Vespers

XII

The two detectives stood before Lieutenant desk like a pair of apprehensive schoolboys be birched by the headmaster. The fact that it still raining that Thursday did little to help pervasive feeling of impending doom. This was last day of May. It was now two in the just five hours, the priest would have been dead full week.

Silvery rainsnakes slithered down each of lieutenant's corner windows, the grey beyond duller than the grey of his hair, which was short-cropped but growing increasingly whiter the years. Frowning, he sat behind his desk, folded in front of him. The knuckles were c a legacy from his youthful days as a street fi His shaggy white brows were lowered over blue eyes. The rain oozed on either side of him.

"Let me hear it," he said.

"I went to see Bobby Corrente late last night," Carella said. "He's already out on bail...”

"Naturally.”

"... I found him at home with his parents. I figured since we've already got him for tearing a church apart and assaulting a priest...”

“Yes, yes." Byrnes said impatiently.

"But he's got an alibi for the night of the murder.”

"A reliable witness?”

"His father.”

“Worthless," Byrnes said.

"Hooper's got an alibi, too," Hawes said. "I talked to him this morning.”

"Who's his witness?”

"His sister.”

"Also worthless," Byrnes said.

"But they both knew there was crack hidden inside...”

"Where was it, by the way?”

"In the holy water urn.”

"Jesus," Byrnes said, and shook his head. "How about the weapon? Have you found that yet?”

"Not anywhere in the church. And we've searched it a hundred times already. The point is, if either Hooper or Corrente went back for that dope “

"Except you're just telling me they've both got alibis.”

"Which you"'re telling me are worthless," Carella said.

"Which they are," Byrnes said. "What about Farnes character, is that his name?”

"Farnes, yes.”

"What's his alibi?”

"His inventory log," Carella said.

"Which he himself dated," Hawes said.

"So far you''re giving me nothing but alibis aren't alibis at all,” Byrnes said. "What else have got?”

"Only more alibis that aren't alibis," Carella "This gay guy who painted the star...”

"His name again?”

"Hobbs. Andrew Hobbs. He claims he was in with a man named Jeremy Sachs on the night of murder.”

"Terrific .”

"We haven't been able to locate his mother...”

"Her name?”

"Abigail. I guess. He calls her Abby, I Abigail.”

"Okay, Abigail Hobbs, what about her?”

"She went to Father Michael for help. We want ask her just how angry this made him.”

"The son?”

“Yeah. Meyer says he was still pissed about The priest was stabbed seventeen times, Pete. anger.”

"Agreed. So find her.”

"We're trying.”

"What about the secretary?" Byrnes asked.

"What about her?" Hawes said.

Defensively, it seemed to Carella.

"Could she have been the one the priest was diddling?”

“I don't think so," Hawes said.

"On what do you base that?”

"Well... she just doesn't seem like the sort of person who'd get involved in something like that.”

Byrnes looked at him.

"She just doesn't," Hawes said, and shrugged.

"The Class Valedictorian, right?" Byrnes said.

"What?" Hawes said.

"Brightest kid in the class, handsome as can be, witty, ambitious, kills his mother, his father, both his sisters and his pet goldfish. But he didn't seem like that sort of person. Right?”

"Well...”

“Don't give me seems," Byrnes said. "And don't tell me there aren't any secretaries who fool around with their bosses. Find out where she was and what she was doing on the night of the murder.”

“Yes, sir,” Hawes said.

"And locate this gay guy's mother, Hobbs, find out what the hell that's all about.”

“Yes, sir," Carella said.

"So do it," Byrnes said.

A good time to visit a church devoted to worshipping the Devil was on a rainy day,, guessed. As he came up the street, he saw the falling rain the old soot-stained stones had first and very long ago been a Catholic and then a storehouse for grain during the and briefly a Baptist church, and then a w for sewing machines, and then a convenient for antiques shows and crafts shows neighborhood began crumbling everywhere it. Now it was The Church of the Bornless though nothing advised the casual observer fact.

He saw only wet, sootened stones a gunmetal sky, the outline of a building that to squat on its haunches ready to pounce, the earth by flying buttresses. He climbed flat steps to the entrance and tried the knobs doors. Both were locked. He went around the what he guessed was the rectory door. A bell was set into the stone. A tarnished brass over it read Ring for Service. He rang for And waited in the rain.

The woman who answered the door had blonde hair, a button nose dusted with freckles, eyes the color of cobalt. She was wearing blue and a white T-shirt with a tiny red devil's discreet logo over the left breast. Carella fi he'd come to the right place.

"Yes?" she said.

"I'm looking for Mr. Lutherson," he said, and ,wed her his shield and his I.D. card.

"You're not the one we spoke to," she said.

