We stood five stories above the ground. Below, hidden in darkness between folds of the building, was the ground and safety. I still couldn't tell if the damn thing reached all the way down or not. Rain pelted into my eyes and washed over my chin.
Scott led the way. Our feet clattered on the railings. Halfway down I heard voices above. We rushed faster. On the third landing Scott stumbled. We collided and fell. A shot rang out.
“Motherfucker!” Scott swore. We untangled ourselves and sped earthward. They fired only the one shot. The wild dash and my fear made it tentative, but I thought I heard Priscilla's voice berating someone. Probably Stephanie, the gun wielder.
Closer to the bottom now, I could see that the fire escape ended fifteen feet from the ground. We paused at the edge. I looked up. So far no one had followed. The structure trembled and groaned under us.
“Now what?” Scott gasped.
“We shut our eyes, click our heels together three times, and say there's no place like home.”
“I could do without any Kansas shit right now,” he said. The fire escape groaned ominously.
“Turn backwards,” I commanded, “grab hold of the bottom rung, get your legs over, and let yourself dangle. Swing out hard, jump, and hit the ground rolling. That'll distribute your weight. Less chance of injury.”
“Right. You first. I'll watch.”
I turned around, got my feet over the last step, grabbed hold of a railing, and backed up. I eased my knees, then my torso over the edge. For a second my hands slipped. I grasped the railing, swung once and again, pushed off, and hit the ground rolling. I leaped to my feet. I watched Scott duplicate my efforts, moving backward and swinging out. His feet dangled four feet above me. He swung out once. The rail snapped on his back swing and he fell.
He landed on me. We lay, limbs entangled for several startled seconds. Moments later we were on our feet and running. An angry rumble from the building behind stopped me in my tracks. I watched the ancient fire escape rattle, then crumble in slow stages to the ground. Scott grabbed my arm. “Let's go!” he shouted. We ran.
We didn't stop until we'd gotten back to the parking lot in front of the Burger King we passed earlier just west of Clark Street. I wanted to call Frank Murphy before we called the Chicago police. After all, we had entered illegally. We used the pay phone to call the River's Edge police station. Frank Murphy wasn't on duty. I got his home number from directory assistance and called.
It was just after one. A very sleepy Frank answered on the sixth ring. When I got it through to him about the kidnapping, he came awake enough to tell me to wait there. He'd handle it.
We huddled under the overhang outside the restaurant. Our winter coats had kept out the worst of the rain, but drops fell from my nose and chin as I tried to squeeze the dampness out of my hair.
Ten minutes later a cop car pulled up. We got in the back
seat. Our explanation took endless moments before they drove to the church. Maybe they needed to make sure our story confirmed Frank's.
At the church the cops delayed again. We urged a dramatic frontal assault. They claimed they has to wait for backup and permission. We argued about it, intermixed with their fascination with meeting Scott Carpenter. I was never more frustrated with his fame. He too tried to get them to move, but to no avail.
By the time someone of sufficient rank showed up, it'd be too late. I knew they'd be gone. Frank drove up a few minutes after the first contingent had entered the building. We walked in with him. The rain had stopped, and the wind had changed direction, now driving with a cold roar out of the northwest. Through the many levels and corridors we saw lights flickering. When we got to the top floor, it was as I feared: no one, not even the remains of dinner on the table. All the clothes and sleeping bags had disappeared. The only proofs of our story that remained were the various signs of destruction and the now-barren card tables and chairs in the middle of the gym floor.
They searched, and we waited. Just past two, Frank found us poking into obscure corners in a sub-basement. Early in the search they'd found the lights the construction workers used. These cast feeble glares at random intervals.
Frank had Monica Verlaine with him. “This is the owner,” he said.
We explained that we'd met. Monica wore a fur coat open to reveal a purple evening dress.
Monica claimed not to know the women had been using the place for trysting. “Priscilla must have learned about this place and my ownership from records at the newspaper. She'd know work orders and times.” She denied all knowledge of their activities. I'd begun to trust her, but now I wasn't so sure.
Frank said, “They found traces in the gym. The police believe your story.”
“They claimed they had Jerry,” I said. “I want them caught.”
Monica said, “Mr. Mason and Mr. Carpenter, I asked you to look into Father Sebastian's death. I'm sorry to have involved your family. Believe me, I had no wish for this to happen.” Her sultry voice dropped a level. “I apologize. If I could put an end to all this, I would.”
Paul Turner, the gay Chicago cop, walked into the room. We'd moved to the entryway of the first-floor apartment.
We explained the situation to him, emphasizing Priscilla's admission of the kidnapping. Scott hadn't seen Prentice, so he couldn't swear to his presence. I was sure it was him.
