As she does now.
A gaggle of bikes heads toward us and we peel off the paved path, crossing the browning grass which stretched toward the seawall. I have not told her much surrounding father Taylor’s suicide, nor will I. Tim has assuaged what guilt I allowed to rise beyond reason, and to burden her with a repeat of events might be cathartic for me, but would also seem a pathetic attempt to shift sympathy from the departed to myself.
“Can I stop worrying?” she asks, smiling hopefully at me. I nod. And in the silence now as we reach the seawall and stand at the railing the question of ‘what next’ hangs unasked. All effort and thought on my part, on our part, to move toward the truth of Katie’s murder has stopped. For now. I know that I will press on, and Chris as well, I do hope. So the question is not whether, but how? What is the next step?
But I did not come here to consider next moves.
“What is it, Michael?” she asks. Presses, actually. I stare out at the calmish basin, whitecaps beyond the jetty prominent on the open waters of Lake Michigan. The sky is slate above, cold and dry, pushing a cold blow into the city. It is nothing new, this weather, but on my face it feels a revelation. The stinging chap upon my cheeks, drawing water from my eyes, thin tears streaking reddened skin below. It is this she must see on my profile, and for a moment I still believe it is the wind, but it is not. I am crying. “Michael?”
“He wasn’t haunted by something he did,” I say, spinning my thoughts off the supposed inadequacies Father Taylor had shared from his time in Rwanda. “He was haunted by something he did not do.” His own road, however short, not taken. “Am I going to reach a point in my life where regret outweighs accomplishment? Where I look back and am reminded that there was that moment, that chance, to…”
I turn toward her but say nothing more. What is there to say? I cannot define what it is that overcomes me right now. What grief or failing it is, if any. Perhaps I knew this was coming, some barrier within ready to breach, because at the cemetery as Father Taylor’s coffin descended into the earth I knew that I had to see Chris. Knew that I
needed
to see her. To be with her.
She eases close to me as I stare into her eyes, her own beginning to sheen. Some sympathy response, maybe, but I think not. There is fear there, and relief. A shared ache that this cannot be, but is. Her hands slip by my arms and slide over my back. She pulls herself close to me and lays her head upon my shoulder. My hands come up and embrace her, eyes closing as the tears cease.
We hold each other by the water.
Chapter Twenty Five
Warning
Reconciliation. The rite of confessing one’s transgressions against God and seeking absolution through penance. Eric Ray Redmond sought absolution from God through me as he lay dying. Katie was never given that chance in the market on Tyler Street. I doubt James Estcek gave forgiveness a second thought, even when the life was being pummeled from him.
I sit in the central chamber of the simply ornate confessional along one wall of the sanctuary this Saturday morning, a trickling flow of the penitent sharing their sins from the chambers to either side of me in the aged wooden structure. Some purge nearly terrible deeds, but most offer only the most minor of foibles as they kneel and speak through the lattice portal designed to give some measure of anonymity. Taking the Lord’s name in vain is perpetually popular. When they are finished I hear their Act of Contrition and then suggest a selection of prayers to be offered before departing the sanctuary, instructions any Catholic can recall from their earliest age—a pair of Hail Mary’s and three Our Fathers, or any mix of several meaningful recitations, in varying quantities.
When one is done I slide a solid covering over the portal and open the one on the opposite side, ready for the next parishioner to unburden themselves. Often, though, there are lulls, particularly as morning leans toward noon, and in these moments I am alone, bible on my lap, rosary beads in hand. It is time for introspection. For prayer.
It might seem more appropriate that I be in either other chamber instead of standing in for the Heavenly Father, dispensing forgiveness in His name. There are things for which I have privately asked God to forgive me, but not for yesterday. Not for standing with Chris at the water’s edge and holding her. Nothing beyond that happened. My fear that it could was what kept me from going to her apartment, prompting my call in which I asked her to join me outside.
