The Rule of Sebastian Read online

  But just before retiring for the night, with both relief for his solitude and puzzlement still percolating inside his mind that the crime remained unsolved, someone rapped on his cell door.

  Sebastian opened the door a crack. He suppressed a sigh of displeasure at seeing Brother Lucien. He’d hoped Casey had snuck from his cell to unload his grief on his shoulders. “What is it, Brother Lucien?”

  “Father Paolo needs to speak with you.”

  “Now?”

  “He insists.” Brother Lucien’s face looked gray and aged. “He says right away.”

  FATHER PAOLO was seated behind his heavy desk, his eyes unblinking, when Sebastian stepped inside the dimly lit office. He had on only one desk lamp, and the fireplace ran cold. Brother Lucien left them alone with a numb thud of the door.

  “No one has come forward,” the father said bluntly, without greeting him or lifting his eyes from his glowing desk lamp. “No one. No confession at all. Has anyone said anything to you?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “We’ve all been sealed tight. Stunned by the events, I suppose.”

  “I provided everyone ample time to admit to striking JC and dragging his body to the freezer. Whoever is responsible might have asked God for forgiveness and he feels that is enough. I was hoping to have someone locked away in his cell without question by now. That’s why I’ve called for you at this late hour, Brother Sebastian.”

  Sebastian swallowed. “What help can I be?”

  Father Paolo’s frown elongated the lines around his mouth into wide arches. His black irises, glistening behind his eyeglasses, pumped cold blood into Sebastian’s heart. What was he alluding to? He couldn’t be thinking what Sebastian feared he might.

  “Sit, why don’t you?”

  Reverting to an obedient child, Sebastian took baby steps to one of the large Bergère chairs and eased into it. He clasped his hands together atop his lap, waiting and wondering. He felt almost nude without his scapular. He’d left it hanging over his desk chair in his cell when Brother Lucien had knocked.

  Father Paolo crossed his arms over his chest. A smirk lifted his ashen face. He looked down at Sebastian with fast blinking eyes, licked his lips. Sebastian gripped the armrests, his mouth dry.

  “I can assume you’re not guilty, correct?” the abbot said after an agonizing minute, almost playfully.

  Unsure how to respond without coming across as sarcastic, Sebastian said, “Of course.”

  The father sighed, and he refolded his hands over the desktop. “Your secret has been kept with me for all your years here.”

  Sebastian squirmed, twitched. Sweat built up on his palms. The padded armrest felt itchy under his grip.

  “I will not tell the others about your well-guarded secret. I haven’t after all this time.”

  Sebastian tried to utter something, one word that might confirm life still breathed inside him. All he could do was vibrate his heavy lips. The father had him cornered.

  Father Paolo of course knew about his bygone life outside Mt. Ouray. He had come clean when he’d first entered the monastery as a postulant. The abbey conducted extensive background checks before permitting anyone to reside among the brothers, anyway.

  “I never held you accountable for why you came to seek prayer in God’s house. I can understand your wanting to flee all that crime and corruption. It must have been horrible.”

  “Why… why are you raising this now?”

  The abbot’s smirk lengthened, deepening the shadows around his mouth and nose and turning his eyes into mere slits. “The Philadelphia Police Department’s loss is our gain. At least for the present situation.” He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands below his chin in his signature posture. “It’s in your blood. You’ve already snooped into why and how Brother JC had come here. An investigation into his death won’t be any different.”

  Sebastian’s eyes widened, and his heart fluttered. Trepidation clenched onto his limbs, held him in a death grip, a suspect apprehended by a hypergregarious police officer. A man much like Sebastian had once been. A life that seemed so remote, led by someone else. Yet it had only been four years ago.

  Hard to imagine that existence now. So much had transpired. A stark difference from his current position, wearing a white tunic, black scapular, and worn leather sandals, compared to his world of five-hundred-dollar suits and silk ties and a badge.

  That past life as a sergeant with the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department, digging up crumbs of every hideous murder dropped in his lap, couldn’t be farther from his routine at the abbey. He’d once believed detective work defined him. Before big city bureaucracy and a grandiose media forced him out.