"No, I'm not," Carella admitted. "May I come in, .,ase? It's a little wet out here.”

"Oh, yes," she said, "excuse me, come in, come in, please.”

She stepped back and away from him. She was barefoot, he noticed. They were standing in what was a small oval entrance foyer fashioned of stone and lined with niches similar to the ones at St. Catherine's, except that these were devoid of statues.

"Didn't Andrew Hobbs come talk to you?" she asked at once.

"Not to me personally," Carella said. "But, yes, he did speak to us.

"Then you know he's the one who...”

"Yes, painted the star.”

"The pentagram, yes.”

"Yes.”

“Let me tell Sky you're here," she said. "What was your name again?”

"Carella. Detective Carell.”

I'll tell him," she said, and turned and went padding off into the gloom.

He waited in the foyer. Outside a water spout splashed noisily. He wondered what they did here.

He wondered if they were breaking any laws here.

You read stories about all these sensational ritual murders, people killing people for the Devil, you began to think the whole worm was wt Satan. Slitting the throats of little babes, their blood into sacrificial basins. Most of these sacrificed chickens or goats, hardly any of them foolish enough or reckless enough to human sacrifice. In this city, there were no such against sacrificing animals. Who was to that tossing a lobster into a pot of boiling wasn't sacrifice of a sort?

There were, however, against inhumane methods of slaughtering, you were in a mood to bust a cult that animal sacrifice, you could always nail them bullshit violation. He was not here to bust a cult, was here to learn a bit more about... "Mr. Carella?”

He turned.

A tall blond man had materialized in the fo stepping from the darkness beyond one of the portals. Like the woman who'd answered the he too was wearing jeans and the white T-shirt the devil's-head logo. He, too, was barefoot. body of a weight lifter, lean and clean, Carella willing to bet next month's salary that this cat done time. A bend in the otherwise perfect where it had once been broken. A Mick mouth. Pearly white teeth.

Eyes as blue as woman's had been, were they brother and sister?

"I'm Schuyler Lutherson," he said, smiling "welcome to The Church of the Bornless One.”

He extended his hand. Carella took it, and shook hands briefly.

Lutherson's grip was finn and dry. Carella had read someplace that a firm, dry grip ¢as a sign of character. As opposed to a limp, wet ne, he guessed. He was willing to bet another month's salary that a great many murderers in this world had firm, dry grips.

"Come on inside," Lutherson said, and led him through an arched portal opposite the one through which he'd entered, and down a stone corridor, more empty niches in the walls, and then opened a heavy oaken door that led into a wood-paneled room that had once been a library, but which was now lined only with empty shelves. A thrift-shop desk was in the center of the room. There was a chair behind it and two chairs in front of it.

A standing floor lamp with a cream-colored shade was in one corner of the room. Lutherson sat behind the desk. Carella sat opposite him.

"So," Lutherson said. "I hope you're making progress with your case.”

Hands tented, fingers and thumbs gently touching. Looking at Carella over his hands. Smiling pleasantly.

"Not very much," Carella said.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I thought when we offered our cooperation, this would at least, see, clear up any doubts along those lines. That anyone here at Bornless might be involved, see. In the murder of the priest.”

"Uh-huh," Carella said.

"Which is why we asked him to go to the Hobbs. The minute we found out he was who'd defaced that gate.”

"As a matter of fact, he's the reason I' today.”

"Oh?”

Blue eyes opening wide.

"Yes. We've been trying to locate his mo we can't find a telephone listing for her, and "Why don't you ask Hobbs?”

"We did. He doesn't know.”

"He doesn't know his own mother's telephone number?”

"They don't get along. She moved six ago, and neither of them has made any contact each other since.”

"Well, I wish I could help you, but...”

"Did Hobbs ever mention her to you?”

"No. In fact, the first time I ever spoke to was last Saturday night.”

"I thought he was a regular member of congregation. According to Jeremy Sachs...”

"Yes, I know Jer...”

"... he introduced Hobbs to your church in sometime.”

"I do know Jeremy, and that may be true. people come and go, see, it's a transient group. A of people are attracted by the novelty of it, and they realize that this is a serious religion here, we're serious worshippers here, and they drop "But you'd never talked to Hobbs before last Saturday.”

"Correct.”

"You'd seen him here, though, hadn't you?”

"Not that I can recall. But I'm sure if Jeremy says lae's been coming here since March, then I have no reason to doubt his word. It's just that I wasn't familiar with him personally.”

"And so you wouldn't have any information about his mother.”

"No.”

"Abigail Hobbs.”

"No. I'm sorry.”

"You wouldn't have met her...”

"How would I have met her?”

"Well, she could have come here in an attempt to...”

