With the snow, it took Dorsey an hour and forty minutes to travel north to Beaver. He had planned—hoped—to be in place at least thirty minutes before the 10 P.M. meet. Now he had only ten minutes to check the side streets leading to the meeting place, check the doorways and alley ways where a second man could be waiting. Waiting to take him out after he gave the money to Damjani.
The streets of Beaver were straight and wide, and the new snow reflected the purplish glow of mercury street-lamps. Dorsey made for the center of town, past elegant well-kept homes, thinking of the struggle it must have been to keep the working classes out of this county seat, a county dependent on heavy industry for its survival. And a dry town, he reminded himself, smiling. No place for a thirsty mill hand fresh off the swing shift.
He turned left at Third and Market with the Beaver County Courthouse, its vast sandstone mass illuminated by spotlight, to the right of the intersection. Moving along Market, the courthouse now to his back, Dorsey could see the high stone wall of the county jail, where Tony Ruggerio had given him the story on Damjani. To Dorsey’s right, between the courthouse and the jail, was a city block’s worth of flat park lawn, with tall trees and park benches at the edges. Dorsey pulled to the curb. Through the falling snow and the faint light he could see the dark outline of the gazebo at the center. The meeting place.
The snow was a blessing, Dorsey decided. No one moves silently across crisp new snow, except maybe an Indian in moccasins, and the priest doesn’t have much of a following on the reservations. And no one can stalk you against a white backdrop. But the coin has two sides. You’ll be out there on your own. And maybe, just maybe, Damjani learned something from the old man in Bloomfield and got a scoped rifle of his own.
Dorsey pulled back onto the street and moved slowly along, reminding himself that the possibility of a long-distance rifle shot was the only problem he could not resolve. He hoped Damjani’s hatred still had an edge to it, one that wouldn’t be satisfied unless he did his dirty work close up. You said it had to be outside, he told himself. So you’d feel safe. And you are, relatively, considering the situation. Which you created. So the hell with it.
Past the park, Dorsey drove along the side wall of the jail, then turned right and circled the park and the jail twice. All clear, he decided; the park was empty and the jail and courthouse parking lots held only official vehicles. He drove past the jail once more and stayed straight on Market, parking the Buick one block beyond the jail by an empty grammar school building.
Dorsey stepped out of the car and worked his way out of the field jacket, laying it across the front seat. Stretching toward the far door he took the switchblade from the glove compartment and slipped it into one of the jacket’s flap pockets. He dug back into the glove compartment, this time retrieving the revolver. Holding it in his right hand, he slipped his arm into the jacket sleeve, extending his hand but allowing the revolver to come to rest inside the sleeve, several inches above the cuff. He put on the jacket and maneuvered the pistol until he was sure he could get to it when needed. From the top of the dashboard he took a black watch cap, working it over his head and folding it back just above the ears. Locking the doors, he took the roll bag from the back seat, two layers of twenties over wads of cut paper, and headed for the park.
At the edge of the park, from behind a tree, he checked the lawn and the gazebo for the last time. Again there was no movement and Dorsey started across, estimating seventy feet of open ground ahead of him. The snow was lighter now. Dorsey wiped flakes from his mouth and eyebrows as he considered Damjani’s choice for a meeting place, concluding that it fit his plans as well as any. It looks good, he thought. The jail is at one end, high stone walls for the shots to echo against, and all personnel are inside where the walls let no sound penetrate. Same with the courthouse. Most likely, the night staff consisted of a retiree watchman asleep in the basement. And open space on the left and right where the noise can travel, diffuse, and die.
Nearing the gazebo steps, Dorsey wiggled his right arm and hand, assuring himself once again that the revolver would be there on cue. In his pocket he felt the weight of the knife, recalling that it was there for an emergency: a witness. Someone sees you do it, sees you plainly and is sure to make an identification. While the witness runs for the cops you plant the knife in Damjani’s dead hand and come up with a story about how Damjani tried to stick you. Cooperate with the police and get yourself a bright attorney and charges are knocked down to voluntary manslaughter, maybe less. Sentence is suspended because of your past being clean, and you never see the inside of a cell.
