The Rule of Sebastian Page 14

  They met again at lunch, a quick passing in the corridors, at dinner, and then after Vespers in the laundry room, where Brother Hubert trimmed their hair. Afterward, Casey shadowed Sebastian into the bathroom, the way he had dozens of times before. So much had transpired between them with the investigation, it seemed odd to Sebastian not to speak to him during those times. Swathed in a knowing manner, they grinned at each other more than usual. Hidden secrets prowled behind those furtive smiles. Did Sebastian dare add more?

  He stood by the shower stalls and turned, flushing, as Casey moved to slip out of his sandals. From his acute peripheral vision, Sebastian watched him uncinch his bathrobe and pull it off his shoulders. He shifted his gaze when Casey turned back from hanging the robe on the wall hook.

  He’d seen it before. The boxer briefs that Casey liked to wear under his monastic garb. The kind that, on the appropriate wearer, might accentuate the curve of the thighs, the subtle muscles of the hamstrings, the roundness of the butt cheeks. Casey was one of those people.

  The sheer tautness of the white fabric against Casey’s backside stole Sebastian’s breath. And when Casey stripped off his underwear and hung it over his robe, the sight of his exposed backside drained spit from his mouth.

  Sebastian looked away again and waited to hear Casey crank on the jet behind him. By the volume of the rush of water, he could tell that Casey hadn’t bothered to pull the curtain shut like he normally would. He was watching Sebastian. Spying on him. Waiting.

  Sebastian could linger no longer. He yanked off his bathrobe, balled it on the bench, and stepped inside the stall directly opposite Casey. He, too, dared to leave the shower curtain open, but kept his back to Casey. Hot ringing in his ears converged with the first blast of warm water across his shoulders and back.

  He stretched his legs and arms, his hands busy lathering his body. Finally, he opened his eyes over his right shoulder, looking toward Casey. Sebastian’s instincts proved true. Casey was staring, ogling him. Sebastian rotated fully, met the force of his gaze, a pair of headlights blinding him.

  Water fell over Casey’s newly trimmed hair and ran along his chest and across his sinewy stomach and pelvis. Keeping his eyes glued on Sebastian, he lathered himself with the soap. His flesh glistened, imitating the most luxurious silk. Suds slid along his arms, chest, legs. Sebastian fixed on Casey, waiting to see which one would flinch first. An impassioned standoff ensued.

  Steam built up around them. New blood filled Sebastian. He did not try to conceal his partial arousal, should Casey see through the mist. Sebastian wanted to reach across the way and touch his sleek flesh. His hand trembled by his side. Soapy bubbles tickled his chest. He was aware of his lengthening shaft. He kept his eyes fastened on Casey, whose form fluctuated with the expanding steam.

  The muted scrape of someone’s sandals on the bathroom floor stole away their attention. Casey jumped first, drew shut the curtain in a spray of soap and water. Sebastian rinsed quickly, shut off the jet, and covered himself in a towel.

  Brother Eusebius was filling a sink basin with water. His toiletry bag sat on the counter below the mirror. Acting nonchalant, Sebastian dried off by the bench while Brother Eusebius shaved. Sebastian, sensing Brother Eusebius was staring at him in the mirror, threw on his robe and scurried off for his cell.

  LATER, during Retire, Sebastian lay in bed, eyes wide open. His mind stayed glued to Casey and what he’d seen of him earlier in the shower.

  For the first time in many weeks, he loosened the belt on his tunic and submitted to his own touch.

  Chapter Thirteen

  CHANTING voices filled the chapel. Crying out to Heaven. Beseeching for peace, for an inward understanding of all that embodied pure knowledge.

  A week had passed since that horrible day of finding JC’s body in the walk-in freezer, and Ash Wednesday descended over them like a faraway truth pushing against dreams. Harsh, cold winds outside shook them from their stupor. Confusion and suspicions grew.

  Sebastian studied their faces, eyes, body language. Even old, crippled Brother Augustine, whom Brother George had wheeled to the chapel for the special Mass. One of them held onto a singular notion: Guilt. But none imparted anything more than incredulity. Casey showed signs of shame—his head low, eyes slightly closed and mouth drooping. But certainly his expression came from what had occurred between them in the shower room on Saturday, not from the guilt of a murderer.