  There was no doubt, though, that ever since he’d carried JC into the abbey after Casey had spotted him lying in the snowbank, his investigative instincts had recharged into a powerful machine he’d feared unable to control. Each time he’d contemplated the young man, he’d wanted to interrogate him, relive his past inside the twenty-fifth district’s “interview room” on Whitaker Avenue. Never in a lifetime of years had he envisioned JC would become a murder victim too. And inside a monastery. His monastery. Mt. Ouray. A place where he’d hoped to leave the nonsense and violence of the city behind.

  He wanted to turn from the abbot’s face, realizing that putting the past entirely behind one was more improbable than pushing back the Rocky Mountains. Life’s experiences stalked its former stewards, regardless of where they tried to hide. Somehow his had found him and reared again, a rabid wolf shaking him in its clutches, ready to force a pay up.

  Yet the spasms in his throat signified something more. Father Paolo’s insinuation had aroused him. Enthusiasm for the chase, the taste of a good hunt, sprung up inside him. He never could leave behind the desire for uncovering motives and culprits. Even for crimes as ugly as murder.

  Brother Sebastian and Sergeant Harkin were the same man, and always had been.

  “We will keep your investigation into who killed Brother JC between us, of course,” the abbot said. “I’m certain you can uncover clues without detection. I know you’re dying to.”

  He allowed the words forming inside his mind to accumulate on his tongue before speaking, wanting the father to understand him without ambiguity. “I will do as much as I can, if you feel it’s important enough, but in the meantime, I still believe the authorities should be notified—”

  “I won’t change my mind on that issue,” the father spat. “I’m putting the entire investigation into your hands. That’s that, Brother Sebastian.”

  “But, Father….”

  “I won’t have a scandal hanging over my head,” he said. “We must and will take matters on ourselves. We’re a religious order. No one wants to learn of such ghastly events.”

  “Won’t the authorities find out at some point anyway?”

  “If we can solve the case ourselves, we can hand him over to the police when the time is right without worrying about fanfare. The media has a small attention span. They like news timely.”

  Sebastian realized the abbot was right on that matter. He swallowed and gave the impression of a nod.

  “Keep JC’s murder sealed inside our abbey,” the father reiterated, “and I will permit you to pry into his death. I find that a suitable compromise, don’t you?”

  “How will I go about it?”

  “I would think this would be one of your easier jobs. No one can come or go. All suspects are trapped within our walls.”

  “Won’t the brothers figure out what I’m doing?”

  Father Paolo sighed toward the cold fireplace. “I’m more aware than anyone of the channels of gossip that rove our corridors here. I’m the abbot. There will be talk. What matter? Let them know if you wish. They understand your inquisitive nature. Tell them you’re investigating out of your own morbid curiosity, with the abbot’s consent. You can keep your former police job and all that happened in Philadelphia hush-hush. I won’t tell them. I haven’t all these
years.”

  “It could be dangerous for us here. Perhaps one of the brothers has fallen mentally ill, suffers from cabin fever or something, or has developed rage issues.”

  “Can you think of anyone who fits such a ludicrous description? Our most recent postulant is Brother Casey. This is his first winter here.” The abbot grinned. “Do you think he’s the one who lost his mind and killed Brother JC?”

  “Never,” Sebastian stated with a firm chin. “It couldn’t be him.”

  “And it couldn’t be you or me or Brother Lucien.” The father flushed. “Lucien was with me during most of that night, going over administrative matters.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The abbot stood, palms flat on his desk. “My decision is firm. If you choose to disobey, let me remind you of the ramifications for those who defy an abbot’s command, stipulated by St. Benedict in his Rule. Shall I go over them?”

  Sebastian understood well enough. Whoever listened to the abbot listened to the Lord. St. Benedict’s fifteen-hundred-year-old text left no room for uncertainty. “…as the master gives the instruction, the disciple quickly puts into practice the fear of God.”

