The gray-haired woman at the door aimed a glower at me that would have drawn blood from a lesser man.
“No soliciting,” she said.
“I have an appointment with Robert,” I replied.
She frowned, probably at the familiarity I was tossing about. “Your name?”
“He has multiple appointments tonight?” I smiled at her. “Busy man.”
Silence. Her lips thinned.
I glanced up. “Looks like it might rain soon.”
Her frown deepened. “Your name?”
I told her, and she paled. Her disapproving gaze didn’t waver. She did cross herself—subtle—and raised one finger before closing the door on my face without inviting me in.
No accounting for manners these days. I checked my watch. I was routinely ten minutes early, just for these sorts of delays. My reputation can be handy. Or just a pain in the ass.
She’s heard of you. I flicked my eyes to the left, where the transparent figure of a man in priest’s vestments regarded me. Still fairly recent to being dead, I figured. Not more than four or five months. He was still getting the hang of things, though he’d managed to make his voice heard—by accident, most likely.
“Something you need?” I asked him. He shivered, surprised that I answered him, and faded away on the next strong breeze, face twisting into confusion even as it broke into mist.
It started to rain.
*
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting inside the old stone building, but it wasn’t the comfortable sitting room. Polished, well-kept wood furniture filled the room without looking cluttered. It offered up a cozy welcoming not reflected in the old woman’s stare. I wiped some of the rain from my jacket and settled into one of the plush chairs. The gray-haired woman stood near the fireplace with her arms crossed, her eyes locked on me like I would start swiping anything that wasn’t nailed down if she so much as blinked.
When my potential client entered, I rose and offered my hand.
He didn’t take it at first, but I held it there unmoving. Eventually, he shook it. He had a firm grip, not too large a shake. Just right.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. It even sounded honest. I supposed that was a trick of the trade.
“My pleasure,” I said.
He gestured to the chair and I sat. He sat across from me, not speaking. This isn’t unusual. People need time to find the right place to begin.
I took this opportunity to look at him. He was built lean and tall, with dark hair but soft eyes a shade of blue that was almost too pretty for a man. Had I bumped into him at one of my regular haunts, I’d have offered a gin and tonic and proposed we take ourselves somewhere more comfortable. His bed, preferably, though I’m not known to be fussy with the details. But given Robert Bryce’s calling, it didn’t seem advisable.
“Father,” I said, after the long silence had started to strain my patience. “You gotta open your mouth.”
He shifted, frowning slightly. “Of course,” he said. He glanced at the gray-haired woman. “Grace, could you bring our guest a glass of water?”
Grace nodded deferentially and left. She frowned again when she met my gaze on her way out.
“I don’t think she likes me,” I said.
The priest hesitated before speaking. “I require your services.”
I nodded. I’d gathered that much from the phone call. I waited, but he seemed stalled again.
“No offense, Father,” I said. “But I seem an unlikely choice given your…uh…position.”
He sighed, looking directly at me for the first time. His gaze was full of longing and pain. “I need a believer,” he said.
Ah. I didn’t have to ask why he thought I qualified. Whatever else he thought of me, if he’d heard and believed the stories, then he knew that much. I am many things—many of them darker than he’d probably like—but I am indeed a believer. You can’t meet Ol’ Scratch and not believe in his boss.
“Okay.”
He looked at me a long time, deciding. I waited for him to get over his righteousness and come to practicality. If he’d had other options, he wouldn’t have called me.
“Something was stolen from me,” he said.
I nodded. “And you’d like it back.”
He paused, lips tight. He’d be a lousy poker player.
“I can’t find it if you don’t tell me what it was.” I leaned forward, aiming my gaze up at him. I fixed a smile on my face and tried to appear approachable.
He couldn’t meet my gaze. He looked away, a flush creeping up his neck. “It’s not…a traditional…” He sighed. “It sounds impossible, but I know it was stolen.”
I nodded, waiting for him to blurt it out.
“My faith,” Bryce said, almost breathing the word. “Someone stole my faith.”
“Your faith,” I said. It wasn’t the strangest thing I’d been asked to recover.
“Yes.” He seemed buoyed by my lack of reaction.
“Is it bigger than a breadbox?” I asked, smiling.
He scowled.
“Sorry,” I said, raising a hand. “Just trying to take the edge off.”
The door opened, and Grace returned, with the smallest glass of water I was likely to see outside of a child’s tea party. She put it onto the table next to me, even though I held out my hand for it.
