CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 

Jack never realized how slight Father Nick had become until he saw him lying motionless in the hospital bed.

Jack had become so engrossed in the case, not to mention getting sick in the process, he hadn't realized how much time had passed since he'd last visited Nick.

Today he regretted not having made the time.

Gazing into the room from the doorway, it felt like his heart had leaped into his throat and stopped beating there. He swallowed hard several times, trying to dislodge it so he could breathe again.

His friend's rail-thin body was barely visible beneath the light blue colored blanket covering him. If not for Nick's fuzzy gray-crowned head on the pillows and the steady beep of the heart monitor, Jack would have thought the bed was empty.

He willed his feet to move, but he remained rooted where he stood.

From this height, several floors up and at the top of one of the city's many hills, the room was above the fog line. Through the thin shroud, he could just see Hyde Street Pier and San Francisco Bay.

Jack was thankful Nick had a private room, sparse as it was. A single guest chair sat in one corner of the room beside a narrow wardrobe. A TV was mounted on the wall opposite the bed, and a tray table that held a small jug of water and a glass was within arm's reach of the bed.

The beeping monitor at the top of the bed seemed to grow louder the longer Jack stood at the door, as if screaming at him.

Beep! Where have you been?

Beep! Why didn't you make the time to visit?

Beep! What kind of friend are you?

Beep! You've failed. Again.

"You going to just stand there, or are you going to bring me those flowers in your hand?" Nick's voice sounded as fragile as he looked.

It had taken all of Jack's strength to enter the hospital, and sheer will had dragged his leaden feet through long corridors. The heavy feeling in his body didn't ease as he crossed the room to his friend's bedside.

Jack gazed down at the old man. The term skin and bones couldn't have been truer. Nick's nearly translucent skin pulled against the shape of his skull. Ruddy cheeks protruded around dark, sunken hazel eyes. Thin, pale lips pressed together above his sharp chin.

He'd known Nick for more than a decade but had never noticed the man age. Jack's stomach twisted at the thought that his friend could be dying.

His heart thumped heavily in his chest. "I wasn't sure if you were awake." He took a deep breath and forced a smile.

Nick glanced at the flowers. "Nice posies."

"I didn't know what you liked, but the florist did a nice job of putting these together." Jack lifted the bouquet to show Nick the arrangement full of cream-colored flowers—roses, chrysanthemums, and delicate Queen Anne's Lace—that were nestled between Dusty Miller leaves and sprigs of Silver Dollar eucalyptus.

"It was thoughtful of you, Jack." He waved a shaky hand toward the water jug. "Stick them in there, then sit down and tell me why you have such a sour look on your face."

Jack removed the lid on the jug and carefully set the flowers into it, then pulled over the chair to the bedside and settled against the tan Naugahyde seatback. He couldn't get comfortable. He crossed one leg over the opposite knee, then shifted in his seat to re-cross them in the other direction. Finally, he set both feet on the floor and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees.

"What's the matter, Jack?" Nick's quiet voice was tinged with an undercurrent of melancholy.

"I went up to Saint Frank's to see you, only to find you'd collapsed walking to the confessional on Saturday. Why didn't you have anyone call me? It's been three days, Nick." Jack wrung his hands together to keep them from shaking.

"I didn't want—"

Jack shot Nick a glare. "Don't you dare say you didn't want to bother me."

"Well, I didn't. Don't get yourself all knotted up over this. I'm sorry to have scared you, but I'm all right," Nick assured him, but the waver in his voice told another story.

Jack brooded for a moment. "I'm sorry—" he finally started.

"For what?"

"For not going to Saint Frank's sooner. This case—"

"You don't owe me an apology, Jack," Nick cut in again. "I know what you're like when you're on a tough case. You're either all in or all out. There's no middle ground for you." Nick motioned to the remote hanging on the side of the bedrail. Jack handed it to him. Nick pressed a button that moved the bed into a more upright position.

"If I'd have visited more regularly, I would've known you needed to see a doctor. Maybe it wouldn't have come to this." Could he have prevented his friend from getting so sick? He'd spent a lot of time over the last four years contemplating the what ifs in his life. What if he'd made the time to visit Nick after Mass every Sunday and not just when he felt he needed spiritual guidance? What if he'd paid more attention to his friend rather than focusing on his own problems when he did visit? He might have known more about Nick as a person, and the person he was before he came to the city all those years ago.

