Make Them Cry

by Kevin O'Brien

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Everyone has secrets . . .



The beautiful young judge. The hardworking waitress. The handsome college student.



Some are meant to be kept . . .



The victims are all different, but they will all have one gruesome detail in common.



But others can kill . . .



A clever serial killer is stalking the streets of Seattle. Searching for this next victim. Creating a monument of madness that will be built victim by victim, piece by piece, bone by bone . . .

Release date: January 11, 2013

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

Father Jack Murphy trotted around the asphalt track encircling the playfield by St. Bartholomew Hall at Our Lady of Sorrows seminary. On this cold April morning, he had the track all to himself.

The run was part of Jack’s daily ritual. He was spiritual advisor for the twenty-four seminarians residing on the fourth floor, north wing of the freshman dormitory. He lived with them in St. Bartholomew Hall: two dozen eighteen-year-old boys from all over the Pacific Northwest, Latin America, Vietnam, Ukraine, the Czech Republic, and China. Jack welcomed any excuse to get the hell out of there for an hour—even if the hour was an ungodly one.

So every weekday, Jack crawled out of bed at five o’clock in the morning while his freshman charges remained cozy under their covers. They still had another two hours of sleep before starting their day with a greasy breakfast in the cafeteria. But Jack was brushing his teeth and throwing on his jogging clothes.

The local TV News at Sunrise was usually just background noise. The only item that had caught Jack’s attention this morning was the latest on Judge Dorothy McShane. She’d been missing for over two months now. Apparently, last night the police had been led on a wild goose chase by a renowned clairvoyant. Her psychic powers had steered investigators to a ravine in Burlington, Washington, and the grave site of someone’s pet dog. They hadn’t said on the news, but by all indications, the police were giving up their search for Judge McShane.

They’d given up on Dorothy McShane at Our Lady of Sorrows, too. It had been weeks since they’d included her and her family in the Prayers of the Faithful at Mass.

Jack could see his breath as he jogged around the asphalt track. Because of his daily ritual, he was still in pretty good shape. In fact, he’d found out that he made quite an impression on the visiting mothers on Parents’ Day last October. He’d even acquired a nickname, “The Silver Fox,” because of his thick, wavy silver-gray hair. Jack had heard a couple of the mothers whispering, “Have you ever seen eyes so blue?” and “Oh, what a waste he’s a priest.”

It used to bother him when people went on and on about his looks. But now, Jack liked hearing that he was still attractive. His commitment to exercising was born out of that vanity—along with a healthy need for discipline and, yes, a flight from boredom and frustration.

As he rounded a curve in the track, Jack glanced up at St. Bartholomew Hall. The wall on this side of the five-story Gothic monstrosity was covered with dead ivy that still clung to the beige brick. All the windows were still dark.

St. Bart’s had been the first hall built on the Our Lady of Sorrows campus back in 1913. According to the story, they discovered it had been erected on soft ground. The building sunk nearly half an inch in the first six months. Everyone blamed the architect, an up-and-comer named Gavin McAllister, for setting the freshman facility so close to Lake Leroy. Better soil for construction was found across the lake near the town of Leroy, where they built the rest of the college and the graduate school—using another architect’s design.

Gavin McAllister’s career was destroyed. On Easter Sunday, 1914, when called to dinner by his wife, the thirty-one-year-old architect stepped into his dining room with a double-barrel shotgun. He’d opened fire on his wife and six-year-old daughter, then pursed his lips around the end of those twin barrels and pulled the trigger.

Jack wasn’t sure how much of the story was true, but a limerick had sprouted from the legend. Even after two world wars, most of the freshmen at Our Lady of Sorrows knew it:


The early statistics had said McAllister’s building, which encompassed the freshman classrooms and a two-hundred-bedroom dormitory, would sink a little lower each year until the foundation finally crumbled.

But those statistics were wrong. The basement flooded during some of the Pacific Northwest heavy rains, but after nearly a century, St. Bartholomew Hall’s foundation had settled only another inch into the earth.

Stretching the length of half a city block, St. Bart’s stood alone—like an outcast child—across the lake from the rest of the campus. The turreted roof pierced the sky, dwarfing treetops from the surrounding forest. Along the top floor, staggered every six windows, the weather-worn statue of a martyred saint stood on a pedestal. Above the front doors, a slightly decrepit, cement likeness of Our Lady of Sorrows welcomed all who entered with her resigned, forlorn look and her hands folded in prayer.