Just before three, we left. On the stoop in the cold wind, as we finished buttoning our coats against the storm, Turner said, “I find your suspicions about the priest's death more credible for the moment. Your problem is why and how.” He turned at the bottom of the steps, “You're going to question Prentice. So am I. You'd better come along.”
We rode in an unmarked police car to Bruce's Halfway There Bar. I knew it had a late license and would still be open. Prentice saw us walk in and immediately began backing toward the rear exit. I stopped him before he could get to the door beyond the jukebox in back and dragged him to the front of the bar by the belt and shirt collar. The few patrons on this midweek stormy winter night had scattered at the first sign of trouble.
Paul Turner had a baritone voice. He spoke slowly and softly in his harsh South Side Chicago accent. “Let him go,” he said quietly and forcefully.
I took my hands off him. Prentice shook himself, straightened the collar of his shirt, and pulled his sleeves taut.
Turner introduced himself and showed his star. “You aren't under arrest, but I'd like to check on your whereabouts tonight.”
“I want my lawyer,” Prentice said.
No matter how patiently Turner asked, that's all Prentice said. I grabbed for him when my frustration reached the boiling point. Turner stopped me. We left soon after. On the sidewalk Turner said, “We don't beat confessions out of people anymore. I know he's a whore. He knows he has to watch his step. He's a pro at being arrested. I can tell. When all they do is ask for their lawyer, they've been through it before. If you're thinking of going back after I'm gone, don't. Let the police handle this.”
He got in his car and drove off.
Seconds later we were back in the bar. Prentice had the
phone in one hand. He saw us and quickly hung up. He edged toward the rear. I glided to the back to block any exit. Scott turned the lock on the front door to prevent any interruption.
“Get serious, you guys.” He stood in front of the cash register halfway down the bar. “You can't do nothing to me.” His eyes darted back and forth from one to the other of us. “I wasn't there. Honest.”
Scott lunged for him. Prentice grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind the bar and smashed it on top of the cash register. He held the resulting jagged edge toward us.
“I'll use this.” He flourished the bottle as he moved closer to me.
As he neared, I made my move. Seconds later the sleeve of my leather winter coat lay in tatters, but I had my hand around his throat and the back of his head up against the wall. “You motherfucker. Where's my nephew?”
He said something like
“Gaklumphack.”
I eased the pressure. He tried a few feeble kicks. I reapplied pressure. He stopped struggling and concentrated on breathing.
“He can't talk if you kill him,” Scott pointed out.
Slowly I released him. He slumped to the floor, choking and gasping for breath.
Scott got him a glass of ice water and knelt down next to him.
Prentice sat on the floor with his back up against the bar and accepted the water gratefully. He slurped for a moment, choked, spluttered, then swallowed. When his color returned to normal, Scott said, “I'm not the nice guy in a good-cop bad-cop deal here. I want to hurt you as much as Tom does.”
Prentice's scared look, which had begun to pass, returned in a rush.
“We know you were there,” I said. “We only want to know where Jerry is. You gave it away when you tried to take off as soon as you saw us. We'll beat the information out of you. Slowly and carefully, if necessary. We won't kill you, but it'll hurt a lot, trust me.”
Still on the floor, Prentice looked up at me. I'd taken a seat on one side of a booth directly across from him. The aisle was narrow so our feet were only inches apart. Scott crouched next to him.
Prentice let out a disgusted sigh. “Why should I protect those bitches? They're nuts anyway.” He crossed his ankles and looked at us in turn. “They think they're part of some vast conspiracy to overthrow the paternalistic underpinnings of western civilization.” He gave a harsh laugh. “If they're lucky, they've got twenty people in their group nationwide, and that's an optimistic count.”
“Do they really blow up places?” Scott asked.
“One. A place in San Francisco, and that almost didn't work. Then their explosives person had a fight with Priscilla over the name of the group. She thought it didn't sound militant enough. This was when Priscilla was out in San Francisco last month.”
“Who's done the other bombings?” Scott asked.
“They don't know. Nut cases? Priscilla thinks other groups saw the sympathy and the donations that poured in after the first bombing, and now they're doing it themselves to get their own publicity. The problem they didn't expect is that all kinds of nut groups began calling the media to take credit. Donations dried up.”
“Where's Jerry?” I asked.
“I don't know,” he said. “They didn't discuss him while I was there.”
Even after seventeen years of listening to teenage liars, I couldn't tell if this was the truth or not. Turner was right. The guy was a pro.
Scott reached out and grabbed the crotch of Prentice's tight jeans and squeezed. The kid screamed in agony. “I'm going to ruin your business forever, motherfucker, if you're lying. You
sure
you don't know?” He squeezed tighter. Prentice yelped, groaned, swatted feebly with one hand. Sweat poured freely down his red face. “I ⦠don't ⦠know,” he managed to gasp out.
