Transience (20 page)

"So you'd say it's very unusual for a child this age to be able to do this kind of work?"

"She's a once in a lifetime talent," Helen said.
 
Once in a lifetime
…
Once in a lifetime.
 
Her words echoed repeatedly in Jack's brain.

"We'd love to meet her," Michael said.

"I'll see what I can do," Jack said, but that's precisely what he wanted — a third party opinion.
 
He put the book back in his case and tried to serpentine between students to get to the door.
 
He paused to take one more glance at Carmen's painting.
 

Once in a lifetime
…

A great amount of Carmen's art was religious in nature, Jack recalled, remembering the words Rebecca spoke:
 
Santa Maria Madre de Dios.
 
Find Jesus.
 
Find Jesus
…

CHAPTER 35

Jack put his wipers on the fast setting, but they only smudged the rain in arched streaks.
 
He hunched over the wheel, pressing his nose to the glass, trying to find a piece of windshield he could see through.
 
The interior was all misted up, so he used his sleeve to wipe clean a small patch.

He pulled up to the church on 17th and Connecticut Ave.
 
The building was situated just a few feet from the busy road, with no parking lot except for a small driveway where the church bus parks to unload passengers.
 
Jack circled the building to find a spot.
 
On his second go round, he lucked out; a small minivan's headlights went on.
 
Jack put his signal on and waited for it to pull out.
 
He held up the traffic in one direction and soon a car behind him blared its horn.
 
Jack flicked a switch and a blue light spun to life on his dashboard, shutting the impatient driver right up.

The minivan pulled out — a little fast — probably out of fear of Jack's show of authority.
 
Jack parked and sat a moment, waiting for his legs to fill with enough energy to get out and make the trek inside.
 
He was compelled to remove his gun from its holster and place it in his glove compartment.
 
He looked around to make sure no one was watching.
 
He just didn't feel right about bringing a loaded weapon into church.
   

He looked out his driver's side window at the rain dripping down the glass.
 
It reminded him of tears.
 
His thoughts drifted back to that terrible night.
 
How the rain was cold and heavy, just like tonight.
 
He'd come outside to his car — he could no longer bear to sit inside that awful waiting room.
 
He sat and watched the rain cascade down the window, just like now.
 
He could still remember the smell of the hospital hallways.
 
A chemical smell, some sort of cleaning solution or disinfectant.
 
Whatever it was, its nauseating odor had made him angry and desperate.
 
It was a constant reminder that he was in a place of life and death, blood and medicine.
 
In there he had no control, forced to sit idle, helpless.
 
Jack was a man of action — the waiting was toxic for him.
 
He had to get out, get some air.
 

He remembered how hard it was to finally get up the courage to open the car door and go back inside.
 
He feared the awful news awaiting him, news that would change his life forever.
 
Soon he would know how those other people felt, the families he'd comforted.
 
The ones he'd watched crumple in agony to the floor.
 
The kind of pain no words can soothe.
 
You simply have to step back and let them grieve.
 
He wondered how he would react.
 
Would he fall away?
 
Weep openly, make a scene?
 
Opening that car door was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
 

He recalled taking the news calmly.
 
He didn't scream.
 
He cried, but not enough to turn heads or make others uncomfortable.
 
He took it like a man, internalizing the pain.
 

Maybe it would have been better if he had let it all out.
 
Instead, he simmered slowly over the years, letting the anger and hurt eat away at his insides until it was no longer just keeping him sad and miserable.
 
It was killing him.
 
Soon it would consume him completely and, in a shallow self pitying way, he looked forward to death's absolution.
 
But did it have to be like this?
 

It was too late for him.
 
But there was still time left to do something good for someone else.
 
It was that noble idea that flexed the muscles in his hand.
 
Jack opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.

He flipped up his collar and headed for the entrance, stepping over a deep puddle that barred his path along the sidewalk.
 
He crept around it onto the mushy grass, which sounded like squished applesauce beneath his shoes.
 
A few drops penetrated his collar and dripped down his bare neck, through his undershirt, down his back.
 
He shuddered, vibrating his lips like a sputtering motor,
brbrbrbrbr
.

He climbed the steps and pressed the door — only to collapse into wood, face first.
 
He leaned back and pulled it open like you're supposed to, hoping no one saw his gaffe.

Inside, the church vestibule was quiet.
 
He gently eased the door closed behind him, muting the sound of the driving rain.
 
It was so quiet, Jack could hear his own breathing.
 
He wasn't a regular churchgoer.
 
Though baptized and put through the motions growing up, it never took.
 
He respected all religions — he'd never take either side of the argument — but he never found a place for it.
 
And his profession only served to drive the notion of a benevolent God from his beliefs.
 
Still, he respected a person's right to worship.
 

He stepped gingerly, not remembering all the protocols for being inside a house of worship.
 
Especially one in session — which it was, judging by the serene music emanating from the congregation area.

He opened the door to the nave quietly, not wanting to call attention to himself.
 
No one turned around.
 
A funeral was being held, a priest performed a sermon.
 
Most of the mourners were Latino.
 
Jack took a seat in the back and waited.
 

He looked around at the proceedings with a dour expression
.
 
How long before he would be here?
 