“Any thoughts,” I said, picking it up and taking a swallow—it was lukewarm tap water—“on who might be…” I decided to go for a more subtle word than “thief.” “Likely?”
Bryce sighed. “I counsel the locals when I can, and sometimes there is resistance. But no, not really.” He looked out the window, watching the rain hit the glass. “There is a young man at a local bar. Rusty. I thought perhaps I’d been making headway, but he recently closed the door. It was unfortunate. His mother hoped I could help. His father doesn’t speak to him.”
I finished the water and handed the empty glass back to Grace. “Thanks,” I said. “It really hit the spot.”
Her smile was false and showed too much teeth, like a dog angry at everything and far too old to change its ways. Her eyes flicked down. She wanted to get away from me.
I have that effect on people.
“That will be all, Grace,” the father said. She left.
“What do you mean ‘closed the door’?”
Bryce looked back at me. “Russ—that’s his given name, Russ Maxwell—canceled a discussion we’d scheduled and then simply didn’t show for the next one.”
I thought about that. “Have you asked Rusty yourself about your loss?”
The father regarded me with a pained expression. There was so much misery in his eyes that I actually felt sorry for the guy. For a second.
“Without my faith? I don’t dare…” He blushed.
Ah. Temptation. I smiled at him. “Got it.”
“I require discretion.” He swallowed.
This was familiar territory. “I’m used to that. It’s two hundred a day, plus expenses. Your vow of poverty isn’t my problem. I can’t pay the rent in goodwill.”
The priest nodded. “Of course.”
I rose, and so did Bryce. I offered my hand again, and this time squeezed just a little longer than was polite, wondering. He shivered, and let go.
“Please don’t,” he said, clearly uncomfortable.
I regarded him. “If you’ve lost your faith, why are you so eager to get it back? Why not find a new way?” I had a few ideas on several new ways he could try, if he was willing.
He looked at the ground for so long I wondered if he was going to speak.
“I didn’t lose it,” he said. “It was taken. I remember my faith, what it was like when I had it. There’s something missing…” He tapped his chest over his heart, and closed his eyes for a moment. He looked up. “Have you ever felt completely at peace?”
“Not even once,” I said, winking.
He smiled, but it held no joy. “Then I would say we’re both looking for something irreplaceable.”
“I ain’t looking for peace.” I smiled.
Bryce regarded me. “Is it…true? What they say about you?”
My smile grew. “Which part?”
“Please,” he said. The weight of the world rested on that one syllable.
“I can find it,” I said. “And yes, I met…him.” Bryce shivered. I nodded. “I’ll call you if I need any more information.”
He nodded. I left.
*
A little research time in my office told me Robert Bryce had made quite the name for himself, entirely by virtue of his honesty. Newspapers liked his story, especially the same rags that warned us of the dangers of Liberals, equality, and gin. Robert Bryce had known he was gay since he was fifteen and had spoken openly of his “affliction.” He had “resisted the urges of the flesh” and though it was controversial—to say the very least—the church had definitely approved of his abstain-and-pray response to his sexuality.
It hadn’t hurt that he was so charismatic and handsome. He looked—in his pictures—like a man wholly at peace.
So who’d taken that from him?
I didn’t question the theft. I’d only had to be in the same room with him to feel the crack in his spirit. He’d been busted open like a boxer in a fixed fight, and those sorts of things didn’t happen to a man’s soul by accident.
But the motive…
Well, that’s always the rub, isn’t it? I made a short list of names of those who’d spoken out against him, but nothing jumped out.
Plenty had decried him, both within and outside the church. His largest supporter had been a seventy-four-year-old priest, Father Raymond Clayton. I instantly recognized his small photo as the soul I’d seen outside Bryce’s church residence. Bryce had taken over his role at the church when Father Clayton had passed away four months earlier. It had been Father Clayton’s wish that the young Robert take over his flock, and the bishop had fulfilled that request.
I had a harder time with Rusty at first, but found ads for his “dancing” and “private performances” at the Brass Rail once I scraped the bottom of the periodicals. Here was someone easier to understand. Born Russ Maxwell, “Rusty” was blond, muscular, and coolly handsome. It appeared his services were available to all—for a price. He’d come from a pretty religious background himself—he was a minister’s son.
I couldn’t imagine his family was proud of him.
I added them to the list, under Rusty’s name.
I checked my watch and grabbed my coat. The rain was beating at my office window. I didn’t want to go back out in it, but if I hurried I could catch Rusty’s first “performance” of the evening. Perhaps even get a private session with him, on the church’s dollar.
