Cyrus paced the sidewalk while he waited for Nora to turn up. It was almost six, the sun still up, and he wanted to search the outside of the house for Father Ike’s missing car keys. He had a feeling if they found the car keys, they’d also find the missing padlock key. Nora seemed to like her theory that Father Ike had a lady somewhere who was wearing that key around her neck on a chain, but Cyrus doubted it. Things weren’t that mysterious and sexy in real life. Violent deaths were ugly and brutal and stupid, and beautiful corpses were only on TV.
Although the sun was up, Cyrus used his flashlight to scan the little front yard. He didn’t find anything in the weedy grass. Before he could check the backyard, Nora pulled up in her Mustang and parked in front of the house on the street. Thank God, she was dressed normal. Jeans, white tank, sneakers. Duffle bag, which probably had that cock-ring chastity thing in it.
“Over here,” he said and waved her to the front door.
“You heard back from Sister Margaret yet about the message?” Nora asked.
“Not yet.”
Using the key Katherine had given him, Cyrus opened the front door and let them both in the house.
They paused at the entryway as if afraid to go in further. The house didn’t look like the scene of a crime. The clean-up was over. No red left on the old oak floors. It just looked like a little guest house—bookshelves filled with mismatched knickknacks and old books that either came from Goodwill or ought to go there, ugly plaid sofa, coffee table from the ’70s, wallpaper from the ’60s, brick fireplace plugged up since the ’50s. Why do it here? Of all the places to kill yourself…
“It’s clean,” Cyrus said, glancing around. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Why do you look so worried then?” Nora asked. She didn’t look too relaxed herself.
“We’re not supposed to be here, technically. So look hard and fast and try not to mess anything up.”
Nora nodded. Cyrus said, “Good luck.”
He left her in the living room while he walked through to the kitchen and out the backdoor. With his flashlight he made a circuit of the yard. Didn’t find anything. Not until he went all the way around the side of the house again and noticed paper sticking out of the mailbox.
He knew he shouldn’t be digging through the mail—federal crime and all that—but it wouldn’t kill him to look. Turned out the box was stuffed solid with several days of mail. Junk mostly. Flyers and notices. But there was something else, a big pink envelope, the kind that went with a big greeting card. Except this envelope had no address or name written on it, no return address or stamp. And it didn’t hold a card. It held something hard, something solid, something that jingled.
Shaking, Cyrus pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and grasped the envelope by the corner before he got his fingerprints all over it. Cyrus stepped into the front door and found Nora had taken all the couch cushions off and was digging through the seats.
“Come here. I got something.”
She stood up fast and Cyrus nodded toward the kitchen where there was good bright light.
At the kitchen counter, Cyrus laid the envelope down.
“Feels like keys,” he explained to Nora as he dug latex gloves out of his pocket. “Sounds like them, too.”
He turned the envelope over. Holding the flap down was a sticker.
“A butterfly,” Nora said.
That’s what it was, all right. A round sticker about the size of a half dollar with an illustration of a monarch butterfly.
Carefully, Cyrus peeled back the flap. A set of car keys fell out on the counter.
“Hot damn,” Cyrus said.
“That looks like a padlock key.” Nora pointed at the littlest key on the ring.
“Get the thing,” he said.
Nora ran into the other room, came back with the duffel bag. Cyrus passed her another set of gloves. She pulled the chastity device out of the bag and set it on a few paper towels that Cyrus had set out.
Cyrus tried the key. The lock popped open.
“Okay, so there goes my theory,” Nora said.
Cyrus didn’t answer, too busy thinking.
“Keys in the mailbox. No stamp. Somebody found the keys? No.”
“If they just found them on the street, they wouldn’t know who they belonged to.”
“Right.” Cyrus nodded. “So somebody had the keys already, found out Ike was dead, and wanted to return them quietly.”
“Somebody who likes butterflies. Who likes butterflies?”
“Father Ike did. He had that poem in his Bible.”
“He was in love with someone who likes butterflies? Maybe? Or sleeping with someone who likes butterflies?”
“We don’t know that. It’s a guess, but we can’t say that for sure.” Cyrus turned the envelope over and looked inside but found nothing other than that one butterfly sticker.
“Doesn’t seem possible it’s just a coincidence though, does it?”
No, it didn’t.