"No, I've never met anyone named Abigail Hobbs.”

"I guess you'd remember if she came here.”

"Yes, I'm sure I'd remember.”

"Before going to see Father Michael. To ask you to talk to her son, convince him to leave the church, whatever. You don't remember anything like that, is that right?”

"Nothing like that, no. I can say very definitely that I don't know anyone named Abigail Hobbs.”

"Well, thank you, Mr. Lutherson," Carella said, and sighed. "I appreciate your time.”

"Not at all. Feel free to stop in whenever you like," Lutherson said, and rose from behind and extended his hand again.

The men shook hands. Finn and dry, the the Devil's disciple.

I'll show you out," Lutherson said, Carella thought happened only in movies.

She'd told him she was going to a cattle-call that afternoon and that he could meet her Alice Weiss Theater downtown at about o'clock, by which time she hoped she'd be Hawes waited under the theater marquee watching the falling rain, watching the rushing past on their way to the subways and He wanted to be going home, too. Instead, he here waiting for Krissie Lund.

Right after their meeting in the lieutenant's Carella had told him that Alexis O'Donnell a blonde woman with Father Michael on Sunday. Whether or not the blonde had been was yet another matter; there were a great blondes in this world, including Alexis herself. bothered Hawes that she might have been. whoever the blonde was, Father Michael accused her of blackmail. And blackmail, known as extortion, was defined in Section 850! the state's Penal Law as "the obtaining of from another induced by a wrongful use of force fear." And listed under the threats that constituted extortion was: To expose any secret affecting him.

If, for example, the blonde arguing with Father Michael on Easter Sunday had threatened to expose his love affair unless he paid her a substantial sum of money or gave her property worth money a house in the country, a diamond bracelet, an Arabian show horse this would have been blackmail.

This is blackmail, the priest had shouted.

According to Alexis O'Donnell.

Who had seen a blonde.

Blackmail, or extortion, was punishable by a max of fifteen years.

A long stretch up the river if you threatened to tattle unless someone paid you off. Which potential stay in the country often provided a good reason for murder. Most often, of course, it was the intended victim who murdered his blackmailer. Better murder than exposure. But what if the victim threw all caution to the winds and threatened to report the blackmail attempt? Oh, yeah? Take this, you dirty rotten rat!

Not so funny when it happened in real life.

If Alexis O'Donnell had heard and seen correctly, a blonde had been with Father Michael on Easter Sunday, and she had threatened him with what he'd considered blackmail. If that blonde was Krissie Lund... "Hi, have you been waiting long?" she said, and took his arm.

Carella was waiting outside the First Fi, Savings and Trust when Andrew Hobbs came the bank at a quarter past five that afternoon. and without an umbrella, he pulled up the his raincoat, ducked his head, and plunged into the teeming rain.

"Mr. Hobbs?" Carella said, and fell into beside him. "I'm sorry to bother you again...”

“Yes, well, you are," Hobbs said.

"But we've been unable to reach your mother "I don't want to hear another word about bitch.”

The rain was relentless. Both men virtu galloped through it, Hobbs obviously intent reaching the subway kiosk on the corner, merely trying to keep up. When at last the' reached the sanctuary of the underground Carella grabbed Hobbs's arm, turned him and somewhat angrily said, "Hold up a minute, you?”

Hobbs was reaching into his trouser pocket subway token. His blond hair was plastered to forehead, his raincoat, trouser legs, and shoes thoroughly soaked. He shook off Carella's impatiently, found his token, glanced toward platform to see if a train was coming in, and impatiently said, "What is it you want from me?”

"Your mother's phone number.”

Sodden, homeward-bound commuters rushed past on their way to the token booth and the turnstiles. Standing against the graffiti-sprayed tile wall some four or five yards away were two young men, one of them playing acoustic guitar very badly, the other sitting against the wall with a cardboard sign hanging around his neck. The sign read: WE ARE HOMELESS, THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP. Hobbs glanced again toward the platform, and then turned back to Carella and said in the same impatient voice, "I don't have her number, I already told you that. Why don't you look it up in the damn phone book?”

"We have, she's not listed.”

"Don't be ridiculous. Abby not listed? Abby taking the risk of missing a phone call from a man?

Really.”

"Mr. Hobbs," Carella said, "your mother was one of the people who'd had contact with Father Michael in the several weeks before his death. We'd like to talk to her.”

"You don't think she killed him, do you?”

"We don't know who killed him, Mr. Hobbs.

We're merely exploring every possibility.”

"Wouldn't that be a hoot! Abby killing the asshole who was supposed to save me from the Devil!”

"The point is...”