  Sebastian didn’t share his shame. Maybe he experienced regret that things couldn’t go further. Or frustration that he’d opened himself to vulnerabilities, the ones he’d hoped to keep capped forever. And disappointment that he might have dragged poor Casey into the same arena that he loathed whenever Father Paolo misled naïve postulants. But not shame.

  He didn’t wish to speak to Casey about what had happened. He didn’t like to share his feelings; his actions spoke for themselves. And now Lent sat upon their shoulders, ushering in a new level of austerity, a new season of self-restraint. He and Casey had exposed themselves to each other in the shower room in an act of finality before the going without. Their personal Fat Tuesday—played out on a Saturday afternoon with a slap of rushing water and hazy steam.

  Father Paolo read from Scripture. The Lord’s message enveloped Sebastian. On the police force, he’d used the power of God to pull him through the ugliness of crime—and the loneliness of his personal life. He’d hope and pray. Was there a way to vindicate JC’s death and perhaps save the brother responsible?

  In some ways, prayer had become a habit. He’d been doing it since he was a boy. God could not abandon him now, after he’d devoted so much of his life to asking for guidance. Not when the abbey needed him more than ever.

  Why had JC uttered the name Manny?

  Did the misplaced fillet knife factor into the crime?

  Had the killer snatched it to kill again?

  What object had he used to strike JC? Had he smashed it over his head in a fit of rage, disgusted with JC for his rude behavior, like the rest of them? And where had he discarded it? There were few hiding places in the abbey. Not even the incinerator could conceal hard evidence.

  Yet the most anguishing reflection on Sebastian’s mind was this: No one had come forward to claim responsibility a week after his crime. A Trappist, even if he’d lost control in a blinding rage, must know the importance of renouncing his sin before God and his fellow brothers. Unless….

  Unless the brother was a sociopath and lacked the normal human conscience needed to understand the severity of his crime. Sebastian had stared into the eyes of psychopaths before. None of the brothers exhibited the empty yet piercing expression of a madman. Implausible.

  The more Sebastian pondered, the less anything made sense.

  God, come to my assistance; Lord, make haste to help me.

  Sebastian uttered the prayer, hoping to find clues in it. The verses did not come to him like music. This time, they inched up inside him, stalagmites cleaving to his soul. Sharp and empty.

  Perhaps God frowned upon the abbey—frowned upon all abbeys.

  Frowned upon him.

  But his God was a merciful one, not vengeful. Wasn’t he?

  “The Dalakis Curse.” He wanted to holler out loud, let his moans carry to the rafters. He’d heard the silly rumors his first week as a postulant.

  The former owner of Mt. Ouray’s land, Mrs. Dalakis, had suspected her late husband of dabbling in black magic and worshipping demons, and the story was told of an evil that lurked on the abbey’s grounds.

  Because of Sebastian’s faith, he’d never fallen for monsters and goblins. Wickedness resided in the hearts of men. Diabolic murderers inside abbeys came about by human action alone. People created their own wickedness. Unless mental illness stalked them. Mr. Dalakis had probably fallen victim to cabin fever. Lost his head and began seeing visions of witches and devils.

  Had that happened with JC’s killer? Had one of them snapped, hallucinating that JC was some kind of devil that
had arrived mysteriously at Mt. Ouray to harm them? Had he heard bodiless voices whispering for him to murder?

  Or perhaps a heated battle between good and evil was playing out inside their abbey. God versus Satan, the eternal conflict waging onward. And the brothers, trapped for the winter, stood helpless in the midst of the perennial death match.

  The coming prophesy, as Revelation proclaimed. Satan, released from his prison, unleashed upon mankind. Shot from Heaven on the back of a lightning bolt. JC had been sent to Mt. Ouray—once the possible site of black masses and satanic rituals, and eventually the final blows—for that sole purpose. “It will happen exactly as I’ve intended, exactly as I’ve planned….”

  Seated next to him, Casey seemed to notice Sebastian’s quiver. He glanced above his cantorum. Sebastian wanted to smile at him and reassure him. He knew he shouldn’t. Not during the Eucharist. Not on Ash Wednesday.

