Make them Cry (9 page)

“First things first,” Rick said with a wary glance. “You didn’t have anything to do with those phone calls this afternoon, did you?”

Jack shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“I figured you wouldn’t know,” Rick replied. “You’re a decent guy. As much as I resented you the other night at St. Clement’s, I could tell you were a real decent guy, Father Murphy.”

“What about these phone calls?” Jack asked.

“Some creep kept phoning me this afternoon—three different calls in an hour’s time. I tried to do a last-call return, but the number wasn’t listed. This guy kept saying these awful things about Johnny and me, things like how long did it take to drown him, and what did I do with his clothes, and did I have sex with him first.”

Rick gazed down at the bedsheets and slowly shook his head. “Do you know what it’s like to hear that about someone close to you?”

“So—you did know Johnny?” he asked.

Rick nodded. “I was with him on Wednesday night. We met down in the catacombs beneath the church. We had an argument. I found out he was seeing a couple of other guys on my floor. I kind of suspected as much, but I didn’t want to believe it. I knew Johnny and his sister weren’t very well-off financially. So every time we got together, I gave him some money. Well, he told me he’d been taking money from these other guys, too.”

“Did he say how much money he was getting?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know about the others, but I usually gave him between twenty and forty bucks whenever we met.”

Dumbfounded, Jack nodded. Now he knew how Johnny had saved up that twenty-two hundred dollars. As he did the math, Jack realized that John must have been very busy.

Rick tugged at his bedding again. “Anyway, it was humiliating to hear about the other guys—and the money. I was devastated.”

“Of course you were,” Jack said. He was devastated, too—for different reasons. Johnny wasn’t the golden boy he’d thought him to be.

“Maybe I should have seen it coming. Johnny had been pulling away from me the last few weeks. But it all came to a boil on Wednesday night. I—I slapped him. And he punched me in the face. Gave me a bloody nose. Right away, Johnny started apologizing. But I was so mad. I mean, I was bleeding all over the place.”

“Are you type AB blood?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

“Nothing,” Jack muttered. “Go on.”

“I know he felt bad, but I wanted him to feel even worse,” Rick admitted. “So I called him a whore, and every hateful thing I could think of, whatever I figured would hurt him. Johnny got dressed and left. I remember wishing he were dead.” Rick wiped his eyes again, then let out a sad laugh. “And wouldn’t you know? I got my goddamn wish.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Jack said. “It’s not your fault.”

“If only I really believed that,” Rick replied, his voice broken with emotion. “It was the last I saw of him. During lunch the next day, I heard that he’d drowned. I couldn’t believe it. I kept thinking about all the horrible things I said to him that night. I didn’t mean any of it. Do you suppose Johnny knew that?”

“Friends quarrel and they say harsh words to each other,” Jack pointed out. “That’s just a part of friendship sometimes.”

“Well, Johnny and I were more than ‘friends’.” Rick frowned. “I couldn’t admit that to you the other night. When you came to talk to me, I was so confused and scared. All I could think of was protecting myself. And Anton, he was so…obnoxious, I got all defensive.” He squirmed beneath the bedsheets. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Anton was somehow behind those calls today.”

“I’ll look into it,” Jack said. “Listen, the other night, did you follow me to the church basement?”

“Yeah,” Rick whispered. “I have my own key. I was afraid you’d eventually find some stuff I had hidden down there by one of the graves.”

“Monsignor Thayer Swann’s grave?” Jack asked.

Rick nodded. “Then you found them. I was praying you hadn’t. After you left, I gathered up everything and tossed it in a Dumpster behind St. Matthew Hall. I hardly slept a wink that night. That’s when I decided to get out. I just couldn’t stay at Our Lady of Sorrows any longer. I had to leave.”

“Why?” Jack asked quietly. “Because you didn’t want anyone finding out about you and Johnny?”

“That’s a big part of it, yes,” Rick admitted. “But it’s the school, too. There’s something wrong with the place. Don’t you feel it at times? Johnny’s death, the other kid who drowned three years ago, and the one who committed suicide—”

“What suicide?”

“Don’t you know about the guy who hung himself?” Rick asked.

Jack shook his head.