Sometimes my job has unusual perks.
I tossed a drenched parking ticket off my windshield and into the gutter, and drove off.
*
The Brass Rail was a dive with a half-dead neon sign flickering over the front door. It was buried far enough off the Market that the streets were nearly empty and the parking lot beside it actually had a lot of spaces available. For the owner’s sake, I hoped this wasn’t a typical night. I pulled into a spot and idled, waiting futilely for the rain to die down. Eventually, I gave up, got out of my car, and jogged to the front of the bar.
I went inside.
The place stank of cigarettes and sweat. Every third lightbulb was dead. The bar was full of grim men nursing watered drinks and grudges with equal determination. On the stage, a young redhead with freckles and a vacant expression gyrated in front of three stocky men who watched him without blinking. The kid had more than enough between his legs to keep their attention tight and their wallets loose.
I went to the bar, and the bartender glanced up at me.
“Get you something?” he asked.
“Is Rusty free?”
The bartender smirked. “He’s not busy, but he ain’t nowhere near free.” The bartender nodded toward the farthest corner, where I saw the blond dancer from the photos standing near a table of four men. Rusty was wearing leather pants and nothing else—I couldn’t imagine going barefoot in this place. He leaned over them and said something. The men let out a low rumble of laughter.
“Thanks,” I said to the bartender. He nodded, already forgetting me.
I walked up behind the blond. He had wide shoulders and a nice body. He was a little pale. I wondered what brought someone like him down so low. He could have been somebody’s kept boy easily enough—there was no way he needed to work the Brass Rail.
“How much for a private dance?” I said, once I was close enough.
The four men frowned when Rusty turned his back on them. His smile was little more than half a scowl, and his gaze traveled up and down me in a quick measure. I obviously passed, because he nodded and did some mental arithmetic I was sure hadn’t come out in my favor.
“Fifty,” he said. If it hadn’t been the Church’s dime, I would have laughed in his face.
I nodded and pulled the bill out of my wallet. He took the cash, tucking it into the front pocket of his leather pants. “Follow me.”
I followed him, enjoying the view.
*
Once the curtain was drawn around the booth, he grinned. “I’m surprised someone like you came here. You’re pretty hot for an old guy.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Old” probably meant anyone over thirty to Rusty. He started to crawl into my lap, but I held up my hand. He paused, surprised.
“I just want to talk,” I said.
He raised one eyebrow. “You want me to talk, big guy?” He grinned. “Want me to tell you how naughty I am?” He trailed one finger down the front of my shirt and flicked his eyes up to meet mine. “What you want to talk about?”
“Robert Bryce,” I said.
He sighed, pulling his finger away. “I don’t talk to Robert Bryce.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “But you used to.”
He returned his gaze to mine and leaned forward. “That priest never had a good time. If you’re checking up on him, all he did was talk.”
I shook my head. “I’m not checking up on him.”
“Oh?” he said. One finger pulled the chain out from under my shirt collar. My silver cross glinted in the dim light.
“I was a Catholic,” I said. “I got better.”
“You still wear a cross.”
I tugged the chain off his finger and tucked it back in. “It’s not a cross, it’s a plus sign. Reminds me to stay positive.” It had been a cross at one time, but about half of the bottom had frozen and shattered.
It reminded me of a lot more than staying positive.
Rusty laughed.
“Robert Bryce,” I said again, this time pulling a twenty from my wallet. His eyes flicked down at the money. He leaned against the wall of the alcove and tugged a cigarette case out of the tight leather pants. He lit one, watching me, and took a drag. He held out his hand. I gave him the twenty.
“I liked him.” Rusty shrugged. “It was interesting.” He couldn’t look at me while he said it, and I could hear the sadness in his voice.
It made sense. His own father had shut him out, so having a handsome young priest come talk to him would have felt like another chance.
“You loved him,” I said. Rusty’s smile didn’t falter but the cigarette shook in his hand.
I waited his silence out. He was far too young to win at that game.
“I’m a whore, stud,” Rusty said, giving in. “I get paid to love them.”
“You get paid to fuck them,” I said. “And he didn’t fuck you.”
Rusty flicked his cigarette. “You’re cold.”
“And you’re a cocksucker. When did you fall in love with him?”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve sucked a cock or two yourself.” He grinned. There was no mirth in his eyes. Instead, there was a hollowness, an emptiness I imagined got deeper every time he spread his legs for some rich closeted bastard. He dragged on the cigarette, burning through it nearly to the filter.
