I ran more hot water into the tub and sank deeper into it. My shoulder started to relax. My bones warmed up. I drifted away from Whitby and turmoil. My birthday last July, Lake Michigan warmer than this bathwater. Lying on an Indiana beach under the summer stars, the night air and Morrell’s long fingers caressing me.
The shrill bell to my front door jerked me awake. I sat up, splashing water onto the floor. When the bell sounded a second time I climbed out of the tub and padded to the front room, wrapping a bath sheet around me. It wasn’t cops, but a trio of boys on bikes doing wheelies on the walk. Pranksters. My lips tightened in annoyance. I walked back to my bedroom, to dress, but, when they rang for the third time, I suddenly remembered that Father Lou had said he would send messages by his kids on bikes.
“Be right with you,” I shouted through the intercom.
I dried off fast, pulled on jeans and a heavy sweater, tucked my damp hair into a baseball cap and skittered down the stairs. Mr. Contreras and the dogs were already in the lobby, arguing with the boys, who were backing away from Mitch-by far the most vociferous of the group.
“‘S okay, I’ve got it.” I pushed past them out the front door.
One of the boys came forward, striking a determinedly aggressive posture. “You the detective lady?”
“Yep. You the guy from St. Remigio?”
He nodded, eyes slits, detective on a mission. “Father Lou said to tell you you wasn’t alone when you came to church this morning. Got it?” “Is that all he said? Did he want me to call?” I demanded.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, you should try to call him.”
Mechanically, I thanked the boys. I gave them a five to share among themselves, and went back into the building.
“What was that about?” Mr. Contreras demanded. “You shouldn’t give punks like that money, only encourages them to come around begging for more.”
I shook my head. “They’re from Father Lou. Someone followed me to church this morning. Somehow, some way. But-damn, I made sure I was clear. I have to call him, see whether the Feds got Benji”
I sprinted back up the stairs, the dogs racing ahead of me while the old man followed more ponderously in the rear. By the time he got to my door, I had on my running shoes and a coat. Mr. Contreras offered to let me use his phone, but I couldn’t be sure that wasn’t tapped-if they were listening to me they would know to listen in on him, too.
The nearest pay phone I could think of was in the Belmont Diner, a couple of blocks south of us us. I ran down there and called the rectory. “No one was on my tail this morning; I triple-checked,” I said when the priest finally answered his phone. “What happened?”
“Had a federal marshal and a Chicago cop here this afternoon. They asked after you-told them you’re one of my parishioners, don’t come often enough:” He let out a rusty chuckle: I’m never sure whether he harbors secret fantasies of converting me. “They also thought I was hiding some runaway they want. Told them to be my guest, search the place, but it’s a big church, took them the better part of two hours, got me behind in catechism and boxing classes both.”
“Did they find anyone?” I asked.
“Boys playing hide-and-seek behind the altar was all, thinking it was a good joke to jump out on a cop. Gave them what for when I found them. But if you’re bringing cops into the church, you’d better find someplace else to worship-too disruptive of education here.”
Meaning, if I understood him right, that he’d put Benji in the crypt, which lies behind the altar, but that I’d better move him in case the Feds came again.
“Is this something I have to figure out tonight?” I asked. “You know I don’t go to church very often-1 don’t have a second one right at my fingertips.” He grunted. “Can wait until tomorrow. Maybe the next day, not much longer.”
The Feds might have gone to St. Remigio’s because they’d done so much research on me that they knew Father Lou was a friend of mine and Morrell’s. Or-they’d installed an electronic gadget on my car so they could follow me without putting manpower on the street. My stomach turned over.
I tried to remember if I’d gone anywhere else incriminating the last few days. The hospital, the university library, back up to the Loop, then home. Maybe agents would next be down at the University of Chicago, demanding to know what I’d read today. Under the Patriot Act, they didn’t need a warrant or probable cause to make the library tell them, but if the librarians told me the Feds had come around, the librarians would go to jail. So I’d never know-unless, of course, Pelletier’s archives disappeared.
I’d been tired all day, but now I felt completely exhausted. It was what I’d tried to tell Lotty last night: I didn’t know who frightened the more these days, radical Muslims, or radical Americans.