An old cemetery lay between the outskirts of the forest and the playfield, where Jack now ran. It was a small graveyard, for dearly departed priests who had taught at the freshman school during its first two decades. There were only a couple of dozen headstones, the most recent dated 1937.

Across the lake, the church bell rang six times. As he tallied another lap around the playfield, Jack felt the perspiration flying off his forehead. His gray jersey clung to his back. He noticed two students, Ernesto Rodriguez and Art Vargas, emerging from the side door of St. Bart’s Hall. They were among a dozen Hispanic freshman who came from the nearby city of Ferndale. The group hung out together, dubbing themselves the Spanish Mafia. Decked in sweatshirts and track shorts, Art and Ernesto waved at him, then started jogging toward a path that wound through the nearby forest.

The trail was known as Whopper Way, because after a half mile, it crossed over a tributary of Lake Leroy to the back lot of a Burger King. It was the quickest way by foot to town and the college campus. The seminarians would climb down to the creek, then tightrope-walk across a narrow, cracked slab of concrete that worked as a dam. Fall one way, and the St. Bart’s fugitive was up to his armpits in Lake Leroy; tumble in the other direction, and he had a five-foot drop to the rocky, shallow stream. The treacherous shortcut was dubbed Mendini’s Crossing, after Frank Mendini, a high-school junior in 1989 who’d fallen headfirst into the creek. According to the story, he spent several days in a coma, then woke up with such severe brain damage, his parents committed him to an insane asylum. Actually, Frank Mendini was unconscious for five minutes after the fall, and he took six stitches along his right temple. He stayed home that weekend, and managed to convince his parents that he didn’t want to be a priest. So they took him out of Our Lady of Sorrows. Yet somehow, word swept around the school that the fall had left Frank comatose, then deranged.

Jack had used Mendini’s Crossing himself—always on the sly, of course. He was supposed to set a good example for these students. But the other way to town—College Road, a two-lane drive that crossed over the creek—was a mile farther down and took twice as long. Another option was rowing across Lake Leroy in one of the boats available only to the faculty and students who had made special arrangements.

There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment at St. Bartholomew Hall and on that west side of the lake—unless one was delirious about forests. There was a “social room” in the basement, open from six to ten nightly—when the cellar wasn’t flooded. The room housed four archaic computers, where students—all deprived of telephone jacks in their rooms—had access to E-mail. There were two moldy pool tables, a TV with fickle reception bracketed to the wall, a couple of pinball machines which were usually out of order, four vending machines, and a bookshelf full of jigsaw puzzles and games ranging from chess to Monopoly. The torn corners of every faded box had been repeatedly taped up, and pieces were missing from each game and puzzle.

Small wonder the freshmen at St. Bart’s Hall were willing to brave Mendini’s Crossing for their escape. The other side of that lake offered all the splendor of a small college town: a minimall, a duplex movie theater, bowling alley, stores, pizza and burger joints—in other words, civilization and freedom.

It was no secret that some of the cooler freshmen ventured over Mendini’s Crossing to party with the upperclassmen. After a few drinks, the safest way back was College Road—or, if weather permitted, a quick swim across the narrow part of Lake Leroy. It was a nice way to sober up a bit before sneaking back into St. Bart’s Hall. But not too many freshmen tried it any more, because a boy had drowned a few years back while taking one of those midnight swims. Jack didn’t know the details.

He watched Ernesto and Art head down Whopper Way, then disappear into the forest. The two of them were best friends, and almost as dedicated as Jack with their morning runs.

Jack wished he had a friend here, someone he could confide in, another priest maybe. The closest person to him right now was a freshman named John Costello. At times, St. Bart’s seemed like a mental institution, and John the only other sane inmate there.

During his first week at the school, Jack had had some revelations about the other teachers and resident advisers at the freshman facility. “It’s sort of a proving ground for new guys like you,” a priest friend had warned him. “New priests and nutcases, that’s who they have running these freshman dorms, Jack. It’s SOP. They don’t want any of these guys managing a parish. So they stick them with these poor, vulnerable teenage boys. It’s sad, really.”