Dorsey climbed the gazebo steps and, once under its shelter, dusted snow from his shoulders and neck. The gazebo had a low wooden railing with support poles leading to the roof, and Dorsey stood near the pole farthest from the street, where the shadows were darkest. He checked his watch. It was time.
Two cars passed along Third Street, silhouetted in the courthouse light. Both drove through the intersection without turning onto Market. A few moments passed and then another car slowed at the intersection and turned onto Market and slowed even more, cruising by the park. Dorsey recognized it as the rusted Chrysler that had picked up Father Jancek at the church. Good Lord, he thought, it really is the Movement Together company car.
The Chrysler picked up speed and continued down Market, going out of sight as it passed the jail. Dorsey figured it for a safety check and waited for the car to circle around, guessing on two men being inside: Damjani and a driver who would leave after delivering him. Two men, he thought. If only one steps out, stick to the plan. If two come for you, let them come within your mattress-shooting range and open up on them, Damjani first.
The Chrysler came by again, turned onto Market, and stopped. One man emerged from the passenger seat and closed the door, and the car moved on past the jail and out of sight. Shoulders hunched and bent forward against the snow, the man started toward the gazebo. Dorsey watched as he was highlighted by the snow, then obscured by tree shadows, then highlighted again. At the hem of his jacket Dorsey wiped his hands clean of the sweat that collected there despite the cold, then moved forward with the roll bag, crossing the gazebo’s hardwood floor. He rested the bag on the railing.
With two thirds of the distance covered, the moving figure emerged from the last of the shadows. Dorsey felt the sweat rolling down his neck and he worked his wrist, moving the revolver down his sleeve so the barrel tip was at his cuff. This is it, he thought. Jesus Christ, this is it!
The man crossed the last of the open ground and stopped at the steps of the gazebo to kick the snow from his shoes. His face was darkened, visored by the cloth cap he wore, and Dorsey could not see his features, but when he straightened to his full height, Dorsey knew things had gone sour.
“Oh, shit,” Dorsey murmured. Too short. This guy is too fucking short; it isn’t Damjani. The second man, the driver: shit, where the hell is he?
Dorsey dropped to the wooden floor and pushed with the heel of his left hand until the revolver was firmly in his right. He rolled to the center of the gazebo and came up on one knee pointing the gun toward the jail wall, searching the snow for the driver. For Damjani. He spotted no one.
There were footfalls on the gazebo steps and Dorsey turned to meet them, the gun held high. “Close enough!” he shouted, moving forward. “This is a gun, make no mistake, it’s on you. Where’s the driver, the second man? Where’s that big son of a bitch Damjani?”
“Ed won’t be coming tonight.” The man’s words were slow and even. “He won’t be bothering you any longer.”
Dorsey recognized the voice and moved forward, the revolver aimed at a spot at the base of the man’s throat. “My God,” he said. “It is you. Son of a bitch, it’s you. You’re here by yourself, no Damjani?”
“All alone.” Father Jancek climbed the steps, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his glasses free of snow. The flakes in his beard had turned it from salt and pepper to white. “You’re safe. Could we have a talk? There’s a lot to be said.”
Dorsey kept the gun on the priest. “Where’s Damjani?”
“In the custody of federal marshals,” Father Jancek said, leaning back onto the gazebo railing. “He’ll be put away. Either prison or a mental institution; one is as good as another, and I truly don’t know which is more appropriate. The important thing is that you are safe from him. You and perhaps so many others. But, please, let’s have a talk, indoors and away from this weather. There’s a place nearby. A bar.”
“Not in this town.” Dorsey moved to his left and picked up the roll bag. The gun never left the priest.