I leaned forward. “When did you fall in love with him?”
He sighed and stabbed out the cigarette. A moment later he lit another, taking another deep drag. He glared at me.
“Oh gosh. You’re right. I completely fell in love with him. Maybe fifteen minutes after I met him,” he said, exhaling. “Might have been twenty. Must have been his blue eyes. I swooned completely.” His smile twisted. “You’re wrong. He didn’t even kiss me. Not once. I was just another sinner to save.”
Was that regret I heard?
“Are you trying to fleece him?” I asked. If Bryce was wrong, and Rusty hadn’t been a part of the theft, I wasn’t going to supply him with any details.
“What?” For just a moment there was an honest expression on his face: confusion. It vanished quickly, replaced again by the haughty façade of arrogance. “If someone is bothering Robert, it’s not me. Why would I end a good deal? He pays me for my time, and I don’t have to do anything but listen.”
“But you did turn him down. You stopped meeting him.” His mask faltered again. This time he looked afraid. “We both know blackmail pays better.”
He laughed. “Oh, honey. Make up your mind. If I love him, why would I try to ruin his life?”
“Love hurts.” I rose, taking the cigarette out of his hand.
“These’ll kill you,” I said, twisting it out in the dish.
He flashed his eyes at me. “Your time’s up,” he said.
I heard his cigarette case click open as I left.
*
As far as I could tell, Rusty hadn’t had a thing to do with it. I figured someone had told him to back off from Bryce. Outside the bar, I took a second to light my own cigarette before stepping out into the rain. I cursed the blond for wrecking yet another attempt of mine to kick the habit. I’d not gone more than three steps before the translucent figure of the old priest appeared beside me. I pulled up my collar.
“Hello again,” I said.
The ghost regarded me. You see me.
“I can,” I said. His voice was barely a whisper, hard to hear over the rain. He wasn’t very good at this.
Why were you speaking with Russ?
“That’s confidential,” I said. I turned, heading to where I’d parked my car. “What about you? Why are you hanging around?”
The old man’s face fell. My flock. I worry.
I smiled around my cigarette. It was getting wet. “And what do you need?”
My flock needs you. Not I. He was fading again, from the effort of talking to me.
I flicked my ash. “Well, I’m sure Father Bryce will be a good influence,” I said.
The priest looked at me so intently the hairs on my arms stood up.
Deal with the Devil. His voice was barely an echo in my head. The rain was starting to break his form apart. There was no disguising the disgusted look on his face.
I was used to that. Comes with the reputation. I took a final drag, and tossed it aside. “I think we’re done,” I said.
His eyes were beseeching as he faded from sight. I’ve had a lot of people try to save me. This was the first time a ghost had stepped up to the plate.
I got into my car. There was a bottle of gin at home with my name on it, but first I needed to go over that list again. I drove back to my office.
*
Russ Maxwell’s parents had been out of town for a week, and at this time of night no one else was interested in either taking or returning my calls.
A couple of wasted hours later, I left my office and went home. I’d almost made it to the top of the stairwell when I saw Rusty. He stood outside my apartment door, watching me. He was still wearing just the tight leather pants, and yet not a single blond hair was wet from the rain. I sighed. I could see through his flat stomach, make out the cracks in the paint on the wall behind him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, even as I reached for my gun.
Russ shook his head and pointed at my door. It was slightly ajar, the lock busted. His fingers were turning translucent at the edges.
I nodded, understanding. Discretion and all that. I started back down the stairwell, hand on my holster under my jacket, but had barely made four steps when I heard someone coming up from below. I peeked over the edge of the railing. Two large gentlemen were coming up the steps, both in blue work shirts and plain trousers, clean-shaven and without a trace of a smile on their faces. One had a scar that crossed his chin.
I started back down the steps. When they saw me, the two men shifted, blocking the stairwell. Above, I heard my apartment door squeak.
“Fellas.” I nodded.
“We just want a word with you,” the scarred man said.
“Is that what you said to Rusty?” I asked.
That surprised them. I took that moment to glance behind me. A third man stood at the top of the stairs, sporting a close-cropped beard and a pair of meaty hands. Three to one. Not good odds.
“Don’t touch that gun,” the scarred one said.
“Don’t really want to,” I said. “Every time I kill someone, there’s hell to pay at the police station.”
The two men below me frowned. The one behind me took a step down.