Another what if . . . What if he'd got home just ten minutes earlier; could he have prevented Zoë and Trax's murders, and saved his wife?

The last thought widened the hole he felt growing inside him. He inhaled long and deep.

"Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?" he finally asked, hearing the concern in his own voice. He was worried about Nick and scared shitless he'd lose his friend.

"I'm fine," Nick calmly said again. "I'll be here a while longer. I'm where I need to be, so stop worrying."

"Tell me what happened."

"It's just pneumonia."

"Pneumonia! There's nothing just about it at your age. You're in hospital for Christ's sake—" He caught himself short at the blasphemy but wouldn't apologize for it. "How long have you known you were sick? Why didn't you see a doctor before it came to this?"

Nick waved a shaky hand in Jack's direction. "Don't get yourself worked up over this. I was feeling a little under the weather and expected it to pass."

Jack grumbled aloud. "I should have known you were here."

"Why should you? This isn't your fault and you couldn't have prevented me from getting sick," Nick told him.

"I could have done—"

"Done what, Jack?"

He ran his fingers through his hair and felt his eyebrows draw tightly together. "I don't know . . . something."

"Well, I'm here now, and so are you. Let's talk about something more pleasant," Nick suggested. When Jack didn't say anything, the man continued, "Nice view they gave me."

Jack didn't have to look over his shoulder to know it was. "Don't get comfortable here. You'll be home soon." Home. Was the church really a home? "Have you ever thought of retiring? Get yourself out of that drafty old building and into a house. I can fix up the Sunset house for you. The beach would practically be at your doorstep," he suggested. He wasn't doing anything else with the house. It made sense.

"I appreciate the offer, Jack. It's tempting, but I do prefer the view from the church's bell towers. I can see across the Bay to Angel Island from up there. And the mountains."

Nick's sigh brought on a raspy cough. The monitor's relentless beeping accelerated with his increased heart rate. Jack rose to pour his friend some water, then realized the flowers were in the jug. He glanced toward the door, hoping to catch a passing nurse. But the beeping monitor slowed again as his friend caught his breath. Nick breathed deeply through his nostrils, taking advantage of the tube full of oxygen. Jack's gaze traced the cables peeking out from under the hospital gown to the blood pressure monitor and the oxygen monitor clipped to his finger. An IV line had been inserted into the back of his hand.

The room certainly wasn't part of the ICU—that was on the ground floor—but they were definitely taking good care of the old man, even if he was full of tubes and wires.

Tubes and wires.

Jack's mind flashed to a vision of himself lying in a hospital bed, his attempt to join his family gone wrong and they were keeping him alive by any means necessary. He'd only ever thought about spending that round, not failing in his task. He made a mental note to amend his living will to include a DNR clause. The last thing he wanted was to be kept alive. That opposed the whole purpose of swallowing a bullet.

"There's something about being up in the tower." Nick's voice sounded thinner and he spoke with more effort. "Being closer to heaven and with a view of the island of angels."

Jack went to the door as Nick spoke and asked a passing nurse for a fresh jug of water. "There's a much better view of Alcatraz up there too," he said, returning to Nick's bedside.

"Alcatraz . . . Well, there's a story." Nick gazed away from the window and weakly motioned toward the chair. "Stop fussing. Sit down so we can talk. Did you bring the bottle?"

When Jack had gone up to Saint Frank's, the rector told him about Nick having been taken to hospital, and that Nick had given him instructions for Jack to bring the bottle from his office when he visited. Jack pulled the bottle of aged Jameson from his inside pocket and set it on the tray table.

"Are you allowed to have this?" Jack asked.

"No, he's not, but I won't say anything if ye won't," the pretty nurse said with a wink as she approached the bed with a fresh jug of water and a clean glass. A soft Irish brogue tinged her words. "At least ye have good taste in yer tipple. Lovely flowers, Father." Her tag read Edna. She set the jug on the tray table and the glass beside it.

"They're from my friend here, Jack."

"It's nice to have such thoughtful friends, so it is." After moving the jug of flowers to the windowsill, Edna came back to the bedside to check the monitors and make notes in Nick's chart.

Jack watched as the nurse checked Nick's upper arm cuff then pushed the button on the wall mounted machine to take his blood pressure. A moment later, Edna said, "Your blood pressure has come up a wee bit, Father." Turning to Jack, she added while straightening the blankets, "Your visit seems to have perked him up."