  The father read the Proclamation: “We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us….” And afterward he chanted Psalm 51: “…wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me of my sin.”

  The brothers chanted in refrain: “Create in me a clean heart, oh God.”

  On and on they chanted the psalm, until the abbot stunned them by breaking protocol. He stepped before the pulpit, his cowl flowing around him in a rush of brilliant white, and, after clearing his throat, stated in a pained voice, though one without hesitancy: “Use this season of Lent to ask God to forgive you of your sins, and ask that he walk with you when you, who acted alone in murder, step forward. I implore you. A week has passed. Do it now, in God’s house, before your brothers who see you as Jesus, in greatness and in sin. Stand up and announce yourself. We will embrace you. Now is the moment to save your soul.”

  The brothers stirred. Glances grew stronger, changing into gaping stares. When no one made to move—not even a flinch to come forward—they turned their eyes away from one another. Sebastian kept a close watch on them. Which one displayed the look of a killer?

  Brother Eusebius stood tall and solid, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Brothers Lucien, Micah, and George shook as if Father Paolo had flogged them. Brothers Jerome and Hubert cast their eyes to the floor, shaking their heads. Brother Giles, stiff in his wheelchair, pursed his lips. Brother Rodel twitched, mumbled prayers. Casey, the sole one among them who stared directly at the abbot, embodied the most innocence in Sebastian’s eyes. He wasn’t prejudiced, was he? And Brother Augustine sat slumped in his wheelchair, oblivious to the gravity of the moment.

  Silence in the chapel whirled around their heads, underlining the fierce winds outside. Someone cleared his throat. A low sob broke from Brother George. A minute passed. Then another. Head bowed, the father returned to the pulpit. Without another spoken word, he raised his hands and sang the Prayers of the People and led the monks into the corridor.

  From there, they went about their chores and responsibilities, devoid of food save for bread and water. Sebastian cared little that they fasted on Ash Wednesdays. He had scarce appetite anyway.

  Somber puzzlement hovered over the brothers. They walked about with heaviness upon their shoulders. Sebastian wanted only to crawl into bed. More and more he questioned his reasons for coming to Mt. Ouray. Older brothers discouraged postulants from seeking monastic life as an escape. But three solid years inside the abbey had taught him that almost all of them did.

  Brother George, although he would’ve had a tough go of it in the modern world with his puerile attitude, might have had limited choices. Brother Eusebius’s devotion appeared sincere. Brother Rodel, who he was certain was also homosexual, seemed the most likely of the postulants Sebastian had seen come and go in his short years to preserve into middle age.

  Casey? What had driven him, so young, to seek the secluded life of a monk? Sebastian never questioned his devotion—no one had a grasp of the Latin and psalms better than he. Had he chosen the perfect vocation?

  Sebastian had fantasized about Casey long before their time in the shower. Each night he crawled into bed, he’d see Casey’s nude body, its tautness hard to conceal beneath his tunic. And after he’d shut his eyes, Sebastian chased him in his dreams, naked and yearning… then Casey would turn the tables and become the pursuer.

  Sebastian had opened a door when he’d asked Casey to be his secondary. He held onto no misconceptions of his motives for forging a partnership with him. He’d done it once before, during a triple homicide, when he’d involved a young officer he knew lacked the experience. Eventually, Officer Julio had become uncomfortable with Sebastian’s attentions and excused himself from the case. He kept his distance from Sebastian from that point on, and by the end of the month had requested a transfer.

  Sebastian had never experienced such inner humiliation.

  But Casey embraced Sebastian’s interest. They shared a new level of intimacy. That had become clear during their “dance” in the shower stalls, their nakedness in full view for each other.

  And as the first week of Lent came to a close and still no clues pointed to who had killed JC, Sebastian took solace in the one earthly dependability in his life: Brother Casey Galvan.

  THE hurried slap of sandals on the terracotta floor grabbed Sebastian’s attention where he sat by the cloister garden eating breakfast. Casey stopped in front of him.

  “You told me to keep my eyes peeled,” he whispered. “Well, I noticed something. It’s probably nothing, but much better than what I had to offer you last time.”

  “What is it?”

