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Authors: Steven F. Havill
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listened. The compound was stone quiet. Maybe the clergy were in the middle of their late evening services.
The three raps of the brass knocker were loud enough to make me flinch. I formed a mental picture of a row of bowed, maybe even shaved, heads snapping up at the sound and nervous hands clutching rosaries.
The retreat was for clergy who had strayed from the straight and narrow. Some may have nipped the bottle too often…maybe a few dallied with members of the fair sex—or even with their own sex. “I think it’s sort of a second chance house,” Estelle had said and that made sense. If a priest couldn’t concentrate on his prayers here, he was probably out of luck.
The right-hand side of the double doors opened and an elderly cleric peered out at me. I shouldn’t say elderly…hell, he was about my age, maybe a year or two younger. He wore basic black, without the Roman collar.
“Good evening,” I said and held my identification up so he could see it through the screen door. I adopted my most accommodating tone. “I wonder if it would be convenient for me to visit with Father Parris?” The priest squinted at the badge and commission card, and I wondered if he could read it well enough to see the county name.
His watery gray eyes flicked from the identification to my face, and I put the wallet away. “Well,” he said and placed one hand on the screen door like he was preparing to push it open for me, “this isn’t the best of times.”
“I won’t need much of his time,” I said. “And it would really be a help.”
He started to push open the door, then asked, “You may have to wait a moment or two. May I tell him who’s calling?”
The doorkeeper had just flunked the reading test. I could just as easily have held up my Sears card. “Undersheriff Bill Gastner.” He’d forgive a minor sin of omission. I opened the screen the rest of the way and stepped inside.
“If you’d care to wait here, in the front room?” the priest said, indicating a small parlor crowded with overstuffed furniture and a small upright piano. “I’ll fetch Father Parris.” He touched my elbow lightly as he guided me into the room and then left.
I thrust my hands in my pockets and gazed around. I stepped over and perused the titles in the single bookcase. Most were Reader’s Digest chopped editions. If the good fathers had a theological library, this wasn’t it. I turned at the sound of footsteps.
“Father Parris will be down in a few minutes,” the priest said and smiled. “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee or something?”
“No thanks. Appreciate it though.”
He nodded and left. I sat down in one of the chairs and found that it supported me in all the wrong places. I perched forward on the edge of the cushion, clasped my hands together, rested my forearms on my knees, and waited. After about two minutes, I noticed that there were no ashtrays in the room. I took a deep breath and occupied my mind by trying to imagine what Parris looked like. In another minute, I had my answer. My guess hadn’t been close.
Nolan Parris stepped into the doorway of the parlor and stopped. He rested a hand on the jamb. He was short, no more than five feet five and handsome in a well-oiled sort of way. His black hair was carefully trimmed with the part just off-center, and he kept the sideburns short. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, and his brown eyes glanced around the room when he first came in as if I might have company hiding behind the furniture.
I guessed that he was no more than thirty-five, just beginning to soften around the edges and expand at the gut. And he was pale, like a man just risen from bed after two weeks with the flu.
“Good evening,” he said cautiously.
I rose and extended my hand. “Father Parris?”
“Nolan Parris, yes.” He entered the room and limped to the center of the carpet, where I met him. His perfunctory handshake expended two pumps. “Do I know you?”
Once again I pulled
The three raps of the brass knocker were loud enough to make me flinch. I formed a mental picture of a row of bowed, maybe even shaved, heads snapping up at the sound and nervous hands clutching rosaries.
The retreat was for clergy who had strayed from the straight and narrow. Some may have nipped the bottle too often…maybe a few dallied with members of the fair sex—or even with their own sex. “I think it’s sort of a second chance house,” Estelle had said and that made sense. If a priest couldn’t concentrate on his prayers here, he was probably out of luck.
The right-hand side of the double doors opened and an elderly cleric peered out at me. I shouldn’t say elderly…hell, he was about my age, maybe a year or two younger. He wore basic black, without the Roman collar.
“Good evening,” I said and held my identification up so he could see it through the screen door. I adopted my most accommodating tone. “I wonder if it would be convenient for me to visit with Father Parris?” The priest squinted at the badge and commission card, and I wondered if he could read it well enough to see the county name.
His watery gray eyes flicked from the identification to my face, and I put the wallet away. “Well,” he said and placed one hand on the screen door like he was preparing to push it open for me, “this isn’t the best of times.”
“I won’t need much of his time,” I said. “And it would really be a help.”
He started to push open the door, then asked, “You may have to wait a moment or two. May I tell him who’s calling?”
The doorkeeper had just flunked the reading test. I could just as easily have held up my Sears card. “Undersheriff Bill Gastner.” He’d forgive a minor sin of omission. I opened the screen the rest of the way and stepped inside.
“If you’d care to wait here, in the front room?” the priest said, indicating a small parlor crowded with overstuffed furniture and a small upright piano. “I’ll fetch Father Parris.” He touched my elbow lightly as he guided me into the room and then left.
I thrust my hands in my pockets and gazed around. I stepped over and perused the titles in the single bookcase. Most were Reader’s Digest chopped editions. If the good fathers had a theological library, this wasn’t it. I turned at the sound of footsteps.
“Father Parris will be down in a few minutes,” the priest said and smiled. “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee or something?”
“No thanks. Appreciate it though.”
He nodded and left. I sat down in one of the chairs and found that it supported me in all the wrong places. I perched forward on the edge of the cushion, clasped my hands together, rested my forearms on my knees, and waited. After about two minutes, I noticed that there were no ashtrays in the room. I took a deep breath and occupied my mind by trying to imagine what Parris looked like. In another minute, I had my answer. My guess hadn’t been close.
Nolan Parris stepped into the doorway of the parlor and stopped. He rested a hand on the jamb. He was short, no more than five feet five and handsome in a well-oiled sort of way. His black hair was carefully trimmed with the part just off-center, and he kept the sideburns short. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, and his brown eyes glanced around the room when he first came in as if I might have company hiding behind the furniture.
I guessed that he was no more than thirty-five, just beginning to soften around the edges and expand at the gut. And he was pale, like a man just risen from bed after two weeks with the flu.
“Good evening,” he said cautiously.
I rose and extended my hand. “Father Parris?”
“Nolan Parris, yes.” He entered the room and limped to the center of the carpet, where I met him. His perfunctory handshake expended two pumps. “Do I know you?”
Once again I pulled
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