And here Carella launched into a somewhat creative improvisation, in that the real reas wanted to talk to Abigail Hobbs was to further her son's anger and his potential violence... "... whatever Father Michael may have her, however unimportant it might have the time, could possibly be of enormous value to now, in retrospect, if it sheds light on events in past that could conceivably relate to the though at the time it may have a insignificant.”

Hobbs tried to digest this.

Then he said, "You're not suggesting he have confided in Abby, are you?

Because frankly, Mr. Carella, that would be tantamount confiding in a boa constrictor.”

"We won't know until we talk to her, will Carella said.

"Don't you people have ways of getting numbers?”

"We do. And we tried them. The phone doesn't have a listing anywhere in the city anyone named Abigail Hobbs.”

“Small wonder," Hobbs said, and smiled.

Carella looked at him.

"Her name isn't Abigail Hobbs.”

"Your mother''s name...”

“She divorced my father ten years ago," said.

"She's been using her maiden name ever since.”

The hotel had a French name but its staff was strictly American and when the ma3tre d' in what was called the Caf du Bois said, "Bonn swart, mess-yoor, will there be two for drinks?" Hawes didn't feel particularly transported to Gay Paree. The maitre showed him through a glade of real birch trees under a glass canopy, usually nourished by sunshine but not today when the rain was beating steadily overhead. At the far end of the lounge a man was playing French-sounding songs on the piano. Krissie slung her shoulder bag over the back of the chair, sat, tossed her hair, and said, "I have to call my agent when I get a minute. She'll want to know how it went." On the way here in the rain, she'd told Hawes that they'd asked her to read two scenes rather than the one scene they'd asked all the other actresses to read.

She considered this a good sign. Hawes said he hoped she'd get the part.

He ordered drinks for both of them now - the gin and tonic Krissie requested, and a Diet Pepsi for himself since he was still on duty -- and then he said, "There are some questions I have to ask you, Krissie, I hope you don't mind.”

"Don't look so serious," she said.

"I want you to tell me, first of all, where you were between six-thirty and seven-thirty on the night of May twenty-fourth.”

“Oh, my," she said, and rolled her eyes.

serious, isn't it?”

"Yes.”

"That's when Father Michael was killed, "Yes.”

"And you want to know where I...”

"Where you were while he was being killed, "My, my.”

“Yes," he said.

"What are you going to ask next? Was I affair with him?”

"Were you?”

“As for where I was that night," she said, "I tell you in a minute.”

“Please do," he said.

"Because I write down everything in appointment calendar," she said, and swung shoulder bag around so that she could reach into, and pulled out a binder book with black covers. "Although I can't say I appreciate inviting me for a drink under false pretenses.”

"Krissie," he said wearily, "I'm investigating murder.”

"Then you should have told me on the phone this was a business meeting.”

"I told you I...”

“You said you wanted to see me," she angrily flipping pages, "not that you wanted to me to question me. Here," she said, "May," she "let's see what I was doing on the twenty-fourth, r'' The waiter came back to the table.

"The gin and tonic?" he asked.

"The lady," Hawes said.

It occurred to him that she had not yet said whether or not she was having an affair with Father Michael.

The waiter put down her drink, and then turned to Hawes and said, "And a Diet Pepsi," giving him a look that indicated real men drank booze.

"Enjoy your drinks, folks," he said, and smiled pleasantly, and. walked off. At the other end of the room, the piano player was playing a song about going away.

Krissie took a sip of her drink and turned immediately to her calendar again.

"May twenty-fourth," she said.

Hawes waited.

"To begin with, the twenty-fourth was a Thursday, so I was working that day, I worked at the church on Tuesdays and Thursdays, remember?”

"Yes.”

"Which meant I was there from nine to five, so my first appointment was at five-thirty, do you see it " here?" she said, "with Ellie, here's her name, turning the book so Hawes could see it. "That's my agent, Ellie Weinberger Associates, I met her at The Red Balloon at five-thirty.”

"Okay," Hawes said. He was already reading ahead in the calendar space for Thursday, the twenty-fourth of May. On that day, Krissie's appointment was... "At eight o'clock, I met this man for was putting together an off-Broadway famous vaudeville skits, and he wanted to talk about directing one of them. I've never before, this would have been a wondel opportunity for me. His name is Harry met him at a restaurant called.., do you see it Eight P.M., Harry Grundle, Turner's? That's was.”

"What time did you leave your agent?”

"Around six-thirty.”

"Where's The Red Balloon?”

"On the Circle.”

"Where'd you go when you left her?”

"Home to bathe and change for my dinner "And where's Turner's?”

"In the Quarter. Near my apartment, actually.”

"Do you drive a car?”

"No.”

"How'd you get from one place to the other?”

"By subway from the church to The Red I took a taxi home, and walked from my Turner's.”