Of the eleven other priests at St. Bartholomew Hall, four were definitely alcoholics. Some even taught classes while drunk; and the kids weren’t dumb, they knew. Most of the clergy were gay, which didn’t matter to Jack. The ones who bothered him were the bullies; two priests in particular seemed to take pleasure in picking on the students. It was a weird sight, watching them hit or pinch these eighteen-and nineteen-year-old boys who probably could have taken them apart.

Jack guessed that just over half of the seminarians would actually become priests. For many students, this was a cheap college education with the archdiocese footing the bill. Still, a majority of the young men at St. Bart’s had a true calling. However, a handful of them took it a bit too far, practicing self-flagellation or fasting for days at a time as a way of becoming closer to God. One student on Jack’s floor woke up at dawn every morning to scrub out all the toilets and sinks in the bathroom on his floor. He said it made him happy. There were also several boys who took after those sadistic priests. They picked on their fellow students as a way of feeling powerful—or physically closer to them. All the unspoken crushes and furtive sexual activity among the boys caused one minidrama after another: fits of jealousy and contempt, friendships broken and rivalries started.

On their first day, all of Jack’s residents had reported to him in St. Bartholomew Hall’s basement “social room” for student orientation. It was a gorgeous, warm September day when the first of three groups were herded into that damp, musty cellar. The eight students were treated to a buffet lunch whipped up by the cafeteria staff: bologna sandwiches or peanut butter and jelly (bleeding through the bread), Fritos, Jell-O, and a choice of plain or chocolate milk. That was gourmet stuff compared to the usual fare in St. Bart’s cafeteria. Jack once saw a refrigerated delivery truck unloading boxes by St. Bartholomew Hall’s kitchen door. The boxes were labeled GRADE D CHICKEN—EDIBLE. The next day, he bought a minifridge and microwave oven. The cafeteria was run by a surly, chain-smoking Filipino woman named Valentina. Her staff consisted of two ancient nuns who belonged in a nursing home; Bob, a twentysomething mildly retarded man; and Valentina’s creepy ex-reform-school son, a skinny, tattooed weasel named Angel who probably wasn’t beyond spitting in the food when he had the chance.

None of them were in view for this desperately cheerful orientation luncheon. Jack found his first group waiting for him at their assigned table. Most of the students had arrived and unpacked the previous night. They wore their nametags, and among the eight were Peter Tobin and John Costello from Seattle. They were smart enough to forgo the cafeteria fare and split a pack of Hostess cupcakes from the vending machine.

It was hard not to single out John Costello. He was an extremely handsome kid, with straight black hair that occasionally fell over his blue eyes. Lean and tan, he looked very athletic in a white polo shirt and jeans. He didn’t say much, and barely cracked a smile. The boys were supposed to introduce themselves, and talk a little about their interests and hobbies. The other newcomers were cooperating, chatting nervously about their scholastic or athletic endeavors, and how they’d spent their summer vacations.

When his turn came, John took a sip of milk, then, without looking across the table at Jack, he muttered: “I’m John Costello. I’m from Seattle, and this is my best friend, Pete.”

Peter Tobin smiled and nodded at everyone around the table. Lanky and pale, with his brown hair in disarray, Pete came off as geeky beside his brooding, good-looking friend.

Jack had a list of questions he was supposed to ask—to “bring out” every freshman. It must have been drawn up in 1952, with real cornball queries such as What’s your greatest accomplishment as a Christian? and Tell us about your last good deed. He consulted the list for a moment. “Um, John, do you have any hobbies or interests?”

John Costello rolled his eyes. “Not really.”

“What did you do over the summer?” Jack pressed.

“I caddied at this cake-eater country club. It was pretty boring.”

“How long have you known Pete here?”

“A few years.”

Jack nodded. He decided to give up and turned to John’s pal. “Pete, maybe you can tell us something about yourself.”

“Yes, Father,” Peter Tobin announced, clearing his throat. “Well, when I was just a baby, my parents and I went down in a plane crash over the Andes. They died, and I was raised by wolves. . . .”

It took a moment for the boys at the table to realize that Peter was joking. Peter quickly went into his repartee. His sulky friend cracked a smile occasionally. In all likelihood, he’d heard the routine before.

Peter was trying a little too hard, and while the other boys were a good audience, they obviously sensed his desperation to please. Once the formal talk was over, they didn’t approach him. For a few moments, Peter stood alone by the table—until Jack patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for loosening everybody up,” he said. “You really have a great sense of humor, Pete.”

