DAVID WILLIAMS WAS TO BE BURIED in the section of Cedar Grove Cemetery that had been carved out of the former Burke Golf Course, a section reached by a road angling around the sexton's shed. By the time the walking mourners entered the cemetery, Mame was regretting that they had sent the car back to the Morris Inn. Beth was unfazed by the walking.
“What kind of shoes are those?” Mame asked her.
“I don't know.”
“Where did you buy them?”
“Someone gave them to me.” Immediately Beth regretted the remark. It sounded sanctimonious; maybe it was. It was difficult not to be impressed by Mame's outfit, although those shoes were certainly not made for walking.
“I wish I'd brought gym shoes,” Mame said bravely.
Behind them, Casey, now carrying the baby, was walking with Peaches. He had introduced her to everyone, proud as punch. Now he was urging Jay to come visit them on Siesta Key. “Not in the morning, though. I write in the morning.” The planned talk had been canceled as well as the play, giving way to the demands of fatherhood and Casey's writing schedule.
“I read
Tumbleweed
,” Jay told him.
“Wait until you see the sequel.”
When they entered Cedar Grove Cemetery, the two Trappists were far ahead, moving along at a brisk pace, and in the middle distance, Roger Knight's golf cart, he at the wheel, Professor Chadwick as copilot, was just making the turn at the sexton's building. Backhoes and other cemetery machinery stood half hidden in a fenced-off area to the right. From the open doors of the sexton's shed, several men stared out at them, the cemetery grounds crew. Beth looked at them as Roger had. One of them, wearing a Cubs cap, turned abruptly away, but not before Beth recognized him. So Q had come to the funeral after all.
They arrived at the gravesite. On the road beside it, the hearse and another black vehicle were parked. The casket already stood on a lowering device over the open grave. Father Carmody, wearing a cope now from which a gorgeous stole emerged, waited impatiently. Philip Knight stood with another man a few feet off. Then they all gathered around the grave.
The words Father Carmody read were whipped away by a breeze that had sprung up, the ribbon marker in his book fluttering like a pennant. Beth looked down into the scarcely concealed hole, and all the consoling ceremonies could not disguise the grim fact that they were going to put David Williams into the ground and cover his casket with dirt. She inhaled deeply and lifted her eyes to the old priest, who was having trouble preventing the breeze from turning the pages of his prayer book. Jay Williams had been directed to a place immediately to the right of Father Carmody. Beth noticed the man Mame had identified as Briggs on the edge of the little group, seemingly keeping a distance from Mame. What would she say if she saw him? How could she not? She had slipped off one shoe and stood somewhat lopsided next to Beth.
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Roger Knight was distracted as he stood beside Chadwick. Looking across the grave at Jay Williams, he recalled Phil's speculation. Amanda stood just behind him, her eyes wide with unease. Jay had worried about his father, ostensibly because of the effects of the financial meltdown on him. He did not think that was the sole explanation of his father's behavior, though, and had actually asked if Phil could find out what was wrong. He had apparently turned to Ziggy Cobalt as an alternative. If so, Jay would have found out disturbing things. That his father had been interested in Mame Childers must have devastated his son, who thought it a betrayal of his mother. How deep had his resentment been?
One thing, however, had been cleared up. It was the presence of an unidentified Notre Dame student at Gethsemani that had provided the middle term for Phil's speculation about Jay Williams. That student had been a reporter for the
Irish Rover
, who had gone to the monastery in the hope of interviewing Brother Joachim. The events in the hermitage had made that impossible. The intrepid reporter had not known of those eventsâwhat a scoop he might have hadâexcept indirectly. When his request was denied, he beat it back to South Bend to write a story about his failure to interview the Notre Dame grad who had become a Trappist monk.
Beside Roger, Chadwick was leaning over his walker. He should have stayed in the golf cart. “I want to check out the neighborhood, Roger. Our plot is near here.”
The neighborhood now included two elegant mausolea, which blocked the view of the golden dome from where they stood. What must it be like to know the exact place where one would eventually be laid to rest?
Father Carmody had closed his book and was now vigorously sprinkling holy water on the casket. He then passed the sprinkler to Jay.
Roger felt a tap on his shoulder and turned. Phil. His brother moved his head, and Roger stepped back. Phil whispered that the distinguished stranger standing a few feet off, of the group but not in it, was Wilfrid Childers, keeping his distance. Had he recognized Phil from their encounter in Connecticut?
