home or you get an answering machine.”
Peter grabbed the receiver. Anton read him the number, and he punched it in.
Anton sipped his Coke and leaned closer to him.
Peter counted three ring tones, then someone picked up. “Hello?”
“Rick Pettinger?” Peter asked, trying to make his voice gravelly.
“Who’s calling?”
“Rick, I need to ask you something,” Peter said. “After you drowned him, what did you do with John Costello’s clothes?”
Rounding a curve in the track, Jack glanced over at the old cemetery. The little plot of land looked particularly eerie at night with those decrepit statues and headstones, and the dark forest looming beyond it.
Jack usually didn’t run in the evenings, but he hadn’t had any real exercise in a while. He needed to work off the tension. All day, he’d felt frustrated and irritable. And he hadn’t accomplished a damn thing.
Going to see Jonie Sorretto had been a waste of time. He thought about consulting Father Garcia, telling him about Jonie. But he didn’t trust Garcia anymore. The school’s head of administration had originally been so keen on digging for the truth. Now he seemed bent on covering up everything connected with John’s death.
Jack wasn’t even sure Garcia had actually checked that blood sample from the grave marker down in the crypt. Was it really someone else’s blood type? Garcia could have lied to him about it.
Jack spent the afternoon hunting down Father Stutesman in the science department. When he finally got a hold of Stutesman on the phone the science professor confirmed Garcia’s story. He’d examined the blood scrapings. And yes, it was a bit peculiar that Father Garcia had brought him the sample in a handkerchief. But the tests showed the blood type as AB, no mistake about it. And didn’t the seminarian who drowned have type O blood?
Jack thanked Father Stutesman and hung up.
He also talked to Maggie. She’d phoned, asking if there were any new developments in the investigation. He felt so lame, admitting to her that he had nothing.
“Nothing at all?” she’d asked. “No leads about the twenty-two hundred dollars or anything?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been running in circles today. It’s been very defeating.”
“Well, Johnny’s funeral Mass is on Tuesday. It’s going to be here in Seattle, Jack. I was wondering if you could deliver the eulogy. I know Johnny would have wanted you to. And I want you to.”
She took him by surprise. “I’d be honored, Maggie,” he managed to say. “Of course I will.”
But later, as he tried to write the eulogy, Jack drew a blank. All he could think of was that he’d been responsible for Johnny, and he’d let him die.
So Jack had put on his sweats and his running shoes, then taken to the track. He poured it on as he tallied up his seventh lap around the playfield. Perspiration covered his face and neck. Jack was so focused on pushing and punishing himself that he didn’t see anything except the asphalt track in front of him.
He didn’t notice that someone else was out there.
“Father Murphy?”
Jack almost stumbled when he caught sight of a man, silhouetted by the lights of St. Bartholomew Hall. He slowed down and tried to get his breath back. He approached the shadowy figure. “Yeah?” he said. “Who’s over there?”
As he came closer, Jack recognized Tom Garcia. The priest stood with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He was frowning. “Get cleaned up and dressed, Jack,” he said. “I’ll meet you in front of St. Bart’s in five minutes.”
“What’s this about?” Jack asked.
Garcia turned and started walking away from him. “Five minutes,” he called over his shoulder. “Wear your clerical clothes.”
Jack took a thirty-second shower, then quickly donned his black suit and his clerical shirt and collar. He wondered what Garcia wanted. Had Father Statesman given him away? Jack was sweating again by the time he stepped out of St.
Peter grabbed the receiver. Anton read him the number, and he punched it in.
Anton sipped his Coke and leaned closer to him.
Peter counted three ring tones, then someone picked up. “Hello?”
“Rick Pettinger?” Peter asked, trying to make his voice gravelly.
“Who’s calling?”
“Rick, I need to ask you something,” Peter said. “After you drowned him, what did you do with John Costello’s clothes?”
Rounding a curve in the track, Jack glanced over at the old cemetery. The little plot of land looked particularly eerie at night with those decrepit statues and headstones, and the dark forest looming beyond it.
Jack usually didn’t run in the evenings, but he hadn’t had any real exercise in a while. He needed to work off the tension. All day, he’d felt frustrated and irritable. And he hadn’t accomplished a damn thing.
Going to see Jonie Sorretto had been a waste of time. He thought about consulting Father Garcia, telling him about Jonie. But he didn’t trust Garcia anymore. The school’s head of administration had originally been so keen on digging for the truth. Now he seemed bent on covering up everything connected with John’s death.
Jack wasn’t even sure Garcia had actually checked that blood sample from the grave marker down in the crypt. Was it really someone else’s blood type? Garcia could have lied to him about it.
Jack spent the afternoon hunting down Father Stutesman in the science department. When he finally got a hold of Stutesman on the phone the science professor confirmed Garcia’s story. He’d examined the blood scrapings. And yes, it was a bit peculiar that Father Garcia had brought him the sample in a handkerchief. But the tests showed the blood type as AB, no mistake about it. And didn’t the seminarian who drowned have type O blood?
Jack thanked Father Stutesman and hung up.
He also talked to Maggie. She’d phoned, asking if there were any new developments in the investigation. He felt so lame, admitting to her that he had nothing.
“Nothing at all?” she’d asked. “No leads about the twenty-two hundred dollars or anything?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been running in circles today. It’s been very defeating.”
“Well, Johnny’s funeral Mass is on Tuesday. It’s going to be here in Seattle, Jack. I was wondering if you could deliver the eulogy. I know Johnny would have wanted you to. And I want you to.”
She took him by surprise. “I’d be honored, Maggie,” he managed to say. “Of course I will.”
But later, as he tried to write the eulogy, Jack drew a blank. All he could think of was that he’d been responsible for Johnny, and he’d let him die.
So Jack had put on his sweats and his running shoes, then taken to the track. He poured it on as he tallied up his seventh lap around the playfield. Perspiration covered his face and neck. Jack was so focused on pushing and punishing himself that he didn’t see anything except the asphalt track in front of him.
He didn’t notice that someone else was out there.
“Father Murphy?”
Jack almost stumbled when he caught sight of a man, silhouetted by the lights of St. Bartholomew Hall. He slowed down and tried to get his breath back. He approached the shadowy figure. “Yeah?” he said. “Who’s over there?”
As he came closer, Jack recognized Tom Garcia. The priest stood with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He was frowning. “Get cleaned up and dressed, Jack,” he said. “I’ll meet you in front of St. Bart’s in five minutes.”
“What’s this about?” Jack asked.
Garcia turned and started walking away from him. “Five minutes,” he called over his shoulder. “Wear your clerical clothes.”
Jack took a thirty-second shower, then quickly donned his black suit and his clerical shirt and collar. He wondered what Garcia wanted. Had Father Statesman given him away? Jack was sweating again by the time he stepped out of St.
Similar Books
