Blood on a Saint (29 page)

They looked from one to the other wondering whether to chance it. Monty would certainly know. Perhaps some of the other adults. But, wisely, they left these little lessons for the boys.

“It’s something about a mother,” Ian said.

“That’s right.
Stabat Mater dolorosa iuxta crucem lacrimosa.
The sorrowful mother, the grieving mother, was standing by the cross weeping.”

Again, a curious look from Collins. Brennan ignored it and proceeded to sing them the melody line of the gorgeous, haunting piece.

Monty

Instead of heading straight to the office on Wednesday morning, Monty drove to Byrne Street, entered the church, and climbed the stairs to the choir loft, where he would join the other members of the St. Bernadette’s Choir of Men and Boys for the twice-yearly choir school Mass. Not that the choir school students, including his daughter, Normie, attended Mass only twice a year. No indeed. Frequent Mass attendance was part of life at Father Burke’s choir school. But this was the special liturgical event for the students and their families, and everybody knew it was not to be skipped. Woe to anyone who misseth this Mass, woe in the form of the displeasure of the Reverend Doctor Father Burke; it would be better for that man, woman, girl, or boy if he or she had never been born. The choirs, that is, the school choir and the men and boys, would be singing some exquisitely beautiful motets by Palestrina and Victoria and, apparently, Pergolesi. Monty surveyed the nave from his perch in the choir loft. The church was packed with the mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and teachers of the students.

The choristers got to their feet as Father Burke walked up the aisle behind six altar boys carrying candles. Burke was, as always, a striking figure in his immaculate green vestments. He wore a black biretta on his head and carried the chalice covered by the chalice veil. Priest and choir sang the ancient chant together as the Mass proceeded. Whenever Burke was saying Mass, he deputized Frank Stanton, a member of the men and boys’ choir and an accomplished musician in his own right, to direct the singers. The fact that Stanton still had this job after a year said it all about how good he was as a stand-in conductor. Not a note was out of place. At the Offertory, the choir sang Palestrina’s
Adoramus Te Christe
, and Monty’s thoughts turned to the inexcusable and sometimes evil acts he heard about every day of his working life, the appalling things human beings did to one another. And he wondered, when they came to the phrase
redemisti mundum
, thou hast redeemed the world, whether the world could ever truly be redeemed. Monty also wondered how Father Burke was able to perform so beautifully, whether he had slept the sleep of the angels or had been out carousing till the wee hours. Something had been bothering the priest last night at rehearsal. Monty had not had a chance to speak to him after practice. Had Burke gone to the Midtown to anaesthetize himself from whatever had set him off? No way to tell.

The time came to switch from Latin to English for the sermon. Burke never spoke for more than ten minutes, usually less, and never talked down to the congregation. Whether or not they understood some of the arcane terminology he used, or the ethereal ideas he floated before them, he accorded them the respect of treating them like equals, though few in the crowd would have attained anything close to the level of education he himself had achieved. And he never thundered at people about worldly vices; his homilies tended to be lessons in theology. Today the subject was St. Paul’s matchless hymn to love, in his first letter to the Corinthians: “Faith, hope, love abide, these three, but the greatest of these is love.” Father Burke was only about two minutes into his talk when a baby at the back of the church set up a wail. He kept on speaking, and the baby kept on crying. Monty leaned over the choir rail and watched the scene from above. He could see the baby’s mother, red-faced and flustered, desperately trying to calm the infant, who appeared to be around four months old. Two pre-school children flanked the mother.

Suddenly, Father Burke stopped speaking, stepped away from the pulpit, and started walking from the sanctuary and down the centre aisle. Monty could see the sudden tension in the postures of the children and the mother. He could hardly believe his eyes. How cranky was Burke today? How sore was his head? Had he had such a hard night that he would interrupt his sermon and march down the aisle to confront a family with a crying child? All heads turned as he passed them on the way by. Everybody in the church was watching as he drew even with the mother and baby. The mum looked up at him, a mortified expression on her face. The brother and sister watched the priest with wide, apprehensive eyes. Monty saw Burke lean over, say something to the mother, and remove the baby from her care. He then proceeded up the aisle towards the altar with the squalling infant in his arms. All heads turned to the front and followed his progress. He returned to the pulpit and faced the congregation.

