A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“The guy was going to burn me upside down. Dave says that means something.”

Julian’s eyes looked haunted. “It’s the way Giordano Di Betto died.”

“Penelope Balangie’s ancestor?” Clete said.

“Yes,” Julian said, his voice solemn and dry.

“Then this fog blew in, with hail and thunder and rain,” Clete said. “It saved my life. I felt like a woman was stroking my eyes and brow.”

“I’ve got to stop you here,” Julian said.

“What’d I say?” Clete said.

“You said nothing wrong. But I have no knowledge about these things. They’re frightening in their aspect. They’re frightening in what they suggest.”

“How you mean?” Clete said.

“It’s too easy to get lost in the images you describe. How do people explain Auschwitz? They blame it on the devil. I don’t buy that. There’s enough evil in the human heart to incinerate the earth.” His cheeks were pooled with color, his nostrils white around the edges, as though he had been breathing the air in a subzero locker.

“I’m not getting you,” Clete said.

“There’s a good chance you were drugged,” Julian said. “Don’t give supernatural powers to these men. They have none. They live under logs.”

Clete looked away, obviously disappointed in the way the conversation was going. “I think you’re slipping the punch, Father,” he said.

“You’re probably right,” Julian said. “I hate the cruelty that lives in us. I think about Joan of Arc and the way she suffered, and I want to weep.” He picked up his magnifying glass and looked through it, one eye swelling to bulbous proportions. “I get carried away. I mentioned Auschwitz. I went on a tour there. I thought I heard people crying in one of the rooms. There was a vice president of a midwestern university in our tour group. He said, ‘I know this sounds bad, but what a masterpiece of administration.’ I wanted to beat him with my fists.” Julian set down his magnifying glass and stared at the rug.

“We saw Marcel LaForchette up on the roof,” I said.

“Yeah,” Clete said. “He’s quite a guy. You might keep a high-tech lock on the poor box.”

“He’s a sad man,” Julian said.

“His victims might argue with that,” Clete said.

“You’re a tough sell, Clete,” Julian said. “I wish I could be of more help. The truth is I don’t have answers to much of anything.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Julian,” I said.

“Good try,” he said.

We said good night and went outside into the dark. It wasn’t a good moment. There are situations for which no one has a solution, and it’s unfair to push the burden upon people who are unprepared to deal with it. I looked up at the church roof. Marcel LaForchette was gone. I felt awful about Julian. I suspected he would not sleep that night.

I heard the screen door open again. I turned around and saw Julian silhouetted in the doorway. “Dave, could I speak to you a minute?” he said.

“Go on. I’ll be in the truck,” Clete said.

I walked back to the gallery.

“There are times when I fail,” Julian said. “This is one of them.”

“None of this is your fault. Clete and I got into this on our own.”

“There’s something I need to tell you. It has nothing to do with anything Marcel told me inside a confessional. He says Mark Shondell is part of a group that plans to stir up hatred toward minority people on a national scale.”

“I never thought Shondell was political.”

“For Mark Shondell, politics and money are interchangeable. He’s the lowest form of humanity I’ve ever known.”