Perfect Match (13 page)

“He touched the card. The right one,” I insist. “That IDs good enough.”

“It's not.” Patrick shakes his head.

“Nathaniel, try again.” I reach over and mess the pictures up. “Show me whi ch one.”

Nathaniel, angry that I've ruined his work, shoves at the cards so that half o f them fly off the table. He buries his face on his bent knees and refuses to look at me.

“That was useful,” Patrick mutters.

“I didn't see you doing anything to help!”

“Nathaniel.” Caleb reaches across me to touch our son's leg. “You did great. Don't listen to your mother.”

“That's lovely, Caleb.”

“I didn't mean it like that and you know it.”

My cheeks are burning. “Oh, really?”

Ill at ease, Patrick begins to stuff the pictures back into the envelope.

“I think we ought to talk about this somewhere else,” Caleb says pointedly. Nathaniel's hands come up to cover his ears. He burrows sideways, between the sofa pillows and Patrick's leg. “Now look what you've done to him,” I say.

The mad in the room is all the colors of fire, and it presses down on him, s o that Nathaniel has to make himself small enough to fit in the cracks of th e cushions. There is something hard in Patrick's pocket where he's pressed u p tight to it. His pants smell like maple syrup and November. His mother, she's crying again, and his dad is yelling at her. Nathaniel c an remember when just waking up in the morning used to make them happy. No w, it seems that no matter what he does, it's wrong.

He knows this is true: What happened happened because of him. And now tha t he's dirty and different, his own parents do not know what to do with h im.

He wishes he could make them smile again. He wishes he had the answers. H e knows they are there, but they're dammed up in his throat, behind the T hing He Is Not Supposed to Tell.

His mother throws up her hands and walks toward the fireplace, her back to e veryone. She's pretending no one can see, but she's crying hard now. His fat her and Patrick are trying hard not to look at each other, their eyes bounci ng like a Superball off everything in the tiny room.

When his voice returns, it reminds Nathaniel of the time his mother's car woul d not start last winter. She turned the key and the engine groaned, whining an d whining before it kicked to life. Nathaniel feels that same thing now, in hi s belly. That kindling, that croak, the tiniest bubble rising up his windpipe. It chokes him; it makes his chest swell. The name that gets shoved out is fee ble, thin as gruel, not nearly the thick and porous block that has absorbed al l his words these past weeks. In fact, now that it sits on his tongue, bitter pill, it is hard to believe something this tiny has filled all the space insid e him.

Nathaniel worries no one will hear him, since so many angry words are flying like kites in the room. So he comes up on his knees, presses himself along Patrick's side, cups his hand to the big man's ear. And he speaks, he speaks .

Patrick feels the warm weight of Nathaniel on his left side. And no wonder; Patrick himself is ducking from the comments Caleb and Nina are winging at each other; Nathaniel has to be faring just as poorly. He slides an arm ar ound the child. “It's okay, Weed,” he murmurs.

But then he feels Nathaniel's fingers brush the hair at his nape. A sound sl ips into his ear. It's not much more than a puff of breath, but Patrick has been waiting. He squeezes Nathaniel once more, because of what he's done. Th en he turns to interrupt Caleb and Nina. “Who the hell,” Patrick asks, “is F ather Glen?”

The logical time to search the church is during Mass, when Father Szyszynsk i-a.k.a. Father Glen, to the children like Nathaniel who cannot pronounce h is last name-is otherwise occupied. Patrick cannot remember the last time h e went on a hunt for evidence wearing a coat and tie, but he wants to blend in with the crowd. He smiles at strangers while they all file into the chu rch before nine A.M.; and when they turn into the main nave of the church h e walks in the opposite direction, down a staircase.

Patrick doesn't have a warrant, but then this is a public space, and he does not need one. Still, he moves quietly through the hallway, reluctant to draw attention to himself. He passes a classroom where small children sit wrigglin g like fish at even smaller tables and chairs. If he were a priest, where wou ld he stash the Goodwill box?

Nina has told him about the Sunday when Nathaniel came home with a differen t pair of underwear on beneath his clothes. It might not mean anything. But then again, it might. And Patrick's job is to overturn all the stones so t hat when he goes to back Szyszynski into a corner, he has all the ammunitio n he needs to do it.

