He did not return the next day, though he wanted to. Going back would have confirmed his aunt's suspicions that he was not returning to the parish. He spent the majority of the morning near Long Wharf, watching the derelict preacher. The man had lost a lot of weight since McMillan had seen him last. He wondered if he’d make it to the final day.
Aunt Corinne died at eight-thirty that night. He learned of her passing from a sullen Father Doiron when McMillan returned to the rectory near midnight, a practice the associate pastor learned to ignore as soon as he realized McMillan wasn’t going to confide in him. That night, though, the small man was waiting for him when he arrived so he could relay the message.
Seeing the shock on his pastor’s face, the deep sadness, Doiron laid a hand on McMillan's arm and said, “I'm sorry, Tim. I didn't know how to reach you. They contacted Monsignor Carelli instead for the last rites since he's the primary on-call for Catholics at the home. I wrote down what details I could. I assumed you'd want to contact them, or Carelli himself. Perhaps to preside over the - “
“Thanks,” McMillan interrupted, not wanting to hear any more. He sat down slowly, repeated, “Thanks, Father. I will.” He laid a hand on the pad of paper with the phone number and other details on his aunt’s passing. McMillan stared at the patterns of ink without reading. “I will, tomorrow. I just need to sit here a while if you don't mind.”
Doiron looked as if he wanted to say more, then sighed and said, “Good night,” before hurrying out. The phone was ringing in the other room. It rang all night these days. After midnight they generally left the machine on, especially since Doiron needed the extra sleep now that McMillan was “taking a few days off to recover.”
He sat in silence, hearing the priest in the other room consoling yet another parishioner. The calls would be coming in earnest, as the end of May approached.
Father McMillan lifted the pad of paper but still could not focus on the words. In the other room, Doiron hung up the phone. McMillan listened to his tired footfalls ascending the stairs.
The phone rang again.
McMillan got up quickly, put on his coat, and left the rectory through the back door.
18
Austin “Ozzie” Shaw felt like he'd died and gone to heaven. Normally, he worked in the back of the lumber warehouse, hauling stock in and out as the Jesus Freaks rushed in to build their asylums. It was good work, but under normal circumstances, Ozzie could scarcely pull together a forty hour week from that jerk Clay. Lately, though, he was lucky to crawl into his apartment by nine o'clock and have one beer before passing out on the couch. Forget about trying to drag himself out to meet everyone at McCatty's.
Then four days ago, Clay – no longer a jerk in Ozzie's opinion – had pulled him aside. Ozzie assumed he was a dead man. Every since Holly dumped him and took off Clay prowled around the store, kicking the arkies into the street and making life miserable for everyone else. He'd gone so far as to smack Bennie Litz in the back of the head with a pack of work gloves. Bennie wasn't exactly a tiny guy, but he took it. Everyone did. Clay was seriously nuts.
Secretly, every man there was thrilled his girlfriend had bolted. Quiet little Holly was the best looking girl in the place and everyone knew Clay beat the crap out of her. Now she was available. Even with her kid, the prospects were enticing. That is, if anyone figured out where she'd hidden herself, and if anyone had the nerve to actually try and make moves on a psycho’s girlfriend. Looking into Clay's eyes four days ago, Ozzie was pretty sure anyone who tried would end up with a screwdriver in the back of the head.
That day Ozzie had waited for whatever abuse Clay had in store. To his astonishment, the prick was semi-decent. “Listen, Shaw,” he'd said, constantly looking around the warehouse for any lurker he could fire if they looked like they were listening. “I'm going to make you an offer, and you're going to accept it, and you're not going to tell anyone? Got it?”
An offer you can't refuse , Ozzie had thought glumly. “I guess,” he said. “Sure, Clay. Name it.”
Ozzie made Clay repeat the offer, thinking he had to have misunderstood. Sure enough, for the past four days he was being paid for forty hours work, plus another ten at time-and-a-half, to sit in his car in the center of Lavish all day and night to watch the crazies build their boat. Of course he couldn't leave, no matter what, except twice a day at staggered times to get food and go to the bathroom. If he couldn’t wait for the latter, he was to use an empty milk jug. He usually waited until his appointed break.
Bizarre as the request was, the offer made some sense. All Ozzie had to do was read his magazines, listen to the radio, and observe who visited the ark.
As soon as Holly showed up – and Clay was convinced she would – he was to call Clay on his cell and report in. Then came the tricky part, one that Ozzie thought was at least better than being paid to sit around all day. If Holly left before Clay got there, Ozzie was to follow her and learn where she was staying.
Ozzie Shaw, Private Dick . He smiled at that. If he carried this off, who knew? A new career on the horizon. He was pretty sure Clay was sending other folks to other sites for the same reason, leaving a diminished crew on hand but, in Clay's words, “They can all take a flying leap with a spoon if they don't like it.”
Clay the poet , Ozzie thought. Seriously nuts, that one.
Al l four windows in the car were open. The breeze kept things cool. The weather so far had been a miracle in and of itself. Ozzie only needed the A/C a couple of hours a day, just before and after lunch. Nice weather, but a little bizarre for California. Still, it wasn't raining. He could tell that this fact was slowly irritating the arkies as they finished their boat.
He was almost disappointed when he saw Holly walk across the grass. She kept looking around, expecting Clay to jump out from behind one of the shrubs. He supposed that wasn't far from the truth. She looked haggard, even from this distance. The kid wasn't with her. He wondered how she managed to find a baby-sitter and still keep hidden from her boyfriend. Ozzie didn't dwell on it, as he was listening to Clay's cell phone ringing after dialing the number.
“What?” came the answer.
“Hey, Clay. Your girl's here.”
“Who's this?” The guy sounded way too wound up.
“Um, it's Ozzie. You told me -”
“Ozzie,” Clay's voice interrupted. “Ozzie... Lavish town square?”
Was he drunk or just nuts? “Yeah, Man. She's talking with the Queen loony right now.”
“Where are you?”
“What? The Lavish to-”
“Where are you parked?” Clay sounded out of breath, like he was running.
“Red car, near the corner before the fire station.”
“Keep an eye on her. If she leaves, follow her, and call me.”
“That's the plan, Stan.” But Clay had already disconnected.
* * *
What am I doing?
Holly asked herself that question with every step across the town square. She was in the open where everyone could see her. Clay was looking for her. He’d gone to Dorothy Lang's door once every day for the first few days, demanding to know where she was hiding. Gratefully, Holly hadn't told Dot where she’d really been going that day, and Dot could truthfully say as much. When Holly finally talked to her on the phone this morning, her friend explained that it hadn’t been until her husband threatened to beat him senseless that Clay finally backed off. Not that he hadn't kept calling on the phone, but at least he stopped darkening their porch. When it came to someone standing up to him, Clay lost his nerve pretty quick.