Most of the boys wanted to meet Peter’s sullen, pouty friend, and they came up to shake John’s hand. Jack figured this sullen punk was going to be a real problem.

He was scheduled for a one-on-one with him that night. Part of his job on this orientation day was to check with each boy at curfew to make sure he had settled in his room. Jack thought imposing a curfew on eighteen-year-olds was ridiculous. But he didn’t make the rules.

Checking Peter Tobin’s room, he found that Pete already had several of his drawings up on the walls. He was a talented artist. He let Jack see one of his sketch books, and even showed him his portable case of art supplies. It was stocked with paper, coloring pencils, and markers, and a box full of special fine-point pens from Calgary, Alberta: GOWER GRAPHIC, THE FINE POINT FOR FINE ARTISTS. He also demonstrated his juggling abilities for Jack, and admitted that he was a little homesick. So he was grateful to have his best friend, Johnny, just down the hall.

But John Costello wasn’t down the hall. Jack knocked on his door, then waited—and waited. Finally, he used his pass key to let himself in. The room was empty, and the boy hadn’t even unpacked yet. The sheets were still stacked and folded at the foot of his bare mattress.

Jack checked the bathroom down the hall, then glanced out the window at the end of the corridor. A full moon reflected on the lake’s ripply surface, and he could see the silhouette of a young man sitting at the end of the boat dock.

Jack headed down the stairs and outside. He reached the dock, then stopped suddenly. Past the sound of water lapping against the breakers, he could hear John Costello quietly crying.

Jack stood there a moment. He cleared his throat and started down to the dock. “John?”

John Costello glanced over his shoulder. He quickly brushed his sleeve beneath his nose. “Yeah?” he replied in a raspy voice. He stood up and turned around.

In the moonlight, Jack could see tears in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“Didn’t you read the list of rules they gave you at check in?” Jack asked gently. “You’re not supposed to be out of your room past eleven on weeknights—unless you have permission or you’re using the bathroom.”

John sighed, but said nothing. He wiped his eyes.

“Didn’t you know about the curfew?”

“No,” he mumbled. “Guess I’m off to a bad start with you, huh?”

Jack managed to smile. “It’s okay. I’ll cut you a break.”

“Thanks.” John shoved his hands in his pockets. He caught Jack’s eye for a second. “You’re new here, too, aren’t you? I heard a couple of the other priests talking—”

“That’s right. We’re in the same boat.” Jack nodded toward the dorm. “Now, why don’t you head inside? You ought to get your room set up.”

John turned away, then gazed out at the water again. “I’m worried about my sister,” he said. “She—well, she practically raised me and my other two sisters ever since my mom died. My other sisters are married now, and moved away. I’m still with Maggie. She’s married, too. His name’s Ray. He’s a real asshole. I’ve seen him take off after her. He and I have tangled it up a few times, because I don’t like the way he smacks her around. I’m scared what he might do to Maggie with no one there to protect her. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m dumping all this on you. I’m just worried.”

“There’s a phone in my room,” Jack said. “Would you like to call her? Make sure she’s okay?”

Johnny turned to him. “Really? God, that would be great. We didn’t have much time to talk yesterday. Three other guys were waiting to use the phone.”

Once in his room, Jack dialed the number for Johnny. He handed him the phone, then stepped out. All was quiet as he made a couple of rounds, checking the hall. When he passed his own door, Jack heard snippets of what Johnny was saying: “. . . this really cool priest let me use his phone . . . Yeah, Pete’s room is just down the hall from me . . . I’m fine, really . . .”

Jack gave him a few more minutes, then tapped on the door and opened it. John was sitting at his desk. He glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, listen, Maggie,” he said into the phone. “I should go. Talk to you again soon, okay?”

He hung up, then got to his feet. “Good news.” He smiled at Jack. “My sister went apartment shopping on the sly this afternoon. She’s dumping Ray’s sorry ass, and putting in an application for a place—two bedrooms, one for me. Isn’t that cool?”

Jack nodded. “That’s great. Now, why don’t you go get some sleep?”

“Sure thing. Thanks, Father.” Suddenly Johnny hugged him.

For a moment, Jack stood with his arms at his sides. Then, awkwardly, he hugged the boy back. He felt as if he was breaking some kind of guideline for the resident priests: no displays of affection with the student charges. It was all right to hit them—but not hug them.

