Ed McBain - Vespers

It was his custom to reflect upon worldly problems during evening prayers, reciting the litany by rote, the prayers a mumbled counterpoint to his silent thoughts.

The Priest. At such times, he thought of himself as The Priest. The T and the P capitalized. The Priest. As if by distancing himself in this way, by referring to himself in the third person as if he were someone not quite himself... a character in a novel or a movie, perhaps... someone outside his own body, someone exalted and remote, to be thought of with reverence as solely The Priest. By thinking of himself in this manner, by sorting out The Priest's problems as the problems of someone other than himself, Father Michael could... Because, you see...

It was he, Father Michael, who could find comfort ... the hateful threats in the rectory... this is blackmail, blackmail... the pounding at the central portal doors... the black boy running into the church, seeking sanctuary, Hey man, hep me, they goan kill me!

Blood running down his face... gone to ruin, all to ruin.

Graffiti on the massive stones of the church, barbarians on ponies storming the gates. Almost six weeks since all of that ... today was the twenty-fourth of May, the day of Ascension all that time, almost six weeks, and he was still on his knees to... I came forth from the Father and have come into the world; now I leave the worm to return to the Father, alleluia!

There was the sweet scent of roses on the evening air.

The roses were his pleasure and his vice, he tended them the way he tended the Lord's flock.

Something still and silent about tonight. Well, a Thursday. The name itself. Something dusky about the name, Thursday, as soft and silken as sunset.

Thursday.

God is rich in mercy; because of his great love for US... I'll tell, I'll tell everything... The boy's blood dripping on the marble floor before the altar.

The vengeful cries echoing inside the church.

Still on his knees... by this favor are you saved. Both with and in Christ Jesus, he raised us up and gave us a place in the heavens.

Beyond the high stone walls of the garden, The Priest could see the sooted upper stories of the buildings across the street, and yet above those, beyond those, the sunset-streaked springtime sky.

The aroma of the roses was overpowering. As he moved past the big maple set exactly at the center of the garden, a stone bench circling it, he felt a sudden suffusion of love.., for the roses, for the glorious sunset, for the power of the words that soared silently in his prayers, God our Father, make us joyful in the ascension of your Son Jesus Christ, may we follow him into the new creation, for his ascension is our glory and our hope. We ask and noticed all at once that the gate in the wall was open.

Standing wide.

The setting sun striking it so that it cast a long arched shadow that reached almost to the maple itself.

He had thought... Or surely, Martha would have... He moved swiftly to the gate, painted a bilious green by a tasteless long-ago priest, and yet again recently with red graffiti on the side facing the street.

The gate was wooden and some four inches thick, stone walls on either side of it, an architectural touch that further displeased The Priest's meticulous eye.

The narrow golden path of sun on the ground grew narrower yet as he swung the gate closed on its old wrought-iron hinges.., narrower.., narrower.., and then was gone entirely.

Alleluia, come let us worship Christ the Lord as he ascends into heaven, alleluia t The lock on the gate was thoroughly modern.

He turned the thumb bolt.

There was a solid, satisfying click.

Give glory to the King of kings, sing praise to God, alleluia t His head bent, he turned and was walking back toward the rectory, past the shadow-shrouded maple, when the knife... He felt only searing pain at first.

Did not realize until the second slashing blow... Knew then that he'd been stabbed... Turned... Was starting to turn...

And felt the knife entering again, lower this time, in the small of the back... Oh dear God... And again, and again, and again in savage fury...

Oh Jesus, oh Jesus Christ...

As complete darkness claimed the garden.

Not a day went by without Willis expecting someone to fred out about her. The open house tonight was on the twelfth floor of a renovated building about to go co-op. There were a great many strangers here, and strangers were dangerous. Strangers asked questions. What do you do, Mr. Willis? And you, Miss. Hollis? Willis and Hollis, they sounded like a law firm. Or perhaps a dance team. And now, ladies and gentlemen, returning from their recently completed tour of the glittering capitals of Europe. we bring you... Willis... and Hollis!

The questions about himself were merely annoying; he wondered why everyone in America had to know immediately what everyone else in America did. He was sometimes tempted to say he sold crack to innocent schoolchildren. He wondered what sort of response that would get. Tell them you're a cop, they looked at you with raised eyebrows. Oh, really?

Cut the crap and tell us what you really do. Really, I swear to God, I'm a cop, Detective/Third Grade Harold O. Willis, that's me; I swear.

Looking you over. Thinking you're too short to be a cop, a detective, no less, and ugly besides with your curly black hair and wet brown eyes, let me see your badge. Show them the potsy. My, my, I never met a real live police detective before, do you work in one of those dreadful precincts we're always reading about, are you carrying a gun, have you ever killed anyone? The questions. Annoying, but not dangerous.

The questions they asked Marilyn were dangerous.

Because there was so much to hide.

Oh, not the fact that they were living together, this was already the Nineties, man, nobody even thought about such things anymore. You got married by choice, and if you chose not to, then you simply lived together. Had children together, if you could, did whatever you wanted, this was the Nineties. And perhaps.., in such a climate of acceptance.., you could even.., well, perhaps.., but it was extremely unlikely. Well, who the hell knew? Maybe they could, after all, come right out and say, Look, people, Marilyn used to be a hooker.

The raised eyebrows again.

Oh, really? Cut the crap and tell us what she really did.

No, really, that's what she really did, I swear to God, she used to be a hooker. She did it for a year or so in Houston, and ended up in a Mexican prison on a dope charge, and then picked up the trade again in Buenos Aires where she worked the streets for five years, more or less.

Really. That's what she used to do.

But who would believe it?

Because, you know, you looked at Marilyn, you saw this woman who'd be only twenty-six in August, slender and tall, with long blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes and a complexion as flawlessly pale as a dipper of milk, and you thought No, not a hooker.

You didn't survive being a hooker. You didn't come off six years of peddling tail -. not to mention the time in that Mexican hellhole, and look like this. You just didn't. Unless you were Marilyn. Then you did.

Marilyn was a survivor.

She was also a murderess.

That was the thing of it.

You opened the hooker can of peas, and everything else came spilling out.

The cocktail party was in a twelfth-floor corner apartment, what the real estate lady kept calling the penthouse apartment, although Willis didn't think it looked luxurious enough to warrant such a lofty title.