Every Wickedness (20 page)

The water went cold again, ice-cold, and he waited for the heart attack that he was certain would accompany the shock. From some faraway place, he could hear the priests chanting, fragments of their sadistic benediction rising above the torrent of water.

T
he withered, hunched-over cleric Beth had expected didn’t appear. Father Daniel stood straight and tall and was clad in navy sweats and red sneakers. His long hair, greying only slightly at the temples, was tied back in a ponytail. Beth judged him to be in his mid-fifties, though it was difficult to be certain. This man probably always looked younger than his true age.

After a friendly handshake, Father Daniel beckoned Beth to follow him into what she assumed was his classroom. The space was anything but traditional and bore none of the depressing beigeness of the corridor. Desks were arranged in groups of six, the teacher’s desk in the centre of the room. The walls were alive with history, art, music. Every square inch was filled with posters — Paul Revere, Benjamin Franklin, Susan B. Anthony — all drawn by students. A clothesline strung across the width of the room. From it hung the class’s projects, replicas of explorers’ logbooks, the pages artificially aged with brushed-on coffee. Clay pots of philodendron, English ivy, and sanseveria flourished on a ledge by the window.

The priest led the way into his office, another space that revealed much about the man. One glance
around told Beth this teacher was truly beloved, that he’d established a rapport with his students that made him more friend than teacher. Mementos from former pupils were everywhere — plaques, photographs, paperweights. Coffee mugs with witty sentiments lined up on a shelf.

“You know you’re getting old when former students come in with pictures of their own children,” Father Daniel said as he filled the kettle.

A guitar rested in one corner. Beth sat on a leatherette divan next to it. She and Father Daniel exchanged niceties for a while, their conversation filled with observations about architecture, how kids have changed, the demands of the teaching profession and the priesthood. It was easy for Beth to understand why students felt so drawn to this man. He had a broad knowledge base but, more importantly, he was a good listener.

The priest poured strong tea into two stoneware mugs, handed one to Beth, and sat in an oak armchair across from her. “I hope Earl Grey is all right? Miss Wells, how do you think I can help you?”

Beth felt the flush of embarrassment warm her cheeks. “I’m not sure you can, Father Daniel. To be honest, the longer I sit here, the more I wonder why I came. I already feel guilty for taking up your time. You must have other business to attend to.”

He dismissed this with a wave of his hand.
“People
are my business. Besides, guilt is good for the soul.”

“Really?”

“Nah. I just made it up.” He smiled. “But when a priest says something, people take it as gospel. Now Miss Wells, you haven’t come all this way on a whim. Anyone can see something is troubling you, and
my
guilt won’t allow me to send you away without at least your plane fare’s worth.” He smiled again. “On the phone you said you have some questions about a former student?” Father Daniel prompted. “Jordan Bailey, wasn’t it?”

Beth nodded. “Father,” she began, then paused. “This is so awkward —”

“I’ve been leafing through these old yearbooks and school records to jog my memory,” he cut in. “Jordan Bailey was a diligent student. Quite a few Bs and As on his report card. He was the kind of kid who threw himself full tilt into everything — schoolwork, athletics, the Church.”

“Was he very religious?”

“Not fanatically so, but he was a good altar boy. I think he found some kind of peace through his faith. He had a very grown-up understanding of the world. He realized how faith can be an anchor when the waters get choppy.”

“He needed that anchor, Father?”

“I think so, yes. Particularly during adolescence. While most begin to question their faith during those years, Jordan became a more devout Catholic.”

“Why was that?”

“He stopped going home for weekends. Stopped going home to see his mother completely, in fact.
The Church became a kind of security, something he could count on.”

“Did you discover why he wasn’t going home?”

Daniel took a sip of tea and shook his head. “Jordan never confided in me. Though we had a good relationship, I suppose some things are just too painful to discuss.”

“Something dreadful must have happened.”

“For that information, you’ll just have to ask Jordan yourself.”

“Did his mother care about him?”

