Worthy and Allyson arrived early at St. Cosmas and made their way to the balcony. Worthy watched as parishioner after parishioner brought candles to the icon screen, and after standing quietly and crossing themselves, placed the candles below one of the icons. They seemed like soldiers reporting to duty for a sad mission.
Missing was the laughter and arm-punching he remembered from his youth, the pre-service frivolity that had so disturbed his father. His father’s intermittent pleas for a spirit of reverence to prepare for worship would be honored for a week or two, but the chatter of sports and weather would inevitably return. The Baptists he’d grown up with had savored the last few minutes before worship like last drags on a forbidden cigarette.
But again this week, as two weeks before, silence lay heavy in the Greek church. Allyson added to it, sitting quietly beside him without fidgeting. Here at St. Cosmas there was no hint of the breezy familiarity with the Deity. Here, beneath the scowls on the faces in the icons, fear of God made some sense. A part of his first visit came back to mind, when Father Fortis had turned toward the congregation and begged them to forgive his offenses against them: “For I approach God, our immortal King.” It sounded like the warning of a landmine ahead.
An African American walking up the side aisle brought Worthy back to the present. Henderson. Wow, who’d have thought that? His partner ducked in and sat just behind Mrs. Nichols’ usual seat. The man was either loyal or stubborn.
Both he and Allyson stood with the others as the service began. He looked down and picked out those he knew. He recognized Mrs. Filis, the parish council member who’d found the body. Across the aisle and up closer to the front stood Dr. Pappas. Next to him was a thin woman, almost as tall, dressed in respectful black. At the front and to the side stood the chanter and next to him, Mr. Margolis, parish council president.
Worthy looked toward the other side. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered.
Allyson poked him in the ribs. “Dad! Shh.”
“Sorry,” he whispered, still trying to make sense of the new couple who had seated themselves along the far aisle. Kenna McCarty was sitting next to Superintendent Livorno. She must be covering the service for a follow-up story, he thought, but why is he here?
He didn’t have much time to puzzle on the matter as Father Fortis appeared in the doorway between the icon screen and the altar and looked down the center aisle. Everyone turned toward the narthex, as if expecting someone.
Soon the scene was explained, as altar boys carrying icons and incense holders escorted an older man in even fancier vestments down the center aisle. Father Fortis came down from the podium, kissed the old man’s hand, and led him to the ornate throne set off to the right.
“Who’s he?” Allyson whispered.
“I think he’s the metropolitan, their bishop.”
“Wow. Nice getup.”
The service returned to what he remembered from his last visit. By the first procession, the seats below were packed. If the killer was among them, they wouldn’t have been the first to come, nor noticeably late. No, the killer would have entered with the crowd—all perfectly normal.
First Corinthians, Chapter One, was read in Greek, then English, by Mr. Margolis. Immediately following, Father Fortis opened the jeweled Bible and read a gospel story about a father with two sons, one who promised to obey, the second who protested but in the end was the only one to obey.
Worthy stood, his legs as heavy as lead, for the second procession. The altar boys inched their way toward the back corner and then turned toward the center. Here, Father Spiro had stopped, frozen for some reason, as unfathomable a mystery to Worthy as the diary’s codes.
Worthy looked down and spied Henderson. His voice had held some hope on Thursday when he told Worthy about his son’s new psychiatrist. The doctor was a visiting specialist from Peru whose accent was so thick that Henderson admitted he didn’t understand every word the guy said. But somehow the doctor had connected with Jamie. “If a shrink from Peru can do that, maybe he can teach me,” Henderson had said. Yes, Henderson was stubborn.
A strange rustling had started below him, and Worthy brought himself to attention. He saw Mrs. Filis drop to her knees and cross herself. Slowly, even as he leaned so far over the balcony rail that Allyson pulled at his coat, he realized what was happening. Below him, in the rear of the left aisle, Father Fortis stood motionless, his mouth open but silent. The tinkling of the censer had stopped, and the altar boys and the other priests in the procession stared back at the pale and shaking priest.
