Flight Dreams (7 page)

“What did he do?” Manning asks.

The mist has collected in Arthur’s hair, streamed to his brows, and now drips down his cheeks. There may be tears too—Manning isn’t sure. Arthur smiles through the water on his face, saying, “Ridgely Carter paid off my debts, suggested I stay away from the track, and never mentioned it again. I never bet on another horse, and I don’t think he did either.”

Manning turns from Arthur. Pondering the horizon over the lake, he asks him, “Do you know there’s a … ‘notion’ going around that implicates you in Mrs. Carter’s disappearance?”

“I hear things—like everybody else.”

Manning turns to him. “This horse business won’t look good, Arthur. It
doesn’t
look good. It’s news to me, and I don’t know what to make of it.”

Arthur touches Manning’s arm. “It doesn’t mean
anything,”
he assures him. “It happened. It wasn’t very nice. But then it was
over.
I lost all interest in racing. Mr. Carter didn’t even seem to care about his
own
horses after that. Later, after he died, Mrs. Carter agreed with me that there was no point in maintaining a stable on the property. So we had it torn down. Mrs. Carter wanted to use the space for her cattery. It was under construction when she disappeared. And here it stands.” Arthur gestures with both hands toward the sturdy foundation of the building.

Manning pauses to think, checks his watch, then says, “Okay, Arthur. I need to get back to the city. Thanks so much.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Manning. If I can help in any way, you know where to find me.”

They shake hands and step out from under the eaves, beginning their trek to Manning’s car. They have ventured only a few yards from the cattery when Manning glances back for another look at it. The longer of its two wings stands where the stable must have been, making use of the old brick footings. The shorter wing, however, was built atop a massive new foundation of concrete.

M
ANNING IS DRIVING NORTH
again from Chicago to Bluff Shores. When he phoned Father Matthew Carey yesterday to schedule an interview, the priest told him that he would be away from the parish most of Wednesday, but Manning was welcome to come talk awhile after the six-thirty Mass.

Manning glances at the dashboard clock just as it flashes
7:00 AM.
Having pulled himself out of bed earlier than usual today, he doesn’t feel quite awake. He hasn’t even turned on the radio, riding in silence, immersed in uneasy thoughts. He hasn’t set foot in a church for years, except in the line of duty—covering protests, for instance, or politicians’ funerals.

He turns onto Saint Jerome’s parish property. The pine-flanked entry reminds him more of a country club than a church. In the distance he can see the main building. It is round—a mammoth cylinder of light-colored brick with a shallow, conical roof that peaks not with a steeple but with a skylight. Its only “windows” are colored glass blocks randomly piercing the walls.

Local critics have likened the building to a host of other structures ranging from a bullring to a nuclear reactor. Researching the parish in the
Journal
’s morgue yesterday, Manning learned that the church was built several years after the closing of the Second Vatican Council, not because the old building needed replacement, but simply because the wealthy parishioners wanted to erect an edifice better suited to the new modes of worship decreed by their changing church.

Manning drives past the school, the convent, the rectory—all of more traditional design than the church—and pulls his car into the parking lot near the hulking architectural oddity. Only a few other cars are parked there, perhaps a dozen, all in prime spaces, their bumpers almost touching the building. He reflexively checks his pockets for his notebook and Mont Blanc, then gets out of the car.

The October monsoon has broken, if only briefly, and Manning is able to walk at leisure, without darting for cover. His cordovan oxfords crunch the still-wet gravel. Hungry unseen birds gab noisily from the trees in the belated cloud-clogged dawn.

As Manning enters the building’s vestibule, an enormous sculpted bronze door closes silently behind him, hushing the birds. A ventilating system whispers from nowhere, and the carpeting underfoot heightens the pervasive sense of quiet. Pulling open one of the glass doors etched with an abstraction of the Trinity, he steps into the church proper. The vaulted room yawns before him as if to suck him toward its center, where a monolithic slab of black marble serves as the altar. The overall effect is impressively dramatic, and Manning settles into a rear pew near the door to study the church’s interior while waiting for the service to end.