“Just across the line, in Bridgewater,” the priest said. “Only a few blocks over. We’ll have a sip and go over a few things. I assure you it’s safe. Put your gun away. And keep the money.”
As smooth as his rally speeches, Dorsey thought, and as endearing. And as reassuring. He’s got a touch, St. Francis calming the deer and petting a robin. Ah, well, follow where he goes. Dorsey slipped the gun into the right-hand jacket pocket. Roll bag in hand, he followed the priest down the gazebo steps and into the snow.
The snow began to taper off, and snowplows and salt trucks passed them by as they walked along Third Street. Father Jancek did most of the talking. “The killing of your friend,” he said, “it sickened me. I was heartbroken, and believe me, I prayed and meditated for some time. I almost reached the conclusion that I should leave Movement Together, turn the whole thing over to men with a more temporal point of view. This violence, so personal and directed toward one person, this was never anticipated.”
Dorsey plodded along in the snow, cautiously planting each footstep, and thought of Louis Preach. “A mutual friend put it best,” he said. “He suggested that you wanted to fight a war and not get bloody.”
“Who said this?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Dorsey braced himself against a cold gust. “Go on with what you were saying.”
“It was a terrible thing,” Father Jancek said. “I felt compelled to attend the church service. I remember the anger in your eyes when you saw me. When I ran, I ran for my life. Please believe me, I was not there to offend anyone. It was not my intention to desecrate the service.”
“But you left Damjani to continue roaming around on his own. Most likely you and yours helped him stay at least one step up on the police. Gave him a second crack at me. That’s tough to forgive in a priest.”
“No, never,” the priest said, shaking his head and sending wet snow from his beard in every direction. “We never helped him, not after the death of your friend. Admittedly, we did not turn him in to the police at that time. But we gave him no aid in avoiding arrest.”
“So,” Dorsey said, “tell me about the federal marshals. You said he was in their hands. Who arranged it? You?”
The priest scratched at his beard, then wiped his wet gloved fingers on his jacket. “By answering that question as put, I admit it was arranged and I had a hand in it. Ah, so be it. You’ll hear more than that tonight. I think I owe you this for your friend. Anyway, we did arrange it. Not a happy task despite the necessity for it. Ed was totally beyond control, and it was apparent that he recognized no limits.”
“And you delivered him to federal cops?” Dorsey said. “Murder is local stuff, a local crime. He was part of the killing.”
“And he would have spent precious little time in jail for it as only an accomplice with a bargained plea.” The priest raised a finger as if reaching the linchpin of a thesis. “A federal warrant was issued this morning. There was a bank robbery, armed robbery, three years ago in West Virginia. Two of the three men were captured and sent away for long stretches in Lewisburg. These two men never identified the third member of the gang until this morning. The inmates cut a deal with an FBI agent who was summoned to the prison. They were able not only to identify Ed as the third man but also to tell the agent where Ed was to be found. A federal judge signed the warrant by noon and Ed was picked up in an apartment in New Castle.”
“Well done.”
“We have friends all over.”
“The robbery,” Dorsey said. “Damjani did it? Or is this a put-up job?”
“He did it, all right. That is true. Ed was heading for prison all his life, if not for the robbery or your friend’s death, then for something else, something even worse. Justice is served, and you are safe.”
Dorsey laughed and shook the snow from his hat. “My safety, you make it sound like Movement Together’s top priority.”
“My work is not to take life.” Father Jancek spoke sharply. “My work is to save a way of life.”
Dorsey explored the priest’s face and concluded that his words were sincere. Nothing so clean, so sharp, could be a deception. C’mon, Father, Dorsey thought, what’s it going to be? Good guy or bad guy?
At the foot of the bridge where Third Street ended was a flight of cement steps that led down the hillside to Bridge-water. Silently, concentrating on each snow-covered step, the two men descended. At the bottom, Father Jancek turned to Dorsey.
