The Angel
Page 4
“Shit, Suz. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean… God, I was so glad you were coming back, and I’ve f**ked it up already.”
“Shut up,” she said, but not unkindly. “I think I heard my fax machine.”
She grabbed Patrick’s shirt off the floor and pulled it on as she left the bedroom. In the corner of her living room sat her small home office. She dumped books and notepads onto the floor. Readers lauded her newspaper and magazine articles for their clarity and organization. Those same readers might be amused to see how much chaos it took to create such organized, erudite stories.
Behind the second pile of books and notes she found her dust-covered fax machine. A single piece of paper lay on the Out tray. Her eyes widened as she took in the logo and the letterhead at the top.
“Patrick?”
“What’s up?” he asked, buttoning his jeans as he entered the living room.
“Read this.” She thrust the paper into Patrick’s hands.
“Anonymous tip?”
“I think so. No cover sheet. No fax number imprint at the bottom. Bizarre.”
Suzanne watched Patrick’s eyes scan the page. He shook his head in either shock or confusion.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Suzanne took the sheet of paper back from him and read it again. “Wakefield Diocese—what do you know about it?” she asked.
Patrick ran his hands through his hair and looked straight up. She knew he always did that when thinking deeply, as if God or the ceiling would tell him all the answers. “Wakefield…Wakefield…small diocese in Connecticut. Safe, clean, suburban. Fairly liberal, pretty boring.”
Suzanne heard the hesitation in Patrick’s voice.
“Just spill it, Patrick. I can take it.”
“Fine,” he said, sighing. “One of their guys, Father Landon, was supposed to take over for Bishop Leo Salter. Last minute, he gets nailed on a thirty-year-old abuse accusation. So instead of becoming bishop, he’s getting sent to wherever they send the sex offenders.”
“They send the sex offenders to another church full of children usually.” Suzanne’s hands nearly shook with barely restrained anger.
Patrick shrugged and took the fax back from her. An investigative reporter, Patrick acted as a walking encyclopedia of every scandal in the tristate area. They’d met two years ago when they were both working for the same paper.
“Suzanne,” Patrick said in a warning tone, “don’t do this, please. Let it go.”
Suzanne didn’t answer. Sitting in her swivel chair, she curled her legs to her chest and reached for the framed photograph that sat on the corner of her desk. Her older brother Adam smiled at her from inside the frame. He was twenty-eight in the picture. Now she was twenty-eight and Adam was gone.
“Suzanne,” Patrick said with quiet solemnity. For a moment she heard the echo of her father in Patrick’s concerned tone. “This is the Catholic Church. They are their own country with their own army and that army is mostly lawyers. I know you hate the Church. I would too if I were you. But you need to think about this before you dive in blindly.”
“I’m not blind. I know exactly what I’m looking at. An anonymous tip that says something’s rotten in the state of Wakefield. And I’m going to find what it is.”
Patrick exhaled heavily. “Okay,” he said. “But you’re going to let me help. Right?”
Suzanne rolled her eyes and tried not to smile.
“Right. Fine. If you insist.”
“So where do we start?” he asked her.
Suzanne pointed to the one name on the fax that interested her.
Father Marcus Stearns, Sacred Heart, Wakefield, Connecticut.
“We start with him.”
Patrick grabbed his laptop out of his messenger bag that he’d left on her sofa last night.
“Easy enough,” Patrick said, booting up his Mac. “What do you want to know about him?”
Suzanne stared at the picture of Adam again. Had Adam not died, he would have turned thirty-four this month.
“Everything.”
* * *
Nora bit back a grin as Michael, for the first time ever, sat next to her. Poor kid—for a year now she’d been waiting for him to work up the courage to talk to her. As young and fragile as he was, she didn’t want to push him. Michael might be the name of God’s archangel and chief warrior, but the Michael next to her easily qualified as the meekest young man she’d ever encountered. Out of a mix of affection and plain heathen mischief Nora gave Michael a quick, viciously hard pinch on the leg as Owen bestowed another one of his drawings on her—this one a seven-armed amputee octopus. She declared it worthy of George Condo himself as she carefully folded it and slipped it in her purse. A good morning so far—she’d been f**ked by her favorite man, hugged by her favorite boy and silently adored by her favorite angel. But her happiness faded when she noticed a priest she’d never seen before taking his seat in the front pew. He glanced back at her with a disapproving glare. That didn’t shock or surprise her. She’d received her fair share of disapproving glares in her day from the clergy, Søren especially. But then the glare passed from her to Michael. The mysterious priest looked at Michael with a mix of pity and disgust. Michael noticed the look and the color drained from his already pale complexion.