“This,” he said, turning his face to the baby, “this is what it’s all about. This is where love, unconditional love, begins. A mother’s love for her child. A father’s love.” He bent over the baby and kissed its forehead, spoke words nobody else could hear, and the baby calmed down, made a little cooing sound, and lay contentedly in the priest’s arms. “How can anyone look at this beautiful face and not be filled with love?”

There wasn’t a sound in the church except for his voice. Everyone stared at him, rapt with attention.

“When anyone does anything to hurt another human being, when anyone takes another person’s life, this is who they are hurting, this is who they are killing. This is the life that is destroyed. Every one of us starts life as a helpless child like this. Any time we are tempted to mistreat a person, to lash out, to do a person harm verbally or physically or any other way, we must stop and think, that this is how we all began, this is who we all are. Everyone is precious in the eyes of God and everyone should be precious to each and every one of us. If we can’t see the face of Christ in every person, and I admit it is difficult with some, then we should do our best at least to see the face of the child.”

Monty took a quick look at his fellow choristers. To a man, to a boy, they had their eyes fixed on Father Burke. They were stunned into silence and immobility.

Brennan

If ever there was a night that called for a trip to the Midtown with Monty Collins, it was the night after the third confession of Pike Podgis. Brennan had seen Monty at the choir school Mass, but he had to avoid a night of drinking with Monty when he was in this frame of mind, a mind consumed with seeing Monty’s client go down in flames for his crimes. And he could not go and unwind with a drink chez MacNeil for the same reason. Turning up on the doorstep of Monty’s wife was out of the question. All because Monty was stuck representing the odious Podgis. Brennan thought of a couple of other fellows he might go drinking with, but figured he would be lousy company for them.

So he holed up by himself in his room at the parish house, with a quart of John Jameson and the music of the Mozart
Requiem
. The dark, brilliant music washed over him. But it was wasted on him, lost as he was in his bottle of Jameson and his black thoughts about Pike Podgis. He knew he should confess yesterday’s violent outburst and the nearly overwhelming temptation to pound the man to a bloody pulp. But he could not confess it. Not yet. For the same reason he could not have granted absolution to Podgis: no remorse. He drank and brooded, drank and brooded. Podgis had brutally murdered a young girl, a young girl who had once been a dear little baby like the one at Mass, and then Podgis had brutally gloated about it in the confessional. He virtually confessed to killing young Jeanie Ballantine as well, the girl who had moved from Halifax to Toronto with her family. And the sexual innuendoes: did they reflect his true impulses, or were they just meant to goad Brennan into some kind of response? Why would Podgis do that? But, then, why come to Brennan’s confessional at all? What was he up to? He had made cruel, callous remarks about the girl’s grieving mother. And he was convinced he was going to walk. The foul creature seemed confident that he would escape punishment for the Jordyn Snider murder. On what grounds? Was there some way he thought he could pin this on someone else? What had he found, or made up? How could he explain away the victim’s blood on his shoes, or the fact that he had been spotted leaving the scene? How could he get out from under the weight of that evidence? What was going on?

Brennan reached for the bottle again. Two ounces left. Infinite and loving God of all creation, had he downed a whole quart of Jameson sitting here stewing about Podgis? Was the man worth the price of a bottle? He poured the last two ounces into his glass, drained it, and banged the glass down on his table. He was going to deal with this. He just didn’t know how. A priest was bound by the seal of the confessional. Brennan was so utterly committed to his sacramental duty that, even in an extreme situation like this, he would not reveal what he had learned. He was not an agent of the state, and rightly so. But he could not just sit and do nothing. He had to find out whatever it was that Podgis knew, or whatever it was that Podgis had manufactured, to make him so cocky about his chances of acquittal. Was it something he and Monty were working on together, or was Podgis digging around on his own? Whatever it was, if Brennan could find it, perhaps he could counter it, neutralize it, make it go away. Maybe he could spook Podgis into making a mistake and convicting himself by his own actions. Brennan had one and only one goal in this: to see Podgis go away and spend twenty-five years in the purgatory of prison before being cast into the outer darkness for all eternity. Brennan just hoped he could send the man to hell without risking excommunication himself.