“In her way. Sometimes people have too much of their own baggage to be effective and loving parents. I think Jordan’s mother may have been one of those, but it doesn’t mean she didn’t want to see him grow up to be a fine man. She seemed quite concerned about him.”

“Were you?”

Father Daniel looked at her, almost through her. “What you’re really wondering is whether Jordan sustained some kind of damage, whether something in his past caused him to become … unhinged, is that it?”

Beth was shocked. “I was going to put it more subtly.”

“When you’ve come all this way and your time is limited, it’s more expedient to dispense with the b.s., don’t you think?”

“I suppose you’re right. Father Daniel, what else can you tell me about Jordan?”

“Miss Wells, all I can relate are some vague recollections about Jordan as a schoolboy. People change. Don’t you think you already know him better than I?”

“But it’s his past I want to learn about, Father. Jordan won’t tell me much, and frankly, a few things have me climbing the walls.”

“And until you have all the pieces, you think Jordan might be the killer the police are looking for?”

Beth opened her mouth to speak, but the priest held up his hand.

“I understand everyone is paranoid about this Spiderman I’ve been hearing about. In fact, you just missed Lieutenant Kearns. He was here this morning.”

Naturally, Beth thought, relieved at least that she hadn’t run smack into Jim in the hallway. How would she have explained that?

“Why don’t you tell me why you think Jordan fits the description?”

Beth listed her suspicions. “And he won’t talk to me about his past —”

“Haven’t you ever concealed information about yourself, something you felt was so awful or embarrassing that you thought no one would understand it?”

Of course she had. “It’s just that the police cautioned us to watch who we know, saying someone may be unwittingly shielding the Spiderman, and I thought —”

“You didn’t want to stick your head in the sand. Listen, Miss Wells, I’ve read what the police have put together about the Spiderman. Still pretty general. For all anyone knows,
I
could be the killer.”

“But you didn’t date Anne Spalding, Father. You didn’t follow me for weeks.”

“Look, all I can say is that I remember Jordan Bailey as a pretty good student. A few adolescent pranks, just like any other kid, in my opinion. Over the years, teachers learn a lot about the kids they teach. Any educator worth his paycheque can spot the ones who haven’t got a hope in hell of making it. If there’s a kid with a screw loose, we generally know who he is. I never placed Jordan in that pigeonhole, and I pretty much told Lieutenant Kearns the same thing,” he paused, then managed a sheepish grin, “though I’ve often been accused of being naïve.”

“In other words, you can’t reassure me.”

Father Daniel leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and gazed at her intently. “Let me ask you something. Your relationship with Jordan, is it serious?”

“It was.”

“Yet instead of staying in San Francisco trying to rebuild whatever has fallen apart, you’re here, talking to a complete stranger about someone he knew twenty-five years ago. I can’t give you some magic phrase that will make your suspicion of Jordan disappear.”

“I don’t know why I thought it would be that simple.” Beth was about to thank the priest for seeing her, wanting nothing more than to exit gracefully, but Father Daniel was pouring more tea.

“Listen, since I’ve gone to all this trouble to clean this office for your visit, why don’t you take a look at a younger version of the man you’ve been dating.”

Father Daniel nudged three yearbooks across the coffee table toward Beth, the appropriate pages marked with yellow Post-it Notes. Beth smiled at Jordan’s seventies’ hairstyle, a heavy lock of dark brown hair swooping across his forehead. Even then, she would have considered him a hunk, would have followed him from class to class and scribbled his name on her binder. Another photo showed Jordan, third from the left in the back row, in basketball uniform with his teammates. There was Jordan the altar server, Jordan working in the library, Jordan boxing food for the poor.

“Well, what do you think?” Father Daniel asked.

“I don’t know. Father, you must think I’m crazy.”

The priest smiled, his expression full of compassion. “These are difficult times. A little suspicion is understandable.”

Beth closed the yearbook. On the front cover was a gold Chi Rho monogram. She traced the symbol with her finger. “The killer’s signature,” she said.

