Make them Cry (14 page)

Several of the receipts were from service stations. Anton had been buying gas all up and down western Washington state. Jack wondered whose car he was using—unless he had his own, stashed away some place.

In another drawer, he found an old tabloid, carefully stored in a clear plastic sleeve. It was something called the
True Crimes Gazette
, and the date was December 4, 1949.
SCREAMS IN THE NIGHT SHOCK QUIET SEMINARY
blazed the headline. Below that was a grainy black-and-white photo of Gerard Lunt’s room from the night of the murder-suicide. Jack slipped the newspaper out of the sleeve, and a holy card drifted onto the floor. It showed a forlorn Blessed Virgin, her heart bleeding. On the reverse side of the yellowing card was the inscription:

In Loving Memory
GERARD STERLING LUNT
1931–1949
Redeem His Soul, Dear Savior

Staring at the holy card, Jack shook his head in disbelief. He wondered how in the world Anton had gotten his hands on this memento from a funeral half a century ago.

He gingerly slid the old tabloid and the holy card back into the protective sleeve, then returned it to its place in Anton’s desk drawer.

Jack found some old letters and bills in the bottom left-hand drawer. Most were addressed to Anton at St. Clement Hall. Among them, he discovered a card with
TO OUR SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY
scrawled across a misty photo of a young man running alone on a beach at sunset. The preprinted sentiment inside was equally misty. Scribbled on the bottom of the card was a message:
Your Father and I send our Love & Best Wishes, Mom
. Jack glanced at the envelope and the return address label for Mrs. Paul Sorenson of Springfield, Oregon.

Yet several of the other letters and bills for Anton were addressed to him at 410 Prentiss Drive North in Seattle. It wasn’t merely a summer residence either, because some of the postmark dates were recent.

Jack took out his pocket notebook and scribbled down the Prentiss Drive address. That same locale was also on an old bill receipt from a Texaco station in Leroy: a twenty-two-dollar monthly parking charge for a 1999 model red Toyota, license-plate number JOB607.

Indeed, Anton had a car stashed away someplace. Jack jotted down the automobile description, along with the license-plate number.

He checked out the bathroom. On the bathtub’s corner ledge was a bottle of shampoo, Vita Z, the same brand Jonie had squandered on Johnny.

Jack turned and opened the medicine chest. The entire bottom shelf was crammed with Vita Z hair products, gels, conditioners, holding spray, even some temporary hair dyes.

He imagined Jonie indulging Anton with supplies from the salon—right up until the time he killed her.

She snatched up the receiver on the second ring. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

Maggie stood in her kitchen. She’d just been turning on some lights when the phone had rung. “Is anyone there?” she repeated, loudly this time.

She heard a click.

Maggie hung up, then quickly dialed *69: “
The number called cannot be reached
….”

“Salesperson,” she said out loud, hanging up again. She went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of chardonnay, and poured a glass. Her hands were shaking.

Something moved in the window. Maggie saw it out of the corner of her eye. Swiveling around, she almost dropped the glass. It was just the neighbor’s cat, jumping up on the windowsill outside. “Sidney, you scared the crap out of me,” Maggie muttered.

The tabby was named Mr. Sidney Jenkins. Maggie’s neighbor, a divorcée, would call to him using the full name. It sounded like someone being paged at an airport: “
Mr. Sidney Jenkins! Mr. Sidney Jenkins!
” The cat was always hanging around Maggie’s backyard, probably trying to escape his owner. Sidney pawed at the window as if he wanted to get inside.

Maggie sighed and tapped on the glass. She hoped no one else wanted to break into the house tonight.

She’d already checked all the rooms and closets. She’d even braved the basement and garage. She was alone in the house, very much alone. No one could get inside without her hearing.

It was only 8:15, not even completely dark out yet. Still, every tiny sound in the place had Maggie holding her breath—whether it was the refrigerator starting up again, the house settling, or her other neighbor’s dog barking.

The phone rang again, giving her a start. Quickly she grabbed the receiver once more. “Yes, hello?” she said, an edginess in her voice.

“Maggie, it’s Jack.”

“Oh, hi,” she said, relieved. She reached for her glass of wine. “Did you just try to call?”

“No. Why? Did you get a hang-up?”

“Yeah. Probably just a salesperson.”

“Are you there alone?” Jack asked.

“Yes, but my friend, Steve, is coming over at ten. I’ll be all right until then.” She leaned against the kitchen counter. “FYI, you can include Lucy Ballatore in the group of ‘martyrs.’ Steve did some snooping for me. He got it from a police contact; Lucy was missing a finger and thumb.”

