Okay, so Nora had been right. Going for a run with Søren? It was a trap.
The first mile was okay. Cyrus could do an eight-minute mile, no problem. He could do an eight-minute mile for a mile. Mile two got a little tougher. For Cyrus, that is. Søren kept on running, feet pounding the pavement like clockwork, breaths pumping steady and hard as a locomotive. But that couldn’t last, right? Not running eight-minute miles.
Mile three? Holy shit.
Cyrus actually said, “Holy shit!” out loud when the run stretched into mile four.
“You need to stop?” Søren asked.
“Two minutes.”
They jogged to a stop and stepped off the trail. It had been Søren’s suggestion they run the Mississippi River trail, something he’d been meaning to do. Cyrus had assumed they’d run a couple miles of it, maybe make a loop.
Seemed to him like Søren was intent on running all 60.8 miles of it. That morning.
“Are you all right?” Søren asked.
Cyrus glared at the man. They’d both shown up at the start of the trail wearing t-shirts. Cyrus paired his with his favorite Nike shorts, while Søren wore black running pants. Cyrus had stripped out of his t-shirt by the end of mile one. Søren was still wearing his. Cyrus was breathing hard, eyes burning from sweat. Søren wasn’t even winded.
“What did I ever do to you?” Cyrus asked.
Søren grinned. He pushed his black wraparound sunglasses up on his head. “It’s not personal.” A red-headed woman of about twenty, twenty-two jogged past them and glanced back over her shoulder to smile seductively at Søren.
“I hate you.” Here he was, doubled over trying not to puke from running four miles in thirty-two minutes, and this big blond Viking son of a bitch was over here getting eye-fucked by an Emma Stone clone.
“I’m fifty-one. Let me enjoy it. Shall we go again?”
“Hell no.”
“We can walk back.”
“Thank God.”
Cyrus stood up straight, took as much air into his lungs as he could manage, and set off back toward the parking lot.
“I have a long stride,” Søren said. “That’s why I can run a little faster than most men my age.”
“Yeah, tell me I’m short. That helps.”
“You aren’t short. I’m tall. There’s a difference.”
“Fuck off with all that. We’re done. I’m getting a new running buddy, and he’s gonna be short and fat, and I’m gonna pull him behind me in a wagon.”
“I can tell why Eleanor likes you so much. She approves of anyone who is comfortable telling me where to go.”
“Eight-minute mile for four miles? And you don’t even get a free t-shirt at the end? Nora’s right. You are a sadist.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said. “Though I promise, I’m getting no sexual pleasure from this run. Or…stroll.”
Cyrus shook his head. He swore to himself he would never—ever—go running with Søren again. He was also definitely not getting a wedding invite.
“What’s this about then? You trying to see if I’m tough enough to hang with Nora?”
“You’ve survived four whole days in her company and don’t seem any worse for the wear.”
“She does wear me out though. How do you sleep at night knowing your woman is that wild?”
“Helps to tie her ankle to the bedpost,” Søren said.
“No offense, but you’re kind of a weird priest. Ex-priest. Whatever.”
“There is no such thing as a normal priest. I would know.”
The morning was warming up fast. When they started running, it hadn’t quite been seventy yet. Now it was on its way to eighty, fast.
“I have to ask. You grounding Nora after last night? Keep her from playing detective with me?”
“I’ve tried grounding. Doesn’t work.” He shook his head, exasperated as the father of a rebellious teenager. “Honestly, I wanted to thank you for helping Eleanor on Bourbon Street last night.”
“Guess it was my fault she was there to start with.”
“Eleanor is wholly responsible for her own decisions. If she didn’t want to go with you, she wouldn’t have been there. I’m only glad you were there when she was being harassed.”
“No problem. I don’t let that shit happen around me if I can help it. That it?”
“I was also hoping you’d fill me in the case. It’s consuming Eleanor. That worries me.”
“I think she thinks because Ike called her, she’s responsible for figuring out why he killed himself. It’s more than just curiosity, I can tell you that much. She’s taking it as seriously as I am.”
“If Father Murran were still alive, I might kill him for dragging her into this. I can’t say I blame her. If someone had called me right before committing suicide, I would have trouble sleeping until I knew why.”
“It’s more than that. She keeps seeing you in this case. Like when we found Ike’s Bible full of private notes, she said you do that, too. She thinks he was kinky on the side and that somebody drove him to kill himself. I can tell she’s thinking that could happen to you, too, someday. That girl loves you, man. In case you didn’t know.”
