He led Marcus to a door to the right of the altar.An elderly woman wearing an ochipok stepped through the door and looked questioningly at the priest.He spoke a few words to her in Ukrainian.The woman nodded and beamed tenderly at Marcus before moving past them.
“Olena,” Father Holbrook explained.“She’s been attending this church for sixty years.She volunteers her time to keep the grounds clean.Her son helps from time to time, more now that she’s getting older.”
“It sounds like you have a close-knit community.”
“Well…” His voice trailed off until the door closed behind them.“For the most part that’s true, but not everyone manages to integrate.”
He led Marcus into the office.The low-roofed room was crowded with books: Bibles, commentaries, histories, and treatises by numerous Catholic thinkers from antiquity to the present day.They filled a bookshelf about as tall and wide as Marcus and occupied every spare square inch of the small desk (the same faded pine as the pews) and one of the two upholstered chairs in front of the desk.Twin piles flanked the bookshelf, and another pair flanked the desk.Apparently Father Holbrook was a reader.
The father gestured to the empty chair.Marcus took it, testing his weight before trusting it to the old chair.It creaked concerningly but seemed steady enough.He leaned forward just in case.“I take it Mr.Schulz never managed to integrate.”
“No, sadly,” Holbrook agreed.“He was pleasant to all, but he resisted any attempt at closeness.”
“How so?”
“Passively.He politely declined my invitation to join me for Saturday prayer.He managed to avoid interacting socially with other patrons at the church, and he never attended any of the informal functions here.He was content to arrive every Sunday for mass and to confess.”
“To confess what if I may ask?”
Father Holbrook gave Marcus a gently scolding smile.“You may ask, but I believe you know my answer.”
Marcus returned his smile.“Worth a shot.”
Father Holbrook nodded acknowledgement.
“Did you happen to have any visiting priests recently?”Marcus asked.
For the second time, Father Holbrook’s smile vanished.His left eye twitched, and there was a slight tremor to his voice when he replied, “Why do you ask?”
Marcus chose to be honest.Mostly.“We think the person who killed Warren Schulz may have been posing as a priest.”
“I…” Father Holbrook blinked.“Oh my.”
“That’s a yes, I take it.”
Father Holbrook nodded.“I had surgery on my hip three weeks ago.A bone spur.I was in bed for two days.The Diocese of Richmond sent a priest to take confessions while I was recovering.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow.“Richmond, Virginia?”
“Yes.”
Shit.“Is that normal?To have a priest come to Ohio all the way from Virginia to cover a parish church?”
Father Holbrook swallowed.His eyes were big as saucers and all the blood had drained from his face.It was clear this was the first time he’d considered that his visitor might not have been who he said he was.“No.Ordinarily the local diocese will make arrangements.He just happened to be in town, and he offered.I saw no issue with it, especially considering the absence was so short and didn’t include a Sunday.No mass to lead.”
“You said three weeks ago.He left after that?”
“Yes.He said he had other flocks to minister to.I told him he was always welcome… I didn’t…” He swallowed again.“Surely you’re not suggesting apriestwas responsible for Warren’s murder?”
“Not a real one,” Marcus replied.“Can you describe this Father…”
"Glover," Father Holbrook replied."Father Raymond Glover.He was, um…" He cleared his throat."Tall.Like you but not so broad.On the slender side, actually.He had short, silver hair and unusually bright blue eyes.Very crystalline.He had the sort of gaze that could pierce through to your soul.I thought when I met him that he would be an excellent confessor.He had the sort of will that made you want to tell him the deepest secrets of your soul.”
A weariness came over Marcus then.A part of his mind tried to insist that it didn’t have to be Cox.That description could fit plenty of people.
But he knew better.Kate was right once again.The scourge of the Portland Field Office, the scourge in particular of one thirty-seven-year-old field agent who’d spent her entire adult life battling demons, had struck once again.
No.Not once again.Four times.And the only guarantee Marcus had was that he would keep striking until they found him and put him down.