"Do you remember what you were wearing?”

"I wore a cotton dress to work and to meet Then I changed into something dressier.”

"Like what?”

"A blue suit, I think. Also cotton. It was a very hot day.”

"What color was the dress you wore to work?”

"Blue.”

"Both blue, is that it?”

"It's my favorite color," she said, and closed the book.

He was thinking that it would not have taken more than twenty minutes by subway from the church to Grover Park Circle. If she'd left her agent at six-thirty, as she said she had, she could have been back uptown again by ten minutes to seven. The priest was killed sometime after seven. And she'd still have had time to taxi downtown to meet Grundle.

He was also thinking that he would have to check with Mrs. Hennessy to get a description of the dress Krissie had been wearing to work that day, and he would have to look up Harry Grundle to ask him what she'd been wearing that night. Because if she hadn''t gone home to bathe and change her clothes... "How about Easter Sunday?" he said. "Does your calendar have anything for Easter Sunday?”

"I don't like you when you're this way," she said.

"What way?”

"Like every shitty cop I've ever met in my life.”

“Sorry," he said, "but I am a cop.”

"You don't have to be a shitty one.”

"Where were you on Easter Sunday between two-thirty and three P.M?”

"You know, it occurs to me that maybe I ou have a lawyer here.”

"Shall I read you your rights?" he asked, and a smile. But there was something that truly him here. Not that she had no real alibi for the and a half between six-thirty and eight on twenty-fourth of May, but because her attitude become so very defensive the moment he be asking questions. Maybe his technique was rol maybe that was it. Or maybe ...

"I really don't think you need a lawyer," he "Do you know where you were on Easter "Yes, of course I know where I was," she and flipped the book open again, and said, the hell was Easter Sunday?”

"The fifteenth, I think. Of April.”

"I'm pretty sure I was in the country. My have a house in the country, I'm pretty sure I s Easter with them." She kept flipping pages until came to April.

"The fifteenth," she said, almost to herself.

"Yes," he said.

"I have nothing for that day," she said, and up. "That's odd. Because I could swear I went to country. I can't imagine being alone on Sunday.

Unless I was in rehearsal for something. which case..." She looked at the book agai0. sure, here it is. I did a showcase on the a Saturday night. I was probably learning lines Sunday before because here, do you see it?

rehearsals began the next day, Monday the sixteenth, “

here.

She was tapping the calendar box with her forefinger.

Rehearsal, the entry read.

YMCA. 7:00 P.M. "Was anyone with you?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. We were rehearsing a scene from a new play, there were at least...”

"On Easter. While you were learning your lines.”

"I believe I was alone.”

"No one to cue you?”

"No, I believe I was alone.”

"You didn't go up to St. Catherine's that day, did you?”

"Why would I do that?”

"I have no idea. Did you?”

"No.”

"What was your relationship with Father Michael?”

"I wasn't having an affair with him, if we're back to that.”

"Was there ever anything between you that went beyond a strictly business relationship?”

“Yes," she said, surprising him.

"In what way?" he asked.

"I found him extremely attractive. And I suppose.., if I'm to be perfectly honest with myself... I suppose I flirted with him on occasion.”

"Flirted how?”

"Well, the walk.., you know.”

"What walk?”

"Well, you know how women walk when want to attract attention.”

"Uh-huh.”

"And eye contact, I guess. And an oc show of leg, like that. Well, you know how flirt.”

“Are you Catholic?" he asked.

"No.”

"So you found it perfectly okay, I guess, to with a priest.”

“You sound angry," she said, and smiled at "No, I'm not angry, I'm simply trying to...”

"But you sound angry.”

"It was okay to flirt with a priest, is that right? walk, the eye contact, the occasional show of isn't that what you called it, all that?

That was perfectly okay.”

"Oh, come on, we've all had that fantasy, we? Nuns? Priests? What do you think The Birds was all about, if not wanting to go to bed a priest?

Didn't you read The Thorn Birds?”

“No," he said.

"Or see the miniseries?”

"No." .

"Only everybody in the entire worm saw miniseries.”

"But not me. Was that your fantasy? Wanting to go to bed with Father Michael?”

"I thought about it, yes.”

"And apparently acted on it.”

"Acting's a pretty good word for it, actually.

Because in many ways it was almost like playing Meggie in The Thorn Birds. Or Sadie Thompson in Rain, do you know Rain? I did it in class last year.

You have to try all sorts of parts, you know, if you want to stretch your natural talent. These women involved with priests are very interesting. Or the Bette Davis character in Of Human Bondage, do you know that one? He's not a priest, of course, he's a cripple, but that's sort of the same thing, isn't it? Not that I'm suggesting a priest is a cripple, but only that he's a person handicapped by his vows, who can't give vent to his natural instincts or desires, his urges really, because he's bound by these vows he's made, he's handicapped in that way.., well, he is sort of crippled, actually. So it was.., well, very interesting.