“Russ Maxwell,” I said, and felt my senses shake with the name. His faded soul was almost gone, flickering and washed out, floating higher up the stairs. My words brought him back.
The two men below me exchanged glances.
The second man spoke for the first time. “A filthy sodomite.” Big word for a working man. I wondered who’d taught it to him.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I said. Russ approached, his form flickering into existence behind the men. I pulled on him with my mind, and his ghostly face looked startled and afraid.
The two men tensed. The one behind me took another step.
“Now, Russ,” I said, and pulled him into the second of the two bruisers in front of me.
The man’s body jerked. The scarred man gave to his companion a worried look just as the possessed man slammed a fist into his face. Russ was a quick study and seemed happy to have a chance to dish out some vengeance.
I bolted toward the two men, squeezing past. I made it to the bottom of the stairs before the bearded man slammed into my back. My face hit the door, and white pain flashed in front of my eyes as my nose took the brunt of the collision. I swore and got my feet back under me. He had one of my arms tight in his hand.
I twisted out of his grip and kicked at his knee, making him howl and step back. I braced myself for his rush. When he came at me again, I ducked in low under him. I lifted, rolling him ahead with my shoulder and letting his own momentum carry him head-first into the door. He crumpled to the ground.
I glanced up and saw the scarred man was curled up on the floor. Rusty was still kicking him with the borrowed body. The scarred man groaned with every kick that landed.
“Enough,” I said, and pushed. Rusty’s startled outline wavered behind the bruiser for a moment before fading away, apparently too surprised to hold himself together. Freed of the possessing spirit, the big man shuddered. His skin went white. His eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed on top of the scarred man, who had stopped groaning.
Amateurs.
I spat some blood from my mouth and left my building. I stopped at the payphone and grimaced as rain trickled down the back of my neck. Blood continued dripping from my mashed nose. I dialed.
Detective Carter didn’t preamble when he heard my voice. “What do you want?”
“There’ll be a dead body at either the Brass Rail or the home of one of their dancers, Rusty, real name Russ Maxwell.”
“Damn it. Why do you always call me with these?” The man had three priorities: justice, baseball, and his old man—in roughly that order. I hoped there wasn’t a game on and that his father was well.
“Fond memories of our drink together. The guilty party of three are at the bottom of my stairwell, full of remorse and kicked to crap. They also broke into my apartment.”
Carter swore. “I’ll send a car.”
“Do it quickly. Not sure how long until they wake up.”
“Don’t suppose you’ll come to the station to press charges on the B and E?”
“Only if I can buy you another drink after.”
“Didn’t think so.” He hung up.
I got into my car, not wanting to be around when the cops arrived. I drove for a while, rolling the case around in my head while my nose stopped bleeding. Then I got it. Damn. Who knew I was going to visit Rusty? Short list. This was why I didn’t think better of people. I aimed my car back to where it had all started. Time for answers.
*
This time I didn’t ring the bell. The door wasn’t locked so I let myself in, moving quietly through the small stone building and listening for the housekeeper. She seemed to be busy in the kitchen. I went past the cozy sitting room and climbed the stairs, hearing a shower. A bedroom door was open, bed sheets turned and ready, and a Bible sat on the nightstand. I went in and found a comfortable chair at a small desk. I turned it to face out and sat down, waiting.
Father Bryce came into the room without noticing me, in a pair of plain cotton pajama bottoms. He was fit and smooth, his hair still damp.
“I see what Russ saw in you.”
“Jesus!” Bryce jumped and whirled, seeing me. “What are you doing here? Is that blood?”
I nodded. “It’s mine.” I tapped my swelling nose. I let my eyes drift over the man’s chest. He kept himself in good shape.
Bryce flinched, moving to his dresser and pulling an undershirt from the second drawer. A flush was creeping up his neck as he tugged it on. “Did Rusty…did Russ do that to you?”
I shook my head. “No. Russ Maxwell is dead.”
“What?” It came out of him in a rush, and he sat on the edge of the bed heavily. He stared at me.
I stood and went to the bedside. Bryce leaned away from me when I got too close, and I felt my lip curl in a slight smirk as I reached past him for the small silver bell on his side table. I rang it.
Bryce looked at me, confused, but I held up one finger.
“Yes, Father?” Grace appeared a few moments later. She blinked when she saw me.
“I know who stole it,” I said.
“You do?” Bryce said, surprised, but I wasn’t looking at him. Grace’s eyes widened and she took a step back before she could take hold of herself.