That I am realizing these feelings toward her with sudden intensity does worry me, as much about their depth as their propriety. It has been less than two weeks since I saw Chris at Katie’s grave, our first encounter of any substance since my sister’s funeral, yet what I have experienced on my own, from rage to grief, has put me in a place to sense something about her—a true caring. It is a feeling from her, expressed in ways large and small, that I have tried to dismiss. And in myself I have written off the pangs as a response to stress, or grief.
The truth is I fear it is more than that.
I hear the door to my left open and close quickly, though there is no heavy thud of knees settling onto the padded kneeler. A child, maybe, coming to confess disrespect toward their parents, or taking candy that belonged to a sibling. I remind myself that I am not here to work through what weighs on me, but for the person, old or young, in the chamber next to me.
I slide the small cover aside and lean close to the lattice, listening. Waiting to hear the familiar initiation of the ritual, ‘
Bless me, father, for I have sinned…
’
But I do not hear that. I hear nothing. Leaning closer to the lattice I peer in and downward, wondering if a child new to the act of reconciliation has fallen victim to nerves. There is no child in the adjacent chamber. No person at all. But there is something, square and bright, lying on the floor against the wall opposite the portal.
I step out of the central chamber and scan the sanctuary, empty and quiet but for the scratch of snow pecking at stained glass high above. Setting my bible and rosary on a nearby pew I open the confessional door and immediately see what it is against the wall within—an envelope, green and fat. I crouch and retrieve it, standing to examine it. There is no marking upon it, the flap unsealed. I puzzle briefly at what I hold, then I lift the flap and look inside.
My heart skips when I see the first photo. I look fast toward the exit and sprint that way.
* * *
I burst through the door to a landscape of cluttered white, trees drooping with snow, a mix of tracks leading up and down the front walk of the church. Marks of those moving in and out of the sanctuary, but no sign of anyone who might have just come and gone to leave me the envelope I clutch in my hand.
An envelope of photos.
A threat.
* * *
Plows struggle to keep up with the wintry dump. I creep behind one as it clears the street ahead and swing right into my parents’ driveway, freshly shoveled, which can only mean my father has taken the car out. And my mother with him.
I am glad. He need not be here for this.
I leave my car and dash through the snow to the front door, keying the array of locks and shaking the icy dusting from my coat before stepping in.
Just within I pause, closing the door behind. For a minute I do not move. I listen, hearing the soft chatter of weather on the roof and siding, the creak of the rafters as they are loaded with snow, furnace fan whirring in the basement below. But no hint of presence.
I look to the stairs just ahead, offset to the left of the hallway to the back of the house. Carpet runner following the treads stepping upward, roses and blooming vines stitched into the thick fabric. From inside my coat I remove the envelope left in the confessional and slip the first photo out, taken by an ancient Polaroid, fat white border surrounding the image.
The image of what I see before me. The stairs. Taken from where I stand. By someone.
I move to the opening next to the stairs, living room beyond, and take the next photo in hand. The living room before me captured on stiff film.
Up the stairs I go next, moving from space to space, comparing each to the half dozen pictures taken inside my parents’ house, the final one chilling. Their bedroom, taken from the doorway, made bed empty. Though the implication of this photo is clear—it could just as well not be.
They could be lying there, unaware. Vulnerable.
* * *
The snow has not let up, fall upstaging the winter yet to come as I drive back to the rectory. My eyes are on the treacherous roads, though my thoughts are elsewhere, attempting a rational evaluation of the photos left for me. I am concerned for my parents, but to what actual extent are they in danger? To end the life of a societal miscreant like James Estcek is one thing. Implying impending harm toward a retired Chicago cop and his slowly dying wife is quite another.
Still, if it is only bluster, it is demonstrative of how much someone wants me to stop.
A thick blanket of snow layers the rectory’s driveway as I turn in, wipers slapping the white weather away, clearing enough so I see a car already there nosed close to the garage. I park behind it and step from my car. The side door opens before I take a step that way. It is Tim, an odd urgency about him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but he says nothing, just motions me in.