The Goodwill box is not next to the water fountain or the restrooms. It's not in Szyszynski's office, a richly paneled vestibule stacked with wall-to-wall r eligious texts. He tries a couple of locked doors in the hallway, rattling the m to see if they'll give way.

“Can I help you?”

The Sunday school teacher, a woman who has the look of a mother about her, s tands a few feet behind Patrick. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to interrupt your class.”

He tries to summon all his charm, but this is a woman who is probably used to white lies, to hands caught in the cookie jar. Patrick continues, thinki ng on his feet. “Actually, my two-year-old just soaked through his jeans du ring Father Szyszynski's sermon . . . and I hear there's a Goodwill box som ewhere around here?”

The teacher smiles in sympathy. “Water into wine gets them every time,” she says. She leads Patrick into the classroom, where fifteen tiny faces turn to assess him, and hands him a big blue Rubbermaid box. “I have no idea wha t's inside, but good luck.”

Minutes later Patrick is hidden in the boiler room, the first place he finds where he won't readily be disturbed. He is knee deep in old clothing. There a re dresses that must be a good thirty years old, shoes with worn soles, toddl er's snow pants. He counts seven pairs of underwear-three of which are pink, with little Barbie faces on them. Lining the remaining four up on the floor, he takes a cell phone from his pocket and dials Nina.

“What do they look like?” he says when she answers. “The underwear.”

“What's that humming? Where are you?”

“In the boiler room of St. Anne's,” Patrick whispers.

“Today? Now? You're kidding.”

Impatient, Patrick pokes at the briefs with one gloved finger. “Okay, I've go t a pair with robots, one with trucks, and two that are plain white with blue trim. Does anything sound familiar?”

“No. These were boxers. They had baseball mitts on them.” How she remembers this, he can't imagine. Patrick couldn't even tell you wha t pair of shorts he has on today. “There's nothing here that matches, Nina.”

“It's got to be there.”

“If he kept them, which we don't know he did, they could very well be in his private quarters. Hidden.”

“Like a trophy,” Nina says, and the sadness in her voice makes Patrick ache.

“If they're there, we'll get them with a warrant,” he promises. He doesn't s ay what he is thinking: that the underwear alone will not really prove anyth ing. There are a thousand ways to explain away that kind of evidence; he has most likely heard them all.

“Have you talked to-”

“Not yet.”

“You'll call me, won't you? After?”

“What do you think?” Patrick says, and hangs up. He bends down to fork all th e spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alco ve behind the boiler. Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand but cannot grab it. Patrick looks around the custodial closet, finds a fireplace poker, and slides it behind the bulk of the boiler to the small hol low. He snags a corner of it-paper, maybe?-and manages to drag it within his arm's reach.

Baseball mitts. One hundred percent cotton. Gap, size XXS.

He pulls a brown paper bag from his pocket. With his gloved fingers, he turns the underwear over in his hand. On the left rear, slightly off center, there i s a stiff stain.

In the custodial closet, directly beneath the altar where Father Szyszynski i s at that moment reading Scripture aloud, Patrick bows his head and prays tha t in a situation as unfortunate as this one, there might be a shred of pure l uck.

Caleb feels Nathaniel's giggle like a tiny earthquake, shuddering up from the rib cage. He presses his ear down more firmly against his son's chest. Natha niel is lying on the floor; Caleb is lying on him, his ear tipped close to th e boy's mouth. “Say it again,” Caleb demands.

Nathaniel's voice is still thready, syllables hanging together by a string. His throat needs to learn how to hold a word again, cradle it muscle by muscle, he ft it onto the tongue. Right now, this is all new to him. Right now, it is stil l a chore.

But Caleb can't help himself. He squeezes Nathaniel's hand as the sound flo unders out, spiky and tentative. “Daddy.”

Caleb grins, so proud he could split in two. Beneath his ear, he hears the wo nder in his son's lungs. “One more time,” Caleb begs, and he settles in to li sten.

A memory: I am searching all over the house for my car keys, because I am a lready late to drop Nathaniel at school and go to work. Nathaniel is dresse d in his coat and boots, waiting for me. “Think!” I say aloud, and then tur n to Nathaniel. “Have you seen my keys?”

“They're under there,” he answers.

“Under where?”