Manning tries to remember his last nonworking church visit. Ten years ago? No, fifteen? Can it possibly be that long since the gnawing suspicion became a firm reality for him? It has been
that long
since all the moral crises of his youth were washed clean. Suddenly gone were all the ethical dilemmas and doctrinal controversies and denominational nitpicking, all the guilt and doubts and
complications
that had cluttered his life. Years and years have passed since the realization formed in his brain and finally screamed to him with the voice of reason and logic and common sense—the voice that
would be heard
—that he simply no longer could believe in the existence of God.

He’s been
free
that long. Why, he wonders, did it not happen sooner? Santa Claus died for him when he was six. The unwelcome knowledge that the benevolent old giver of gifts was merely a myth came as a disappointment, of course, but he soon got over it, knowing even then, even that young, that a grasp of reality—seeing things the way they
are,
not simply as one would like them to be—was ultimately far more satisfying, more liberating than living a game, living a lie. Things
fit.

If Santa died so painlessly when Manning was six, how did God manage to linger for another twenty years?

How’d He do it? He had the forces of indoctrination and the momentum of blind faith on His side, that’s how. When Manning was six, he was deemed old enough to share the winking truth of the fairy tale that is Santa; he was also deemed old enough for recruitment into the larger fantasy, the big one. Parochial school, first communion, altar boy, confirmation—he was set down a path that narrowed at every step. He was told by his mother, his teachers, and society at large that he would frolic in heaven if he believed, that he would burn in hell if he did not. Is it any wonder that his life was thwarted and ruled by mysticism for twenty years? The
miracle
is that he managed to see the light at all, that he managed to slough off the nonsense and to recognize the majesty and power of reason.

Manning glances at the long liturgical banners swaying in the currents of air that circulate through the rafters. This church looks so different from those he knew in his youth. Do they all look like this now?

His attention shifts to the service, which is nearing its end. Father Carey stands at the altar, vested in white. The congregation numbers less than twenty and is gathered in a circle around the altar with the priest. Manning guesses Father Carey’s age to be near his own, around forty. True to Margaret O’Connor’s description, he is indeed attractive, with curly brown hair and intense eyes of the same color. He has a commanding presence that seems to infatuate his parishioners. It was surely a coup for so young a man to be appointed pastor of a parish as large and affluent as Saint Jerome’s, and it was probably he who convinced Helena Carter to include the church in her will. He is undoubtedly a favorite among the hierarchy, someone “to be watched,” someone being groomed for bigger things. He’s too polished, too slick, a manipulator, Manning tells himself.

Manning watches as Carey clasps both hands of each of the faithful during the rite of peace, as he distributes chunks of consecrated bread and passes an earthen chalice of wine, as he finally instructs his flock, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” As the people begin leaving the sanctuary and the priest retreats to the sacristy, Manning rises and ambles down the aisle toward the front row of pews.

A minute or two later, the priest appears again, dressed now in the traditional black suit and Roman collar. “Mark? Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Not at all, Father,” Manning says, stepping forward to shake hands.

“Please—call me Matt,” the priest tells him, his manner businesslike, yet warmly personal, his handshake sure and deliberate.

Manning wonders if the priest prolonged the handshake a moment longer than necessary. “Thanks, Matt. I appreciate your taking time to see me.” They share a smile that seems to bond them, and Manning wonders if he has misjudged the man.

“I’m glad we could arrange it,” Carey says while sitting in the front pew, motioning for Manning to join him. “It’s been so long since Helena disappeared, we’ve all but given up hope. Lately, though, the papers are showing a renewed interest in the case. Tell me—are you on to something?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here. May I ask a few questions—and take a few notes?” Manning opens his pad and unscrews the cap of his pen.

“Of course.” With a chummy tone of understatement, he adds, “I understand you’re under a bit of pressure from your publisher.”

“That’s right.” Manning laughs, though a bit uncomfortably. He asks the priest, “How do you happen to know about that?”

“Just a coincidence. I was at a social function with Archbishop Benedict on Saturday, and he had been to dinner Friday night with Nathan Cain. They go way back together—committee work or something. Anyway, Mr. Cain told the archbishop about your ultimatum, and the archbishop told me.”