  Sebastian had lived by such codes his entire career, codes he’d been threatened with if he’d dared to break the mold, or was even perceived to. No people endured more stringent canons rammed down their throats than those in law enforcement. Rules piled one atop the other that formed the foundation of the police department, heralded through layers of power. Governing parties, the media, captains, and those on the street. Each distinctive. All applied with equal severity.

  Inside the confines of the abbey, Sebastian also understood St. Benedict demanded mutual obedience. At some point, a truer compromise would have to be forged between him and the abbot.

  For now, he acquiesced. “No, Father Paolo,” he said into his shiny eyeglasses, “you do not need to clarify the consequences of disloyalty to me.”

  Father Paolo’s voice softened. “I know I have assigned you a burdensome task, but it’s not beyond your ability to bear the weight. Trust in God, and you will see an easy path to whoever has brought us disgrace at Mt. Ouray.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other.” He held out his hand for Sebastian to take. “Think of it as a gift I’ve given you. You can exercise your inquisitive nature without worry of my censure. Now go get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

  When Sebastian left the abbot’s private office, Brother Lucien was sprawled over a chair in front of one of the computers, snoozing like a well-fed armchair quarterback. Had he heard what had transpired between him and Father Paolo before nodding off? Was he merely pretending to sleep?

  Already, Sebastian tasted the detective skills ripening on his tongue.

  Chapter Eleven

  THEIR vocal cords were loosening. The passing of twenty-four hours had allowed time for JC’s awful death to settle in like a fog over the San Juan Mountains, and the brothers had acclimated to their new station—a faintly glowing world of murder and suspicion. In the absence of initial shock, another round of excitement had emerged. They sensed no one had come clean about the murder; the abbey grapevine would have coughed up something by now. It was in the air, a bad stink. The silent order could no longer seal their lips. Casey listened to his fellow brothers bantering while they plated their breakfasts. He found himself caught up in the speculation as much as any of them.

  “Nothing like this has ever happened here. Not in the abbey’s fifty-year history.”

  “Not too long ago, a visitor fell and hit his head, Brother Jerome,” Brother George said, matching the brothers’ hushed tones. “Slipped on the stone walkway out front after a drizzle. Died instantly.” He placed a fat finger to his downturned mouth. “I think his wife sued the abbey, but lost.”

  “Brother Hubert once told me about the monk who fell down the steps in the cottage house. I forgot when. He was carrying soiled guest towels.” Brother Rodel cringed. “Horrible to think.”

  “It was about twenty years ago,” Brother Hubert mumbled.

  “It’s that curse,” Brother Micah said, squeezing a spatula while he flipped over more fried potatoes before the stove. “The Dalakis Curse.”

  “There’s no such thing as curses,” Brother Eusebius said. “Accidents happen and people die. Doesn’t mean a curse. The honorable Brother Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk like us, was electrocuted in a bathtub in Thailand while listening to a phonograph. Which reprehensible curse had struck him?”

  “But this was no accident,” Brother Lucien said.

  “I must believe maybe it was,” Brother George said, piling his plate with scrambled Egg Beaters and corn mash. “You should’ve seen poor Brother Augustine’s face. Even he looks shaken, and he can’t see or hear any better than a cave cricket.”

  “It’s the curse. I sense it,” Brother Micah reiterated.

  Casey too had wondered about “the Dalakis Curse.” Almost embarrassed he’d believed that the legend of black magic by the previous landowner might explain JC’s death, he’d shaken himself and concentrated on obeying Father Paolo’s dictum. Stick with the abbey routine. Help in the kitchen whenever requested, stay abreast of incoming discernment inquiries and prayer requests, keep wood stocked for the three fireplaces. Ora et labora. Prayer and work.

  Only for a brief moment, when the reality of the unfolding events had seemed impossible to comprehend, did he entertain the fantasy of curses. Often magic made the most sense when logic failed to offer credible explanations.