"I was raised by my aunt. Her name was Edna, too. Edna Ellison." He gazed at Jack. "At my age, a few marbles in the memory are bound to roll away, but I could never forget my dear Aunt Edna."

"I'm sure she was a lovely woman. Look how well ye turned out, Father. Now, are ye comfortable? Is there anything I can get ye?" she asked.

"From the old country, Edna?" Nick asked.

Jack saw the gleam appearing in his friend's eyes. With a surname like Morrissey, he'd long assumed the priest had a connection to Ireland. His friend rarely talked about his life outside of the church. Maybe he still had family there. If Nick had family anywhere, Jack thought they should know the man wasn't well.

Edna's cheeks took on a rosy glow. "Not in a long time."

"Surely, they miss you," Nick said.

"Of course. I am going home for a visit after the New Year, to see me mam. Knowing her, it'll be a right hooley."

"And why not? Her beloved child is home and I'm sure the whole family will turn up."

Edna laughed. "The whole of the village if I know her."

"What part of Ireland are you from?" Jack asked.

Gazing up at him, she said, "Donegal. Do you know Ireland?"

Jack shook his head. "Just curious is all. Nick, do you have family in Ireland?"

Both heads spun toward Nick. "There were rumors, but who has time to chase rumors? My work at Saint Francis keeps me busy enough."

"Right, Father. I'll leave ye in peace. Ye have yer buzzer if ye need anything." Edna patted Nick's shoulder before heading toward the door.

"Thank you, Edna. I'll remember you in my prayers."

Edna turned with a fresh blush in her cheeks. "Go raibh míle maith agat, Father."

When the nurse had gone, Jack settled back against the chair. "You've never really talked about your family, Nick. Has anyone been called since you've been . . . here?" He didn't want to say sick, and he avoided the word hospital. He hadn't been in one since he'd been brought in for observation nearly four years ago. He'd been a hot mess that night when he'd been found slumped against a wall across from where his daughter's lifeless body had been propped in the old highchair. Haniford and Ray both agreed he needed observation for a few days.

Memories from that night were still fresh in his mind. No surprise since at some point every day he retraced each step he'd taken that night, hoping to uncover something he might have missed. At this point, he didn't even care why it had been done to his family, only who did it. Once he knew, he'd exact his revenge. And then he'd take out his Beretta for the last time.

Nick had suggested the mystery might never be solved, but Jack couldn't accept that. Someone had to know what had happened. Leah had to be somewhere. He just wanted the answers to everything before it drove him completely out of his mind.

"No, Jack." Nick's frail voice brought Jack back to the room. "There's no one to call. Any family I had is long gone now."

He couldn't believe Nick had absolutely no one outside the church. How could he be so alone in the world? Then he answered his own question. Aside from Ray and Maria, and Nick, he had no one else in his life either.

"You going to pour us that drink?" Nick asked.

Jack sat forward and poured them their customary shot of the aged whiskey. He knew neither of them would drink until they were done talking, so he pulled the chair a little closer and sat back.

A strange feeling settled in his belly. Something was off about performing their ritual in this sterile environment. Their tradition was the same, but the location wasn't. It didn't feel right.

"Are you sure there's no one? What about brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews, cousins—"

"As far as I know, I was an only child."

"You said you were raised by your aunt. What happened to your parents?"

"Mother sent me to live with Aunt Edna," Nick said in a frank tone.

"Wh-why would your mother send you away?" Jack couldn't believe any parent would do that.

"Mother didn't keep men around long once they realized she had a kid. The last one I remember didn't like me and made no bones about it."

"That's horrible. She chose him over her own son?" Jack was horrified at the thought.

"Sure, but that’s how it was. Didn't mean I was happy about it. I certainly hadn't made Mother's life easy. I hated that man she was with and did everything I could to make him leave," Nick confessed.

Jack's eyes widened. "Do you remember much about your parents? Where was your dad in all this?"

Nick laid back and gazed at the ceiling, looking back and forth as if watching a scene before him. "I don't remember anything about my father. All I know is he went by the name of Tommy Tonker. When I started causing trouble, Mother said I was just like him. And that I had his eyes. If he ever came around, I don't remember."

"I'm guessing they weren't married, Tommy and your mother."