Manning pauses, watching the priest, then asks flatly, “Really?”

“Yes.” Father Carey laughs. “For heaven sake, Mark, it’s not a
conspiracy.
People at that level of power and influence all know each other. In fact, the archbishop knew the Carters well—he played
golf
with Ridgely. Chances are, Nathan Cain did too.”

Manning remembers the morgue photo of Cain with the Carters. He nods, deep in thought. Then he feels the priest’s hand on his knee.

“Mark, I’d like to help you. But I can tell you from the outset that I have no idea what happened to Helena Carter. I’d be a wealthy man if I did.”

“Do you care about wealth, Father?” asks Manning, pointedly using the clerical title.

“My remark was indiscreet, I admit. But since you ask—yes, I confess that certain earthly pleasures are highly appealing.” He removes his hand from Manning’s knee. “I hasten to add, though, that an interest in
money
is not necessarily contrary to my priestly calling. I’m a diocesan priest, Mark; I’m not a member of a religious order and have taken no vow of poverty. Wealth is not intrinsically evil. Indeed, much good can come from it.” He gestures with both hands at the building that surrounds them, a testament to the benevolence of cash. “Does such an attitude bother you, hearing it from a priest?”

“Certainly not,” Manning assures him.

“I only ask,” the priest explains, “because it bothered Helena deeply. We’d become close friends, but the issue of money eventually drove us apart.”

“So
that
was it,” Manning says, underlining something in his notebook. “I talked to Helena’s sister, Margaret, a couple of days ago, and she said that you and Helena had a falling-out.”

“It’s funny about money. After her husband died, her wealth began to prey on her—she didn’t deserve her affluence, she married him for it, that kind of thing. It was during the course of some lengthy counseling sessions that the whole matter flared up. In an attempt to relieve her of these pointless anxieties, I confided in her my own materialistic leanings. She misinterpreted my remarks completely, and from that day forward I sensed her suspicion that I was after her legacy. It was very poor judgment on my part.”

“It couldn’t have done too much harm, Matt. Her will leaves the bulk of her fortune to the Archdiocese.”

The priest stands and steps to the center of the sanctuary. “I was shocked to learn it. Yes, we had discussed the possibility of a major bequest—earlier.” He places a hand on the altar. “But I swear by the God I serve, Mark, that I did not expect a dime for the Church—not after our money-talk. I was convinced that it would all go to The Society.”

“What ‘Society’? Margaret O’Connor told me that her sister had gotten interested in some conservative Catholic group. They sounded to me like a bunch of reactionaries.”

“Precisely. They call themselves the Society for the Restoration of the Faith, but in church circles they’re simply known as The Society. The movement’s seeds were sewn back in the sixties at the Vatican Council itself. The whole upshot of Vatican II, of course, was
reform.
” He whirls a hand above his head, indicating the bizarre architecture. “But there was a sizable faction of the council that wanted the church to remain unchanged. There were even those who wanted to return to earlier ways. The handwriting was on the wall, though, in favor of modernization, so most of the conservatives either stepped in line or just kept quiet. But not all of them.”

Carey sits next to Manning again, explaining, “A tiny group spearheaded by the Belgian prelate, Marcel Cardinal L’Évêque, became increasingly vocal in the debates, declaring the council’s proposed changes heretical—an extremely serious charge. But the council’s momentum would not be stopped, and I imagine you’re familiar with the direction of mainstream Catholicism since then.”

“Generally,” says Manning. “And L’vêque?”

“He didn’t stop. He’s ancient now, but he vigorously heads an ultraconservative movement that’s preaching schism. He’s on a collision course with Rome, flirting with excommunication. But that would only make him a martyr to his cause, and I don’t think Rome would risk it. So his numbers are growing. Slowly.”

Manning rises, thinking, and strolls across the aisle to the next bank of pews. As a child, he was taught to genuflect whenever crossing the church’s center, and even now he feels the subliminal tug of that training on his right knee—but he resists it. He turns to ask Father Carey, “How did Helena Carter get interested in all this?”