A giggle erupts from deep inside him. “I made you say underwear.” When I laugh along with him, I forget what I've been looking for. Two hours later, Patrick enters St. Anne's again. This time, it is empty. Ca ndles flicker, casting shadows; dust motes dance in the slices of light thro wn by the stained-glass windows. Patrick immediately heads downstairs to Fat her Szyszynski's office. The door is wide open, the priest sits at his desk. For a moment, Patrick enjoys the feeling of voyeurism. Then he knocks, twic e, firmly.

Glen Szyszynski glances up, smiling. “Can I help you?” Let's hope so, Patrick thinks, and he walks inside.

Patrick pushes a Miranda form across the investigation room table toward Fathe r Szyszynski. “It's just a standard practice, Father. You're not in custody, a nd you're not under arrest . . . but you're willing to answer questions, and t he law says I need to tell you you've got rights before I ask you a single thi ng.”

Without hesitation, the priest signs the list of rights Patrick has just read alo ud.

“I'm happy to do anything that helps Nathaniel.”

Szyszynski had immediately volunteered to help with the investigation. He agreed to give a blood sample when Patrick said they needed to rule out an yone who'd been around Nathaniel. At the hospital, watching the phlebotomi st, Patrick had wondered if the sickness in this man's veins was measurabl e, as much a part of the fluid as the hemoglobin, the plasma. Now, Patrick leans back in his chair and stares at the priest. He has faced a thousand criminals, all of whom proclaim their innocence or pretend to hav e no idea what he is talking about. Most of the time he is able to acknowled ge their barbarity with the cool detachment of a law enforcement professiona l. But today, this slight man sitting across from him-well, it is all Patric k can do to not beat the priest bloody just for speaking Nathaniel's name.

“How long have you known the Frosts, Father?” Patrick asks.

“Oh, I've known them since I first came to the parish. I had been sick for a while, and was given a new congregation. The Frosts moved to Biddeford a month after I became a priest here.” He smiles. “I baptized Nathaniel.”

“Do they come to church regularly?”

Father Szyszynski's gaze slides to his lap. “Not as regularly as I'd like,” he admits. “But you didn't hear it from me.”

“Have you taught Nathaniel in Sunday school?”

“I don't teach it; a parent does. Janet Fiore. While the service is going on ups tairs.” The priest shrugs. “I love children, though, and I like to connect with the little ones-”

I bet you do, Patrick thinks.

“-so after the service, when the congregation is enjoying fellowship and coffe e, I take the children downstairs and read a story to them.” He grins sheepish ly. “I'm afraid I'm a bit of a frustrated actor.”

No surprise there, either. “Where are the parents, while you're reading?”

“Enjoying a few moments to themselves upstairs, for the most part.”

“Does anyone else read to the children with you, or are you alone?”

“Just me. The Sunday school teachers usually finish cleaning the room, and t hen go up for coffee. The story time only lasts about fifteen minutes.”

“Do the children ever leave the room?”

“Only to go to the bathroom, right down the hall.”

Patrick considers this. He does not know how Szyszynski managed to get Nat haniel by himself, when all the other children were allegedly present, too . Maybe he gave them the book to look over for themselves, and followed Na thaniel into the bathroom. “Father,” Patrick says, “have you heard how Nat haniel was hurt?”

There is a hesitation, and then the priest nods. “Yes. Unfortunately, I have.” Patrick locks his eyes on Szyszynski's. “Did you know that there's physical e vidence Nathaniel was anally penetrated?” He is looking for the slightest pin king of the man's cheeks; a telltale hitch of his breathing. He is looking fo r surprise, for backpedaling, for the beginnings of panic.

But Father Szyszynski just shakes his head. “God help him.”

“Did you know, Father, that Nathaniel has told us you were the one that hur t him?”

Finally, the shock that Patrick has expected. “I ... I ... of course I haven't hu rt him. I would never do that.”

Patrick remains silent. He wants Szyszynski to think about all the priests ar ound the globe who've been found guilty of this offense. He wants Szyszynski to realize that he's walked himself right onto the gallows of his own executi on. “Huh,” Patrick says. “Funny, then. Because I talked to him just the other night, and he specifically told me that it was Father Glen. That's what the kids call you, isn't it, Father? Those kids you . . . love?” Szyszynski shakes his head repeatedly. “I didn't. I don't know what to say. The boy must be confused.”