To be playing this sort of part, and to... well... observe his reactions. It made the job more interesting. I mean, the job was very boring, you know. This made it interesting.”

“Sure," Hawes said.

Actresses, he thought.

"But it never went beyond that," he said.

"Never.”

"You never...”

“Well," she said, and hesitated.

He waited.

"I could see he was interested, you know.”

"Uh-huh.”

"I mean.., he was aware of me, let's put it way.”

"Uh-huh.”

"Watching me, you know.”

"Uh-huh.”

"Aware of me.”

She sipped at her drink, and then loo] thoughtfully into her glass, as if searching for under the lime and the ice cubes.

"I have to admit," she said, and again "If he'd made the slightest move.., if he'd that single step beyond.., you know.., looking. might have gone all the way. Because, I'll tell the truth, I'm being perfectly honest with you, scared to death of sex these days. Because of I haven't been to bed with anyone in the past I'm telling you the absolute truth.

And I thou and maybe this is why I started it, the-flirting, know... I thought at least this would be safe.

with a priest would be completely safe.”

She looked up into his face.

Her eyes met his.

"I don't know," she said, "do you think terrible?”

"Yes," he said.

But that didn't mean she'd killed him.

"I'll just get the check," he said.

Abigail Finch was a beautiful blonde woman wearing yellow tights, a black leotard top, and high-heeled black leather pumps that added a good three inches to her already substantial height. When she let Carella into her Calm's Point apartment at seven o'clock that evening, she explained that she'd just come in from exercise class when he called, and hadn't had time to change. Except for your shoes, he thought, but did not say.

Miss. Finch... "Please call me Abby," she said at once... had to have been at least forty (her son was, after all, in his twenties) but she looked no older than thirty-two or -three. Proud of her carefully honed appearance, she walked ahead of him into the living room, offered him a seat, asked if he'd like something to drink, and then turned to face him on the sofa, her knees touching his briefly before she repositioned herself, folding her long legs under her, placing her hands demurely in her lap. There was incense burning somewhere in the room, and Miss. Finch herself Abby was wearing a perfume thick with insinuation. Carella felt as if he'd inadvertently dropped into a whorehouse in Singapore. He decided he'd better get to the point fast and get the hell out of here. That was exactly how threatened he felt.

"It was good of you to see me, Miss. Finch," he said. "I'll try not to...”

“Abby," she said. "Please.”

I'll try not to take up too much of your time,, said. "It's our understanding...”

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?”

Leaning toward him, placing one hand li A toucher, he thought.

"Thank you, no," he said, "I'm still officially duty.”

"Would you mind if I had one?”

"Not at all," he said.

She swiveled off the sofa, moved like a dancer a bar with a dropleaf front, opened it, looked over her shoulder like Betty Grable in the World War II poster, smiled, and said, soft?”

“Nothing, thank you," he said.

She poured something dark into a short dropped several ice cubes into it, and came back the sofa.

"To the good life," she said, and smile mysteriously, as if she'd made a joke he could neve,! hope to understand.

"Miss. Finch," he said, "it's our...”

“Abby," she said, and raised her eyebrows " reprimand.

"Abby, yes," he said. "It's our understanding tha you went to see Father Michael to ask.for his1 assistance in...”

"Yes, in March sometime. Toward the end o March. Because I'd learned that my son was fooling around with witchcraft...”

"Well, not witchcraft, certainly...”

"The same thing, isn't it? Devil worship? Worse, in fact.”

And smiled again, mysteriously.

"And you wanted his help, you wanted him to tall “

to your son... "Well, yes, would you want your son involved in such stuff?. I went to see Father Michael because Bornless was so close to St. Catherine's. And I thought if Andrew got a call from a priest.., he was raised as a Catholic, you know.., it might carry some weight.”

"How'd you find out your son was attending services.., if that's what they're called...”

“Masses," she said. "I guess. I forget who told me.

It was someone I ran into, she said did I know my son was involved in Satanism? A woman who knew both me and Andrew.”

"But why did you care?”

"I'm sorry?”

"You and your son are estranged, why'd you care what he was doing?”

"My son worshipping the Devil?" she said, looking astonished. "How would you like to have that going around town? That your faggot son is also involved in Satanism?”

"You mean.., well, I'm not sure what you mean.

Were you afraid this would reflect upon you in way?”

"Of course it would. God knows I'm not a Catholic anymore, but a person can't just forget upbringing entirely, can she?”

And smiled mysteriously again, as if mocking own words.

