A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Yes.” She twirled the single strand of hair around her finger and attempted to poke it into her twist. “In all honesty, I have to say there was a lot right with your decision, too. Especially if McKinley and whoever else were working their way up to attacking Bill Ingraham. You very well may have prevented those other things you were worried about—having a sort of witch-hunt for suspected homosexuals going on in the name of protecting them. You put a lot more thought into your approach than I did when I spoke with whats-her-name, that reporter—”

“Sheena.”

“Was that her name? Good Lord. What were her parents thinking of?” She paused for a moment before getting back on track. “My point is, you think about things before acting. And the way you think is well reasoned, informed by your experience and your morals. So stop worrying that you’re subconsciously in cahoots with creeps like McKinley.”

He crossed his hands behind his head and worked his shoulders into a more comfortable position against the love seat’s uneven back. “You know, it’s true. Confession really is good for the soul.” At that moment, his stomach rumbled loudly.

“Hungry?” she asked, pinching back a grin.

“Starved. You don’t—” He stopped himself before asking her if she had something to eat at home. He could barely justify being here with her in her office after hours. He’d come here on police business. He had found out what he needed to know. He had no call to invite himself into this woman’s house for a meal. Better his own abandoned kitchen and an intact marriage than a three-course dinner followed by divorce. He heaved himself out of the love seat. “You don’t have a bathroom around here, do you?”

“Down the hallway, right before you get to the parish hall.”

After he had used the facilities and washed up, he wandered back down the narrow hallway that ran from the huge parish hall past Clare’s office, the church office, and something labeled “the Chapter Room” and then doglegged into the church. This time, the lights were on. Clare was at the high altar again, putting out the candles with a four-foot-long brass snuffer. As it died, each candle sent a ribbon of smoke streaming up toward the gloomy reaches above, veiling the elaborately carved wooden reredos mounted on the wall behind the altar. The air was full of the smell of smoke and beeswax and stone.

“So, nobody came to the service tonight?” he asked, stepping hard on the floor so as not to startle her.

“Hmm? No, I hadn’t scheduled Evening Prayer. I just wanted to read the office of Compline for myself. I could have done it at home, but every once in a while I like to come here without it being a job requirement.” She finished the snuffing and swung the gently curved brass pole over her shoulder. “I’m discovering that I have to work at making this my place of worship, and not just my place of employment.” She descended the steps from the high altar and slid the end of the candle snuffer into its wooden stand near the wall. “Sometimes, when I’m leading the whole congregation in the Eucharist, I find myself thinking about what I have to do next—whether I remembered to tell the crucifer to stand up before the final hymn, and if I’ll able to get Mrs. so-and-so to volunteer to lead the white-elephant sale. I didn’t expect that when I became a priest.”

“Huh. I never thought about it like that. I imagined someone could easily get burned-out doing the social-work part of the job. I guess I always figured priests and ministers kind of entered another world when they did their”—he stopped himself again, this time before saying “mumbo jumbo”—“worshiping thing.” Lame.

She dug into her chinos and pulled out a jangle of keys. “I wish. Maybe there’s something to be said for religions that engage in ecstatic rituals.”

He wasn’t sure what that was—it sounded sort of sexual. He figured it was better not to ask.

“As for me, I get charged up by the social-work side of it, as you aptly put it. I love counseling and visiting and helping people. Ah, here it is.” She dangled the key ring from an old-fashioned long key that looked as if it had been cast a century ago. “Main doors. No, for me, it’s the sacramental side I have difficulty with.” She headed off down the center aisle. He fell into step beside her. “I wish I could be more like some of the students I knew at the seminary. You could just see the Holy Spirit working through them. Like it came out of their eyes. Makes me feel like a ‘sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.’ ”

He wasn’t sure what that meant either, but he could guess it wasn’t someone with spirits shining from their eyes.

She swung one of the great double doors open. “Get the lights, will you? There, on the right.” The air outside was warm and flower-sweet. She tugged the door into place and locked it.

“I’m glad to see you lock something,” he said.