“I think this guy is saving the bones as relics,” Jack said. “Bone chips of martyrs and saints are enshrined in churches all over the world. Almost every altar in every church built before 1950 has a saint’s relic in it. I’m pretty sure he takes their clothes for the same reason. The clothes of saints are considered relics, too.”

“My God, Jack,” she murmured.

“I might know who it is,” Jack said. “A senior here named Anton Sorenson. He seems to meet the profile of this killer. Plus he has priest’s clothes hanging in his dorm room closet.”

“Is that so peculiar—in a seminary?” Maggie asked.

“For a senior in the college, yeah,” Jack replied. “He also has a shelf-load of hair products in his medicine chest.”

“Hair products?” she said. “You mean, like Jonie gave Johnny?”

“The exact same brand,” Jack said.

“You didn’t happen to find a clown mask while you were searching through his room, did you?”

“You mean like the one that man was wearing in the parking lot outside Parker’s Pantry that night? No. What kind of car was he sitting in? Was it a Toyota?”

“No, a pale-colored Volkswagen beetle.”

“Light blue?” Jack asked.

“That’s very possible. Why?”

“Jonie drove a light blue VW beetle. Anton could have borrowed her car that night. He’s been keeping his own car under wraps. Anton also seems to have his own place in Seattle. That gives him a home base. And with his car, he has the mobility to commit these murders in different locations.”

“Where is this Anton right now?”

“I don’t know. He checked out of his dorm for the night.”

“Oh,” she muttered, warily glancing out her kitchen window.

“Listen, isn’t there a neighbor or a friend you could call to come over? I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t alone.”

“My good friend at work, Adele, she’s gone for the weekend.”

“A neighbor?” Jack pressed.

Maggie thought of Mr. Sidney Jenkins’s mommy, and decided she was better off going it alone. “I’ll be fine, Jack,” she said, taking another sip of chardonnay. “I’ve locked the doors and all the windows. Don’t worry about me. Steve will be here in less than a couple of hours.”

She let that sink in and waited for Jack to say something. But he didn’t.

“Anyway, I’ll be okay,” she went on. “Steve thinks we should go to the police. But I told him we might not have enough to make a case.”

“You’re right, actually; we don’t,” Jack said. “We haven’t found anything incriminating on Anton yet, just circumstantial stuff. We can’t even connect him to any of the victims—except maybe Jonie, and the police here are still calling her death an accident.”

“Is there any way to link him with Johnny?” she asked.

“He’s the resident adviser over that group of sophomores whom Johnny was seeing. I talked with Anton a while back. He claimed to have seen John hanging around the dorm, on his floor. But he said he didn’t know him beyond that.”

“Do you think Peter could tell us if Johnny was involved with him?”

“You’re reading my mind,” Jack said. “I’m just about to head back over to St. Bart’s to talk with him. As soon as I get anything, I’ll call you.”

“Good.”

“In the meantime, if you get scared, call me. I’ll keep checking my messages.”

“For the umpteenth time, I’ll be fine, Jack. But thanks.”

“All right,” he said. “Talk to you in a bit.”

After Maggie hung up, she had another sip of wine, hoping it would take the edge off. She went into the living room and peered out the front window. She didn’t see anything.

She felt a little silly. After all, she’d spent nearly all her time in this town house by herself, and she’d never really been scared before. But tonight was different. She couldn’t shake the sensation that someone was outside the house right now, watching and waiting.

Maggie retreated back to the kitchen and had another sip of wine. She told herself to take it easy with the chardonnay.

She had a long night ahead.

Jack glanced out his window at Lake Leroy and those old, stately buildings of the campus across the way. He’d grown used to this view after so many nights staring at it from his desk. It was strange to think he wouldn’t be seeing this familiar vista again after today.

St. Bartholomew Hall was almost too quiet on that Tuesday afternoon. The school year was over. All of the students had moved out during the weekend.

Jack wasn’t far behind them.

He’d packed his suitcases and boxed up nearly everything, except a few items still scattered about. The new yearbook sat on his desk. Anton’s photo was featured among the graduating seniors. The book had gone to print before Anton killed himself, though the powers that be at Our Lady of Sorrows weren’t calling it a suicide. They maintained Anton’s death was an accident.

Thanks to a busy holiday weekend in the news, coverage of Anthony Daniel Sorenson’s demise had been relegated to page six of Tuesday’s
Seattle Times
.

The article speculated that stress—or possibly drugs—had caused the college senior’s “
unexplainable rampage
.” They described his assaults on Peter and Maggie, but didn’t delve into his relationships with either of them. Peter was described as “
a freshman who was an overnight guest at his house
,” and Maggie was merely “
the sister of another seminarian, who had drowned last month
.”