"So you went to see Father Michael..." said.

"Yes. That was the church I used to attend. Be: my fall from grace," she said, and lowered her like a nun, and again he had the feeling that she mocking him, but he could not for the life of imagine why.

"I see," he said. "And you told him...”

“I told him my son was worshipping the Three, four blocks from his own church! And I him to get in touch with Andrew...”

"Which he did.”

"Yes.”

"Which made your son very angry.”

"Well, I really don't care how angry it made I just wanted him to stop going to that damn church.”

"And this was toward the end of March? you went to see him.”

"Yes, the first time.”

"Oh? Were there other times?”

"Well, I...”

Her blondeness suddenly registered on him.

That and her blatant sexuality.

"How often did you see him?" he asked.

"Once or twice.”

"Including your initial visit toward the end of March?”

"Yes.”

"Then it was only twice.”

"Well, yes. Well, maybe three times.”

"Which?”

"Three times. I guess.”

"Starting sometime toward the end of March.”

"Yes.”

"When in March?”

"Would you mind telling me...?”

"Do you remember whent”

"Why is this important to you?”

“Because he was killed," Carella said flatly.

Her look, accompanied by an almost indiscernible shrug, said What's that got to do with me?

"When in March?" he asked again.

"It was a Friday," she said. "I don't remember exactly when.”

Carella took out his notebook, and turned to the calendar page at the back of the book. "The last Friday in March was the thirtieth. Was that it?”

"No. Before then.”

"The twenty-third?”

"Possibly.”

"And the next time?”

"In April sometime.”

"Can you remember the date?”

"I'm sorry, no. Look, I know the man was but...”

"Were you with him on Easter Sunday?" asked.

Sometimes, when you zeroed in that way, figured you were already in possession of the You had them. They didn't know how, but knew you already knew, and there was no lying.

"As a matter of fact, I was," she said.

Rashomon never ends.

Carella has already heard five tellings, count" five, of the Easter Sunday Saga, as it is now to the entire literate world, but there is yet version to come and this one will be Abigail Her Story, and she is going to tell it full out, no barred, a premise and a promise that is in her first eight words: "I went there to make love him.”

By that time... This is now the fifteenth day of April, blustery day at that, perfect for making love in cozy stone corners of a rectory... By that time, they've been doing exactly that here and there, on and off, so to speak - for a two weeks, ever since the first of April, when went to see the priest for the second time. As reports it now, it was there in the rectory on April Fool's Day that she was mischi prompted, in the spirit of the occasion, to seduce the good father. Attracted at their first meeting to his Gene Kelly smile and his breezy unpriestlike manner, she had begun wondering what he wore under that silly cassock of his, and she was now determined to find out. She was astonished to learn, however... For whereas she knows she's an enormously desirable woman who takes very good care of herself, after all, not only the exercise classes, but also bicycling in the park, and milk baths for her skin, she's been told by people who should know that she possibly ranks among the city's great beauties, of which there are many, well, she doesn't wish to sound immodest... but she was nonetheless enormously surprised, on that first day of April, by his extreme state of readiness. It was almost as if some designing woman had been preparing him for her working him over, softening the ground, so to speak- because as it turned out, the good father was an absolute pushover, Little Mr. Roundheels himself, head over cassock, a flash of eye, a show of leg, and he was on her in a minute, fumbling for the buttons of her blouse and confessing that once upon a time, before he joined the ministry, he'd done it on a rooftop for the first and last time with a fourteen-year-old girl named Felicia Randall.

Abby admits to Carella now that there was something deliciously sinful about doing it wil priest, something that kept her coming... "You should pardon the expression..." she sai ... back to the church again and again, three, f times a week, morning, noon and night... "I lied about only having seen him a few times i ...

something that took her back there on Ea Sunday as well. Which, after all, is a time celebration, isn't it, Easter? The Resurrection, Christ, and all that? So why not celebrate? Wh she is there to do on this Holy Day of the S Telling of Rashomon, Easter Sunday, the fifteel day of April in the Year of Our Lord, Amen.

She is wearing for the occasion of the pries| twelfth despoiling - she has counted the number times they've done it since April Fool's Day - simple woolen suit appropriate to the chill of season, beneath which are a garter belt and silk pants she bought at Victoria's Secret, and seaml silk stockings and nothing else, the priest having tol her on more than one occasion that he low, watching her naked breasts spill free each time unbuttons her blouse, perhaps recalling his simil experience with the young but bountiful Felicia the rooftop. But all to her surprise, he tells Abby tlu he wants to end it, that their relationship is filli him with guilt and remorse, that he feels a. traitor his church, his God, and his sacred vows, and has even contemplated suicide... "A lot of men have told me that," she said... so please, Ab, we must end it, this is driving rne crazy, Ab... "He used to call me Ab, it was a pet name...”

please, have mercy on me, let me end it, please, my dearest... "He also called me his dearest...”

which Ab, his dearest, has no intention of doing. Ending it, that is.