Worthy caught a glimpse of Henderson, half-walking, half-running past the altar boys toward the cry room. Worthy turned his attention back to Father Fortis, even as his friend seemed to shake his head and restart the chant. Worthy saw in that moment what Mrs. Siametes had noted about Father Spiro. Father Fortis was squinting up at the far wall. There could be no question of senility this time.
“What’s happening?” Allyson whispered.
“I don’t know. But I will after I talk with Nick.”
Strangely, Father Fortis seemed the calmest person in the sanctuary as he slowly mounted the steps and returned to the altar area. A young priest could be seen whispering something to Father Fortis and Father Fortis shaking his head in response.
Worthy sat back in his chair, slightly nauseated. What had he just witnessed? If it was a charade, some clumsy attempt to spook the killer, then the bluff had worked too well. Many had reacted to the eerie echo of Father Spiro, and who could blame them? Was Mrs. Filis’ reaction or Mr. Margolis’ beet-red face any more suggestive or incriminating than his own near tumble from the balcony? The only other possibility was that Father Fortis hadn’t planned to stop at all. He had seen something, but what?
Worthy squirmed in the pew, waiting impatiently for Father Fortis to finish administering communion. He knew the homily was next, when his friend would have to say something. There was a hushed buzz down below on the main floor as well. He wasn’t the only curious one. Finally, Father Fortis approached the pulpit and bowed to the metropolitan before scanning the congregation. “I want to apologize for what happened on the last procession. I can imagine how painful and disturbing it must have been for those of you who knew and loved Father Spiro. It was, perhaps, my own sense of getting to know your beloved spiritual father over these past few weeks that caused my reaction,” he said, looking up at Worthy.
Does he expect me to understand something from that? Worthy thought.
“I would invite you on this solemn occasion to think of the majority of Orthodox churches that have an icon of Christ, the Pantocrator, in the dome. When I was a boy growing up in Baltimore, I would sometimes be afraid to look up at our own icon of Christ, which was also in a dome. It was because the face of Christ in this icon is more severe than in any other icon, for here He is depicted as our final judge. As my mother used to say, ‘Christ and the saints see everything.’ But our faith tells us that only Christ will judge us.”
Father Fortis paused to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief before gripping the edges of the pulpit. He’s struggling, Worthy thought.
“The gospel talks about two brothers and a father. I am reminded again of being a boy myself and yes, a brother. I remember one time when my older brother—may his memory be eternal—told our father that he’d cleaned his room for the holidays. Even I believed him, but actually, my brother had used a garden rake to sweep his toys under the bed.”
A number of parishioners laughed appreciatively, no doubt relieved for the service to be back on a more even keel.
“But my father wasn’t easily fooled. He knew my brother even better than I did. He could read his face, and he saw it was a lie. Yes, it was what we might call today a ‘white lie,’ nothing major or damaging in the long run.” Father Fortis wiped his brow again. “God is such a father, although it seems from the media that not many people believe that anymore. So many modern Americans are like the fool described in the Psalms, the one who acted as if there is no God Who watches us. Many of us here this morning might have some doubts about such a God. Our hearts might say, ‘If there is such a God, would he not prevent the horrible suffering of our world, such as the murder of our own dear priest?’ The ancient Psalmist had an answer for that. ‘Surely, God beholds our trouble and misery; God sees it and takes it into His own hand.’ As surely as the icon of Christ looks down from the dome in traditional Orthodox churches, so God watches us, whether we are inside St. Cosmas or outside her doors. So no one here should miss the chance to be forgiven by this same judge, for as the fourth evangelist tells us, Christ came to save sinners, not to condemn them.” Father Fortis crossed himself and moved back toward the altar.
My God, Worthy thought, do people know he was just appealing to the killer? By reflex, Worthy looked down on the heads of those below. If he expected some sign of contrition, someone running screaming from the room or falling on his or her knees, he was disappointed. But he didn’t expect that. Not from this killer.
Worthy turned to Allyson. “Want to do some detective work?”