  “In JC’s old cell. Will you come look, while everyone’s occupied with breakfast?”

  Sebastian left his tray on the sideboard in the entrance foyer and followed Casey. Before opening the door, Casey peered up and down the corridor. Sebastian matched his stealthy posture and tiptoed inside. Casey switched on the light, and they glanced around. Everything looked the same as the last time Sebastian had checked.

  “Do you notice anything?” Casey asked.

  Sebastian focused. Then all of the sudden he brightened, eyes fixed on the wall shelf. “The statue of the Virgin Mary.”

  Casey nodded. “It’s gone. I remember Father Paolo gave him one. It was the stir of the abbey. Brother George said he was shocked he’d given him a statuette before he even committed as a postulant. JC had placed it on his wall shelf, I saw it once when I brought him clean sheets.”

  “I saw it too,” Sebastian said, still gazing at the empty wall shelf. He mentally kicked himself for having failed to notice earlier. “What made you look in here?”

  “I was searching for clues.”

  Sebastian couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good job, Casey. Very good indeed.”

  “Do you think the killer was angry that Father Paolo had given it to him, and after he’d killed him he took it?”

  “It’s quite possible. Or maybe it had fallen during a struggle. At least this gives us reason to believe JC’s cell might be the scene of the assault.”

  Sebastian dropped to his hands and knees and checked the room for the tenth time, sweeping his eyes under the bed, reexamining the closet, scrutinizing each nook and cranny. Casey, eager to help, scurried alongside him like a raccoon foraging for roots.

  Like the other times, they came up empty. Not even blood splatter. If only he could get his hands on luminol. Sebastian wanted to reexamine JC’s body to confirm what he now considered, that the killer had used the statue to knock JC unconscious. Signs of the statuette—paint flecks or ceramic pieces—might still be imbedded in his scalp. Frozen in place. That would require some persuasion of the abbot.

  Meanwhile, Sebastian fastened on one objective, and that was to find the missing statuette. He and Casey used the time they should be engaged in lectio divina to split up and search the abbey, all the while trying to look casual to the occasional brother they passed in the corridors. Certainly God would not mind that they neglected studying Scripture to search for an important clue to a murder.
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  After nearly an hour, they both met in Sebastian’s cell. By the look on Casey’s face, he hadn’t had any success finding the statuette either—or what remained of it.

  “Don’t fret,” Sebastian told him with a counterfeit smile. “A good investigator keeps looking until he’s exhausted each lead.”

  Throughout the day, Sebastian tried to squeeze some strength from his own words. With the gnawing revelation of the statuette missing from JC’s cell still fresh, he realized that to meet his goal, he needed to employ his true investigative skills: conduct face-to-face interviews with his fellow monks.

  Whether or not his brothers grew apprehensive of his actions, Sebastian did not care. He had wanted to sit down with each of them, one at a time, for days. No reason to hold back. He was tired of the sideways glances and unrelenting assumptions.

  The best technique would be to poke his nose within inches of theirs and demand they confess. But Mt. Ouray was not the “interview room” of the twenty-fifth district. He could not assail his fellow Trappist brothers with such drastic tactics. Gentle nudging would serve his best interest for now.

  “Can you think of anything that might explain JC’s murder?” Sebastian asked Brother Giles while he gave the illusion of helping him tidy the entrance foyer, taking a much-needed morning off from crafting rosaries. Sebastian, tucking his dust rag under his arm, lifted his breakfast tray, embarrassed he’d forgotten it.

  “I’m glad he’s gone from us,” Brother Giles said. Spittle collected on his lower lip—lopping and swollen, as if he’d chewed on it for some time—and dribbled alongside his crumb-covered silver beard. “I pray God to forgive me, but I’m glad he’s gone.”

  “Did he do something to harm you, Brother Giles?”

  Brother Giles held the cleaning rag in his veiny, liver-spotted right hand. “I went in to check on him in his cell a few days before his death,” he said, facing the long corridor that led to the cells. “I was bringing him fresh linens. The door was ajar. I didn’t think anything wrong with going inside.” He shook his head. “I found him lying in bed, his scapular tossed on the floor and his tunic uncinched. Doing that horrible thing. And he didn’t even stop when I walked in.”