She is enjoying this too much, this sinful expedition into the darkest heart of religiosity, this corruption of a priest, this sticking it to God, so to speak, in his own house, oh no, she is not about to end it now. Not now when her pleasure is so fulfilling, not now when she is at the peak of her ardor and he is at the peak of his delirium. So she tells him... "I told him if he ended it now, I'd let the whole world know about it.”

She smiled at Carella, mysteriously.

"Which is when he started...”

"Which is when he started yelling blackmail," Carella said.

"Oh?" Abby said.

"You were heard and you were seen," Carella said, lying only a little bit, in that Alexis hadn't seen her face.

"Well, yes, that's exactly what he started yelling.

Blackmail. This is blackmail, this is blackmail, how dare you.., how silly, really! I told him it was for his own good. Because, really, I was incredibly good for him.”

“What happened then?" Carella asked.

"Everything," Abby said. "A black kid running into the church, bleeding, and there pounding on the doors, and the doors caved in, bunch of white kids came running in after him, mister, I have to tell you, I was out the back door fast as my feet would carry me.”

"When did you see him again?”

"Who?”

"Father Michael.”

"Never. I figured if he wanted out, fuck him." looked up at Carella and smiled.

"Would you have wanted out?" she asked.

He ignored the question.

"Where were you on May twenty-fourth six-thirty and seven-thirty?" he asked.

"I wasn't out killing a priest, that's for sure.”

"Okay, now we know where you weren't," said. "Can you tell me where you were?”

"Not without getting personal," she said, smiled that same infuriating, mysterious smile.

"Miss. Finch..." he said.

"I was right here," she said. "All night long.

a man named Dwight Colby. Check it," she "he's in the phone book.”

"Thank you," he said. "I will.”

“He's black," she said.

The ugly one again.

"Qu tal?”

His first words. Signaling that they would speak only in Spanish, his language. She went along with it. Tomorrow it would be over and done with.

Forever.

In Spanish, she said, "Yo tengo el dinero.”

I have the money.

"Oh?" he said, surprised. "That was very fast.”

"I met with my contact last night. The deal is too complicated to explain, but...”

"No. Explain it.”

"Not on the telephone. You can understand that.

Let me say only that it turned out to be simpler than I thought it would.”

"Well, that's very nice, isn't it?”

Forced joviality in his voice.

Pero, eso est6 muy bien, no?

"Yes," she said. "Can you come here tomorrow afternoon?”

"I'm not sure we want to come there," he said.

"You live in a dangerous place. A person can get hurt in that place.”

Reminding her that there was still an additional debt she owed. For the cutting of the handsome one.

The two million would pay for the killing of Alberto Hidalgo... maybe.

But she knew the ugly one would not be content until the cutting was paid for as well.

Machismo was invented by Spanish-speaking people. So was venganza.

"Well, I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm not about to go out on the street carrying two million cash.”

Show them the green.

"You have the full amount, eh?”

"All of it.”

"In what denominations?”

"Hundreds.”

"How many hundreds?”

He almost trapped her. She surely would counted that much money, she surely would known how many hundred-dollar bills there were two million dollars. Her mind clicked like calculator. Drop two zeros, you come up with... "Twenty thousand," she said at once, and embroidered the lie.

"Two hundred banded hundred bills in each stack.”

“Good," he said.

"Can you be here at three tomorrow?”

Willis would be working the day watch a He'd leave here at a quarter past eight, and wouldn't be home till four-fifteen, four-thirty.

that time it would be finished.

"Three-thirty," he said.

"No, that's too...”

"Three-thirty," he repeated.

"All right," she said, sighing. "You'll have minutes to count the money and get out.”

"I hope there won't be any tricks this time," said.

The word trucos meant only that in S Tricks. It did not have the secondary or tertiary meanings it had in English, where a trick was either a prostitute's client or the service she performed for him. He was not making veiled reference to either her own or his uncle's former occupations. Too much the gentleman for that. No Shad Russell here, this man's mind wasn't in the gutter. He was simply warning her not to come up with any surprises.

"No guns," he said, "no knives, eh?”

Reminder of the debt again.

The cutting of the handsome one.

"No tricks," she said. "I just want this over and done with.”

"Yes, so do we.”

The something in his voice again. The promise.

Running deep and dark and icy cold beneath the surface of his words.

"I'll see you at three-thirty tomorrow," she said, and hung up.

And realized all at once that she was trembling.