And something else…
“Grand Isle,” Cyrus said. “It has a butterfly dome. Some kind of park, all butterflies. Ike went on vacation there in June. In July, he booked a two-month stay on Grand Isle at a different place, a real secluded place. Lady who met him said Father Ike asked what there was to do around there. She said ‘beach, nature hikes, biking, and the butterfly dome.’”
“So he wanted to go back because he likes butterflies,” Nora said. “Or because he knew someone who did.”
Cyrus needed to think and think hard and think deep.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said.
“You want me to come?”
“No, you stay here. Keep looking. I’m gonna walk from here to where we found the car again.”
“Why? We already found the keys.”
Cyrus turned so that he was facing the street. “You have any trouble getting a parking spot on this street?”
“No. I parked right in front of the house.”
“You see lots of spots?”
“Half the street was empty.”
“Right. Exactly.” Cyrus wagged his finger at her. “Ike didn’t park his car three blocks away because there was no parking here. He parked it there for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“Ike had his own apartment at St. Valentine’s, but he came here to the church’s guest house a mile away, supposedly for ‘peace and quiet.’ Sister Margaret said he likes the neighborhood. What’s so special about this neighborhood?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Maybe the man or woman he gave his keys to lives around here. Maybe that’s why he came here. I just want to see what I can see.”
“Good luck,” Nora said. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
Cyrus left her in the house and headed out on foot. He walked slowly, carefully eying every house he passed. What was he looking for? Something told him he’d know it when he saw it. And something else told him he’d already seen it.
But what was it?
Butterflies. Butterfly poem. Butterfly dome. Butterfly sticker.
Maybe the woman Cyrus was doing kink with had a butterfly tattoo. He knew a whole lotta girls who had butterflies inked on their backs or ankles. He’d even picked one girl up at an Usher concert who had a butterfly tattoo on her upper chest so that the little butterfly’s head was at her throat, the wings on her cleavage.
Of course while he was remembering fucking the butterfly girl, Sister Margaret called him back.
“Sister,” he said. “Thanks for calling me. I know this is terrible to talk about, but I’d like to hear the recording of Father Ike’s message to you. Would you let me do that?”
She took a deep breath. “If you think it’ll help. Let me call you back on our landline, and I’ll play it over the phone. Would that work?”
“That would work fine. I’m out on the street, though. I’ll text you in a couple minutes and you can call me then.”
Cyrus jogged back to the house on Annunciation Street. This time he found Nora in the bedroom going through the dresser drawers.
“No luck,” she said. “And I turned this place upside-down. You?”
“Sister Margaret’s gonna let us listen to the message. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Cyrus sent the Sister a text. A few seconds later, his phone rang. Cyrus put it on speaker and set it on top of the dresser.
“Ready,” he told Sister Margaret.
“All right,” she said. Her voice was hollow. “I’ll push play and hold it up. Here we go.”
A beep, and then a male voice: “Maggie.”
Nora reached out and grabbed Cyrus by the forearm. He knew how she felt.
“I’m sorry for what I’m about to do,” the voice said, “but I’d be sorrier if I didn’t do it. I can’t do this. Anyway. Forgive me. Pray for me, Margaret.”
It was one thing to hear the words repeated by Katherine, another thing to hear the words from Father Ike’s own mouth. His voice was surprisingly strong and steady, a man who had made a decision and there was no going back from it.
“That’s it,” Sister Margaret said. “Did you need to hear it again?”
“No,” Cyrus said. Nora still had him by the forearm. She looked paler than usual. “I got it. Thank you. I’m sorry to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me. I was already upset. Goodnight.”
She hung up.
“Well?” Nora said. “That’s it then.”
Was it? Cyrus pulled his reporters’ notebook from his pocket and flipped back.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Cyrus read out loud. He looked up. “That’s what Katherine told me. But that’s not what Ike said. He said, ‘I can’t do this.’ Pause. ‘Anyway…’”
There was a world of difference between “I can’t do this” and “I can’t do this anymore.” A simple mistake. One word. But it reframed everything.
“I can’t do this—period,” Nora repeated. “What’s ‘this’? He can’t mean his suicide because he just said he was going to do it.”
“He was talking about doing something else,” Cyrus said. “I’m going to kill myself because I can’t do…what?”
Nora only shook her head. Maybe when they figured that out, this fucking case would finally be over.