“It happened the same year as that drowning. I remember, because that’s all they talked about my freshman year—what went on the year before. Julian Doyle drowned, and this other guy, Oliver Theron, killed himself. He was a senior. I heard he left school all of a sudden. Then a couple of days later, while his parents were gone, he went up on the roof of his house. He tied one end of a rope around the chimney and the other end around his neck, then he jumped off the edge of the roof. I guess his parents found him there.”

“I never heard that story,” Jack murmured.

“Huh, I just had a weird thought,” Rick said. “Maybe one had to do with the other. The drowning, then the suicide, it happened in that order.” He let out a sad laugh. “Y’know, if I’d gotten it right this afternoon, history would have repeated itself. Another drowning followed by another suicide. That would have been a real weird coincidence.”

“That’s no way to talk, Rick. What you tried this afternoon was really foolish. You might be in a hospital bed and feeling pretty shitty, but you’re so much better off right now than you were when we last talked. You’re going to be okay.”

“‘
Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem
,’” Rick said, shifting under the covers. “That’s what the hospital social worker told me this afternoon. I think she got it out of some teen suicide prevention handbook.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true,” Jack said, patting his shoulder. “Quit being ashamed and beating yourself up over who you are.”

His head tipped back on the pillow, Rick gave him a cynical smile. “Is that the Catholic Church’s official stance on the subject of who I am?”

“Well, make it
your
official stance,” Jack replied. “And stop blaming yourself over what happened. John’s death was an accident.”

Rick gazed at him. “You don’t really believe Johnny’s death was accidental, do you?”

Jack frowned, then shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

There was an abrupt knock on the door, then Rick’s father poked his head in. Jack stood up.

Mr. Pettinger gazed narrowly at his son. “Well, are you finished with whatever it is you needed to get off your chest?”

Rick stared at Jack, and gave him a faint smile. “Yes, we’re finished here, Father.”

“Then it’s finished,” Father Garcia said.

Having assigned chauffeur duty to Jack, he sat on the passenger side of the Lexus. The headlights from oncoming cars cast harsh shadows across Garcia’s unsmiling face. They were headed back to Our Lady of Sorrows. Jack had told him about his discussion with Rick. He didn’t share with him the revelation that Johnny had been taking money for sex.

Apparently, Garcia had managed to placate Rick’s father, who didn’t really blame Our Lady of Sorrows for his son’s bizarre behavior. The Pettinger dollars would still be working for the archdiocese. They’d even discussed the possibility of Rick taking his final exams during the summer—so he could return to the seminary next semester.

“We have things under control now, Jack,” Garcia continued. “So that’s that, okay? End of story, case closed. We’re all going to put John Costello’s death behind us. If his sister should call you up, refer her to me. I don’t want you to have anything more to do with her—or this case.”

“That won’t be easy,” Jack said, his eyes on the highway. “Maggie Costello asked me to give the eulogy at Johnny’s funeral Mass on Tuesday.”

“I’ll call her tomorrow morning and convey your regrets.”

“Actually, I’d like to give the talk. It’s very important to me. John was my friend.”

“I’m sorry, Jack. But the more you distance yourself from this case, the better. And I repeat, the same thing goes for the sister.” He sighed. “I met her briefly that afternoon you and I first talked. She came to talk with Monsignor Fuller. She’s a very attractive woman.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jack asked.

“Do you have feelings for her?”

“I’m sorry, Tom, but I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“It certainly is my business when you put the school’s reputation at risk. You have feelings for this girl, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jack muttered.

“Then don’t see her again.”

“But the funeral—”

“You’re not delivering John Costello’s eulogy. You’re not even attending the funeral. Those are my orders. End of discussion.”

Jack was silent for a moment. He stared at the road ahead. “I guess I missed something,” he finally said, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “A few days ago, I thought you didn’t want to sweep John Costello’s death under the rug. I thought you were a real nice guy, Tom. When did you suddenly become such a son of a bitch?”

Garcia glanced out his window. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Jack.”

For the next hour, all the way back to the seminary, they didn’t say a word to each other.

“Maggie?”

She recognized Jack’s voice immediately.

With Steve out of town, Maggie had tried to make the best of her Saturday night alone. She’d rented a two-tape video to occupy her whole night, then ordered a pizza. Half the pizza had wound up in the refrigerator.