Nick shook his head. "Not that I know of. Mother, Thelma Phillips, played the field, as they say. As the rumors went, her men came and went. Eventually one came, Tommy, and gave her a bastard son before leaving. Soon, another man came and stayed a bit longer than the rest, despite her being pregnant. I think they married, as he adopted me and gave us both his name, but he left too, and eventually, so did I."

Jack's heart squeezed at the thought of his gentle friend and mentor having suffered so much as a child. Worse, that he called himself a bastard.

"Do you remember anything about the man who adopted you?"

Nick shook his head. "I only know he was called Morris. I don't know anything else about him; even if he had children of his own. He was gone by the time I was old enough to make memories."

"Was Edna your mother or father's sister? Did she have kids?" Jack asked.

"I don't know how she was related. She could have just been a friend of the family, for all I know. She never had kids of her own—I don't think she ever married—but I'd like to think she loved me like her own son though. At the time, I was just an angry boy and getting into trouble for attention. Mother was never around after I was sent away, and I'm sure I was a lot to handle for my aunt."

"You, a rabble-rouser?" A faint smile crept across his lips. "Doesn't sound like you."

Nick lifted his head and gazed at Jack. "I'm sure none of this sounds like me. But yes, I was a handful and I lashed out at the wrong person. By the time I was fourteen, Aunt Edna put me into state care—an industrial school for troubled boys. I was in and out of institutions until I was drafted in forty-four."

Jack laughed. "Somehow I think you're pulling my leg. I've known you a long time, Nick. You've been nothing but kind, generous, and thoughtful. Nothing about you seems remotely like the boy you're telling me about."

"What about this?" Nick slid down the top of his hospital gown and showed Jack his upper arm. Jack eyed the old red devil tattoo for a moment then fell back against the chair. He watched Nick pull a bony knee out from under his blanket and reveal another tattoo of a star with the number seven above it and eleven below. "I used to have a star on the base of my left thumb and the number thirteen beside it under this finger." He lifted his shaking hand to show Jack the faintest curve where part of the three was just visible under his index finger beneath dark age spots. "Congregants don't need to see that mess on the person they entrusted with their secrets. These others . . . they're my reminders of the man I used to be."

"Damn, Nick. You must have had one hell of a revelation to mend your ways and become a priest. What happened?"

Nick lightly grinned. "You're inquisitive today. Isn't your case keeping you busy enough?"

"You've never said much about your past before Saint Frank's. Your eyes lit up while talking with Nurse Edna. It sounded like you wanted to talk."

"Not really. I just hadn't thought about my aunt in a long time. You never see that name anymore and it brought back memories."

"Tell me about your change in careers, shall we say," Jack urged.

"I'll save that for another day. Tell me how you are, Jack. Your case must be complicated to keep you away so long."

"I have to admit. This one has me twisted in knots. And now I have a fifteen-year-old staying in my place until we can find his mother."

One of Nick's eyebrows lifted. "You fostering, Jack? Does this mean you've moved home?" Nick's voice took on a distinct wheeze and Jack wondered if his friend was getting tired.

Shaking his head, Jack said, "He's my witness. He's the only one who can ID the killer. She's already tried getting to him once. I can't run the risk of her succeeding if he's turned over to state care and they can't protect him. Once we find his mother, Ray will get them both into official protective custody until we close this case." Jack knew that anything he and Nick ever talked about would be kept as confidential as if he'd been in the confessional, so he brought Nick up to speed about the gist of the case without detailing the most gruesome aspects. Including how Dewayne had been living on his own after his mother disappeared.

"Do you think she's still alive?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know. Ray's already put out an APB on her. If she's still alive, we'll find her. Until then, I'm keeping an eye on him."

"Well, ain't that the damnedest thing? And that woman took an awful chance coming to you."

"I'm still trying to figure it all out. In all my years, I've never met anyone like this before. It's common for some suspects to want to be in on the investigation as a way of controlling things or knowing what the department's next move is so they can avoid capture. But this woman . . . Nick, she was still killing after hiring me." Jack scrubbed his fingers through his beard and rubbed his chin.

"If anyone can bring her in, it's you. Now, I'm getting tired," Nick wheezed. "But I want to talk with you. The last time we spoke, we'd started working on your relationship with God. Have you remembered to take some time out of each day for contemplation?"

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't made the time."

Nick reached out, his hand shaking more than before. "Take my hand and let's make that time now. Then we'll have that drink."