"I think we're drifting, we're definitely drifting too far south," Adrian started mumbling loudly. His hand clutched the handle of the passenger door to Father Fitzwater's 1988 Probe almost too tightly; he wasn't really comfortable taking the ferry over to the island the monastery was on, "We're going to drift out to sea, I know it, we'd better go back."
"I don't think there's any danger of that, Mr. Monk," Father Fitzwater reassured him, "I've seen the currents far worse than this. And the pilot's been handling the ferry since I was named vicar eight years ago; I would trust his judgment."
"Then why was he so adamant about the weight limit?" Adrian had to know. The ferry pilot had forced him to leave behind almost half his provisions on the dock on the argument that the boat could not handle all of them at once. "He should know it's a cardinal sin--if I might say so--to deprive a man of radiation suits and...hold on to the wheel!"
He flinched noticeably when Father Fitzwater subconsciously removed one hand from the wheel. The priest calmly took hold of it again. Adrian breathed in relief. "So, when did the murders take place?" he inquired, eager to divert his attention from the fact they were floating over the bay.
"It was about two weeks ago that Brother Clement was found dead in his cell," Father Fitzwater related, "At the time nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but something in the back of my mind told me there was something amiss. Barely five days later, Brother Pius was dead too, and I knew it couldn't be a coincidence."
"Did you try to interrogate the other monks to see if they knew anything?"
"That wouldn't have done any good," the priest shook his head, "You see, our order takes a voluntary vow of silence. Some of them haven't said a word for ten years or more, and nothing could make them break that vow. Here we are now."
There was a low thump as the ferry touched against the island's landing. Adrian leaned back in his seat in relief once they'd eased back onto dry land. "Did any of them have a clear motive in wanting to kill the victims?" he asked.
"If so, they kept it to themselves," Father Fitzwater admitted, "And it's not easy trying to judge people when they say nothing that might give away their guilt. Mostly when we're not eating or at prayers, they meditate in their cells, and I certainly haven't bothered them in the middle of that."
"And you're certain it couldn't have been an outsider?"
"Impossible. The ferry shuts down at dusk each night, and it's the only way on or off the island. If anyone had sneaked in, we would have noticed; there's nowhere for someone to hide here."
The car pulled up alongside a long, low adobe building surrounded by several tall trees. Indeed, Adrian felt no one would have noticed the monastery was there if they knew nothing about its existence in the first place. He hunched up as he got out to avoid getting too wet from the rain and began unloading his suitcases from the back seat--which they almost completely filled up. "And you have tried to tell the authorities your suspicions, and they haven't believed you?" he inquired, handing Father Fitzwater a couple of suitcases containing several pounds of soap.
"I've tried every avenue in the area," Father Fitzwater staggered under the weight of the suitcases and almost fell, "The district attorney, the local sheriff, even the archdiocese, and every one of them found there was insufficent proof of foul play. So having read of your exploits in the paper, I decided hiring you would be worth a try. My office is over this way, you can bring these in here."
He pushed open the door to a small room that nonetheless felt cramped. Mountains of papers lined Father Fitzwater's desk, and dozens of books sat on the large shelf against the far wall, none of them even remotely color coordinated. Adrian immediately took hold of the papers and tamped them down into an even pile, then scuttled over to the bookcase and started rearranging them. "G.K. Chesterton?" he read the spine of the one he was holding, "So you read mystery stories regularly?"
"I'll admit it has been a certain fondness of mine," Father Fitzwater dropped Adrian's suitcases on the floor, breathing heavily, "Perhaps, unfortunately, that has factored into everyone's decision not to believe me, that they think I see mysteries everywhere I look."
"I see," Adrian switched the book around with one that was similar to it in size. He next walked over to the wall and straightened out the cross hanging there. His gaze fell on the picture on the wall. "So you played football when you were younger?" he asked.
"For my first two years of high school," Father Fitzwater reminisced, "I made all state my sophomore year as a linebacker; I dreamed of playing professionally up the road in Green Bay. Then unfortunately the first game of the junior season I tore out my leg. That ruined everything, although I had trouble facing the reality I would never play professionally for years. Luckily, God found me, and it's been a rewarding career that I'd never thought I'd have."
"I...to, to be honest, I...I haven't really believed in God for years," Adrian slowly conceded, "Now, before you get upset, I, I'd just say my background, it wasn't really conducive to belief in a higher being. After all, if there was a God, my father wouldn't have driven off for Chinese and never come back, and my wife would...I'd be celebrating her birthday with her here..."
He slumped his head slowly against the wall. "Well you do realize you can't blame God for all that befalls us," Father Fitzwater told him, "Sometimes it is necessary for us to go through a certain amount of suffering whether we wish to or not, and he cannot control all of it."
"But why so much suffering?" Adrian had to know, "Why does there have to be so much pain out there? You do know it's, it's a lot harder to believe when nothing you do seems to make a difference for any lasting good. Recently, for instance, I've been wondering a lot whether I make any difference in this city, that no matter how many cases I solve, there's always more people out on the streets ready to butcher other people. Whether I should really look elsewhere for some sense of fulfillment. You do realize what I'm saying, right?"
"Of course I understand," Father Fitzwater nodded, "We all go through crises of faith at one point or another, Mr. Monk. It's a natural part of human existence. But you'll find the answers in due time, and maybe, you'll also find something more if you look closely enough."
Adrian nodded slowly. "Well, now that we've gotten that out of the way, where exactly were the dead monks found?" he asked, not really wanting to get into a prolonged existential debate at the moment.
"Right in their cells. Follow me if you will," Father Fitzwater opened another door on the other side of the office, "The monks are out tending to the monastery garden, so they won't be in the way."
"They're tending the garden in this weather?" Adrian grimaced at how big a risk of getting a cold the monks were taking.
"We're a dedicated order that works hard at all we do," his assoicate rationalized. He led the detective down a long hall with heavy wooden doors along the sides. "Right here, next to each other," he stopped and pointed to two doors on the right side, "Nobody's been inside since it happened, so everything's as it was the moment they died."
He opened the doors to the cells. Adrian started in, then stopped and stepped backwards; the cell looked far too claustrophobic for his tastes. He walked slowly from side to side, making his familiar oblique hand gestures every now and then. "Which way were they facing when they fell down?" he asked after five minutes of this.
"Both of them were face down facing the window," Father Fitzwater told him, "That's not all that surprising; most of the monks pray towards the window at night in the first place. But I still thought something was odd about it."
"And you were right," Adrian nodded knowingly, "Look at the bedsheets, they're rumpled deeply," he pointed, "If it had been a simple case of heart attacks, they would have fallen straight down on the floor and the bedsheets would have been untouched. They thrashed around before they hit the floor. You were right; we've got a double homicide here."
"I thought so," Father Fitzwater nodded, looking satisfied at being vindicated, "How were they killed, then?"
"I'm still not entirely sure," Adrian told him, "But I think it's good I brought everything. It looks like I'm going to having to become a monk."