Three people had been in the recreational vehicle that collided with Anton’s speeding Toyota on the creekside road a mile from his house. Two of them sustained minor injuries.

Jack wasn’t mentioned by name in the article. His role in the events on that Sunday night was reduced to one sentence: “
A priest from the faculty of Our Lady of Sorrows tracked down Tobin at the house and phoned the police
.”

What remained of Anton’s hideaway home was a burnt-out shell. The fire had spread to the basement, destroying nearly everything down there. Investigators broke the locks on an old freezer in the cellar. They found twenty pounds of venison from a deer-hunting expedition Anton had taken a year ago,

Nothing was left of Anton’s secret shrine, the place he’d called his “church.” They found his burned corpse by a scorched, skeletal bed frame. Police and fire detectives weren’t searching for any additional remains in that charred, hollowed-out sanctuary.

Jack didn’t tell them about the other bones. Peter didn’t say anything either. There seemed no point to it. They’d only be hurting the victims’ families. As Irene McShane had pointed out, Anton’s victims weren’t really saints. They had secrets of their own, which best remained secret.

Maggie had said she wanted it that way, too. In their last conversation, on Memorial Day, she and Jack had decided to wait a while before getting together or talking again. Anton Sorenson’s death may have been pushed back to page six of the Seattle papers, but it was foremost on everyone’s minds at Our Lady of Sorrows and the surrounding communities. If she and Jack were seen together at this time, it would only cause a lot of speculation and gossip.

Jack visited Irene McShane, bringing her the news article about Anton’s death. He told her what had really happened, and the decision to remain silent about the murders. She was grateful, so grateful that she donated eighteen thousand dollars to Our Lady of Sorrows in her daughter-in-law’s memory.

The money was welcome, and Tom Garcia was pleased. Jack had told him about the “martyr” killings. Of course, the college’s head of administration wanted it to remain a secret. Jack pointed out a possible snag to all their secrecy. The deaths of Judge McShane and Lucy Ballatore were still considered unsolved murders. Garcia seemed to contemplate it for a moment, then nodded. “Well, if a trail of evidence leads the police to this school,” he said, “we’ll cooperate fully.”

Garcia also suggested that it would be best for everyone, including Jack, if he and Our Lady of Sorrow parted company.

Jack had agreed with him.

He looked over the bare walls of his room, then glanced once again at Anton’s photo in the yearbook.
Anthony Daniel Sorenson
. The portrait didn’t look like him. He appeared too stiff and scholarly.

They’d used that same photo in the news article. If anyone had ever noticed Anton with one of his murder victims, they probably wouldn’t have recognized him from that picture.

Another book sat on Jack’s desk.
The Lives and Deaths of the Saints
was two days overdue at the library. Jack picked it up and flipped through the pages. Once again, he read the passage about St. Anthony Daniel.

Martyred in 1648, Anthony Daniel had been a missionary with the Society of Jesus, living among the Red Indians of Canada and teaching in their school. When the village was raided by hostile Iroquois, he refused to flee. And so, according to the book, “
Anthony Daniel was shot down by the savage invaders and thrown into his burning church
.”

Anton, like Gerard Lunt, had orchestrated his own martyrdom.

Jack put down the book. Before leaving tonight, he would have to loop around to the campus library and drop it off. He would pay the late charge, too.

He’d rented a station wagon to haul away his things. Because of his foot, he was still on crutches. The doctor had said he shouldn’t drive for at least a couple of more days. So Jack had asked Peter to help him load up the van and handle most of the driving.

Jack heard him coming up the hallway for another load of boxes. Pete stepped into the room. Somehow, he looked older after only a couple of weeks—not quite as innocent and gangly as before. He was wearing one of Johnny’s old shirts and a pair of jeans. He still had a prominent red mark on his forehead, but the cut had healed.

“Looks like maybe three or four more trips ought to do it,” he announced, staring at the boxes Jack had moved to the center of the room. From the minirefrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of water he’d been working on. He took a few gulps.

“Sorry I’m not much help,” Jack said, leaning on his crutch. “This damn foot of mine.”

Peter cracked a smile. “I’ve heard of sprained ankles and sprained toes, but how do you sprain your whole foot?”

“Saving your sorry ass, that’s how,” Jack replied.

Peter laughed. “Did I ever thank you for that, Father?”

“Only about a hundred times in the last two weeks. It’s my turn to thank you. I couldn’t have done this today without your help.”

Peter glanced out the window. “It’s weird to think neither one of us is coming back next year. I would have ended up in St. Clement Hall, maybe even on Anton’s floor. You know what I heard, Father? They’re converting Anton’s room into a storage area next year.” Peter let out a sad laugh. “I think he would have liked that.”