“You will have to try to understand our association with Ed Damjani,” the priest said. “You have to understand how it began. We knew he was something of a local character and that he was a radical union man. Being so colorful, he had a following among the other workers, the young ones. Leader-of-the-pack sort of thing. They were drawn to him, so we knew he could recruit younger workers for our program.”
“Recruits for the program,” Dorsey said. “You mean for the scam. I learned that much. The young single ones, with the exception of Radovic, were your fall-downs. The ones in car accidents with whiplash and the ones who fell off the loading dock a week before the plant closed.”
“That’s right, you do know that much. As I understand it, you know a lot more.” Father Jancek started across the street. “We’re almost there. Just another block or so.”
Dorsey fell in step with the priest, who was making his way in the direction of the Beaver River, a quarter mile up from where it meets the Ohio. The bar, a one-story wood-frame building, stood across the road from the river. Dorsey and the priest stopped underneath the bar’s aluminum awning to shake the snow from their shoulders.
Father Jancek pulled open the door and Dorsey followed, finding himself in a cramped room with just enough space for the bar counter and a walking space on both sides. The bartender, whom Dorsey figured to be in his late fifties, was the room’s sole occupant. He signaled for them to advance. Father Jancek led the way along the bar to a door at the far wall, which he unlocked, and Dorsey followed him in as the priest flicked on the light switch.
The room was a small square addition attached to the bar; Dorsey could see where one set of timbers ended and the next began. There was a swag light hanging over a round felt-topped card table, and an old refrigerator stood in the far corner. While Dorsey dropped the roll bag and sat at the table, Father Jancek dug into the refrigerator.
“This should suit you.” The priest placed an icy glass and a twelve-ounce Rolling Rock on the table. Dorsey watched as he got the same for himself.
“We may have a third joining us,” Father Jancek said, taking the seat across from Dorsey. “It depends on how bad the roads are. It’s Jack, Jack Stockman, I’m referring to.”
“Your dear school chum. And, for a little while, fellow seminarian.” How’s that for a return? Dorsey thought. You know my beer, I know your life. “Before we get to whatever this is supposed to be about,” Dorsey said, “I guess I should thank you for Damjani. It’s a relief, having him out of the picture.”
“You’re welcome,” Father Jancek said. “As I said, he was a serious error on my part.”
“Okay.” Dorsey ignored the glass and drank from the bottle. “Let’s talk.”
“Jack Stockman tells me you have integrity, a quality, he also tells me, that is rare in your line of work.” The priest filled his glass and lifted it to his lips, nibbling at the foam. “I have integrity too. I keep my own counsel, and normally the motives for my actions stay between God and myself. But your friend—Russie, you called him?—your friend changed things around. Then, this afternoon, I found out just how much you’ve learned about our activities. I feel a couple of things. I feel compelled to explain myself because I owe you that. Also, being something of a religious maverick, I have no confessor. Actually, it’s been years since I’ve been on the receiving end of a confessional. So indulge me, please?”
“This is no confessional,” Dorsey said. “I can’t take a vow of silence. You tell me something useful, I’ll have to pass it along.”
Father Jancek shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “To what end will you use this information? Bill Meara is burning his file on the matter. There is to be no prosecution, so what does it matter in the long run? I just want you to know.”
“So you know about Meara?” Dorsey ran through the Irish and Polish and black faces working in Meara’s office. And each has an out-of-work relative if you look hard enough. It could’ve been any of them.
“It’s true,” Father Jancek said, as if reading his mind. “We have friends most everywhere.”
“You said something before about how I know so much,” Dorsey said. “You said you found out this afternoon. From whom?”
“Ray Corso.”
“Ah, Corso. Your spy.” Dorsey drank again from his beer. “Be careful, spies are a fickle bunch. Poor sense of loyalty.”