“Timothy Quinn seems to have joined the sexton's crew, Phil.”
“He's here?”
Quinn had emerged from the sexton's shed and now stood ten yards away, even less in the group than the elegant Wilfrid Childers who had caught Phil's attention.
“Right over there.”
Phil immediately left Roger's side and started toward him. His manner must have alerted Quinn. He started, turned, and then began to move rapidly back along the road, Phil in pursuit. Quinn started to run, a mistake. Phil quickly caught up with him and took him by the arm, saying something. Quinn wrenched his arm free and began to run again. Roger thought it was overly dramatic of Phil to bring the fellow down with a tackle. No doubt the influence of the
genius loci
. Off to the east was the great stadium that Rockne had built and Lou Holtz had enlarged. Jimmy Stewart had joined Phil and was now manacling their captive. Roger sighed.
Beth Hanrahan had witnessed all this and was deeply upset. She came to Roger and grabbed his sleeve. “What are they doing with Q?”
Roger looked into her eyes, at the graying still-lovely hair, at the woman who had given her life to the downtrodden. “I think they want to talk to him.”
“About what?”
For answer, Roger let his eyes drift to the casket.
“That's ridiculous!”
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“I'm going with Maurice,” Emil Chadwick said, and Roger nodded. Beth was hurrying to where Quinn was in the custody of Jimmy Stewart.
“Where in the name of God is he going?” Mame asked in a tight voice. Her question seemed addressed to Roger. She was glaring at the man who had moved farther from the gravesite, strolling off on the road away from the sexton's shed.
“Who is he?”
“Wilfrid. My husband,” Mame said. “Of course, all this ceremony is strange to him.”
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Behind the wheel of his golf cart, Roger moved quickly after Wilfrid. The man jumped when Roger came up beside him; of course, the vehicle made no sound.
“Mr. Childers. Hop in.”
He looked at Roger, he looked at the golf cart, and his surprise gave way to amusement. “You're Professor Knight.”
“I'm afraid I am.”
“Well, why not?” Childers said, settling himself on the seat beside Roger. Roger eased up on the brake pedal, and they began to move. The road made a turn and ran along the fence separating the cemetery from what was left of the sixteenth fairway. Where it turned again there was an entrance through which the hearse had entered the cemetery with the body of David Williams, the gates still open.
“You were a friend of David's?”
“One of his clients.”
“Ah. Like your wife.”
Childers nodded.
“Did Ziggy Cobalt tell you about me?”
An attempt at a puzzled smile.
“How did you know who I was?”
“Is it a secret?” He managed to laugh.
“It is a very risky thing to hire a private detective, Mr. Childers. Particularly one like Ziggy Cobalt. They can become curious about your curiosity, and you become the watched rather than the watcher.”
“Interesting.”
“My brother has known Ziggy for years. I suppose you had him tracing David Williams? All the way to Kentucky?” Roger dropped his eyes. “Those aren't the best shoes for walking in the woods, are they? Of course, any shoe leaves its distinctive imprint. You have made some rather sizable blunders. Including registering at the guesthouse as Briggs.”
Childers had been listening intently to what Roger said, amusement giving way to caution. Now he reached for and got control of the wheel of the cart, putting his foot over Roger's and depressing the pedal. They shot through the gate and onto the campus road. Childers removed the key and hopped out of the cart, studying Roger. Then he went rapidly around the cart, pushed Roger across the seat, and reinserted the key. “Let's go look at the lakes.”
“Why did you come to the funeral?”
“To make sure the sonofabitch was dead.”
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Jimmy Stewart had put through a call on his cell phone, and a South Bend patrol car was on its way to take Timothy Quinn downtown for questioning.
“Questions?” Quinn asked. “What questions? Ask them here.” Beth was at his side, hugging his arm.
“You shouldn't have gone to Gethsemani, Quinn.”
The man's mouth fell open. The subsequent smile revealed discolored teeth. “Is that the charge, visiting a monastery?”
“That, and hitting your old classmate over the head with a piece of firewood.”
You never know how a killer will react when he's caught. Quinn at least showed some originality.
“Let's go to the sexton's shed first. I should punch out.”