Just inside, as the door closes behind, I shed my coat and hang it on one of four hooks. As I do I glance past Tim, through the kitchen and into the living room, someone sitting in the chair facing away from me. I cannot see their face, just the colorful knit cap atop their head. It is Chris.
“You left your cell,” Tim says to me.
He is right. In such a rush to reach my parents’ house I had forgotten my phone. I start past Tim, but he stops me. Lays a critical look upon me.
“Mike, who is she?”
“A friend.”
He considers my reply, nodding doubtfully, adding all my odd behavior of late into a narrowing realm of possible sums. None of which equal behavior either of us consider acceptable.
“We’re reaching that point, Mike, where as your friend I get to call bullshit on you hiding whatever you’re hiding.”
He is right. But at the moment, I don’t care. I move past him and into the living room, coming around the chair to see Chris sitting there, eyes cast down at an envelope on her lap.
It is green and thick.
She looks up to me, a disconnect about her. “I tried to call you. When you didn’t…” Her gaze settles low on the envelope. “Coming here was the only thing I could think of.”
I reach down and take the envelope from her lap, its flap unsealed. A sense of déjà vu creeps over me as I remove the contents. Six photos, from the hall outside Chris’ apartment to her bed, disheveled and topped by an overflowing laundry basket.
“Those were taken yesterday, Michael, while we were walking,” she tells me, looking up, her gaze seeming to float in a daze. Beyond her I see Tim in the kitchen, looking away but well within earshot. “I was about to do laundry when you stopped by.”
I take the near twin of what she has received from my pocket and hand it to her. She flips through the photos of my parents’ house, recalling spaces from distant memory, fixing on one image in particular. “Katie’s door.”
Her room beyond, or what had been her room, kept open with bed and bureau for times when she might spend the night at my parents’ house once out on her own. She never did, however, yet my mother dutifully kept the space dusted and my father ensured that bulbs in the lamp had not burned out.
“We laughed so much behind that door,” Chris says, drifting off for a moment. Some depth of melancholy has enveloped her, memory and event grinding her down. To witness this infuriates me. If I am responsible for exposing her to the perils of my endeavor, so be it. But the oblique threats against those I care for has to stop.
It has to be ended.
I tell her to wait as I head fast upstairs to my room. I gather my laptop, the cards that Katie kept, the list of James Estcek’s associates I copied from Kerrigan’s computer. Into a small duffel I throw a change of clothes, toothbrush, the typical things for a quick getaway. Then I grab my cell from the nightstand where I had forgotten it. The number is on speed dial and is answered almost immediately.
“Michael…” My father’s voice is half hushed, caller ID announcing me before I can. Behind him I hear random chatter and soothing music interrupted by an announcement of a special on generic paper goods.
“Pop, where are you?”
“I had to run your mother by the lab for a blood test. We’re at the pharmacy now for a prescription.”
The reason for my call recedes in importance for a moment. “Is she all right?”
“She’s having a little trouble sleeping. The doctor wanted to check some blood levels or something before trying a new medicine.”
I am relieved. Any manner of small maladies can affect my mother now, pushing her into a quickened deterioration. One is always playing defense with one afflicted as she is. No quarter can be given to the disease. It will take its full toll on my mother in time, but not in time we refuse to grant it.
“Pop, I just wanted to let you know I’m going to head up to the lake for a couple days.”
“In this?” It is less concern in his voice than surprise at my ignorance of the weather. “It’s not safe right now.”
“It’ll be fine,” I assure him. “I’ll be fine.”
The announcement ends and the soothing music returns beyond my father’s voice. “Why today? Can’t you wait until it clears a bit?”
This is full on worry, to be expected I suppose from a parent who has lost one child. To see another willingly take a risk which could be mitigated by nothing more than delay must be a challenge to bear. But I have my reasons, ones which I cannot share. Not with him.
Our call ends with my father asking me to be careful. I promise I will, then take my laptop and duffel and head out. Tim is in the hallway, just opening his door. He pauses and looks to me. His eyes play over what I carry.