“I know. But it never hurts to hear it again.” He smiled to himself. “Any breaks in the case?”
“Right now, I’m running on the theory Ike was being blackmailed, only because it makes sense, not because it fits the evidence. Nothing fits the evidence except he had a secret something weighing on him, and he died keeping it.” Cyrus rubbed fresh sweat off his forehead again. “I’m thinking of going to Dunn and talking to him. He seems pretty convinced Ike was depressed. And they’re old friends.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. Archbishop Dunn is more a politician than a pastor these days. He’ll simply hint that he knows more than he can say about Father Murran’s mental state, and he’ll pat you on the head and send you home.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“I don’t know trust most members of the clergy. Not because they’re clergy. Because they’re people.”
“We’re on the same page there.” Cyrus exhaled. “You got any other ideas?”
“I’m intrigued by the Rumi poem you found in his Bible.”
“The butterfly poem? Why is that?” Cyrus had wondered about that himself.
“I keep very personal notes in my Bible. Old notes from my high school love. Letters Eleanor sent me while I was in Rome working on my Ph.D. Photographs of my son. The sort of irreplaceable things I would save first in a fire. If Father Isaac and I have anything in common, the poem might be meaningful. You can pick up a copy of Rumi’s poetry in any used bookstore. Why write the poem out by hand on fine paper and slip it in your Bible like some sort of billet-doux?”
“A what?”
“A love letter.”
Cyrus wasn’t too sure about that, but he filed it away as a “maybe.”
“Well, you know priests and their shit better than I do.”
“True. And we have a lot of shit,” Søren said. Cyrus laughed to himself.
“You do. Seriously. You sure you want to be a priest? Don’t take this the wrong way,” Cyrus said, glancing around to make sure they were alone. “But you got Nora. Now she’s not my type, but she’s your type. Why don’t you marry that girl? Hit it for the rest of your life without having to look over your shoulder to see if the archbishop’s watching.”
“The girl in question has little to no interest in marrying me. I ordered her to marry me once and didn’t see her again for a full year.”
“Damn. Most girls just say ‘No, thank you, let’s be friends.’”
Søren laughed, though Cyrus had a feeling the man had not been laughing at the time.
“So you going back?” he asked. “Nora says you got until Friday to decide.”
“I have to decide by Friday if I want to go back to teach when the new school year starts. There are hoops galore I have to jump through before they’ll put me back in a classroom.”
“That long stride will help you jump those hoops.”
Now Søren glared at him. Cyrus cackled to himself.
“You could be a professor without being a priest,” Cyrus said. “Right?”
“I wouldn’t be teaching pastoral studies at Loyola.”
“Then teach running at LSU. They got profs for that. Don’t know why, but they do.”
“I’m trying to picture myself as a Track & Field coach. It’s not working.”
“Just saying, you got options. It’s not ‘marry Nora’ or ‘be a Jesuit priest.’ There’s a range…” Cyrus held out both hands three feet apart. “Right hand, marry Nora. Left hand, be a priest. You see all that space in-between? That’s other shit you could be doing.”
“I’m well-aware of my options,” he said. “I just don’t like any of them. Professors, piano teachers, and track & field coaches don’t get to perform weddings and baptize babies, celebrate Mass, and perform Last Rites on the dying and bring a sense of comfort and peace to the family.”
“I get that. I do. I was a cop, then I was shot, now I’m a private detective. Even when I’m not a cop…I’m still a damn cop.”
“We are called to what we are called to,” he said, sounding just like a priest when he said it.
“I’m going to tell you something,” Cyrus said, “and it might come off as me getting back at you for running me ragged back there, but it’s not, okay?”
“Go on.”
“It’s what I tell the married men I talk to when I catch them cheating. You can’t keep your vows, you don’t get to keep your wife. It’s just that simple.”
“Simple,” he agreed. “Not easy.”
“Nobody’s saying it’s easy. I won’t even say it’s fair. I think you priests should be allowed to get married. Not easy. Not fair. But it is what it is and you knew that when you signed up for it. And that’s exactly what you’re allowed to tell me if I ever cheat on Paulina, God help me.”
“You are a wise man,” he said. “And I don’t like you very much right now.”
Cyrus had to laugh at that. “Truth hurts.”
A middle-aged woman jogged toward and then past them, giving him and Søren a knowing look. Cyrus could guess what she was thinking—definitely a weird gay hook-up.
“Here’s a thing you don’t know about me,” Cyrus said. “I’m in therapy. Paulina’s idea, but now I’m a convert. My therapist, she’s a Jungian. Now Jung was a little woo-woo but he’s helped me solve a lot of cases.”
