Headstone by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page A

coupled with
    a frothy cappuccino. She said, “We’ll step into the
    recreation room.”
    We did.
    She indicated we sit at a hard wooden table.
    Seemed appropriate.
    She folded her hands, asked,
    “How may I assist you, Mr. Taylor?”
    I tried to ease the level of frigidity present,
    inquired,
    “How have you been, Sister?”
    “The Lord provides.”
    Jesus wept, the usual wall of spiritual
    gobbledygook. I abandoned the ingratiation, went
    with, “I’ve been employed by the Church.”
    Paused.
    Let that nugget hover.
    Continued,
    “To find a Father Loyola.”
    The name hit.
    She almost recoiled, actually moved physically
    from the table, as if to distance herself. Deception
    was not in her DNA, so I pushed,
    “You know him, I guess?”
    She nodded, guarded.
    I went for the kill,
    “Do you know where I can find him?”
    Long silence. I didn’t try to fill it, then she said,
    “He belonged to the Brethren.”
    Past tense?
    She knew, I waited.
    Taking a deep breath, she said, “I imagine your
    employer is less the Church than Father Gabriel.”
    Her use of his name implied she was not a fan. I
    asked,
    “Are they not the same?”
    She gave me a look of not quite disdain but in the
    neighborhood, said,
    “Father Gabriel is more interested in . . . power
    than pity.”
    Bitterness leaked over the last words.
    She fingered her rosary beads, continued,
    “The Brethen started as a wonderful idea. To
    reform the church from within. A return to the
    teaching of Our Lord, Jesus, and the hope of
    restoring the people’s trust in their church.”
    I nearly laughed.
    The sheer fucking naïveté of this. Every day, the
    papers screamed about how the bishops continued
    to hide and minimize the abuse. To such an extent
    that the Guards were considering prosecuting them.
    And still, the hierarchy, entrenched in arrogance,
    refused to co-operate. I wanted to roar,
    “Good luck with that.”
    Went with,
    “Didn’t work, huh?”
    She sidestepped my sarcasm, said,
    “In the beginning, it did so well. Later it emerged
    that Father Gabriel had another agenda. A return to
    the fundamentalism that would bring the people to
    their knees. Father Loyola believed that if he
    removed their funding, they’d be powerless.”
    I said,
    “Gabriel sounds like an ecclesiastical hit squad.”
    She nearly smiled, said,
    “That is bordering on sarcasm, Mr. Taylor, but
    Father Gabriel is not a man to be crossed. They
    even have a motto, Brethren Eternitas.”
    The initials on his sharp briefcase.
    They were sounding like the militant wing of
    Dominus Deo.
    Cut to the chase time. I asked,
    “Do you know where I can find him?”
    If she told me, my case would be wrapped right
    there. I could wipe the smug look off Gabriel’s
    face, pocket my fee, and look forward to Laura’s
    imminent arrival. Sister Maeve was on the verge
    of answering when her whole body shuddered. I
    recognized the effect. It’s called in Ireland
    “When someone walks on your grave.”
    She stared at me and, oh sweet Jesus, fear and
    terror in her eyes.
    She said, as if she was channeling something,
    “You have recently been in a dark place.”
    Recently!
    Like the last twenty years of my banjaxed life. But
    she was right.
    I’d met the devil, up close and way too personal.
    I said,
    “It’s true. I got to glimpse into the very mouth of
    hell.”
    Tad dramatic but close to the truth.
    She shook her head, nigh screamed,
    “No………….no Mr. Taylor, you have it wrong,
    Hell looked into you.”
    For fuck’s sake.
    I tried again,
    “Will you tell me where Father Loyola is?”
    She was in some kind of trance. When she did
    speak, it was in a flat dull monotone,
    “The rains are coming; it will rain for nigh forty
    days and nights.”
    Welcome to Galway.
    Then she stood, physically shook herself, and fled
    from the room.
    I sat for a moment, the box of chocolates like a
    severe reprimand, muttered,
    “Great, scaring the bejaysus out of a nun.”
    I got to me