Henderson laughed helplessly to himself as Bauer hung up. He stood and went to his office door, looking out on the big empty space hanging with data lines, phone wires, and a few desks. It was approaching ten o’clock. Everyone had gone home for the evening, and Jack was asking for a multijursidictional, multiagency data search. “Yeah, right.” Henderson sighed. “We’ll get right on that.”
For years the Cathedral of St. Monica, more often referred to simply as St. Monica’s, stood like a proud matron brooding over the poverty and squalor around her. She’d been completed in 1876 at a time when downtown had been the beating heart of the city. That heart had grown frail and sickly over the decades. So, too, had Monica. The matron no longer stood quite so proudly, as though beaten down by more than a century of misery creeping toward her from nearby Skid Row. Earthquakes had played their part, too, especially the Northridge earthquake in 1994 that had torn holes throughout the city. Neglect also played a role. The diocese, led by Cardinal Mulrooney, had long ago wanted to tear the old girl down and replace her with a gleaming modern cathedral. Mulrooney’s efforts had been stymied by preservationists who protested the destruction of one of the city’s few remaining works of nineteenth-century architecture. Still, even in decline, St. Monica’s was an admirable old lady compared to the soulless steel and glass spires around her. Her Italianate bell tower rose elegantly into the sky.
Don Biehn never could memorize the directions to St. Monica’s. He just drove downtown and looked up for the bell tower, then followed it to the corner of Main and Second Street.
He parked his car at a parking meter on Second, a block away. During the day and on the weekend, street parking was impossible to find, but at night the city center was a ghost town and Biehn had no trouble. As he got out of the car, he touched the journal in his coat pocket to make sure it was still there. He did not check for the Taurus. He knew exactly where it was.
Biehn turned onto Main Street and walked past the front of the cathedral, then around the corner. He knew the rectory was behind the main chapel. He didn’t know how many priests lived there, but he believed there were only one or two besides Father Frank. He didn’t really care about them. They would either be in his way or not. If not, all the better for them.
He found a whitewashed wall and jumped it easily, landing in a flowering border on the inner side. Beyond it was a manicured grass lawn and a fountain, now silent for the evening. He listened for a minute, but heard no sound. To his right stood the cathedral proper; to his left, the rectory. He turned left and stalked up to the rectory door. It was unlocked. He opened it calmly and stepped inside as though he belonged there. This was, he knew from long experience, the very best way to walk into any building.
The rectory parlor was dark. There was an open door to a large room off to the right and a long hallway leading straight ahead. Stairs rose to his left. Biehn recalled that there had been a school on the site at one time. The thought of it made him shudder, and added to his anger like gasoline tossed onto a fire.
Biehn climbed the stairs and found himself looking down another long hallway. Several of the doors were open and led into bare rooms. Two or three were closed. Biehn took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. He knocked on the first door.
No answer.
He moved down and knocked on the second closed door. It opened, and a startled man appeared. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, holding a book the title of which Biehn could not see.
“Yes, who—?” the man said gently. “You know, the rectory is off-limits.”
Biehn nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for Father Frank. He’s expecting me.”
The man looked down the hall at the last closed door. “Are you sure he didn’t say to meet him in the chapel? This is the priests’ private residence.”
The detective stepped back as though shocked. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” he feigned. “I just thought it would be here. I’ll go back and wait there.”
The priest nodded, said good evening, and closed his door. Biehn walked back toward the stairs for a few steps in case the priest was listening. After a few minutes, he padded quietly back up the hall toward the door the priest had glanced at. He knocked very gently.
No answer.
He knocked a little louder. The door opened, and
Father Frank appeared. Biehn didn’t know him well, but he’d picked his son up from church functions often enough to recognize the priest.
Father Frank looked as puzzled as the other priest had. “Yes, what is it?” he asked.
Biehn punched him in the throat.
Father Frank didn’t know what had happened. One minute he was staring at a stranger on the rectory floor; the next he had smashed into the back wall of his cell, having tripped backward over his narrow bed. His throat throbbed, and he was coughing and gagging uncontrollably. Something hit him in the nose, and his eyes began to water.
By the time he had blinked his vision clear, he was lying facedown on the floor. A hand was in his hair, pushing his face into the tile floor, and there was a heavy, sharp pressure on his back. He didn’t know where his own hands were.
“Listen,” said a voice that might have belonged to the devil himself. “Listen and don’t make a sound. You are not to make a single sound or I’ll kill you. Painfully. Nod if you understand.”
To nod, Frank had to drag his face up and down on the tiles, but he did it.
“I’m going to sit you up. You are going to keep your mouth shut or I’ll ram your own dick down your throat. Nod again.”
Frank did so. He was utterly terrified.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position, his back resting against his bed. He realized that his hands were fettered behind his back with something metal. Handcuffs.
The man who had done this to him crouched in front of him, sitting on Frank’s straightened legs. He studied Frank for a minute calmly. It was almost as though he was giving Frank a moment to calm down himself.
The terror didn’t go away. He knew, in the way of all predators, when a bigger and stronger predator had caught him in its grip. But his fear slid into the background for a moment as other survival instincts kicked in: cunning, acquiescence, obedience. Anything that might remove him from the grip of this obviously ruthless man.
As his higher functions took over from his reptile brain, Frank realized that he recognized this man. He wasn’t sure from where, but he’d seen the face before. He was a parishioner. A parent. A father.
And the minute he realized that his captor was a father, Father Frank’s terror rushed back to the forefront of his brain, and all the pleasures he had enjoyed, all the moments of thrilling power and sexual release and sweet, sweet fulfillment of desire — all of them seemed ephemeral compared to the cost that was surely about to be rendered.