When the phone rang, she put
The English Patient
on pause. On her TV, Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas were frozen in a passionate embrace.

Maggie didn’t want Jack Murphy knowing that she recognized his voice after almost a month. In fact, she was annoyed that he’d called. She’d just started dating Steve, a rich, handsome, sensitive guy who was clearly interested in her. He’d been a perfect gentleman on that first date. He’d come to her rescue, and spent the night in Johnny’s room. He’d come through for her. She wasn’t supposed to care anymore about some totally unavailable priest.

“Yes, this is Maggie,” she said. “Who’s calling?”

“It’s Jack Murphy,” he said. “How are you?”

“All right, I guess,” she said, sitting on the edge of her couch, the cordless phone in her hand. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. You made that pretty clear to me the last time we talked.”

“I’m sorry about that conversation, Maggie,” he said. “I had no choice. The head of administration here is a guy named Father Garcia, and he laid down the law. He forbade me to see you under any circumstances. That included attending John’s funeral. I couldn’t go against him and expect to stay on here. He has a lot of clout.”

Maggie didn’t say anything for a moment. She stared at the TV screen, with Ralph and Kristin locked in their embrace. Jack hadn’t said anything about missing her, or that he’d thought of her at all these past few weeks. She felt like such an idiot that it should matter, but it did.

She grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. “So…what’s going on?” she asked finally. “To what do I owe this call?”

“Something happened,” he said. “You know Jonie? The girl we spoke with at the hair salon—”

“Yes…”

“Well, her apartment caught on fire this afternoon. She’s dead.”

“My God,” Maggie murmured.

“She came to me in the chapel earlier today, wanting to talk about Johnny. She admitted that she hadn’t been very honest with us. That’s all I got out of her before she seemed to lose her nerve. We were supposed to meet at her apartment. Only when I arrived there, she was already dead. I’m sorry to be telling you this over the phone, Maggie.”

“No, I’m glad you called,” she heard herself say. “Thank you.”

“By any chance, did Jonie ever contact you?”

“I never heard from her at all,” Maggie said numbly. “She didn’t even come to the funeral. My God, Jack. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I phoned the hair salon where she worked, and they were closed. They’re open from noon until five tomorrow. I’m going there to see if Jonie told a coworker what she couldn’t tell us.”

“I’d like to come along,” Maggie said.

“I don’t think we should be seen together, Maggie—”

“The girls at the salon might not want to talk to you. It’ll help if you have a woman with you.”

“Well, don’t come to the school,” he said. “Let’s meet in front of the beauty parlor. Is noon okay?”

“Noon’s fine,” she said.

“Actually, I’m glad you’re coming up,” he said. “It’ll be good to see you again, Maggie.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Jack.”

“G’night,” he said. Then he hung up.

Jack held the receiver in its cradle for a moment, then he picked it up and dialed a number he’d written down in his pocket-size notebook. It rang twice before someone answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Aaron Del Toro?” Jack asked. Aaron was the fireman who had talked with him in the ambulance.

“Yes, this is Aaron.”

“Hello, this is Father Murphy—from earlier today?”

“Oh, sure. Hi, Father.”

“Listen, I want to thank you for your help today. Also I was wondering. Did they…ever find any of her teeth?”

“No, you sure called that one, Father. They couldn’t locate them anywhere in the apartment. The coroner didn’t find any teeth lodged in her throat either. I talked with him tonight. He said those teeth weren’t knocked out, they were yanked out. Even a couple of the roots were gone. Apparently, she’d had a lot to drink and snort—a regular little party for herself. It’s bizarre. I’ve heard of people doing some pretty weird shit—um, excuse me, Father—
stuff
when they’re high. But I tell ya, I’d have to be pretty far gone to tear out my own teeth.”

“Someone must have done it to her,” Jack said. “Then they probably set fire to her apartment.”