He had to get into Podgis’s flat. Podgis had rented a place when he was released on bail, and Brennan had a good idea where it was. He would get the address and . . . then what? He couldn’t very well follow the man into his apartment and search the place with Podgis sitting there on his arse watching him. Unless Brennan beat him unconscious, which was a fairly tempting idea. But no, he had to be practical, if pouring a quart of whiskey down his throat and plotting a break-in could be termed practical. How in the hell could he break into the place? Smash the door in, and be arrested himself? Podgis was on a curfew, so that reduced the hours in which a break-in could be done. And, again, how would he get in? He gave a moment’s thought to calling up certain relations of his in Ireland, people who had occasionally crossed the line into illicit behaviour in the past: “Howareyeh? Good, good, the blessings of God on you and all belonging to you. Oh, while I have you here, could you instruct me in how to pick a lock?” No. And he could hardly call upon Monty Collins to introduce him to one of his criminal clients for assistance in breaking in to the home of his current client . . .

Wait a minute. Monty wasn’t the only person with a stable of criminal acquaintances. What about all the fellows Brennan had met and counselled in his ministry at the Correctional Centre? Who was out? Who could be persuaded to do a little undercover work for kindly Father Burke, the prison chaplain? Who had finely honed burglary skills? Who could be trusted?

Monty

Monty had not given up the idea that there might, just might, be someone out there who could be set up as the straw man, the alternative to Pike Podgis as the likely killer of Jordyn Snider. Ignatius Boyle was looking good for the role, with his conviction for indecent exposure and the fact that he knew the victim. Knew her, went off with her in a van full of kids, and then was spurned by her in the aftermath. But it would not hurt to have another guy on standby.

He nearly lost his resolve when he answered a call from Phyllis Podgis, thanking him and Maura for their kindness to her and informing Monty that she would be boarding the train back to Toronto. She said she could not be with Podgis when he was “like this.” But, in the same breath, she pleaded with Monty not to judge her former spouse too harshly. “He puts on a front to hide his . . . When he’s unhappy, he tries to hide it.” Monty did not ask when the man had ever been happy, and under what circumstances. Obviously the goodwill of a woman who, however inexplicably, truly cared for him, and had travelled a long distance by train to support him, had done nothing to pierce his armour-plated hide. Monty wished Phyllis well, and they said goodbye.

He dialled Maura’s number to give her the update but there was no answer; he left a message with the details of Phyllis’s call.

He turned then to the notes he had made following his conversation at Tim Hortons with Constable Truman Beals. Right. Drew MacLean, an old boyfriend of Jordyn’s. He was listed in the phone book with an address in Bedford, and when he answered Monty’s call, he said he would be willing to talk about Jordyn. He was coming downtown Thursday evening, to meet friends for a movie at the Oxford. So he and Monty decided to get together across the street at the Spartan restaurant before that, at six o’clock.

Monty arrived a few minutes early, engaged in his regular banter with the owners about their rivals at the Athens restaurant, then sat at a booth and waited for Drew. He too got there ahead of the appointed time, and Monty stood to greet him. Drew MacLean was of medium height, slim with short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

“Have a seat, Drew. Are you going to eat? I thought I might as well have supper here.”

“Well, I don’t know . . .”

“It’s on me. Order whatever you like.”

“Okay. I am a little hungry. Better to eat now than fill up with popcorn at the movie.”

“Right.”

Monty ordered the moussaka, Drew the souvlaki, and then they sat in silence, Monty wondering how to begin. He could hardly tell the young fellow he was looking for a boyfriend to cast in the role of a likely suspect to deflect guilt away from his client. But he had another angle worked out.

“As I explained on the phone, Drew, I’m representing the man accused of killing Jordyn.”