The patrol car slid into the cemetery road, and Jimmy led Quinn away.
“I'll be down as soon as I can,” Phil said and started back to the grave. Mame Childers came hobbling toward him.
“Where's my brother?” Phil asked her. “The fat man in a golf cart.”
“He has given my husband a lift! And I can scarcely walk.”
Then Phil saw Roger, with a passenger beside him, disappear through the gate. What the hell?
Phil loped away, a stitch in his side. The pursuit of Quinn had taught him how out of shape he was. When he reached the gate, he saw the golf cart going around a curve and then out of sight. At that moment, the hearse came through the gate, about to leave. Phil flagged it down. The driver was surprised to be asked for a lift, but Phil hopped in as he made his request. “Just go along this road, and step on it.”
“Who are you?”
Phil rolled to the side, got out his wallet, opened it, and flashed it at the driver. “I'm a detective.”
“Jesus,” the driver exclaimed and stepped on it.
They made the turn and went past the practice putting green and then Rockne Memorial. There was a stop sign at Dorr Road, which led to the highway. Phil flipped a coin in his head and said, “Straight ahead.”
The lake came into view, and then they were on the road that passed the Log Chapel.
“Stop!” Phil cried. He already had the door open. He piled out and went running toward the chapel.
Roger was at the wheel of the golf cart, with which he had pinned a man to the wall of the chapel. The man, struggling, cursing, could not free himself. Roger seemed to be inching forward, increasing the pressure as Phil came up.
“What's going on?”
“Meet the murderer of David Williams, Phil.”
ROGER WADDLED INTO THE ROOM WHERE PHIL AND Jimmy Stewart were watching television, considered one of the beanbag chairs, thought better of it, and lowered himself onto the middle cushion of a couch.
“What's on?”
He was ignored. He was not offended. His own mind was still full of the commentary by Cornelius a Lapide he had just been reading, that on Psalm 87, a reminder of the fragility of life, the shortness of our days. He must tell Jay Williams what good company writing that initial message had put him in.
Your days are numbered.
That in effect had been Brother Joachim's salutary reminder to his classmate. That Joachim had been there at David Williams's bedside when he died was a comforting thought, almost a reconciliation scene.
Winter had come and gone; new life greenly put in its appearance on the campus; the game on the screen was baseball. The seasons of the athletic liturgical year succeeded one another, although with some overlapping, to the delight of Phil and Jimmy.
The jurisdictional dispute as to where Wilfrid Childers would be tried, and indeed for what, went on. Meanwhile, Jacuzzi, the local prosecutor, had brought a charge of kidnapping against the suave New Yorker for carrying Roger off as he had. Childers's lawyer had countered with a charge of assault and battery against Roger.
“Well, the cart is battery driven,” Roger mused.
Childers's mistake was to have left the ignition key in place when he tried to pull Roger from the cart. He succeeded only in pulling him behind the wheel. Roger released the brake and for several minutes pursued Childers about the lawn below the Log Chapel. It was when Childers had attempted to leap onto the abbreviated hood of the cart that Roger was able to pin him helplessly against the wall of the chapel. Given the outcome, Jacuzzi was not sanguine about the kidnapping charge.
Jacuzzi had gone to Kentucky and passed pointless hours there. Emptor, the county prosecutor, was an auctioneer in his spare time, which seemed to be considerable, and did not give Jacuzzi comfort. “Sheriff Casper knows nothing about it.”
Childers's lawyer had chuckled when Jacuzzi told him about the cast of the footprints found at the back door of the hermitage; wearing latex gloves, he handled the chunk of firewood as if he were about to go to bat. He shook his head. “Not heavy enough.”
That might have described all the evidence, since it was all circumstantial. Had Wilfrid Childers signed in at the Gethsemani guesthouse as Larry Briggs? The guest master, shown photographs of the two men, pointed to Childers when asked which was Briggs, but Jacuzzi was not charmed by the thought of putting a monk on the stand.
“He'll get away with murder,” Jacuzzi wailed. As a prosecutor he must have known how unfortunately common an outcome that was. The criminal justice system is an imperfect substitute for the Last Judgment.
Meanwhile, Mame had been reconciled with her husband. That she herself had been the occasion for his putative actions had its
effect on her. Her former husband was thought to have killed her lover. It came to seem almost Shakespearean. “Allegedly killed,” she would add primly.
