The Redemption Man Page 7

  “Yeah, he must have been an amazing priest,” agreed Bradley.

  Barroso chuckled and replied, “He was. Although a little eccentric. But that’s Gabe.”

  “Oh, yeah,” chimed in Otterman. “They broke the mold…”

  “Yeah,” agreed Barroso as he took a step forward conspiratorially. “He went off the rails a little with the drink too…just the once, you understand.”

  “Hey, who hasn’t been there?” guffawed Otterman.

  Bradley stiffened at his partner’s casual response and tried to maintain the concerned and understanding tone. “He’s a man of…complexity…is how I’d put it, Mr. Barroso.”

  “That’s right. You’re right. That’s a good way of putting it. Though when he told us he didn’t necessarily believe in God, that riled some people up. Ha!”

  “He said he didn’t believe in God?” Otterman said incredulously.

  “Well, not in the way most people did. He believed God was a symbol for the unknown. He was always a bit of a radical. Thing is, people took it; mostly they went with it. Mostly. He had a sort of power, Father Devlin. He had a gift for truth, that’s how I’d put it.”

  “Yeah, a gift for the truth,” said Bradley. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. He is a fine man. We all think the world of him—all the guys too. Well, actually, that’s why we’re here, to give him a present from the guys…in Region Seven.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t know what to say,” said Barroso. “As you can see, you can’t give him the present. He’s not here.”

  “Do you have any forwarding address we can send this on to?”

  “No. He said he’d be back at some point to tie any loose ends up though. Pick up the rest of his stuff from the office in the rectory. But I don’t know when that would be.”

  Bradley’s eyes widened. “He has an office?”

  Barroso led them through to the priest’s study at the back of the rectory. It was a modest room with a desk facing the window and walls lined with books nearly up to the ceiling. There was no sign of a laptop or PC, but there was a small iron lock key safe tucked in the corner. Bradley and Otterman shot each other a look.

  “Would it be okay, Mr. Barroso, if we wrote a little note to leave with our gift, for when Father Gabriel gets back?” asked Bradley.

  “Sure. But look, I need to finish the hedge and then attend to the sacristy before mass. Do you mind if you write your note and let me know when you’re done?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Barroso. Not at all. We don’t want to impose any more than we have already. Just give us five minutes and we’ll be done.”

  Barroso shuffled out and Bradley and Otterman listened for the click of the front door like it was a starter pistol. As soon as the doors shut, Otterman was down on one knee by the iron safe with his pick set in his hand while Bradley stood guard.

  “A double bit key. No problem.” It took less than a minute to open the safe door. “Jackpot,” croaked Otterman, trying to keep his voice down.

  “What’s in there?” whispered Bradley urgently.

  “Hold on a second, I’m looking… Jeez, he keeps a gun. Obviously, he doesn’t place all of his trust in the good Lord. And half a bottle of whiskey. A twenty-one-year-old single malt.”

  “Leave it where it is, Otterman.”

  “Sheesh! All right already, Elliot fucking Ness.”

  Otterman took the bottle and the gun out, which had both been resting on a row of bound books filed side by side, and placed them on the stripped wooden floor. He pulled out the book on the end of the row to his left and opened it. It was a photo album. The first page was filled with a photo of a young, very beautiful woman, tall and lean-limbed with long brunette hair. She was ice-skating and performing a comic arabesque. He flicked through the rest of the pages; many of them contained photos of the girl with Devlin, who looked much younger, photos of the two of them together as young lovers. Lovers on holidays, at home, in restaurants, with friends and family. Otterman picked out the next one along.

  “Well? What have you got?” asked Bradley impatiently.

  “I think they’re all fucking photo albums.”

  “Photo albums?”

  “Yeah, I think they’re mostly of Devlin with the same woman. A girlfriend.”

  “Okay. That’s a bit odd for a priest. Maybe there’s something in it? Like he was having an affair?”

  “Looks like old stuff. A few years back. Like before he became a priest. Why doesn’t he keep this shit on a PC like everybody else?” Otterman was now frantically searching through each album and stacking them on the floor, but every album and every page was of the same woman.