“So I have learned.” Father Jancek began to explain further, but a knock at the door interrupted him. The priest went to the door and Dorsey’s right hand went into his pocket, gripping the revolver. Father Jancek admitted the tall, gray-haired Stockman, who dropped his hat on the table and removed his topcoat before taking the chair to Dorsey’s right.
“P. I., how are you?” Dorsey said, sizing up the cold blue eyes that cloaked the maneuvering inside. But this is his turn to talk, Dorsey thought. The scalpel he’s used on you in the past, in court, is put away. You hope.
“We were just about to discuss Ray Corso,” Father Jancek said. “Mr. Dorsey is sure he was our spy.”
Stockman, his eyes still cold, rapped his knuckles softly on the table and looked at the priest. “Andy, I’m going to say this just once more. This meeting is a bad idea. It has no purpose; we gain nothing by it. Let me handle things. Hickcock, the rest of the press: I can take care of it.”
“No.” Father Jancek held Stockman’s gaze. “For what I allowed to happen, I owe Dorsey this. He’s been through quite a bit, and there is more to come.”
Dorsey’s hold on the revolver in his pocket went tighter. “More of what? You said Damjani was put away.”
There was a silent moment until Father Jancek gave Stockman a go-ahead nod. “The lawsuit, of course,” Stockman said. “We have to sue you and Hickcock after tonight. We’ll get nothing from it, but otherwise we are admitting that what you have to say is true. It’s the only way.”
“It is true,” Dorsey said.
“But not verifiable.” Stockman leaned back in his chair, a wry smile cutting across his face. “You have so little. A few insurance cases that may or may not appear strange, depending on the listener’s point of view. The Maynard girl in Johnstown, a hysterical girl whom you threatened with lies. Most important, you have Art Demory. But all that remains of him is in an oxygen tent. I can make him look like a half-dead career criminal telling lies so he can have one last laugh on society. Also, Father Jancek and I will forever deny this meeting took place.”
Dorsey released his grip on the revolver and took out his hand, running it across his chin. Goddamn son of a bitch. First there’s no payday on this case, he told himself, at least not the big score you hoped for. Now they want to take what little you already have. “The suit,” Dorsey asked. “No way I can talk you out of it?”
“Sorry,” Stockman said. Dorsey rose to leave.
“Please, don’t leave just yet.” Father Jancek met him at the door. “I’m sorry about the suit, but there is a lot to consider.” The priest spoke softly, endearing despite the message. Preach is right, Dorsey thought, there’s more than a little St. Francis in this guy. Dorsey returned to the chair, almost before realizing it.
“Well,” he said, “you two are going to sue me and there’s jackshit I can do about it. All right, tell me about Corso.”
Father Jancek returned to his seat and sipped his beer. “I assume you knew Mr. Corso was corrupt.”
“Not until recently,” Dorsey said. “Before that, I only knew he was dumb and lazy.”
“Which led to his corruption,” the priest said. “Jack had known about Mr. Corso for some time, about how he sabotaged lawsuits for the plaintiff. Back when we first hatched our plan, Jack and I had conversed about Mr. Corso and it was decided that Jack should approach him. Mr. Corso was very receptive to our offer.”
“Which was the reason for so many of these fakes being with Fidelity Casualty. How much did you pay?”
“There’s no need for particulars,” Stockman said. “Listen to the story and save the questions until later, and we’ll see if we choose to answer.”
“Fuck you, thief.” Dorsey met Stockman’s chill look with one of his own, then turned back to the priest. “Go on. Tell me the rest.”
“As part of our working agreement, Mr. Corso was to quash or divert any investigations into our people’s claims. We knew there would be initial evaluations, but our concern was to avoid a more in-depth review. Like the one you performed. This Mr. Corso was to block. And we thought he had, until you showed up in Johnstown checking on Carl Radovic. Even then we thought little of it. Mr. Corso explained it away as random chance, a routine check. But then your name cropped up again as you interviewed several others who were working with us. We went to Corso for an explanation, but before he got back to us you appeared at the Midland rally.”