Scott let go. The kid rolled on his side, his hands over his crotch. Scott knelt next to him, turned him on his back, and got his feet flat on the ground with his knees up. Prentice's breathing returned to normal in a few minutes.
“Motherfucking bastards,” he said.
Scott shrugged. Prentice crawled to his feet, using the bar for support. He summoned a few shreds of dignity. “I have to close up,” he said. He staggered toward the back of the bar.
At the front door I turned to ask, “Did you know Sebastian was HIV positive?”
He looked startled. “No. Guess it's a good thing he refused to have sex with me the times I offered.”
“What were you doing there tonight?” Scott asked.
“Priscilla is my sister.” He turned his back on us, binged open the cash register, and began counting the money.
Â
Back at Scott's place, as we crawled into his bed, we decided our next step had to be more background on Sebastian. Finding Jerry and the truth about Sebastian's death were inextricably linked in my mind. Turner's questions made sense: why and how? We'd concentrated on running around and talking to scared or powerful people. Why and how would lead to the who. I wanted to talk Monica's source more than ever.
Just as I was about to fall asleep, I jerked suddenly wide awake. “How did you know I wouldn't get killed when you dropped that thing from so high up?”
He mumbled into his pillow. He normally falls asleep on his stomach. I usually nod off lying on my back. Snuggling after sex can lead to alterations in these habits.
“How'd you know?” I said, propping myself up on one elbow and nudging his shoulder.
He lifted his head an inch from the pillow and opened one eye. He said, “I aimed.” His head resumed its initial position.
“You what?” Another nudge. “How do you aim from four stories up?”
This time he got both eyes open. “Am I the highest-paid
pitcher in baseball?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Of course I am. That's my job. I throw things at a target. I don't miss.”
Less than satisfactory as answers go and hardly reassuring, and not what I wanted to hear, but before I could think of a question or make a protest, he turned on his side, leaned over, and pulled me close. He nestled my head onto his chest. I felt the thick blond fur there against my cheek. He stroked my back. We talked about love and danger, and then had a bout of passionate sex, and then fell asleep in each other's arms.
Â
First thing in the morning, tired from a much-too-short night's sleep, I called Glen to fill him in. Then I phoned Kurt to check on strike and negotiations progress. He was at school leading the picketing so I talked to his wife, Beth. She asked about Jerry. After all these years, she was as good a friend to us as Kurt was. She told me to forget school and take care of family business.
At eight-thirty Monica Verlaine called. “Neil gave me your number. I've got my source with me. We can be at your place in thirty minutes.”
At nine the doorman called from downstairs to announce them.
Monica wore a navy blue suit with matching shoes and purse, of course. She'd added a gold ring with an enormous black star sapphire set in it.
Her source had to be in his nineties. He wore the black pants, shirt, suit coat, and white Roman collar with stiff dignity and pride. He shook our hands firmly. His bald head had a circle of gray fringe.
We sat at the butcher-block kitchen table. Scott put on the coffee the old gentleman had requested as refreshment. Monica introduced him as Father Gilbert Stuart. “He lives in the cathedral rectory. He's agreed to help us.”
The old man spoke in a soft tenor, a hint of wheeze and crackle well under control. “I knew Father Sebastian in the seminary. The other priests ignore me in my retirement,
although a few still remember. Lately, the activities of the priests have bothered me. When Monica told me about your nephew, I knew I had to speak. Something is wrong. I love the Church, it's been good to me, but there has to be a limit to what its priests can get away with.”
“Why not go to the police?” I asked.
“Monica convinced me you would be best. Discretion is of the highest importance, and you have it.”
Scott gave him his coffee. He spent some time adding sugar and cream, testing it several times to make sure it was to his liking. He looked up as he gave the brew a few last stirs.
“That's one of the advantages of being ninety-two,” he said. “You can put any damn thing in your coffee you want, you can eat anything you want, and the damn doctors just marvel at you like some icon.”
He took a sip of coffee and smiled appreciatively.
“You can also be as honest as you want. You need help in solving this murder. Let me tell you about myself first. You need to be able to trust me. First of all, I'm gay.”
Scott and I stirred in our chairs and looked at each other. Monica took this news impassively.
He told his story between sips of coffee. He'd discovered his sexuality when he was in his twenties, long before anyone even dreamed of a gay rights movement. He knew Henry Gerber back in the twenties in Chicago when Gerber and a group of other men formed one of the first gay rights groups in the country. “We were all extremely closeted. No one used last names. Being part of it was horribly daring for a priest at the time.”
Henry Gerber founded the Society for Human Rights, a group chartered by the State of Illinois on December 24, 1924. They published a paper called
Friendship and Freedom.
Their activities quickly led to trouble with the police. A number of people in the group, including Gerber, were arrested without a warrant. Eventually the charges were dismissed, but Gerber wound up losing his job.