  “Wait. I Got something…” Otterman had found a thick folder wedged between two of the albums.

  “What is it?” asked Bradley.

  Otterman opened it and flicked through. “It’s personal stuff—receipts, credit card statements, personal documents.”

  “Take it!”

  Outside Barroso had stopped pruning and was troubled. Something about the two men was starting to make him uneasy. They hadn’t offered their names. And they had called Father Devlin “Gabriel.” Nobody called Father Devlin “Gabriel.” He was always Gabe. He always introduced himself as Gabe. Always and without exception. He realized he might be being paranoid, but maybe it wasn’t wise to have left two strangers alone in the rectory. He reprimanded himself for being so loose with his tongue and gossiping about Father Devlin.

  “Barroso, you old fool…” he muttered to himself. “Always too willing to trust.”

  Inside the rectory, Bradley stood in the office doorway looking down the hallway and out through the front door windows so he could keep an eye on Barroso. He started getting itchy.

  “He’s stopped pruning the hedge.”

  “What?”

  “The old man’s stopped pruning the hedge… Hurry up and put it all back… Oh, Jesus. He’s looking back at the house. I think he might come back in… Put the albums back… Oh fuck, he’s walking back to the house.”

  “Fuck.” Otterman started cramming the albums back into the safe. Bradley jumped down beside him and helped. They had just about stuffed the last one in when they caught the sound of the front doors clicking open. Bradley rushed out of the study, checked his pace, and sauntered down the hall to intercept the old man.

  “Mr. Barroso.” Bradley shook Barroso’s hand warmly. “We’re done now. Thanks so much. I was just wondering how you kept your lawn in such good…?”

  “Where is your friend?” Barroso interrupted.

  At that moment Otterman glided out of the study and into the hallway, greeting Barroso enthusiastically. “Thank you, Mr. Barroso.” He too clasped Barroso’s hand. “Thank you so much. Well, we’d best get going. We have to be on the road; we got a ways to drive.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Bradley. “Thank you, Mr. Barroso. I hope Father Devlin enjoys our gift. If you see him before we do, please say hello.”

  Barroso watched the two men walk off down the pathway, get in the car, and drive off. The fat one, he noticed, waddled like he had a bad case of hemorrhoids. Barroso went back into the study and stood surveying the room. He looked at the square box sitting on the desk wrapped in brightly colored paper with a purple bow stuck on top. Barroso had known Father Devlin for years, and this didn’t look like the kind of wrapping paper a longtime friend would choose for him. It looked like the wrapping paper for a little girl’s birthday. The other thing Barroso noticed was that there was no note. When Father Devlin next returned, Barroso would have to tell him the whole story.

  Bradley sped up once they were out of sight of St. Jude’s. Otterman used one hand to lever himself up off his seat and the other to reach down the back of his pants and pull out the folder they’d found in the safe.

  “It’s heavy.” Otterman felt around inside the folder and pulled out a gold medal on a red, white, and blue ribbon.

  “What’s that?” asked Bradley.

  Otterm
an held up the medal and read the inscription. “It’s a medal for boxing. Says the National Collegiate Boxing Association 1996. Devlin’s name’s on it. Shit. This guy really isn’t any regular kind of priest.”

  “What else is there?”

  Otterman put the medal back in the folder and carried on looking. “Well…there’s receipts, a car insurance document… Hey, there’s some kind of court record here… Whoa! It’s a petition for expungement in Georgia. It’s for assault…committed March 1995.”

  “Shit. Assault? You think he had to get the expungement so he could become a priest?”

  “Maybe. What do we do with this?”

  “We tell Trayder. This is good stuff, Otterman.” While he drove, Bradley began counting off on his fingers what they’d discovered. “He’s had trouble with drink, he doesn’t believe in God, he was convicted of assault. That ain’t the usual stuff if you’re supposed to be a man of the cloth. That, my friend, is a good day’s work. We really turned up the goods on this one, Bradley.”