“So you stopped asking for an explanation,” Dorsey said, “and demanded one. What did Corso have to say for himself?”
“He said he had new orders from his higher-ups,” Stockman said. “That was his story, anyway. There was a new VP at the home office who wanted investigations on all active claims. He gave us the man’s name—Munt, John Munt—along with a promise that he could sanitize the reports before they were forwarded to Munt.”
Dorsey’s thoughts wandered back to the conference room with Corso and Munt fencing across the table. Corso telling Munt that the investigations were his own idea, defending his decision to carry them out. And Munt, seeming genuinely angry with Corso, going on about Corso having stepped beyond his authority. Who was the fraud in that exchange, both?
“At our end of things,” Father Jancek said, “we slowed things up a bit. We had several more claims waiting in the wings, ready to file. But we held off and relied on the established ones. Which we are continuing to do to this day. And in doing so we thought we were safe. Please understand that before today we had no knowledge of your contact with Arthur Demory.”
“That’s one I’ll have to live with,” Stockman said. “Never did I figure he could turn on us.”
Dorsey laughed. “Why shouldn’t you be forgiving? The guy is half dead in an ICU ward. What’d you have in mind, cutting a hole in his bedpan?”
Father Jancek loudly cleared his throat, gathering the attention of both men. “So we need to come to today. I received a call from Mr. McGregor, as did Jack. We discussed the matter, and it was decided that we needed to speak to Corso. We found him at his home, heading out to his doctor’s office—to have his blood pressure checked, he said. The two men we had sent persuaded him to remain at home for a talk. Perhaps his blood pressure was abnormal. Our men told me that he fell apart and volunteered everything. His confession was complete.”
Father Jancek paused for a moment and wiped his finger along the wet rim of his beer glass. “I suppose it should not have come as such a surprise to me. We enter into deceptions, and we should not be shocked when we become the victims of yet further deceptions. For lack of a less dramatic term, Mr. Corso has been operating as a sort of double agent.”
“Double agent?” Dorsey asked, scoffing. “Keep looking for a less dramatic term. Corso’s too lazy to lead one life, let alone two.”
“Well,” Father Jancek said, “that’s how he explained it. It seems that word of his basic dishonesty had filtered back to the home office, and approximately one year ago most all his work was the subject of a confidential audit. Like a secret investigation. As you can imagine, there was plenty to cover. Corso was confronted and, just like today, confessed to everything, including his involvement with us.”
“Slow down,” Dorsey said, wondering what Munt’s role was and waving off Stockman’s objection to his interruption. “Who was this confessing done to?”
“A man named Stiers, head of the audit group.”
Where was Munt? Dorsey wondered. His anger at the conference was definitely the real thing. But who knows? If you suspect a major crime by an employee, you have to also suspect his immediate supervisor, the guy who is letting it happen. Sure, the auditors looked into Munt’s work too. So Munt was kept in the dark. Poor Munt, sincerely angry, and never knew the reasons why.
“So they knew about you,” Dorsey said. “Why didn’t they move against you?”
“We put that to Corso, but he had only guesses.” Stockman went to the refrigerator. He returned with one for Dorsey too. “But we do know that Stiers came back to him with instructions to hire you.”
Dorsey grinned. “You mean he had orders to hire a detective.”
“No, no,” Father Jancek said, waving off the idea. “He was told to hire you. Told by name to hire you. And to offer you a free hand to run the cases as you saw fit.”
And unlimited expense money, Dorsey recalled. Remember what Bernie said about the arrangement, he asked himself. It’s bullshit, he said; it can’t happen. Corso’s authority doesn’t extend that far. “Corso did as he was told,” Dorsey said.
“And took our money all the while.” Stockman drank off half his beer. Dorsey was taken by the man’s anger, hot and true. It’s a rare occasion, he told himself: the iceman is pissed. P. I.’s hidden side.