Would anyone show up?
 
Sure, he'd get the classic policeman's sendoff.
 
But not the lavish kind reserved for those taken in the line of duty.
 
His immediate station would probably attend, if only out of respect.
 

What about loved ones?
 
Family and friends?
 
Jack could be quite the chore to be around.
 
Any family he stayed in touch with merely tolerated him.
 
He understood why.
 
So his passing would simply be a procedure, a chore that had to get done, like cleaning up the dishes after a meal.
 
That last thought amused him in a macabre way.
 

He envisioned his casket filled with ice and beer.
 
They could pay their respects and grab a cold one on their way out.
 
At least everyone would have a good time.
 

Mourners slowly walked past the closed casket, paying their respects.
 
Jack knew who was in there.
 
That was the reason he came.
 
He searched the crowd for her — and there she was – Hester Muniz; draped in black, head down, sobbing on the shoulder of the man sitting next to her.
 
This was Carmen's funeral, 10 years belated.
 
Jack listened to the priest's sermon:

"In our terrible grief, we thank you Lord for bringing closure to Carmen's family.
 
We take comfort in knowing that Carmen now sits beside your only son Jesus in Heaven.
 
Jesus cradles her in his arms and she feels no more pain."
 

The priest stepped down from the pulpit and placed his hand on Hester's shoulder.
 
She looked up at him reverently, kissing the side of his hand.
 
He whispered some words of comfort to her, then turned to acknowledge the man she was holding on to.
 
Jack could see now he was a young man, 22 maybe.
 
Dressed in full military uniform.
 

As the mourners exited quietly, a few noticed Jack sitting there, a puzzled look on their faces as they passed him by.
 

Hester leaned over Carmen's casket, placed a kiss on the lacquered wood, then knelt and did the sign of the cross.
 
She erupted in a fit of tears; the young man had to help her up to her feet.
 
He walked her back towards the exit.
 

Jack swallowed, maybe this wasn't the best time to talk with her.
 
But she noticed him right away.

"Detective?"
 

Jack stood up and nodded.
 
"Mrs. Muniz.
 
I was wondering if I might speak with you some more."

"What's this about?" the young man said, his tone adversarial.
 
Hester placed her hands on his to silence him.

"This is my son, Francisco."
 
Francisco and Jack exchanged glances.
 
"Jack is the one who found Carmen." Hester's tone demanded he respect the detective.
 
Francisco softened immediately and extended his hand.
 
Jack took it.

"Not all the credit is mine," Jack said — no intention of divulging the other deserving party.
 
"I realize this isn't a good time, but maybe if I could stop by your home?
 
When it's convenient."

"Of course, anything."

"We should go, they're waiting," Francisco said, giving her wrist a gentle tug.

"Si, okay."
 
She turned to Jack.
 
"Goodbye.
 
God bless you."

Hester and Francisco exited, leaving Jack alone with the priest.
 
His name was Father Carlos Gonzales, he had a stocky build, and thin black hair with graying along his temples.
 
His face was gentle and disarming.
 
Jack could see how someone like him was just the right person to deliver a message of peace during sorrow, or blessings during joy.
 
In a way, they were both public servants, but for his own reasoning, Jack saw himself as the dark one in the room.
 
Even though Jack fought on the side of good, he was constantly immersed in the dark side of his fellow man, whereas this servant of God saw only the goodness in people.
 

The priest collected bibles from the pews.
 
Jack approached him.

"Father, my name's Jack Ridge, I'm a detective-"
 

"I know who you are," he said with a warm smile catching Jack off guard, "Thanks to you, Carmen's spirit can at last rest in peace."
 

Jack tilted his head, not necessarily agreeing with his assessment.
 
"Then you don't mind speaking for a moment?"

"How can I be of help?"
 

"How long have you been with this church?"
 

The priest looked up at the ceiling, calculating in his head.
 
"Eh, I'm 58 now.
 
So, 26 years, I think."

"Carmen was a member of this church?"

"I know her family a long time."
 
The priest continued to collect prayer books as they spoke.
 
He motioned with his head for Jack to step aside so he could collect the ones behind him.
 
He continued to the next aisle.

"Do you remember anything unusual about her before she disappeared?"

"Not that I can remember."

"Maybe she confessed to something?
 
Was anything bothering her?
 
Trouble at home, maybe?"

The priest turned to Jack, the casual demeanor in his expression gone, replaced with a sudden formality.

"She was a devout member of this church.
 
Her mother still is."

"I'm sure of that.
 
You didn't answer my question."

"Dead or alive, there is a sanctity of confession I will not violate.
 
But I can tell you she never gave her mother a day's trouble.
 
And I know she always wanted the best for Carmen.
 
It was not easy after her husband passed.
 
The sadness became too great for him, the Lord called him home."

"Carmen's murder is part of a larger investigation now.
 
Another girl is missing.
 
Her name's Angelina Rosa."

"We are all well aware of it in this community.
 
I know Mr. Rosa, he's a good man.
 
We both emigrated from Ecuador.
 
I lit a candle with him to pray for Angelina's safe return."
 
The priest motioned towards several burning candles near the entrance.
 
He picked up two more prayer books, the stack almost up to his chin.