Worthy sat across the booth from Allyson, watching her cut the cinnamon roll into equal pieces. He found it hard to accept it had been only a week since she’d sat across from him at the restaurant up north and quizzed him about Henderson.
“Jamie’s in bad shape, isn’t he?” she said, offering her father a wedge of the roll.
Though hunger was the furthest thing from his mind, he took it and rested it on the edge of his coffee saucer. “Yeah. It doesn’t look good.”
“Can’t they give him pills or something?”
“They already have, Ally. Some things are hard to fix.”
She paused in mid-chew. “He’ll never get better?”
He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. It’s tearing his folks apart.”
“You mean they’ll divorce?”
He felt his face redden. “No, no, nothing like that. Well, I guess it’s possible, but I think they’ll go through whatever happens together.” He waited for her to say it, to ask why Henderson and his wife would hold on to each other, when her mother and father couldn’t.
He cleared his throat and stared at the untouched piece of roll on his plate. “I want to tell you why I asked you to come with me.”
“I think I know.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe something I said the other night wasn’t completely wrong … about the way you do your job, I mean.”
He nodded but didn’t look up. “The thing is, I wanted you to be so wrong, and I was sure you were. Henderson was just my partner, and not a very good one most of the time. I thought, to hell with him. I probably thought the same about what you laid on me too. But then ….”
“But then what?”
“Then the proof I had that you were all wrong—my new captain who asked me to help him out, Henderson with his secret, and you—well, that proof turned into smoke. I don’t know where we are in this case, and it won’t be too long before the media and my boss get wind of that.”
“So why are we here?”
He looked up, puzzled. “What?”
“Mom used to tell Amy and me not to bother you sometimes. It always seemed funny to me, because it was when you weren’t home much at all. Some case was tough, I guess, and we’d never see you. And then when we did see you, Mom told us not to bother you.”
A pain shot through his head as he heard his mother saying the same to his sister and himself. “Your mom never told me that.”
“I guess she did the same thing herself. But you didn’t answer my question. If things are going bad on this case, why are we here?”
“Where should we be?”
“I’d have thought you’d want to be alone. You know,” she tapped her temple, “to concentrate.”
“Yeah. Well, someone told me to let the dead bury the dead.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He picked up the wedge of roll and put it into his mouth. The caramel stuck to his fingers, then to his teeth. “I suppose it means I don’t know what you want from me, Ally, especially after you came back, so I can’t be sure I can give you anything. Do you remember what you said when I brought back that toy horse for Amy from New Mexico?”
“No.”
“You sneered and said that’s what I do as a dad. I go on trips and bring back junk.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said the other night, that I prefer being with dead people. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted you to be wrong, and I thought my theory on this case would prove that. But then, when my house of cards collapsed, I realized something. I may not know—not yet, anyway—what you want from me, Ally,” he said, looking up to see tears in his daughter’s eyes, “but I knew what Henderson needed. I wanted you to see that … that I’m trying. That’s why we’re here.”
“Mind if I have a word with you, Father?” The cheery voice over the phone broke Father Fortis’ concentration on the church bulletin. Yes, I do mind, he thought, what with this being Saturday, the day before Sunday’s memorial and the flowers not yet delivered and the bulletin not yet completed.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Kenna McCarty. We spoke earlier.”
Good Lord, he wondered, is this woman a psychic or just a vulture? “You’ve caught me at a very bad time, Mrs. McCarty.”
“It’s Ms. McCarty, Father. It won’t take more than a moment. I’m writing an article on the memorial service for Father Spiro and wanted to know if you’d like to comment.”
He relaxed in his chair, feeling a bit guilty for his quick judgment of the reporter. “Yes, certainly. This is a very considerate gesture. I’m sure the parishioners will be most grateful.”
“It’s a compelling story, Father. Detroit hasn’t forgotten about your tragedy.”
“No, I’m sure not. How can I be of help?” He wrote a note to himself to call the metropolitan again to make sure about his part in the service.
“I’m trying to imagine what my readers want to know. I suspect not many of them will understand what the service is about.”
“Yes, of course. A forty-day memorial service is offered for any Orthodox Christian by family and friends. Forty days remembers that Our Lord ascended into heaven forty days after his resurrection. In the service, we pray that the soul of the departed will be with our ascended Lord.”
“Excellent, Father. You’re a reporter’s dream, the way you explain things so clearly. So this service marks the end of the parish’s mourning—officially, I mean.”
“Oh no, not at all. St. Cosmas will have another memorial service on the anniversary of his death, and every year after that on the nearest Sunday to the date.”
“Really? For how long?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, will there be one in ten years, for example, or twenty?”
“Very likely, and maybe for twenty years after that. You see, Ms. McCarty, we pray in the service that the memory of the departed soul—not just the departed soul itself—will be eternal. These services are our way of doing our part to answer that prayer.”
“My readers are going to love this, Father,” Kenna McCarty said with real relish. “Yes, that’s very touching. Now, who will participate?”
“We expect the metropolitan to officiate as well as other priests besides myself. And the choir, of course, and our chanter will play big roles. The memorial service will be at the close of our Divine Liturgy, and I know for a fact that the parish council president, Mr. George Margolis, will be offering the epistle reading.”
“What a marvelous service. Of course, once the article comes out tomorrow, some people will want to know if they can be present. I know you probably have numerous things to attend to, so I don’t want them calling the church. What should I say in my article about visitors?”
Father Fortis paused. He hadn’t thought of that. The sanctuary would be packed in any case. “Please let people know that St. Cosmas is always open to visitors, but this Sunday is a special moment in the parish’s life.”
The reporter repeated the words as if she were writing them down. “Perfect, Father. Just one more question. Do you expect anyone else to be there?”
Who else? he thought. “I don’t understand your question.”
“I mean the police. Do you expect them to be there?”
Yes, he did expect Worthy to be there, but that was none of her business. He felt a tightening in his chest.
“You see, Father, the reason I ask is that I understand there’s a break in the case. A new development.”
He thought of the diary. Had Mrs. Hazelton broken her word and told someone? He couldn’t imagine that, but how else would she have known?
“You’ll have to ask the police about that,” he said cautiously.
“You mean Lieutenant Worthy? Yes, I tried that, but he hung up on me.”
“Just how is this part of your story, Ms. McCarty?”
“Just as I said, Father. Detroit hasn’t forgotten about a priest being strangled.”
“Meaning, your paper wants to sell copies, no matter if it hinders an investigation or not,” he snapped.
“Good Lord, you don’t know, do you?” she asked. “No one’s told you. I thought Worthy would have the decency to call you, but then, he’s a bit of a loner, isn’t he?”
A monk’s life is a life of discipline. As his abbot had never tired of reminding him, the very structure of monastic life is predicated on self-control, on knowing when to speak and when not to. And so he yearned for the discipline not to ask the question, even as it was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “What are you talking about?”
“Another cop found the altarpiece, Father. Over at Suffolk, in a Dumpster.”