“The Chi Rho is a commonly used symbol, Miss Wells,” the priest said, again sensing her concern. “Since Lieutenant Kearns made me aware of the
killer’s mutilations, the Christogram angle has bothered me. While it’s not necessarily a link to the school, I understand why Kearns is pursuing the religious aspect of the murders. And hey, parochial schools are no different from any other with regard to the cross-section of kids we get. Like I said, every classroom has a requisite number of oddballs, and once in a while, a teacher comes across a student who exhibits all the signs of psychosis. Still, I could hardly give the lieutenant a list of those names. What a wild goose chase that would be.”

“What about you, Father? Have you ever taught someone you thought was psychotic?”

The priest leaned forward again, placed his mug on the table, and seemed to struggle with a memory. Then he smiled again. “No,” he said, his voice hesitant. “No, of course not.”

The question was on the tip of her tongue, but it went unasked. She looked at her watch and knew she’d have to hurry to make her plane.

At that moment, Father Daniel was rising to his feet, and he appeared relieved to see she was doing the same. “Let me walk you to your car,” he said.

H
e couldn’t remember how long he’d been trapped in the stall, cowering in the wretched, mildewed place, being alternately burned and frozen. He decided he must have passed out, for when he looked up, the water was off, and he was alone. He tested his environment, rising tentatively to a crouch, then pushing up with his hands until he was semi-upright. There was a sudden jab of pain from the small of his back, and he knew what had happened. He could feel the watery centre of what must have been a huge broken blister oozing its way between his buttocks.

He didn’t dare look at his body, certain the sight would cause him to faint again. Instead he focused on the tiles around him and forced himself to count to 500 before he peered around the partition to ensure that he was indeed alone.

Cautiously, he ventured from the stall, catching himself as he began to slide, half-expecting the priests to jump out from the change room and brutalize him all over again. But the change room, too, was empty.

They’d taken his clothes.

The final humiliation was the journey across the gymnasium floor and up the stairs, naked, to his
room. Racked with pain, he moved as quickly as he dared, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. On the second floor landing, he stopped. There was a sound of slippered feet in the hallway. A shadow passed in front of the window in the stairwell door.

It must be Father Simon, sleepwalking again.

When the shadow passed, the boy continued until he reached his own corridor. The doors were still closed, and the hall was chilly. Though the floorboards creaked with each agonizing step, he made it to his room undetected. The magazines and the vodka were gone.

Once in his room, he couldn’t bear to lie down, though his body cried out for rest. The notion of anything touching his skin brought sour bile to his throat. He choked it down and remained standing, naked, in the centre of his room. In the darkness, he felt his left hand. Swollen. He wiggled his fingers. Nothing broken.

He thought that at some point during the night, his skin would surrender the fight and split wide open, that somehow his fragile outside shell would crack and leave nothing but a humped mass of muscle and organs. He would wind up looking like one of those drawings he’d seen in a gruesome fantasy comic book.

At last, he was ready to look at himself, to examine what the priests had done, but he didn’t dare turn on the light. Lights-out policy was strictly enforced, and he couldn’t risk waking one of the priests. He
could wait until morning to assess the damage. Both knees were most certainly bruised, but he thought his face had probably survived any blistering or scraping. When dawn broke, he went to the window. The sun was rising, a brilliant orange ball peeking just above the silhouette of the Church of the Good Shepherd. In spite of his physical pain, he felt a curious peace, not in any way related to the glory of the sunrise or the venerable sight of the Spanish-style church. His peace came from the simple knowledge that he had survived. The ordeal by water, the agonizing prodding with the brooms, the priests’ incessant mumbo-jumbo were mere flirtations of what he could rise above. It was morning, and his skin hadn’t split. He was still in one piece, the same person as always. Hell, better. He’d shown what kind of cloth he was cut from.

Now, sitting on the ground looking up at the
campanario
, he delighted in the knowledge that others, too, had since discovered the kind of person he was. Movement in the parking lot interrupted his reverie. She was getting into her car.

One thing his childhood had taught him was the importance of discipline, that waiting could be so sweet. Comedians knew timing was everything. He knew it too, and this knowledge helped him through the periods when he would sink into a vortex of desolation so great that only a new project could relieve it.