“If I might have five minutes of your time?”
Before, we’d gone for coffee and I remembered her childlike joy in a slice of Danish, coupled with a frothy cappuccino. She said, “We’ll step into the recreation room.”
We did.
She indicated we sit at a hard wooden table. Seemed appropriate.
She folded her hands, asked,
“How may I assist you, Mr. Taylor?”
I tried to ease the level of frigidity present, inquired,
“How have you been, Sister?”
“The Lord provides.”
Jesus wept, the usual wall of spiritual gobbledygook. I abandoned the ingratiation, went with, “I’ve been employed by the Church.”
Paused.
Let that nugget hover.
Continued,
“To find a Father Loyola.”
The name hit.
She almost recoiled, actually moved physically from the table, as if to distance herself. Deception was not in her DNA, so I pushed,
“You know him, I guess?”
She nodded, guarded.
I went for the kill,
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Long silence. I didn’t try to fill it, then she said,
“He belonged to the Brethren.”
Past tense?
She knew, I waited.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “I imagine your employer is less the Church than Father Gabriel.”
Her use of his name implied she was not a fan. I asked,
“Are they not the same?”
She gave me a look of not quite disdain but in the neighborhood, said,
“Father Gabriel is more interested in… power than pity.”
Bitterness leaked over the last words.
She fingered her rosary beads, continued,
“The Brethen started as a wonderful idea. To reform the church from within. A return to the teaching of Our Lord, Jesus, and the hope of restoring the people’s trust in their church.”
I nearly laughed.
The sheer fucking naivete of this. Every day, the papers screamed about how the bishops continued to hide and minimize the abuse. To such an extent that the Guards were considering prosecuting them. And still, the hierarchy, entrenched in arrogance, refused to co-operate. I wanted to roar,
“Good luck with that.”
Went with,
“Didn’t work, huh?”
She sidestepped my sarcasm, said,
“In the beginning, it did so well. Later it emerged that Father Gabriel had another agenda. A return to the fundamentalism that would bring the people to their knees. Father Loyola believed that if he removed their funding, they’d be powerless.”
I said,
“Gabriel sounds like an ecclesiastical hit squad.”
She nearly smiled, said,
“That is bordering on sarcasm, Mr. Taylor, but Father Gabriel is not a man to be crossed. They even have a motto, Brethren Eternitas.”
The initials on his sharp briefcase.
They were sounding like the militant wing of Dominus Deo.
Cut to the chase time. I asked,
“Do you know where I can find him?”
If she told me, my case would be wrapped right there. I could wipe the smug look off Gabriel’s face, pocket my fee, and look forward to Laura’s imminent arrival. Sister Maeve was on the verge of answering when her whole body shuddered. I recognized the effect. It’s called in Ireland
“When someone walks on your grave.”