Allyson’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“I need to get down to the priest’s office and wait for Father Nick, but I don’t want everyone to see me. That means I need to leave before the last part of this service is over, the memorial for the dead priest. Father Nick said it would take about thirty minutes.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Right after the service, go to the back door by the parking lot. You know, where we came in. Stand just outside the door and listen to what people are saying as they leave.”
“Won’t that be a bit obvious?”
“Just act like you’re waiting for someone to pick you up. People tend to ignore someone they don’t know. Okay?”
Allyson nodded.
Worthy waited until the part of the memorial service when the metropolitan rose to begin his remarks. He moved quietly down the stairs and made his way to the parish office. Slipping through the door, he stood in the darkness. A candle beneath an icon offered the only light. Some saint sat astride an armored horse in the act of spearing a dragon. The warring figures seemed alive in the flickering light, the dragon’s tail writhing, like a barbed vine, toward the saint’s leg.
After about twenty minutes of waiting that seemed like twenty hours, Worthy heard a single pair of footsteps pause outside the door. Because it was too early for Father Fortis, he waited for Henderson to enter. But just as suddenly the footsteps retreated, even as another set approached from the opposite direction.
Two knocks, but Worthy remained silent. “Worthy, are you in there?”
Worthy opened the door and let Henderson in. His partner’s eyes danced. “Too fucking weird. Just too fucking weird.”
“Anyone in the cry room?” Worthy asked.
“No, it was empty.”
“How about just now? Did you see anyone in the hallway? Anyone walking away from the door, I mean?”
“Nope, just a group setting up coffee down in that big hall. So, what’s it all mean?”
“It means something,” Worthy said. “Father Nick doesn’t go in for theatrics.”
“It freaked people out; I’ll say that.”
The doorknob turned suddenly, and Father Fortis practically fell through the opening. Shutting the door behind him, he moved quickly toward his desk. “I only have a few minutes. I don’t have time to explain everything, but I figured out the diary, Christopher. I figured out the code!”
Worthy tried to check his disappointment. They already knew enough about the diary to conclude it didn’t help. But he didn’t say anything as his friend opened one drawer after another until he placed his translation of the diary on one side and unrolled architectural drawings on the other.
“I have to get back to the metropolitan. Pray to God I can think up a good story to cover things,” he said, as he moved from one drawing to another. “I know it has to be here someplace. Yes, here it is.” He lifted one out and placed it on top.
The two men stood on opposite sides of the priest. “What the hell is it?” Henderson said. “Sorry, Father.”
“It’s a scale drawing of the icons in the sanctuary, Sergeant.”
“The icons?” Worthy asked. “I don’t follow.”
Father Fortis pointed a finger at the left door of the icon screen. “Just as I came out this door on the second procession, something caught my eye. Of course, it’s been there all these weeks, but I didn’t really see it until today. Just like Father Daniel said.”
“Father Daniel?”
“Sorry, my friend. My mind is ablur. Look, every icon has a few Greek letters on them to identify the saint being depicted. So, in this first icon of St. Nicholas, for example, the first letters of the Greek phrase, ‘the holy Saint Nicholas’ are abbreviated NI.”
“NI,” Worthy repeated. “But the code has four letters.”
“Right. I thought the same thing until I came to the end of the aisle and turned the corner.”
“Where the dead priest lost it as well,” Henderson said.
“Exactly. I was walking down the side aisle, trying to remember what icon was next—up at the front, I mean. My mind blanked, despite all my years in church. But look at this architectural drawing. St. Nicholas is next to St. John the Baptist, who begins with IO. The next icon over is of Christ, but the lettering on His begins with IC.” His finger flew across to the other side of the drawing. “The icon of the Theotokos, the Blessed Virgin Mary, begins with MR. Next to that is the icon of the parish, CO for St. Cosmas. Finally, there is the icon of St. George, GE. Do you see now, Christopher?”
See what? he thought. “So you got letters off the icons. But I don’t see how they get us to the four letters in the diary.”
