Chapter 11 – And a Child Shall Lead Them
Father Samuel was trying to contain chaos. Never before had he fully appreciated the quiet command brought by Father David. He'd appreciated the man, yes. In fact it was Father David that had restored his faith in the church when his decision to become a priest had been tested to the limit. In a blink Sam was back in those dark and disheartening days when each morning brought new accusations about men of the cloth, when parents eyed each vestigial tab suspiciously and chose suddenly to keep their children with them at mass rather than send them with a new priest for a catechism lesson. New to the parish, Father Samuel had almost resigned and given up his calling, ashamed to wear the same traditional costuming as the sort of men who could harm a child and then claim to be pious. Were it not for Father David he would have lost so many experiences that had become treasured memories. Yet Sam did not know how to do the same for David now – to quell doubts that were obviously shaking the older man to the core. And Sam was painfully aware that he could not fill Father David's shoes. If Father David resigned, how would Sam manage the flock?
Father Samuel tried to lead the meal prayer as Father David always did. The hungry throng did not yield the din to him in the usual way. It was as if Father David radiated an inner peace and just his presence was enough to quiet them all. They'd shove and jocky for position only until they spied the charismatic priest, and then generosity would emerge – as though Jesus himself had entered the hearts of those present and stilled their restlessness. Father Samuel did not possess this gift. While his head was bowed and his eyes were closed a fight had broken out in the back of the room. A fight!
"Everyone PLEASE!" he roared. "There is plenty of soup and bread as always! Everyone will eat tonight!" Moments later he was forced to admit he'd not been truthful when the squabblers left him no alternative but to eject them. He prayed for patience, and prayed for the hungry souls forced back into the night, and then he added another prayer for Father David.
Sam felt a small tug on his jacket and looked down to see Pennsylvania, her overly large eyes beseeching, "Did Father David get dead?" she asked in her small voice. Somehow the throng around her heard the question. The stillness that followed was such a sharp contrast with the previous noise level that it was as though all the air had left the room.
"No, Pennsylvania, no," he answered, crouching to meet her gaze. Her hair was unruly and her clothes were filthy. But her hands and face had been scrubbed clean, the way Father David always insisted. Probably she had been proud to have remembered to wash without prompting, only to find the one who encouraged it was not there to see.
A man behind Pennsylvania piped in then, "We heard another priest was torched." As if it had been wrong to speak, the man then ducked his head, attempting by demeanor to shrink in place. Around them, every dirty, unshaven, or toothless face seemed to beg for reassurance.
Father Samuel was uncertain what to do. He could hardly deny the news which had so clearly made the rounds. The police would probably prefer he not say anything at all. What of the FBI? "Father David is at the Rectory right now. He is – he is heartbroken but he has not been hurt."
"Then why ain't he here?" a man's voice asked. A croaky woman's voice added, "He always comes – rain or shine." And then there were so many people asking questions at once that he couldn't sort most of them out. But he heard the kind of things that a small voice inside himself had been wondering. "Is he even safe at the rectory?" and "Father David would not forget us unless the worst been done!" and, "If it weren't him this time, how long 'til it is?" Samuel stood again, alarmed at the panic that was traveling through the group like some great monster that devours hope.
It was then that the seldom-used but booming voice of John Edwards broke through, "Father Ernest was killed. Father David is in charge now."
Father Samuel again felt the tug at his jacket. He looked down at Pennsylvania and the child asked, "Will they let him be the boss?"
Again, the unnatural silence fell and Sam tried not to let his worst fears show on his face. The true answer was probably not. Father David had filed complaints on behalf of two alter boys – complaints against Father Ernest. Father David also served God first and the church second, and while the church claimed to encourage that, it was not so. But most damning to any future leadership position was Father David's self-blame. He made an easy scapegoat, bending the rules of the church for the good of the people – these people. At last an inspired answer occurred to Father Samuel. "He had to meet with the police, but he did not want to bring them among you. He will return as soon as he can."
The word police was echoed around him with horror. It was the most distrusted word among the homeless, not that all police deserved such infamy, or even most. There were stories of rogue police who used their position to inflict pain or who blamed terrible crimes on innocent vagrants because it cleared their cases. Police was a word not to be used lightly in a soup kitchen.