“Very impressive for a man who’s been dead over fifty years.”
“Right. Anyway, he had this idea that people needed to have secrets. A secret is the thing that separates you from the masses. That secret is what makes you an individual.”
“And your point?”
“Dunno. Just seems kind of interesting that your whole life is a secret—by choice. Why do you think that is? You think maybe you like being separated from other people? Other priests, maybe?”
The Viking laughed a little—a very little—at that. “Worth considering.”
“Why would you want to be a priest if you don’t, you know, like them? Or want to be like them?”
“I promise you, Cyrus, you do not want to go anywhere near my psyche. You’d be better off walking blindfolded through an active minefield.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“Good. I don’t feel bad now about asking you a creepy question.”
“You have me intrigued. If you can creep me out, I’ll be very impressed.”
Priest. Sadist. Sleeping with a dominatrix. Yeah, probably took a lot to creep this old boy out.
“Speaking of priests and death—what makes a priest want to kill himself? It’s not just a sin. It’s the sin. The biggest sin. The sin that gets you kicked out of the cemetery. You can shoot up a 7-11 and still get in the cemetery. But you shoot yourself? That’s it. You’re evicted. Even the dead don’t want you in their neighborhood.”
“The usual, I imagine. Depression. Mental illness. Traumatic event. All those can be exacerbated by the loneliness of being a Catholic priest. No spouse to confide in, very few intimate friends. Also, there’s the fishbowl effect. We’re watched. We’re seen. We’re put on pedestals we don’t belong on. Most men feel the pressure to bottle up their emotions and priests experience that as well. But whereas other men are at least allowed to express anger, priests are expected to be godly and perfect at all times. We’re denied even the outlets other men are allowed.”
Cyrus nodded. He couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to go through life without Paulina in it. “What about you? Can you think of anything that would make you want to do it?”
“Ah, now that is a creepy question, isn’t it?”
“Creepy as hell,” Cyrus said. “Don’t answer it if you don’t want to.”
Søren took a long breath. “The two people in my life I love the most, I’ve hurt them both and hurt them deeply. Betrayed them, their trust, their love for me. And even then, I always had faith that the wounds would heal. And they’ve both done their fair share of damage as well.” He paused again. “I’d say the only thing that would make me tempted to take my own life would be if I hurt my son or found myself tempted to hurt my son. My father…he hurt my sister. And me when I tried to stop it. Yes, if I were tempted to hurt a child, my child especially, I would be very tempted to do myself in.”
“You wouldn’t have to kill yourself,” Cyrus said. “You hurt a kid? I’d do it for you.”
“And I would thank you for saving me the trouble.”
“You think it means anything he did it at that little house on Annunciation Street?” Cyrus asked.
“He would have wanted privacy, of course.”
“He had a car. He could have driven out to the middle of nowhere and done it.”
“True. Perhaps the house holds some special meaning for him?”
“Not that I know of,” Cyrus said. “But I haven’t looked at that angle yet either. The house has been locked up for cleaning. I’ll see if I can get in, nose around.”
They were nearing the parking lot. Cyrus couldn’t wait to get into his air-conditioned car, get home and get in the shower. And then he might take a nap. A long God damn nap.
He whistled softly when he saw Søren’s ride. A black Ducati motorcycle.
“Who’d you have to sleep with to get one of those?”
“This was a bribe,” Søren said as he took his helmet out of the saddlebag. “My father—who was vile in every way imaginable—tried everything in his power to stop me from joining the Jesuits and becoming a priest. Threats of violence. Threats of public humiliation. Threats of harming the few people in my life I loved. In the end, he resorted to simple bribery. Jesuits aren’t allowed to own personal property and everything is owned in common. If I wanted to keep the bike for myself—which I did, of course—I would have to leave the Jesuits.”
“But you got it.”
“My father didn’t know about the loophole—a Jesuit can ask permission to keep gifts. Sometimes it’s granted, usually for small personal things, rarely anything large or expensive. My advisor and confessor, however, gave me permission to keep it. I believe his exact words were, ‘You keep the Ducati. Your father can go to hell.’ And when he died, he did.”
“Damn,” Cyrus said. “You’re pretty cold for a priest.”
“You don’t know much about priests if you think we’re better people than everyone else. I am living proof of that. In fact, if I had one piece of advice to give you as you investigate your case—”
“I’ll take it,” Cyrus said.
“Assume the worst.”