Nora’s heart pounded. Did the priest know something about her? About how she and Søren had “helped” Michael recover from his suicide attempt?
“Shut up,” she said, but not unkindly. “I think I heard my fax machine.”
She grabbed Patrick’s shirt off the floor and pulled it on as she left the bedroom. In the corner of her living room sat her small home office. She dumped books and notepads onto the floor. Readers lauded her newspaper and magazine articles for their clarity and organization. Those same readers might be amused to see how much chaos it took to create such organized, erudite stories.
Behind the second pile of books and notes she found her dust-covered fax machine. A single piece of paper lay on the Out tray. Her eyes widened as she took in the logo and the letterhead at the top.
“Patrick?”
“What’s up?” he asked, buttoning his jeans as he entered the living room.
“Read this.” She thrust the paper into Patrick’s hands.
“Anonymous tip?”
“I think so. No cover sheet. No fax number imprint at the bottom. Bizarre.”
Suzanne watched Patrick’s eyes scan the page. He shook his head in either shock or confusion.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Suzanne took the sheet of paper back from him and read it again. “Wakefield Diocese—what do you know about it?” she asked.
Patrick ran his hands through his hair and looked straight up. She knew he always did that when thinking deeply, as if God or the ceiling would tell him all the answers. “Wakefield…Wakefield…small diocese in Connecticut. Safe, clean, suburban. Fairly liberal, pretty boring.”
Suzanne heard the hesitation in Patrick’s voice.
“Just spill it, Patrick. I can take it.”
“Fine,” he said, sighing. “One of their guys, Father Landon, was supposed to take over for Bishop Leo Salter. Last minute, he gets nailed on a thirty-year-old abuse accusation. So instead of becoming bishop, he’s getting sent to wherever they send the sex offenders.”
“They send the sex offenders to another church full of children usually.” Suzanne’s hands nearly shook with barely restrained anger.
Patrick shrugged and took the fax back from her. An investigative reporter, Patrick acted as a walking encyclopedia of every scandal in the tristate area. They’d met two years ago when they were both working for the same paper.
“Suzanne,” Patrick said in a warning tone, “don’t do this, please. Let it go.”
Suzanne didn’t answer. Sitting in her swivel chair, she curled her legs to her chest and reached for the framed photograph that sat on the corner of her desk. Her older brother Adam smiled at her from inside the frame. He was twenty-eight in the picture. Now she was twenty-eight and Adam was gone.
“Suzanne,” Patrick said with quiet solemnity. For a moment she heard the echo of her father in Patrick’s concerned tone. “This is the Catholic Church. They are their own country with their own army and that army is mostly lawyers. I know you hate the Church. I would too if I were you. But you need to think about this before you dive in blindly.”
“I’m not blind. I know exactly what I’m looking at. An anonymous tip that says something’s rotten in the state of Wakefield. And I’m going to find what it is.”
Patrick exhaled heavily. “Okay,” he said. “But you’re going to let me help. Right?”
Suzanne rolled her eyes and tried not to smile.
“Right. Fine. If you insist.”
“So where do we start?” he asked her.
Suzanne pointed to the one name on the fax that interested her.
Father Marcus Stearns, Sacred Heart, Wakefield, Connecticut.
“We start with him.”
Patrick grabbed his laptop out of his messenger bag that he’d left on her sofa last night.
“Easy enough,” Patrick said, booting up his Mac. “What do you want to know about him?”
Suzanne stared at the picture of Adam again. Had Adam not died, he would have turned thirty-four this month.
“Everything.”
* * *
Nora bit back a grin as Michael, for the first time ever, sat next to her. Poor kid—for a year now she’d been waiting for him to work up the courage to talk to her. As young and fragile as he was, she didn’t want to push him. Michael might be the name of God’s archangel and chief warrior, but the Michael next to her easily qualified as the meekest young man she’d ever encountered. Out of a mix of affection and plain heathen mischief Nora gave Michael a quick, viciously hard pinch on the leg as Owen bestowed another one of his drawings on her—this one a seven-armed amputee octopus. She declared it worthy of George Condo himself as she carefully folded it and slipped it in her purse. A good morning so far—she’d been f**ked by her favorite man, hugged by her favorite boy and silently adored by her favorite angel. But her happiness faded when she noticed a priest she’d never seen before taking his seat in the front pew. He glanced back at her with a disapproving glare. That didn’t shock or surprise her. She’d received her fair share of disapproving glares in her day from the clergy, Søren especially. But then the glare passed from her to Michael. The mysterious priest looked at Michael with a mix of pity and disgust. Michael noticed the look and the color drained from his already pale complexion.
Nora’s heart pounded. Did the priest know something about her? About how she and Søren had “helped” Michael recover from his suicide attempt?
