“But not the same online service.”
“That wouldn’t matter. They’d all have access to the World Wide Web.”
“I promise you, I’ll look into it. But, while I’m doing that, I want you to steer clear of any inclination you have to hook up with the guy.”
“OK,” she said begrudgingly, sliding out of the booth.
“And Moira.”
“Yes?”
“Stay out of those police files. If I catch you nosing around in there again, I’ll lock you up.”
The Lieutenant sat back in the empty booth and thought about the exchange. Could Moira be right? He grabbed his cellular and punched in the number to his office. When Margaret answered, he said, “Find out what you can about each victim’s online service.”
“Is this you talking, Lieutenant? Or the whiz kid?”
“Moira thinks our killer may be luring his victims through the Internet.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. You think she’s on to something?”
“She raised the possibility. We’d be foolish to ignore it.”
“I’ll get on it right away.”
Chapter 40
Driscoll eyed the wooden crucifix that was affixed to the far wall inside the dimly lit parlor of St. Mary’s Star of the Sea rectory. His palms were sweating, and he thought he could hear his heart beating. But Elizabeth Fahey was right. What was weighing heavily on his mind was guilt. Irish Catholic guilt. And who better to speak to about such guilt than an Irish Catholic priest? That being the case, Driscoll had asked around. Liz Butler lived in Rockaway. She was a devout Catholic and had told Driscoll her pastor was a with-it kind of guy. Driscoll had placed a call to her church’s rectory and arranged a meeting with Father Sean McMahon.
The Lieutenant stood up as the priest entered the room. McMahon was a young priest with a ruddy complexion that suited his round Irish face. Driscoll figured him to be somewhere in his thirties.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Welcome to St. Mary’s,” Father McMahon said, motioning for Driscoll to take a seat beside an ornately carved mahogany desk.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I gotta tell ya, Father, it’s been ages since I’ve been inside a rectory, and years since I’ve been to church.”
McMahon smiled. “I’m glad you’ve returned.”
“I’d like to get right to the point, if you’ll let me. I feel like my insides are about to explode.”
“Our cleaning lady wouldn’t like that.”
Driscoll liked that the man had a sense of humor. “I wanna talk to you about certain feelings of guilt I’m having. My wife, Colette, was involved in an automobile accident six years ago. Our daughter, Nicole, was killed in the accident, and my wife was left comatose. According to her doctors she’ll never regain consciousness.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I’ve remained faithful to my wife, Father. That is, up until recently.” Driscoll studied the priest’s face for any sign of condemnation. Finding none, he continued. “I’ve become friendly with a woman that I work with. Her name is Margaret. She’s a good woman who understands my circumstances. The thing is, I have feelings for her. Romantic feelings. The other night we had dinner together at her place. One thing led to another, and I found myself in her arms, kissing her. I haven’t kissed a woman in six years. I gotta tell ya Father, I liked it.”
“Were you raised Catholic, Lieutenant?”
“Yes. Catholic grammar school. Catholic high school. I even did a stint as an altar boy for four years. Back in those days, the Mass was in Latin.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Father, I guess I’m here for absolution. Absolution for a sin I’m yet to commit. Does that make sense?”
“And what sin is that?”
“Breaking my wedding vows. Cheating on my wife.”
“You’ve already made up your mind you’re going to pursue this relationship?”
“That’s where the guilt comes in. I realize that Colette is never coming back to life, life as we know it, but a voice inside me is demanding that I stay faithful to her, regardless of her physical condition.”
“You said before her doctors all agree that she will never regain consciousness. Right?”
“Right.”
“Aside from how you perceive the Catholic Church would look at your circumstances, what advice would your wife give you, if she could?”
“Colette was my best friend. I’m beginning to believe she would understand. Am I just looking to sidestep my vows here?”
“I think the answer to that question lies within you. You’ve got to live with yourself. But, let me say this. Jesus Christ, who walked this earth as a human being, chose twelve apostles, not one. And his love for each one of them was immeasurable.”
“Are you condoning a relationship with this other woman?”
“It wouldn’t mean you stopped loving your wife. It’s important you realize that.” McMahon leaned his small frame across the top of the desk and let his eyes fall level with Driscoll’s. “You said before Colette was your best friend.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, then, I’d say it’s time you had a conversation with your best friend.”
Chapter 41
Driscoll approached the house. He felt like his knees were going to collapse. He steadied himself, and as he reached for the brass doorknob, he felt his stomach curdle. Like a schoolboy late for class, he guiltily turned the knob and stepped inside. The whirring sounds of his wife’s life-support system, which before had gone unnoticed, clamored in his ears.
“Are you OK, Lieutenant? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” It was Colette’s nurse, Lucinda.
Driscoll forced a smile. “I’ll live,” he said as his eyes fell upon Colette’s ashen face. “Would you excuse us, Lucinda? I need some time with my wife.”
“You got it,” the nurse replied, then quickly disappeared as the Lieutenant straddled a bedside chair.
Behind him, an orchestra of high-tech medical gadgetry played their monotonous and repetitive symphony. Before him lay his wife, his beautiful and loving wife. How could he love again? How could he run the risk? He often felt it was his doing, somehow, that brought about his wife’s fate. Punishment for some unconfessed dereliction, perhaps. Would he then imperil Margaret? Would she fall victim to his ill fortune?
Driscoll took hold of his wife’s hand. How lifeless her skin felt. Tears blossomed as he fingered the wedding band that encircled her finger. He opened the drawer to her night table and reached for the emollient Thomlinson had given him, then applied the lotion to her hands and arms, the same hands and arms that had held him lovingly through the years. In sickness and in health, a tiny voice sounded. He grimaced. What was he about to do? How could he trample on his wedding vows? He played back the message Father McMahon so reverently had given him. Christ had chosen twelve apostles, not one.
“I met someone,” he murmured as his heart pounded in his chest. “Her name is Margaret.” His admission was greeted with silence.
He leaned in and planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead while pushing away two strands of errant hair from her face. “I met her on the job. She and I are working together on a case. She’s a caring woman who would like to further our relationship.”
Driscoll stood up and walked over to the wall unit, which contained a small wine rack and an assortment of liquors. He poured himself two fingers of Tullamore Dew and returned to his wife’s bedside, slowly sipping the whiskey, hoping the spirits would give him the courage to tell her what he knew needed to be said. Hell, he’d bite the bullet. “She would like to further our relationship,” he said. “And so would I.”
Again his disclosure was greeted by silence. He had half expected his wife to sit upright and scold him, take him to task for such a selfish transgression. Driscoll had hoped, on some level, that the admission would bring her to consciousness, allow her to break free from the forceful grip that held her so unmercifully. Of course, it did not.