawers. Renee was clearly a vegetarian.

He closed the door and opened the cupboards, one by one. Again, all plates and glasses were crystal clean and perfectly ordered
in rows and stacks. Even the sink was spotless, not just clean but wiped down and dried. No dish towels or rags in the open—they
would attract mildew and germs.

If Danny were to guess, he would say that Renee suffered from a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder. Had she always been so
orderly?

He left the kitchen and walked to her bedroom, noting that he would have to allow for time to vacuum the carpet. She would
spot the indentations from his shoes immediately.

The bedspread was white with pink flowers. Two pillows had been fluffed and positioned at the head of the bed, not a wrinkle
on either pillowcase. Three books, one about the FBI and two true-crime paperbacks by Ann Rule, were neatly stacked on the
nightstand.

Danny walked up to the books and picked up one of the true-crime paperbacks. It was titled
The Stranger Beside Me,
a familiar account about a serial killer named Bundy. It was there, standing by Renee’s bed and holding that small book in
his hands, that Danny felt his heart begin to break.

How often had Renee read late into the night, identifying with the accounts of these innocent victims? How often had she cried
herself to sleep as she mourned the loss of the one man who had given her meaning and life?

It was as if Danny held his own shattered heart.

So few people thought about those left in the wake of injustice. When Bourque killed Lamont he’d also killed Renee, not once
but a thousand times, night after night, with each recurring nightmare.

Danny knew this. He had been one of those victims. His pain returned now, suddenly and with a vengeance, like the fist of
God.

He set the book back on the nightstand, slowly lowered himself to the bed, and fought to control his emotions. But the pain
he’d barricaded in the deepest part of his soul raged to the surface, and he could not stop himself.

His mother was there, in the house, screaming to be saved. But he’d let them all down.

And now you will run away from another victim?

Danny pushed himself up. He’d stepped on holy ground here. He’d violated Renee’s space.

He hurried to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face, thinking only then that he was making
a mess. The carpet, the bed, the sink—he’d practically ransacked her suite!

He worked quickly, retrieving paper towels from the kitchen to wipe the sink.

He would not peruse the contents of her computer as he had planned. He’d lost track of time. For all he knew, she was walking
down the hall at this very moment.

He had to vacuum the carpet to erase the indentations from his shoes, then get out, even though he’d learned nothing new from
his visit. Unless she invited him, he would not return to her home.

Danny headed for the living room but paused at the sliding doors of the closet. He pulled one of the doors open and stared
at the shelves carefully lined with what were surely Renee’s most prized possessions.

Jeans, T-shirts, a gray business suit, and several blouses hung from a rod to the left. Socks and underwear were carefully
stacked in color order on the bottom shelves. Shoes and slippers neatly lined the floor.

But it was the contents of the top four shelves that arrested his attention. Two pairs of binoculars—one small, one large.
A night-vision scope. A pair of handcuffs. A pair of nunchaku. Three knives, one of which was longer than her arm. A set of
lock picks. A camera. A pair of brass knuckles. Wire cutters and flexible wire, the kind that might be used for a garrote.
A box of rat poison. At least twenty books similar to the ones on her nightstand.

And a Browning nine-millimeter pistol.

This was the treasure trove of an amateur obsessing over the perfect crime. As he paired the contents with an image of the
young woman who’d asked him to help her kill Jonathan Bourque, Danny’s heart melted.

It was both tragic and endearing at once.

The sound of the front door opening jerked him from his thoughts. She was home? So soon? He hadn’t vacuumed!