Jack had made a friend that night. John Costello became something of a surrogate son to him. He didn’t have a father, and he looked up to Jack. They sometimes ran together in the morning, though not lately. Jack figured it was just as well. He wanted John to spend more time with guys his own age. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to have any favorites among the students.

Jack pressed on. Rounding the curve on the lake side of the track, he felt his lungs reach that last-lap burning point.

“Father Murphy! Oh, God, Father Murphy!”

Jack stopped, then bent forward. Hands on knees, he tried to catch his breath. He gaped at Ernesto Rodriguez, who stumbled from the forest trail. “Father Murphy, there’s a body!” he cried, pointing toward the lake. “Somebody’s drowned.... Come quick. . . .”

Jack started toward him. “Where?” He glanced down the narrow path through the trees, and saw Art Vargas urgently waving at him.

Jack patted Ernesto’s shoulder. “Ernie, go inside, call 911, okay?” Then he took off down the trail toward Art.

“Over here, Father!” Art yelled. He led the way, off the trail and through the trees toward the edge of Lake Leroy. Twigs snapped underfoot, and Jack dodged rocks and shrubs as he caught up with Art. The young man pointed ahead to a pale, blue-white thing that had washed up on the rocky shore. “Ernie saw him first,” he explained, out of breath. “I think it’s what’shis-name—Costello.”

Jack told himself that he didn’t hear it right. It wasn’t Johnny; that lifeless creature draped over the rocks and mire couldn’t be his young friend. Yet something inside him knew better, because his eyes were tearing up, and a sudden tightness grabbed him by the throat.

“Oh, God, please, no!” Jack whispered, staggering into the muddy waters. He grabbed Johnny from under his arms and pulled him out of the icy lake.

John Costello was clad only in his underwear. His blue eyes were half-open, and his face had a gray tinge. Wet leaves and bits of debris clung to his slippery, cold body. His right foot must have dragged across some rocks, because it was mangled—with a couple of toes missing.

Jack let out a strangled cry. Holding on to his young companion, he pressed his face against John’s and stroked his wet, matted-down hair.

He swallowed hard, then reached down and closed John’s eyes. “We—we pray for the repose of the soul of our friend, John Costello,” he said, tracing a sign of the cross on John’s forehead. He could hardly speak past the ache in his throat. “Come to meet him, angels of the Lord. Give him eternal rest, dear God, and may Your light shine on him forever. . . .”

About fifty seminarians and several priests stood in the cold by the north door of St. Bartholomew Hall. Some of the young men had quickly thrown jackets over their pajamas. As they watched the ambulance drive away, rumors flew that classes might be canceled for the day.

Two policemen from Leroy’s small force had interviewed Art and Ernesto. They’d also spoken with Jack, asking for his master key so they could check John’s room for a suicide note, or perhaps a stash of drugs. They were back outside within a couple of minutes, apparently having found nothing.

Jack’s colleague, Father Zeigler, announced that all freshmen would be expected to attend a special Mass for John Costello this morning at 9:15 in St. Bartholomew Hall’s chapel. Before the ambulance completely pulled away, Zeigler started swatting the seminarians on the backs of their heads, telling them to get inside. He was like a drill sergeant with the eighteen-year-olds. Most of them could have flattened Father Zeigler, but his clerical collar protected him. So the boys just took his abuse in their stride.

Jack couldn’t stand Harvey Zeigler. He was one of the bullies. A square-jawed, swarthy, macho runt with a pumped-up body, he lived in the other wing on Jack’s floor. The little man seemed to take sadistic pride in striking fear into the hearts of his resident charges. Mostly, he picked on good-looking boys. John Costello had taken the brunt of his wrath. John was always reenacting for Jack how Father “Zeig-Heil” (his nickname among the students) had slammed him against the lockers or grabbed him by the hair. He’d recently shown Jack an ugly purple-and-yellow bruise on his arm, just above the elbow. It was a calling card from Father Zeigler, who had given him the old pinch-and-twist treatment because he’d been “dawdling” in the hallway between classes.

Jack was furious. He went to Zeigler’s room and knocked on the door. Harvey answered it with his usual pious look. “Yes, Jack? Can I help you?”

“You sure can,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “You can stop picking on the students. It makes me sick, Harv. In particular, if I see another mark on John Costello’s body, I’ll come beat the living crap out of you.”