  “We certainly did,” Otterman agreed. “And you know what? Something tells me this is just the beginning. Something tells me Father Devlin isn’t the paid-up fucking saint he pretends to be. Revenge will be so fucking sweet…so fucking sweet.”

  9

  After Brendan had dropped him off, Devlin dumped his dirty clothes in his Ford and got his case out of the trunk to unpack a change of clothing. Then he walked back up to Ed’s house.

  The damage he had caused in the fight had been cleaned up. Somebody had boarded up the broken window and swept away the glass on the driveway. If Ed hadn’t returned, then likely it was the police or maybe Ed’s landlord. Devlin tried the bell, but there was no reply. He went round to the garage. The van was still there, and the service door was still open. Devlin went in through the door and took another look around the house. Everything had been left like Ed had just disappeared from the face of the earth. No preparations, no sign of a man about to leave whatsoever. His coat was hung up by the door. Devlin checked the pockets and found Ed’s house keys. Dirty laundry had been left in the washer, and cups and plates that had made it to the sink sat unwashed in an inch of brown water.

  From the moment Devlin had spoken to Ed over the phone, he hadn’t quite bought the gambling line he’d been fed. Now Devlin started putting into words why that was. If Ed did have gambling debts, then why would he leave his belongings behind? His TV, his truck, all the things he might be able to sell to raise some cash? When you were in debt to people, however bad those people were, all they were interested in was getting their money back, however long that took and however much interest there was on top. Just like everybody else, bad people took a pragmatic view when it came to dollars. Gambling and debt didn’t explain Ed’s behavior.

  Devlin changed into the clean clerical shirt, collar, fresh suit, and spare shoes he’d unpacked and was walking back out through the garage when he heard the engine of a car slow as it passed the house. He ran out of the garage and glimpsed a black sedan idling at the end of the drive. On seeing Devlin emerge, the sedan suddenly picked up speed and squealed off. He sprinted after the car, but by the time he’d swung out onto the sidewalk, it was already far too far away to make out a license plate. It looked like someone was keeping a close eye on the place.

  Devlin walked back to his car and drove a few miles farther out east to his next stop, the place where nearly all Ed’s GPS routes had started from. It was time to visit the Logan Ranch.

  10

  In daylight, the ranch looked more utilitarian than it had lit up at night. From the highway, Devlin followed a dirt track up through a stone arch and stopped in a dusty clearing that was used to park ranch trucks and all-terrain vehicles. There were a collection of buildings dotted around one side of the clearing: barns, the shop where the pickups and ranch machinery were maintained, and a row of trailers painted different colors but which had faded and peeled badly out in the elements. There was also a long wooden bunkhouse with stovepipe chimneys and a tar paper roof, and farther up, looking down on the working part, the ranch house. “House” was an understatement; mansion was nearer the mark. It was an old nineteenth-century ranch house idealized by a well-paid twenty-first-century architect. Judging by the mint condition it was in, it couldn’t have been all that old. It was three stories of pale brown brick topped off with elegantly curved limestone gables. Two gable ends bookended the middle gable, which housed a classically pillared white granite front entrance up a short run of white granite steps. The house was flanked by one-story buildings on each side that were topped with stone balustrades. It was handsome with tasteful flourishes done in the Dutch colonial style. But it stuck out a mile, like it didn’t belong. In Devlin’s eyes, it had an excess that was alien to its own surroundings.

  Five ranch hands were clearing out the jugs in the calving barn and dumping the used hay into the bed of a pickup. Three of them looked Hispanic, maybe brought up from ranches in Mexico. They didn’t pay much attention to Devlin and kept on with the job at hand until the rhythm of the work was broken by an all-terrain vehicle that came tearing around into the clearing. The rider stopped to yell instructions at the ranch hand operating the pickup and caught sight of Devlin standing by his Explorer. He motored over, drawing up a few meters short of Devlin and dismounted. He was tall, slim with blond hair and a look of permanent disgust. Like he’d just got the bad news he’d been expecting all his life. Devlin guessed from Stevens’s description that this was Earl Logan.

  “This isn’t a guest ranch if that’s why you’re here, Father,” Earl said in a businesslike tone devoid of any courtesy but full of the sneer Stevens had spoken of.