Father Fortis silenced Worthy with a hand. “It was when I stopped. That’s when I saw how the code worked. I turned the corner and saw what Father Daniel said he noticed. That the icons on the far wall look down on us as we profess. And every one of those has Greek or sometimes English letters as well.”
“For example?” Henderson said.
Father Fortis sifted through the drawings again until he found the one of the wall icons. “Here’s St. Barbara. That’s BA. That’s when it all hit me. If someone sits anywhere in the sanctuary, their seat could be identified by lining up the letters from the closest icon on the icon screen and the closest icon from the side wall.”
“A grid,” Worthy said. It was suddenly all so simple, so obvious. “Father Spiro was worried his mind was slipping, but he didn’t want to write out the name. So he used a code to remind himself where someone sat.”
“But who the hell sits in the same place in church?” Henderson asked.
“ ‘Creatures of habit.’ That’s what Mrs. Nichols said. She always sat in the same place and said most people do. And she’s right,” Worthy added. “It was the same in the churches I grew up in.”
“But how does that help us?” Henderson objected. “Hell, they may sit in the same seat, but we won’t know who sits where without photos. And tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow isn’t here yet,” Worthy said, but he saw the same problem.
“Just a minute,” Father Fortis said as he searched through a pile of mail on the edge of the desk. “I forgot about the photos Mr. Bagios took at Father Spiro’s funeral. Yes, here they are,” he said, pulling out a manila folder and tearing it open. “I couldn’t see why they’d be important at the time, but thank God for Mr. Bagios!”
Worthy studied each of the photos as Father Fortis laid them out on the desk. He put aside the close-ups of the casket, leaving a series taken of the sanctuary from the balcony. Would they show enough?
“Oops,” Father Fortis said as he rose and hastened toward the door. “The metropolitan is probably on the phone trying to find some replacement for me as we speak. Do we have enough to go on?”
Worthy shrugged. “We’ll see, Nick. What’s your schedule like this afternoon?”
“Very full, my friend. Brunch with the metropolitan, then take him back to the chancery. After that I’m expected to take communion to several shut-ins. Should I cancel some of that?”
Worthy fought off the pressure of tomorrow’s deadline. “No, we want everything to look normal. When is the soonest you can be back here?”
“About three thirty. Can I call you if I get delayed? The metropolitan is one of those slow, ponderous types.”
Worthy remembered Allyson waiting for him out in the parking lot. “Let’s make it four.” He reached in his pocket for his address book. “And you can call me on my daughter’s cellphone. She doesn’t hate those phones like I do.” He gave Father Fortis the number before turning to his partner. “How about you?”
Henderson shook his head as he looked down. “Sorry. We’re supposed to take a look at a hospital this afternoon. I’m not free until tonight.”
“Come when you can. I got a feeling we’re going to be here a while,” Worthy said. “Nick, before you leave, tell me those letters again.”
“MRAG, NISP, and IOAG. Oh, and you might also check out GESP.”
“Where did that last one come from?” Worthy asked.
“It’s probably nothing, but it was the last thing Father Spiro wrote in the journal. He put a question mark beside it.”
“Really? I thought you said the last entry was about NISP or IOAG.”
“I did. But there was these four letters on the next page. I couldn’t see how they’d mean anything.”
Father Fortis opened the door and was halfway through it when Henderson called after him. “Just a second, Father. The old priest must have devised the code months ago, right?”
“So I know why you stopped there, but why’d he stop right there?”
Father Fortis pulled on his beard. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
Worthy put his own finger on one of the photos. “I think I know. He stopped there because he’d just passed someone in one of the pews, someone he realized he needed to talk to.”
“His killer?” Henderson asked.
“Could be,” Worthy said cautiously.
“God, I hope so,” Henderson said.
“Amen to that, my son. Now, wish me luck.”
“Just a second, Father,” Henderson called after him.
Father Fortis’ head reappeared in the doorway. “I thought the idea was not to raise suspicions.”
“Fine, fine, Father, but what are the chances you’d stop exactly where he did?”
Father Fortis blushed. “Maybe we should leave that in the mystery of God.”