Harvey Zeigler took a step back, but he was grinning. He was good-looking in a cocky, creepy sort of way. His head seemed to duck a bit within the confines of that priestly collar—like a turtle retreating into his shell. He chuckled. “Oh, really, Jack?” he said. “Would you like to take me on?”

Jack glared at him. “You heard what I said,” he whispered. Then he turned and walked down the hall.

In the three weeks since, Jack hadn’t seen Father Zeigler mistreat any of the seminarians. But now John Costello was dead, and perhaps that gave Harvey a reckless sense of power over Jack. In full view of him, Harvey smacked, pinched, and shoved those young men into retreat by the side door of St. Bartholomew Hall. Most of the students were still in shock over the death of their classmate. They didn’t seem to realize anyone was screaming at them until they felt the sting of Father Zeig-Heil’s hand.

The ambulance turned on College Road and disappeared behind a cluster of evergreens. Jack could still hear the siren’s wail. But Harvey Zeigler’s barking began to compete with it.

He stared at Peter Tobin. John’s best friend looked shell-shocked. His deep-set brown eyes were filled with tears, and his lip quivered. He looked so hopelessly lost. The Leroy police had spoken with Peter, too, but apparently, he had little to tell them. The interrogation had lasted five minutes.

While his classmates began to flee from Father Zeigler’s tirade, Peter just stood there in his sweatpants and windbreaker, trembling. Peter didn’t seem to notice Zeigler coming at him with his hand raised.

“Harvey, that’s enough,” Jack said loudly.

Father Zeigler swiveled around and glared at him.

Jack stepped forward. “That’s enough,” he whispered.

Frowning, Zeigler backed away. He pushed the last few students toward the side door, then stepped in after them.

Gently, Jack took Peter’s arm. He could feel the young man tense up. “Listen, Pete,” he whispered. “You don’t have to go to that Mass if you don’t want—”

Wrenching away from him, Peter shook his head. “This isn’t right,” he said, his voice cracking. Tears streamed down his face. “He wouldn’t have gone swimming. It’s too cold. And even if he had, Johnny was a good swimmer, an excellent swimmer. This was no accident.. . .”

Jack grimaced. “We won’t know what really happened—at least not for a day or two.” He reached out to Peter again, but hesitated. “I’m here for you, Pete. But if you need to be alone, I understand. I just want you to know—”

“You’re right, Father,” he replied in a scratchy voice. Peter wiped his tears away. “I need to be alone.”

He brushed past Jack and ducked into the side doorway.

Jack peeled off his gray jersey. It felt clammy with cold, dried sweat. He hadn’t had a chance to change out of his running clothes until now. He had only a few minutes to grab a shower before rounding up students for the special Mass. No time to let anything sink in.

He had deluxe accommodations—for St. Bartholomew Hall. He and Zeigler were the only ones on the fourth floor who had their own “suites” with private baths. Jack’s bedroom was tiny, with barely enough space for the dresser and nightstand. A crucifix hung on the wall over the headboard of his single bed.

The furniture in his front room was midseventies institutional. The beige couch had cigarette burns on one arm. Jack had brought in his own small TV and VCR, a stereo, a minimicrowave, and a minirefrigerator. The closet was packed with tapes and LPs. On the top shelf, he stored a couple of big Sears boxes full of old photos, finger paintings and certificates, as well as birthday, anniversary, and Father’s Day cards—from years ago, when Jack had celebrated such occasions. There wasn’t much room left for clothes, but priests didn’t require large wardrobes.

On the walls, Jack had a school pennant and a bulletin board with announcements, cards from students, and class photos. There was also a framed movie still from On the Waterfront, a bloody and beaten Marlon Brando with Eva Marie Saint and a priestly Karl Malden hovering over him. It had been a gift from John Costello. They’d seen the movie together at the campus revival theater last November.

Leaning against his desk, Jack pried off his running shoes. In the distance, across the lake, he could see the ambulance threading around the streets of Leroy. It wasn’t moving very fast. No need. They were probably taking John’s body to the coroner’s office up in Bellingham.

Jack closed his eyes and sighed, remembering the past.

He should have ridden in the ambulance with his son, Leo, but he’d decided to stay behind with his wife. He couldn’t just leave Donna there. He remembered holding Leo’s hand as they loaded him onto a stretcher. It seemed like a dozen police cars and medical vans had descended upon them, those red strobes . . .