Deadlocked

Chapter 21

Gaylon Dickensheets parked his bus in the company lot at exactly four o'clock. Mason had been there for fifteen minutes, marking the time as he waited in his car, knowing it was Gaylon's bus by the number on its side, 451, which corresponded to the legend in the route map he had picked up.

Gaylon drove an east-west route, covering the city's eastern border with Independence, Missouri, reaching into the west side along Southwest Boulevard, all the way to the Kansas state line. The route kept him south of the Missouri River and north of midtown, navigating an urban artery, a straight line distance of some thirty miles, longer with the zigs and zags of city streets.

Mason had found a picture of Mary when he returned to her house earlier that day, taking it with him to show people who might have seen her. It was a snapshot of her sitting at her kitchen table holding a cup of coffee, not posed for the camera, her sober expression hiding the vitality Mason had detected in her. The date was superimposed on the print, the picture taken in the last year. He found it in the kitchen, beneath the glass covering a small desk, along with other pictures, one of her, Ryan, and her husband, the rest pictures of Ryan before he was arrested.

Gaylon climbed down from the bus, a small, slender man with a button face, barely five-five, dwarfed by the rig he drove. Mason got out of his car, cutting across the lot.

"Mr. Dickensheets," Mason called out. The driver turned, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Sure I am," Gaylon said as Mason approached.

"I'm Lou Mason," he said, extending his hand, the driver wiping his own against his pants, taking Mason's.

"Sure you are. The dispatcher said you wanted to talk to me about a passenger. That right?"

"That's right," Mason said, showing him Mary's picture. "Do you recognize this woman?"

"Sure thing. That's Mary Kay."

"Mary Kowalczyk?" Mason asked.

"The same. I like to give my regulars nicknames, you know. Makes the ride a little friendlier. I tease her about being that cosmetics lady. Tell her she should be driving one of them big pink Cadillacs instead of riding the bus. She always gets a kick out of that one."

"Did you pick her up yesterday?"

"Sure thing. On my morning run, nine-o-five."

"Where'd she get off?" Mason asked.

"Downtown, like she always does. Tenth and Main. Transfers to a southbound."

"She didn't happen to say where she was going, did she?"

"Didn't have to," Gaylon said. "Yesterday was Wednesday. She goes to the church every Wednesday. St. Mark's."

"What's she do there?" Mason asked.

"Volunteers. Helps out one of the priests, I think. Father Steve, she calls him. Mary's a real sweet little lady. Had a hard time, she has, but you'd never know it. Always has a

nice word for me."

"Does she ride your bus on the way home?"

"Depends on when she goes home. Could be mine, could be one of the other buses. There's six of us drive this route. We all know Mary."

"You wouldn't mind checking with the other drivers, would you? Ask them if they gave her a ride home yesterday," Mason said, handing Gaylon a business card. "Call me and let me know what they say, will you?"

"Sure thing. Say, she's okay isn't she?"

"Yeah," Mason answered. "Sure thing."

St. Mark's Catholic Church was at Forty-first and Main, a limestone cathedral, a parsonage, and a high school on ten acres of ground surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence. Mary had attended the church for thirty years, she had told Mason. Ryan Kowalczyk and Whitney King had attended the high school, and played their last basketball game in its gym.

A bronze dedication plaque set in stone at the entrance marked the cathedral's completion in 1937. The school building was a mix of old and new, the most recent addition still under construction, a brightly painted sign promising it would be ready by the start of the fall semester.

It was late in the day. Parishioners arrived for mass and Mason followed them into the church, not certain where to go. Most people gave him a friendly nod though a few gave him wary looks reserved for strangers. Mason was suddenly aware of being Jewish.

He rarely attended synagogue services, not even belonging to a congregation, another sore point with Abby, who had extracted his promise to attend services for the Jewish New Year and Day of Atonement, the High Holidays coming in the fall. That was before Abby hit the campaign trail. Though he was certain a dose of atonement would do him good, he doubted whether Abby would save him a seat.

Mason's experience in Catholic churches was limited to weddings and funerals. He'd never attended mass; the prospect of doing so now just to track down Father Steve made him feel like he was trespassing.

He stood at the door to the sanctuary for a moment as a young priest greeted people as they came in, sunlight fracturing into rainbow rays as it cut through stained glass. People took their seats on wooden pews with red velvet cushions matching the thick carpet. Mason retreated outside to wait for the end of the service, figuring to ask the priest where he could find Father Steve.

Father Steve was Mary's priest. He was also a priest to Whitney King and his family. Two families. One rich and one poor. It made sense that Father Steve would maintain his relationships with both Mary and Whitney, even after all that happened.

Still, Mason was troubled by the priest's insistence that Ryan had confessed to murdering Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes, a confession that was unsupported by Ryan's last words, Ryan's mother, or Mason's gut feel from reading the trial transcript. Now Father Steve was the sole witness to Whitney's claim that he had shot Nick in self-defense. Adding the priest as the last person who may have seen Mary Kowalczyk put Mason's trust in coincidence to a real test. He wasn't ready to accuse Father Steve, but he had questions for the priest and he wouldn't accept the answers on faith.