The Priest's Graveyard (19 page)

Danny’s house consisted
of three bedrooms. He slept in one of them, the master, which contained a queen bed with a quilted brown comforter imported
from Bosnia, a dresser, two nightstands, and one stuffed chair next to a large window that looked out to the backyard.

He used the second bedroom for a guest room, simply but comfortably furnished with another queen bed and two decent lamps
with forest-green shades purchased from Target. Renee had crashed in the room on two occasions.

The third bedroom served as his study, a private enclave that only he had ever entered. The blinds on the window had never
been opened. The corduroy-covered guest chair had never been sat in. Only his feet had left prints on the brown carpet.

But now here she was, pacing in front of his desk while he eyed her. Renee wore the black shirt he purchased for her and a
pair of tight-fitting yoga pants she’d found at a sporting-goods store. Watching her bounce around the room, he had to suppress
a smile. She was adorable.

Tell her something once and she knew it. He repeated himself only to be cut off with, “You’ve told me that.” Her mind was
a trap.

And her appetite for life was a vacuum, sucking in all it could. She had none of the caution that kept most people living
vicariously through the fantasies of others rather than pursuing their own.

This was why Renee had left all and come to California.

This was why she had become a heroin addict.

This was why she had so unreservedly embraced Lamont as her savior—and now Danny as her teacher, her confidant, her soul mate.

If he wasn’t mistaken, she was falling in love with him. And in the most honest of moments, he had to admit that he was drawn
to her like an unstoppable tide. He wasn’t sure what to think, except that it gave him one more compelling reason to leave
the priesthood.

Absurd, of course. But there it was.

He stood by a large corkboard that covered one wall. It was the kind with side panels that folded in to form doors, which
he kept locked. The board was now empty.

“I got it,” Renee said. “Reconnaissance only. I’m not going out there to kill some guy. That would compromise everything we’ve
talked about. I get it. You’ve told me that three times tonight.”

“We can’t be too careful.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” She waved him off.

“There’s no indication that our target needs to be handled with any severity.”

“But he’s evil, right? It’s not like you just pulled some guy off the street.”

“As you’ll see, there’s more to my selection of this mark than the dark nature of his character.”

The reverend mother’s voice whispered through his head.
Are you ever tempted to think you’re better than they are, Father?

“So he
is
male,” Renee said.

Danny opened the manila file on his desk, pulled out a picture, and pinned it to the board. The image was of a middle-aged
man with brown hair, short on the sides and slicked back. A dark mole stood out on the right side of his forehead, exposed
by a receding hairline. Thin face, dark circles under hazel eyes.

“Meet Darby Gordon. Age thirty-four. Married with two children. Rents in a low-income tract in San Pedro.”

“This is him?” Renee stepped up to the board, eyes wide like saucers. She slowly brought her hand up to the photo. “Darby
Gordon?”

“The man drives a blue Chevy pickup truck and works in the port when he’s not working muscle.”

“What’s he done?” She stared at the picture, fascinated. “I can see it in his eyes. He’s sick, isn’t he?”

“Not physically. He’s been arrested for domestic violence four times.”

“I knew it!”

“No, you can never know anything by looking at someone. You know them by their fruit, nothing else.”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you’re paying him a visit.”

“So how did you find him?”

“He was in Simon Redding’s wallet, under a list of men Redding evidently called on when he needed help. What he knows about
Redding may help us learn more about Bourque. Nothing is random, Renee. Ever. Our objective here is ultimately Bourque, don’t
forget that.”

“Trust me,” she said. “Never.”

She didn’t know Danny had palmed the thumb drive in Jonathan Bourque’s office, and he’d decided not to share its contents
with her until she was ready. The data detailed three years of payoffs and strong-arm operations in a dozen countries. It
included names and dates and, worse, recordings of conversations.