  “No. That’s not the reason. Name’s Devlin. I’ve come over from Boston way, on a mission of sorts.”

  “If you’ve come to save us, you’re way too late. Been a long time since God came up here. I don’t think he’s interested in us. Not if last winter was anything to go by.”

  “No. I’m not here to save souls. At least not those that don’t want saving.” As Devlin spoke a Range Rover with darkened windows appeared, winding up the dirt track into the clearing. As it rolled by the two men, Devlin saw Earl glance up at the car and quickly affect indifference to the occupants.

  The Range Rover drove on, and Earl snorted and spat a wet missile into the ground a few inches from Devlin’s right foot.

  “What are you here for, then? I told you, this isn’t a dude ranch—we got work to do.”

  “An old Air Force colleague of mine lives in Halton. I’m trying to track him down, and I believe he worked doing deliveries for a farm or ranch. So I figured it might be this one.”

  “You been to his house?”

  “Yep. But he hasn’t been in.”

  “You tried his phone?”

  “He isn’t answering.”

  “Maybe he’s avoiding you.”

  “It’s possible. His name is…”

  “I can’t tell you. I can’t give details of any staff here to strangers who roll up out of the blue whether they’re priests or Supreme Court judges. That sort of information is confidential. Now you just turn around and walk back to your car and fuck off all the way back to Boston or wherever the fuck you’re from. We’re busy.” Devlin could see in the distance that the Range Rover had pulled up in front of the ranch house, and a suited figure and a smartly dressed lady were getting out.

  “Okay, well, you’ve made yourself clear. Say, is that gentleman over there Congressman Logan? I would like very much to talk to him…”

  “Did you hear me? Get the fuck off my ranch, priest.”

  Devlin considered Earl’s response and then silently turned and walked back to his truck with Earl’s eyes boring into his back. Once the priest was behind the wheel, Earl turned toward his Honda, intending to motor back to the hands by the calving barn.

  Devlin started up the Ford. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He muttered through gritted teeth, “Manners maketh man,” and, instead of tu
rning back down to the highway, drove straight on past Earl and accelerated up to the ranch house.

  As Devlin sped by, Earl was filled with a volcanic rage. He could see that Devlin was heading toward Clay, and he swept his Honda around, taking off after him. Devlin, however, had already covered the short distance, come to a halt, and got out to intercept Clay, who was walking from his Rover.

  Earl was going to kill the priest. He was going to rip his face off and snap his neck. He could see Clay now talking to him, in an animated conversation of some kind. A red mist had descended; he skidded to a stop and got off his bike, heading straight for the priest.

  “Earl!” exclaimed Clay. “You’re not going to believe this. This is Father Devlin—he headed up the Air Force detail that got the real-time counterintelligence team up and running at Wright Patterson.”

  Earl came to a sudden halt. “What?” he spluttered.

  “I got the funds for it in an Appropriation Bill. When was that, Father?”

  “2005. That’s the main reason I dropped by, while I was in Halton, to say thank you. As a special agent in the field, it was a big thing for us, Mr. Logan. I guess I never got a chance at the time. Well, we were all so damn busy.” Devlin flashed Earl a smile. Earl’s heart burned with hate.

  “Clay. Please, call me Clay. You did a great job. It got some big wins which proved to be a real turning point for me on the Air Force Congressional Caucus. I’m grateful to you. In fact, I owe you. Pleasure to meet you, Father. Bit of a career change you had.”

  “I like to think I serve in other ways now.”

  “Of course, of course. Very admirable. You been in a fight, Father?” Clay said jokingly.

  “This?” Devlin said, pointing to his face. “I got this walking into a door. A choirboy slammed the chapel door in my face rushing to confession.”

  “Wow…”

  “Don’t worry. I forgave him.” Clay laughed loudly, and Earl seethed. The initiative had been taken from him. Every nerve in his body was shrieking at him to do real damage to this priest that had waltzed past him onto his land. But even Earl knew there would be another time, a better time to settle this than in front of the ranch hands.