“Well, now I do,” I said and regarded the housekeeper. Three people knew I was going to see Rusty. Me, Father Bryce, and Grace. “I’m guessing you called those men who killed Russ and tried to give me the same courtesy after I left here, right? The only question I have is why.”
Grace glared at me. Bryce looked between us, sinking even farther on the edge of his bed. The blows were coming too fast for him.
“Grace?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’ve no business wearing the collar!” Grace exploded. “Your sort! It’s against His will!”
Bryce surprised me by rising. “I have never fallen prey to my sinful urges, and God—”
“Don’t you speak of God!” Grace snarled. “God don’t forgive you your sickness! Do you know what people are saying about our church? We’re a laughingstock!”
“How’d you do it?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.
Grace aimed a spiteful grin at Bryce. “We asked God! We all did. The bishop himself led our prayer circle, he did. It was God who struck you down!” She was panting for breath.
“Did it feel cold?” I said.
She turned to me, startled. The surprise on her face was confirmation enough.
“Like winter against your skin?” I asked.
“Shut up!” Her voice trembled. “You’re worse than he is! You’ve walked hand in hand with the Devil, you have! I’ve heard about you!”
I didn’t react to her ranting. “When you all prayed, it felt like the room was going to freeze.”
She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest.
I nodded. “I thought so. That wasn’t God.” She glanced at me, wary. “God isn’t the sort to steal faith away. That’d be somebody else you were talking to.” I smiled. “Trust me. Like you said, I’ve met the gent.”
She went pale and started shaking her head.
“Where is it? Where did you all pray?” I asked her, but she didn’t answer. She leaned against the wall of the priest’s bedroom, and slid down to her knees, a marionette with all her strings cut.
Her head bowed against her knees, Grace began to pray. “Our Father…who art in…who art…”
Bryce took a step away from her, shivering. “She said prayer circle,” he said. “The bishop…” He shook his head. “They hold prayer circle in the Sunday School room.”
“It’ll be there,” I said. He looked at Grace, swallowed, and then nodded at me.
I followed as he led the way. Grace kept trying to find the words for her prayer.
*
Robert Bryce’s faith was on the carpet in the middle of the simple classroom.
“Smaller than a breadbox,” I said.
“That’s it?” he said, looking down at the floor. He hadn’t made a move to touch it.
“They wouldn’t have been able to move it,” I said. For me, it glowed with a golden radiance. To Bryce it was just a small white feather. “The only soul normal folk can touch is their own.”
I knelt. When I reached for the feather, Bryce shook his head, and said, “Stop.”
I stopped. I wondered if he was worried I’d get it dirty. The priest knelt beside me, and with a trembling hand, he reached out and touched the feather with one finger. It melted away into nothing, and he gasped.
I watched the golden glow surround and permeate him.
And then the glow faded away.
He rose. When he looked at me, his eyes were full of strength and peace.
“Feeling better?” I stood up.
“My own flock,” he said, and then swallowed. “It will be hard for them, to accept me.”
I stared at him. Hard? They’d tried to ruin him—not to mention murdering Russ Maxwell and planning the same for me. “After what they did to you, you’ll still lead them?” I shook my head. “And the bishop?”
Father Robert Bryce smiled at me. “With faith, anything is possible.” But there was sadness in his voice. “They’ll find forgiveness in God if they repent.”
“Some of them are going to go to jail,” I said. “For Russ.”
He nodded, but took a deep breath. “I have a lot of work to do.”
I decided not to say anything. Seemed wisest.
*
Outside, the rain had finally stopped. I pulled out a cigarette, hesitated, and put it away again.
I felt the soul before I could see it. When I turned, the spirit of Father Raymond Clayton shimmered into being. I nodded at him.
Deal with the Devil. His words were full of sadness.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Sorry about before. I thought you were talking about me.”
The priest’s soul shivered. I could almost hear laughter. No. Not you. You turned him down.
“Don’t go spreading that around,” I said. “I got a reputation to keep.”
The priest nodded, looking back at the church again.
“They’re in good hands now,” I said. “You should probably…well. Move on.”
The priest regarded me for a moment, surprised. I raised my hand.
He nodded.
I pushed, and the old priest’s soul went wherever souls went.
I checked my watch. If I went to the station I could give Detective Carter my statement about Russ’s death—I’d have to think of something plausible—and deal with the break-in. I rubbed my eyes, exhausted by death and faith. At least Carter wasn’t prone to philosophy. Come to think of it, Carter also liked gin, and I happened to have a bottle at home with my name on it.
But I could share.