Jack nodded. “Yes, he probably would have.”

Peter drank some more of his bottled water, then he sat on the sofa arm. “I didn’t tell you. Over the weekend, I applied to six different art schools.”

“Your parents are okay with it, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. But I’ve decided I need to discuss something else with them before I go off to a new school. I’m going to sit down with them and have a serious talk,
the
talk, if you get what I mean.”

Jack leaned back against his desk. “Well, I won’t guess out loud and say the wrong thing.”

Peter sighed. “I’m going to tell them that I’m gay. You probably figured it out a long time ago anyway.”

Jack shrugged. “It never really mattered to me, Pete.”

“I know,” Peter said. “That’s another reason to thank you.” He walked over to Jack and gave him an awkward hug. “Anyway, thanks, Father.”

Jack patted him on the back. “You’re a good guy,” Jack said. “You’ll be okay.”

Peter broke away. He smiled sadly. “I miss my buddy though. It’s going to be tough, starting at a new school without him.”

“Johnny will be there with you, Pete,” Jack said. “He’ll always be with you.”

Peter nodded resolutely, then wandered over to one of the boxes on the floor and hoisted it up. The box was full of keepsakes from Jack’s family.

“How about you, Father?” Peter asked, resting the carton on the edge of Jack’s desk. “Can I—call you once in a while? I don’t know where either one of us is going. But could we still keep in touch somehow?”

“You can count on it,” Jack said. “I found you a couple of Sundays ago, didn’t I? I won’t lose track of you, Pete.”

Maggie sat at her desk in the real-estate office. She had on her favorite suit, a soft pale green number she usually wore for good luck. It must have worked, because she’d closed an important deal that morning.

It was 3: 30 in the afternoon. She should have quit early and gone home to celebrate. But no one was waiting for her there. Lately, she found herself staying late at work just to avoid going back to that empty house.

Her desk was across from the office’s storefront window. Maggie looked out on a quaint shopping area with a brick walkway and a little fountain. In her office, at least she could people-watch while feeling productive.

She hadn’t heard from Jack since Memorial Day, two weeks before. They’d decided it was best not to talk with each other for a while. But Maggie thought the moratorium would have been lifted by now.

She still hadn’t erased his message on the answering machine from that Sunday night, the one in which he’d said that he loved her and to “hang in there.”

She was getting pretty tired of hanging in there.

Peter had told her a couple of days ago that Jack was leaving Our Lady of Sorrows. He didn’t know where they were sending him. If Father Garcia had his way, they’d be shipping Jack to Siberia.

Maggie told herself it was over. Hell, it hadn’t even gotten started. She’d recently commiserated to her coworker, Adele, about her disastrous luck with men: a wife-beater, a psychopath, and a totally unavailable priest. He could have at least called to say good-bye.

She was looking over some recent house listings when she heard the door open. Maggie glanced up from her computer. At first, she didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t wearing his clerical garb. She’d seen other priests in street clothes, and they still looked like priests. In fact, without their priestly attire, most of them seemed to lose a sense of mystery and ended up appearing rather bland. But not Jack Murphy. He wore gray trousers and a navy blue V-neck pullover that complemented his silver hair. Even though he hobbled through the doorway with the help of a crutch, he looked very sexy. He was carrying something in a plastic bag.

Dazed, Maggie stared at him. “Hi,” she murmured.

He smiled. “Hi, Maggie.”

“I’ve never seen you in regular clothes before. You look different. I mean, you look really good, just different.” She let out a little laugh. “It’s good to see you, Jack.”

“It’s been tough not calling you,” he said. “A lot has happened.”

She nodded. “I know. Pete told me you’re being transferred from Our Lady of Sorrows.”

“Well, that’s not quite right,” Jack replied, standing in front of her desk. “I’m no longer at Our Lady of Sorrows, because I’ve taken a leave of absence from the priesthood.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It means I’ll use the next six months to decide if I want to stay a priest or not,” Jack explained. “I may already have a teaching job lined up at the University of Washington. I’m going in for a second interview tomorrow.”

“Wow,” she murmured, astonished. “Well, good luck.”

“It’s like a new start,” Jack said. “Oh, and I brought you this.” He carefully pulled a small cactus plant from the plastic bag and set it on her desk.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“I figured we could send it to your ex-husband on his next birthday.” Jack gingerly touched one of the cactus stickers. “I don’t know if you handle apartments or condos, but I was wondering if I could tap your expertise in finding someplace nice.”

“You want me to find you a place to live?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s a start, Maggie.”

She looked at the cactus plant, then gazed up at him and smiled. “I think I can help you, Jack.”