“So who’s behind Corso?” Dorsey asked. “And who does Stiers report to? And most important, why does an insurance company hire me above all others to find out what they already know? They could have terminated the files and waited to see if you had the balls to sue. And Corso could’ve been quietly discharged to save customer confidence in the company. But no, you say they turned Corso and sent him to give me money. Where’s the reasoning?”
“We fucked up,” Stockman said. Dorsey caught the look of distaste on the priest’s face before turning to Stockman. “Took on the wrong people,” Stockman said. “Fidelity Casualty is owned by Calumet Corporation.”
“That I knew,” Dorsey said. “I’ve met one of the officers, a fellow named Cleardon.”
The name fell like a stone upon the table.
“Charles Cleardon,” Dorsey said. “What’s wrong?”
“My being a priest,” Father Jancek said, “gives our movement a shade of righteousness. We become saints and walk with God. In keeping with this, our opponents become demonized. Cleardon might be said to be Satan. We’ve tried to picket corporate meetings that he attends, but he’s hard to pin down. You see, Calumet is the major financial backer in what is called the revitalization of our local economy. What they have done is steal industrial property at rock-bottom prices, tear down the existing plant, and install some type of light industry. As a result, they acquire prime land very cheaply and a ready labor force hungry for work at reduced wages, because they’re the only game in town. That’s why we’ve blocked the demolition of the older plants and mills, as proposed in Midland. Face it, we are Calumet’s only opposition.”
“So,” Stockman said, “it looks like this. Calumet has strung us along for what I can only figure to be some big kill, some kind of master stroke to finish us off by murdering us in the public eye, arresting our leaders, along those lines. But I think Demory’s ill health may have saved us and finished you. All that’s left is to sue you. And for you to share a little information with us.”
Dorsey absorbed it all en masse, then tried to line it up in order. Calumet and Cleardon ran Corso through a middleman, Stiers, cutting Munt out of the chain. So it was Cleardon who gave the report to Corso with instructions to get it to Hickcock. But why? Where does Cleardon come out ahead? And then there’s you, he told himself, the man Cleardon wanted for the job. He wanted you, no substitutions, no duplications. And your work, in the past, has not put you in a class by yourself. Where does a corporate big shot get your name? Busy man, Cleardon. He has an insurance company to keep tabs on while he tried to buy up the western half of the state. And still he takes the time to look you up. Where’s the connection to you?
Sipping at his beer, the images flashed and collided before his mind’s eye. There were black-and-white photos, stark and bleak, of rundown industrial plants with disused railroad tracks. And other pictures, artist’s renderings of what was to come. Sketches of large barnlike structures of prefabricated steel surrounded by gray cement fields of parking lots. And all the photos and prints were bound in a brown leather album resting on the corner of a familiar desktop.
“Jesus Christ,” Dorsey said, his voice flat. “I have to leave.” He rose, slipped into his jacket, and took the roll bag from the floor.
“One damned minute!” Stockman shouted. “It was misguided, but this man just poured out his heart to you. Why did they pick you?”
“That’s where I’m going,” Dorsey said, realizing that this question was why he was here. “I’m going to find out why.”
“I think I deserve better than that,” Father Jancek said. “I do think an answer is in order. I did think we could have a dialogue.”
Dorsey went to the table, leaning in at the priest. “I owe you shit. You showed up tonight to be forgiven for killing a man you never knew and to see where I fit into this whole mess.”
Stockman began to rise but Dorsey turned to him and forced him back into the chair with a white-hot glare.
“And what you deserve is this,” Dorsey said, turning back to the priest. “You deserve to be interrogated, to be questioned again and again, to find out how it all comes to pass. To find out where the devoted liberal, the man of peace, crosses the line from demonstration and civil disobedience to crime. Pure fucking crime. Where did you cross the line?”
“I never did,” Father Jancek said. “I found the line to be irrelevant. So I erased it.”