“Well, so far, our fire detective is ninety-nine percent sure it was an accident,” Aaron said. “The girl smoked like a chimney, I guess. Today wasn’t the first time we responded to a fire at that address. She had us there on two previous occasions. Minor stuff, but enough to tell us that she was pretty damn careless. Her downstairs neighbor confirmed it. This old, half-blind, half-deaf lady with about eight cats, she said Jonie Soretto was always setting off the smoke detector with one little fire after another—tossing live cigarettes in the trash, and one time, accidentally torching a sofa pillow, things like that.”

“I suppose this neighbor couldn’t tell us whether or not Jonie had any visitors when this fire started,” Jack said glumly.

“No, she wasn’t home at the time. And I wouldn’t count on her for too much beyond what she told us today. On top of her sight and hearing problems, she’s pretty much on the loopy side.”

“Isn’t it possible—likely, even—that someone was with Jonie when the fire started?”

“Well, it’ll be difficult to determine with all the damage done to the place. But we’ll look into it. And if those missing teeth turn up, I’ll definitely let you know.”

“Well, thank you, Aaron,” Jack said. “You’re never going to find them. But thank you anyway.”

“Is this thing much further?” Peter asked.

“About another five minutes,” Anton said, leading the way. “Don’t be such a pussy, Pete.”

“Well, when you said you wanted to show me something in the woods, I didn’t think we had a five-mile hike ahead of us. It’s getting really dark.”

Peter had really been looking forward to seeing Anton tonight. It had been over a week since they’d last gotten together. Anton was going to borrow a car from a friend. They’d planned to drive all over Leroy in search of that pale blue Volkswagen bug. If they didn’t find it by nine o’clock, they planned to go for pizza as a consolation prize.

Instead, Anton had met Peter at the Stop ’n’ Fuel-Up, explaining that his friend had flaked out on him, so no car. Then he had a brilliant idea about going into the forest so they could revisit a site somehow connected with the Gerard Lunt murder-suicide case in 1949.

Peter had been a bit wary at first. Seven-fifteen at night wasn’t exactly the best time to go exploring in that thick forest on the west side of Lake Leroy. The sun had already been setting.

But Anton had mentioned that the site wasn’t far from a secluded hot spring. “It’s just going to be you and me, so we can go naked,” he’d said. “It’ll be an adventure. C’mon, what do you say?”

That had been nearly two hours ago. They’d wandered off a main trail, and Anton followed markings he’d once made on the trees along the way. He used a flashlight he’d picked up at the last minute from the Stop ’n’ Fuel-Up. It had grown so dark in the woods that Peter doubted he’d even cop a decent look at Anton naked.

He trailed behind Anton, blindly navigating the rocks and tree roots in his path. Patches of moonlight peeked through the treetops. He could hear rustling in the bushes, and he wondered out loud if there were bears in these woods.

“Just possums and raccoons, Pete,” Anton told him. “We’re almost there. Aren’t you having fun?”

“Yeah, sure, a great time,” he lied. “I hope the batteries in that flashlight last, otherwise we’re screwed. Are the hot springs very far from this place we’re going?”

“Not far at all,” Anton said. “In fact, our destination is just up ahead.” He aimed the flashlight through the trees.

Peter could only see branches illuminated by the beam. “Is this going to creep me out?” he asked. “I keep expecting to see something out of
The Blair Witch Project
.”

“C’mon,” Anton said, quickening his pace.

Peter tried to keep up without stumbling in the dark. He saw a small clearing, and over to the side, an old, dilapidated shack, no bigger than a dorm room at St. Bart’s. Anton trained the light across the screened windows, which were falling apart.

“We’re not going in there, are we?” Peter asked.

“Don’t be such a wimp.” Anton led the way. He stepped inside first, and held open the rickety screen door for Peter.

At the threshold, Peter hesitated. Anton swept the flashlight beam across three old trash bags on the floor, one of them torn open with garbage spilling out: paper plates, food wrappers, and rusty Coke cans. There was a broken hard-back chair, tipped on its side, and a couple of picnic table benches. A battered dresser stood against one wall, most of the drawers pulled out or broken.

Anton moved toward the dresser. Then the flashlight went out.

“What happened?” Peter asked, panic-stricken.

“Relax,” Anton said. He lit a match, then held it to the wick of an old oil lamp. The flickering lamp illuminated the screened-in little room. “Light at last!” Anton announced, grinning.