“The woman has become a moral theologian,” Father Carmody complained. “Apparently, she has wearied of canon law.”
The intricacies of human action, the murkiness of responsibility, the sea of contingencies in which we live our days, of all these Mame Childers had become the poet.
“He was driven out of his mind,” she explained to the priest. No need to say by what. Ah, the fatal susceptibility of the masculine heart. When she wasn't instructing Father Carmody in moral theology, she was advising her husband's lawyers. Yes, husband. The reconciliation had been total. Father Carmody had been approached on the matter, but in the end Mame and Wilfrid were united in holy matrimony by Monsignor Sparrow. Wilfrid, of course, was out on bail.
“Peace to them,” Carmody muttered.
“Pox eis
, that is.” And he spelled it for Roger.
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The Old Bastards in Leahy's Lounge gave all these matters their full attention. They had not been impressed by the funeral of David Williams.
“White vestments!” Horvath cried. “There wasn't a moist eye in the church.”
Armitage Shanks began to chant the
Dies Irae
but found that he had forgotten the words.
“You see? We'll be forgetting the Our Father soon.”
The sequel to the burial buoyed them up. The fat Professor
Knight being carried off by the killer and then pinning his abductor to the wall of the Log Chapelâthat was a scene to which they could relate.
“We must all get such carts,” Potts said. “We can roam the campus looking for administrators.”
The prospect of pinning vice presidents and provosts and deans to campus walls and trees excited them.
“Do you need a license to drive one of them?” Bingham asked.
“You already have a driver's license, Horvath.”
“It's restricted.”
“Hang him high,” Potts growled. Doubtless he was remembering the campus petition to show clemency to Wilfrid Childers.
“He'll get off scot-free.”
“What is the meaning of that word, scot-free?”
Armitage Shanks launched into an explanation, but Murph arrived at last with their drinks.
“Feeding time,” he said cheerfully.
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Events had of course led to the abandonment of plans to stage a revival of
Behind the Bricks
, and Hazel was furious. Jay and Amanda went to explain.
“After all the trouble I took.” She glared at Amanda, but her expression softened when she turned to Jay.
“It's all your fault, Hazel.”
“My fault?”
“You turned down the part I offered you.”
The cancellation complemented the cancellation of Casey Winthrop's lecture. The
Irish Rover
had begun a three-part series on the life and work of Casey Winthrop '89, but it was not the same thing.
Jay and Amanda planned to visit the author when they went to Florida on spring break.
“The sequel to
Tumbleweed
has appeared,” Jay said.
“What's it called?”
“
Cactus
.”
“Any good?”
“How can you ask?”
Fenway in the Notre Dame Foundation had approached Jay about his father's offer to fund a new ethics center. Jay told them he had other plans.
“Some other building?”
“Yes.”
Fenway sat eagerly forward.
“In Minneapolis,” Jay said.
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On an early April morning Beth Hanrahan was hurrying back from Mass at Holy Rosary. Father Romanus had told her he was offering it for the repose of David Williams's soul. Another? Beth was surprised, but Romanus explained this was not the Mass she had requested long ago. “Buy one, get one free.”
“I didn't give a stipend.”
“Don't be so literal.”
Returning from Notre Dame to Our Lady of the Road had been in many ways a relief. Q drove her back, muttering about the indignity of his arrest by Jimmy Stewart. As for Phil Knight, Q complained that it hadn't been a clean tackle.
“Will you stay?” She meant in Minneapolis.
Thought went on beneath the Cubs cap. “Either that or reenlist in the army.”
“I'll take that for yes.”
Once it had seemed that the only one of them who was leading a more or less normal life was David Williams. Now Beth would cast Casey Winthrop for that role. What a lovely woman Peaches was. And the baby!
The baby. Father Carmody baptized Casey and Peaches's baby in the Log Chapel before they fled again to the warmth of Florida. Then it was time for Beth's request. The old priest had been agreeable to her suggestion that they include Brother Joachim in the little ceremony by the Log Chapel. So, two days after David's funeral, at the crack of dawn, the three of them had stood over the spot where so many years ago she and Joachim had buried her miscarried child. Joachim recited the
De profundis
, while Beth tried unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. Father Carmody sprinkled the boulder that Joachim had replaced, and all withdrew.