This was Bourque’s insurance. With the information contained on the drive, he could threaten anyone who tried to bring him
down, including a surprising number of government officials and politicians around the world who’d turned a blind eye or pushed
grants his way in exchange for favors and money.

Danny had spent two mornings poring over the data, cross-checking it with the figures made public by the Bourque Foundation.
The organization raised money for many charities, and it appeared that most of those dollars were handled correctly as a cover
for Bourque’s more profitable business—his own operations, which were cleverly mixed with third-party relief organizations.

While he delivered nicely for a host of reputable parties, winning their applause and trust, Jonathan Bourque was running
dozens of smaller charities, mostly international, that raped the donations of benefactors for his own gain.

In a typical charity operation, at least eighty cents of every dollar donated ended up in actual aid to the needy. Sometimes
this figure was as high as ninety-five cents.

Danny doubted that more than a third of the money the Bourque Foundation raised for its own international charities ended
up in the hands of those who needed it. The bulk went to covering up the skimming of large sums, often with the application
of threats and force. To that end, the man had no scruples.

Bourque was the worst of the worst, a true Pharisee who used his history as a priest to attract hundreds of millions in donations,
much of which ended up in his own pocket.

There was no direct evidence that he’d ordered Redding to kill Lamont, but Bourque was guilty nonetheless. Danny had already
decided that Bourque would either change his ways or die.

But not until Renee was ready. Not until she followed her own trail that led to him, under Danny’s watchful eye and careful
guidance.

“It’s important for you to establish Bourque’s unquestionable guilt in Lamont’s disappearance. Starting with Darby Gordon.”

She turned her head and looked at him with fiery eyes. “I’m paying him a visit alone? Tonight?”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“Under my new identity?”

“No. As Renee Gilmore. Making Bourque nervous, should he learn of your visit, isn’t a bad thing at this point. And I don’t
want you to blow your new identity.”

Her face was flushed with excitement, but she was otherwise calm. Eager, but not nervous.

“How do I get to him? You want me to break into his house tonight?”

“Not this time, no.” He glanced at his watch. Seven forty-five
PM
. “By nine o’clock you’ll be in his living room, drinking a beer with him, peeling back the layers that hide his secrets.”

“I will?”

“You will.”

“How?”

“It’s really quite simple.”

Danny said it
was quite simple, but standing on Darby Gordon’s porch at nine fifteen, I thought
insane
might be a better word to describe what I was doing.

But then so was jumping out of a plane for the first time, he’d said, and he was right. The first time was always filled with
anxiety.

The house was a tiny box, with only two windows facing the street on the main floor, and one above, from what might have been
a small loft or an attic. The gray wood siding was in bad need of fresh paint; the lawn was scraggly and worn to the ground
in some sections. A plastic Big Wheel tricycle with a broken pedal lay on its side next to a frayed garden hose. The light
on the porch was out, probably busted. Mini-blinds blocked most of the light filtering out through the two windows.

Danny was in his car a block down the street, waiting to step in should anything go wrong. He’d given me a small Panasonic
recording stick, which I stuck in my bra, where it would capture my conversation with Darby Gordon. If I ran into trouble
of any kind, I was to press a small button on the pager in my pocket, and Danny would come.

That was the plan. But I had no intention of running into any trouble because this was me, the meek mouse, here to ask a few
questions, close the case on Bourque, and feel out my instincts for doing this sort of thing on my own.

It had only been six days since we’d killed Redding, but I felt like a changed person. I had been born into my new self that
night with Danny, and then baptized by blood. Sure, it was Redding’s blood, but that was fine by me. He was the goat on the
altar, and we did sacrifice him pretty good.

Things changed after that night. Danny took me seriously I think. He spent hours with me, preparing me by rehearsing interrogation
techniques, evasion strategies, law enforcement practices, that sort of thing. It was all about tricks, really, the art of
illusion, methods of making people think one thing while something different is going on. Better to trick them into the truth
than coerce them, Danny said.