Peter glanced around. “Now that I can see this dump, I think I liked it better in the dark.” He also got his first good look at Anton in over an hour. The handsome senior was sweating and dirty. But he was grinning at him.

“Come take a look at something.” He nodded at the hollow opening where someone had removed the dresser’s bottom drawer. “Reach down in there.”

“Yeah, screw that.” Peter laughed. “You reach in there.”

“For God’s sakes,” he muttered. He stooped down and stuck his hand in the dresser opening. “It’s still here. Nobody’s found it yet.” Anton pulled out a small tin box. He straightened up and showed the container to Peter. Barely legible under a layer of rust and dirt,
OWENS COUGH DROPS
was printed in swirly script on the lid.

“What is that?” Peter asked.

Anton handed the container to him. “Open it,” he whispered.

The little box felt empty. It hardly weighed anything. Peter pried off the lid. There was some wax paper, brittle, yellowing, and folded up like a tiny packet. Inside, Peter could see a lock of hair. Someone had written on the wax paper in red crayon.

“Take a look,” Anton said. “Just be careful. There’s another one underneath that. See the initials?”

“Initials?” The second packet was just like the first, with a lock of hair preserved in folded-up wax paper. Peter squinted at the faded writing:
G. L.
was marked on one packet;
M. W.
on the other.

“Gerard Lunt and Mark Weedler,” Anton said. “That’s their hair you’re holding.”

Peter could tell—just by looking at the two keepsakes and the old cough-drop tin—that Anton was telling the truth. He felt his skin prickle. “Where did you get these?” he asked numbly.

“Just where I showed you,” Anton replied. “They’ve been there in that cough-drop box since 1949, when Gerard Lunt hid it underneath the dresser. You and me are the only living people who know about it, Pete.”

Peter felt so strange, examining souvenirs from those two long-dead boys, St. Bartholomew Hall’s notorious murder-suicide victims. With a shaky hand, he carefully set the packets back inside the tin, then gave it to Anton. “How did you know where to find it?” he asked.

“Promise you won’t think I’m crazy. And I’m
not
bullshitting you,” Anton said. “Remember, I told you that when I was a freshman, I used to spend hours at a time alone in Room 410?”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded.

“I heard them sometimes.”

“Heard who?”

“Gerard and Mark. I’d hear them talking. I picked up different things. They used to come to this place.” Leaning against the bureau, Anton glanced around the shack. “Even back in ’49, it was abandoned and neglected. Gerard and Mark used to practice saying Mass here. This old dresser was their altar.”

Shaking his head, Peter squinted at him. “How do you know all this?”

“I just told you, Pete. I heard them talking. Don’t you sometimes still feel that Johnny’s around—in a room with you or by your side? It was kind of like that for me and Gerry. The day after I heard him talking with Mark, I came out here. In the daylight, it’s not such a long hike. I knew I’d find something if I kept looking.” Anton held up the cough-drop tin. “And I found this, Pete. We have to keep this secret. We’re the only ones who can know.”

Dazed, Peter watched Anton set the little container back in the hollowed-out bottom of that ancient dresser. There was a certain reverence in the way he did it. He seemed to have a true connection to the spirit world.

“There’s something else about Mark and Gerry you don’t know,” Anton announced. “But you’re not ready to hear it yet.”

“What is it?” Peter asked.

“I’ll tell you sometime, soon.”

He snuffed out the oil lamp, and the little cabin was cloaked in darkness once more. Switching on his flashlight, Anton trained the beam toward the screen door and led the way for Peter.

“So, Pete,” he said, stepping outside. “Want to take a dip in the hot springs before we head back?”

“Sure.” Peter shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “Sounds cool.”

He felt a pang in his stomach, butterflies, nervous anticipation. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and he could see Anton pretty clearly. He still thought about that time they’d been in Anton’s bathroom together, and he’d glimpsed him naked. Anton probably had no idea how sexy he was.

“I’m glad we came out here,” Peter announced. “I’m sorry if I was whining earlier. I thought maybe—”

“Shhhh,” Anton cut in. He stopped dead. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Peter froze. He glanced around the darkened woods and listened carefully for the sound that had stopped Anton in his tracks. There was a rustling noise, but it could have been the wind.