  In turn, Brother Sebastian had pushed his way into Casey’s head. Casey had tried to maintain a civil disposition around him. Now, with JC—he gulped—out of the picture, he wanted to sit beside Sebastian again. Act as if nothing unpleasant had ever arisen between them or the abbey.

  He wasn’t among them that morning when the brothers, realizing Father Paolo might skip breakfast, had shifted their silence into soft chatter about JC’s death. Sebastian had plated up before the others, ignoring age-old custom that the eldest monks serve themselves first. Casey hadn’t even the chance to help him plate his food or pour his steaming black coffee. Trancelike, he’d shuffled about the kitchen. He’d glimpsed from brother to brother before walking off with his tray.

  The odd circumstances of JC’s death seemed to lie heavier upon Sebastian’s shoulders than the others, like the way a knight might carry a lance in hopes of saving a kidnapped damsel. Was Sebastian mourning his lover?

  “I’m sure there are no such things as curses,” he said, reaching for a cold muffin and trying his best to keep his head clear of inane fantasies—whether diabolical hexes or handsome monks. “Deuteronomy says, fathers shall not be executed because of their children’s sins, and children shall not be executed because of their fathers’ sins. A curse, therefore, makes no sense.”

  “What makes you think God had a hand in this?” Brother Giles wheeled to the beginning of the food line and refilled his plate. “Perhaps a dark energy grabbed the hand of whoever did this.”

  Brother George gasped. “Brother Giles, you shouldn’t say such things. God’s hand is in everything.”

  “The devil stalks every corridor and lurks behind every tree.” Brother Giles shrugged. “Maybe the killer is unaware of his actions.”

  Silence punctured their soft conversation. Eyeballs darted back and forth. Each brother held suspicions. Yet only one had committed the deed of a murderer.

  “That’s fantastical,” Brother Lucien said, shaking the brothers from their stunted silence. “You’re ranting on about possession.”

  “How much do you really know about Brother JC’s death, Brother Jerome?” Brother Hubert peered at him behind his black-framed glasses. “Are you keeping anything from us?”

  The fluorescent lighting accented the red blooming over Brother Jerome’s pallid face and the bald spot on his head. While waiting for him to answer, Casey tried to savor the aroma of Brother Micah’s cinnamon rolls basking unde
r the warming lights. But they failed to relax him.

  “I know as much as any of you,” Brother Jerome said at last.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”

  Brother Lucien, standing behind Brother George in line and impatient, glowered. “Someone gave him a good larrup, Brother George, accept it.”

  “Was he really struck on the head?” Brother Rodel asked. “On purpose?”

  “I’ve seen it before. I saw the signs.” Brother Jerome gave a succinct nod. “Yes, I’m certain he was struck on the head. Whether or not on purpose, well, that’s not for me to say.”

  “Do you think anyone has come forward?” Brother Hubert asked.

  Most of them shook their heads. “No one ever will,” Brother Micah said. “The mystery of his death and his killer, along with how and why he’d come here, will be forever sealed….”

  The others followed Brother Micah’s gaze to the door of the nearby walk-in freezer. Casey noticed many of them visibly shudder. He, too, felt a creepiness inch up his spine while they spoke about a young man whose body they stored mere feet away from them.

  “We’re talking nonsense,” Brother Eusebius said. “Let’s mind the Grand Silence. The abbot might be in for breakfast any moment. You saw his expression at Vigils. More sour than I’ve ever seen. If he hears us speaking in this manner, no telling what he’ll do. He’ll remand all of us back to our cells.”

  The brothers heeded Brother Eusebius’s warning. They remained quiet, plating their food and carrying their trays to far-flung parts of the abbey, where they ate in solitude. When he’d finally spooned out his portions, Casey took his tray to the cloister overlooking the garden. He sat beside Sebastian. This time, there was no need for coyness.

  They ate shoulder to shoulder on the terracotta floor, uttering not a word. The radiators’ cadenced humming shrouded them with gentle warmth. Outside in the morning darkness, the snowfall had settled to a steady downpour of crystal dust. With the monumental storms of the past few weeks, the shrubs and fountain were now impossible to distinguish.