Pennsylvania thought a minute, nodded and took her place in line. Miraculously, others began to follow. Father Samuel could only marvel at her ability to do that which he couldn't. Someday, Pennsylvania might be a lot like Father David – though as a female, she would probably never be a priest. There were a few women that had been ordained, but they were rare and discouraged. Nuns did not hold positions of leadership in the Catholic church per se. A mother superior would oversee other nuns but always be beneath the local priests and the bishops. Funny, he'd always before imagined Pennsylvania finding a permanent home in the church. Perhaps she would find another path in which to use those leadership skills. Father Samuel amused himself by silently calling her "Little madam president."
Cam was in her office even though the hour was very late. Although she wasn't the only one in residence this night, the Jeffersonian took on a mausoleum-like quality when it was so empty. Floors below, Dr. Brennan was working without her usual helpers. She'd taken back the original body and added that of Most Reverend Ernest Arneson – or at least it appeared to be Arneson. Confirmation would come the following day, though at the rate of Dr. Brennan's current obsession, perhaps a little sooner.
Cam was not obsessed with this case. She refused to be. Her reasons for inhabiting her office rather than her home were for want of privacy. There had been a time when news of a particularly prominent murder would not have brought reporters to her door. These days they knew her address, her unlisted phone number, her unlisted cell number and probably the color of her underwear. She threw a dart at the target suspended on the back of her office door and, at the same time, it opened. "Shit!" the incomer cried.
"In civilized circles we knock," she said, trying not to laugh. "That might be the reason." She hadn't hit Booth with the dart, though she wasn't certain at the moment if that was good or bad.
"I could swear I knocked," he said, looking at the reverse of the door as if his fist print might be visible. That was one of Booth's apology-less apologies.
"It's late Booth, what brings you to my door WITHOUT knocking?"
He smirked. "Bones told me to scram."
"Scram – you know, I don't believe I've ever heard her use that word." Probably what Brennan had said was something like, "Go find someone else to annoy." Apparently she was the someone else. Cam didn't invite him to sit, but he did anyway, so she pulled an extra coffee mug from her bottom drawer and filled it about halfway with the sludge from the coffee pot she had appropriated.
"That's where the breakroom pot went," he observed, grabbing one of her darts and flinging it at the target. It landed right on the tip of Davis' nose. Booth grinned in a self-satisfied way. "And I see you found a new cover for your dart board. Feng shueee and all, right?"
Cam opened her mini fridge and produced a small bottle of Jack Daniels. "Screw feng shui, that is pissed-off contemporary." He cocked an eyebrow, not pointing out that she'd used a full curse word. She topped Booth's coffee with the alcohol and nudged the cup toward him while he tried not to laugh and failed. "So dare I ask why Brennan ejected you?" she wondered.
"Frustrated," he said as he took a sip. "Though I may have uhh been a bit pushy about trying to come up with causes of death.
"No blunt force trauma?"
"Not this time. I tried to get her to guess but…"
Cam choked into her coffee. "All this time working with Brennan and you haven't figured out that she hates conjecture?"
Booth set his cup down and leveled a gaze at her. "Sometimes she makes educated guesses, and anyway I would put a lot more faith in her guesswork than in some people's facts." He glanced surreptitiously at the very holey picture of Davis that she'd attached to her dartboard. "I know why she's here. I know why I'm here. Why are you here at –" he looked at his watch. "Oooh, that can't be right." He frowned.
"Because that shithead," she motioned toward the dartboard, "somehow leaked my personal numbers and address to the press." She threw another dart and missed the board entirely. "Perhaps I should lay off the spiked coffee."
Booth was laughing in that way he did sometimes with his eyes crinkled, his brows raised, and all of his pearly-whites showing. Cam loved that laugh. Once upon a time it was why she'd gone to bed with him. Funny how time had changed things. They were still close, far closer than she was completely comfortable with given their working relationship. But she didn't picture him naked anymore, even at her weakest moments, and sometimes, just sometimes – there was sibling-like quality to their camaraderie. That fact made their past seem a little incestuous and the mere thought left her feeling awkward. "I'm too tired," she blurted, getting to her feet for no reason she could explain. "So, uhhhh, no blunt force trauma. Did you succeed in getting her to conjecture before you irritated her into booting you?"
Booth eyed her with curiosity. "The last thing I got out of her was 'for all I know he burned to death'."
Cam froze. "Morbid thought."
"Yeah," Booth agreed. "And yet I cannot convince the other two priests to vacate that rectory even for a few days. I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to end up living there to watch out for them."