Particularly if you’re not much over five feet and only a hair over one hundred pounds, messing with someone who could flick
you in the neck and break your spine.

I think Danny had a crush on me. I could tell by the tenderness in his voice, by the way his hand sometimes lingered on my
arm or shoulder. I could tell by the way he talked to me in that soft voice and even more the way he looked at me when he
listened. We were poring over critical ideas and details that sent people to jail or worse, but we were also speaking to each
other, holding each other with our eyes.

I was becoming like Danny, and I didn’t want it any other way. Because, truth be told, I was falling in love with
him
. It was strange to feel attracted to a man besides Lamont, especially a priest, but I was sure that in his absence, Lamont
would have wanted that for me. I knew that Danny didn’t take all of his priesthood vows seriously. After all, he killed people
for God.

I pushed Darby Gordon’s doorbell and took a calming breath.
Here we go. Don’t mess this up, Renee. Just act normal
.

That’s what I told myself, but then I began wondering what
normal
really was in this world.

The door flew open and Darby Gordon stood in the frame. He was shorter than I imagined and wiry, with a sloped forehead that
made him look like a snake.

He was dressed in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose a large tattoo of a skull on his forearm. He looked like
he was about to snap at me, then thought twice as his eyes flashed up and down my body.

Danny had asked me to change into jeans, and I was glad I had. I figured I looked at least a little hot in denim, and I didn’t
mind the advantage a little sexiness might give me.

“Darby Gordon?”

A thin grin twisted his flat lips. “Depends who’s asking.”

This was it. “My name is Renee. I was sent by Jonathan Bourque. Do you mind if I come in?”

Danny and I had discussed exactly what I was to say and do, and standing there on the dark porch, it all came quite naturally
to me. I watched Darby’s eyes close and looked for whether he recognized that name.

If he knew Bourque, he wasn’t showing it. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“No. But you know Simon Redding, and Mr. Redding works for Jonathan Bourque. I’d rather discuss this inside, if you don’t
mind.”

I saw the jitter in his eye when I said
Redding
. He looked past me, then stepped to one side. I went in. The door closed behind me with a
thump
.

I stood in a small living room with a large green sofa. This faced a big-screen television that was blaring an action movie
with foul language. The carpet was worn and the place smelled like a dirty dog, although I didn’t see any pets. Half-filled
plastic glasses and plates dirtied with tomato sauce—maybe from spaghetti—sat on an oak coffee table in front of the couch.
A pair of boots with mud on them had been tossed to the floor next to an old crusted jacket. Clothes were draped over the
back of three wooden chairs, which seemed to have been set around haphazardly. Lint, matchsticks, and a few cigarette butts
littered the brown shag carpet.

The place was a mess by any standard and a toilet by mine.

But I held my blanching in check and focused on my first objective: understanding the theater of operation, as Danny called
it.

Okay then. There was a door to my right that probably led into the bedroom. Through a lighted passage on my left I could hear
clanking that led me to believe Emily Darby was in the kitchen, hard at work.

Two children, a boy about seven with bleached-blond hair and girl maybe two years older with long stringy hair, stared at
me from the couch.

“Out!” Darby snapped.

The two kids scampered away like rats.

“And stay out if you know what’s good for you.” His words chased them through the left passage, where they hooked right and
pattered up a flight of stairs.

“Alicia?” A cautionary voice, timid with a hint of a tremor, called out the name. This was the wife reacting to her children’s
flight up the stairs, wondering what was wrong. There was no response.

The stuffy room fell silent. A nauseating sense of déjà vu sucked the blood from my head. The TV was still blaring, but I
hardly heard it. I couldn’t put my finger on what caused this reaction. Maybe it was pity for a mother so frightened for her
children in her own home; maybe it was empathy for the children, whom I immediately imagined were being beaten and starved
by their father; maybe it was the plight of the woman trapped under the cruel thumb of spousal abuse.