Page 63 of Coram House

Beads of sweat roll down Bill Campbell’s face. I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.

Garcia and Parker move up the aisle, closing in. Sensing something behind him, Rooney spins just as the officers grab him. Somehow, Rooney gets one arm free and throws a wild punch, but he overbalances and goes down hard on the marble floor. I wince, imagining brittle bones snapping. In a flash, Garcia has his hands cuffed behind his back.

I step into the aisle. Bill Campbell’s face is bloodless again and he’s swaying. I take his arm. “Mr. Campbell,” I say, “you have to tell them about the excavator.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me.

On the ground, Rooney has stopped struggling. I step closer. “Detective Garcia,” I say.

She looks over her shoulder. When she sees it’s me, her mouth presses into a thin line. I speak quickly, before she can turn away.

“The bones you found at the dump, I think I know where they came from. Or, well, Mr. Campbell here does.”

From the ground, Rooney cranes his head back. He doesn’t look hurt, despite the fall. Invincible as a roach.

“Lookie, it’s the writer,” Rooney says cheerfully. “Come a little closer and maybe I’ll spill my guts for you. Tell you all about that boy who drowned—what was his name?”

He smiles. I want to rake my fingernails over his face.

Bill Campbell appears at Garcia’s shoulder. “Can we please get him out of here?” he whispers through gritted teeth.

Garcia nods and together, Parker and Officer Washington haul Rooney to his feet. “Dunno, Bill,” Rooney shouts, laughing as the officers half carry, half drag him toward the door. “They can’t even manage to find a huge fucking hole in the ground.”

Garcia waits, looking from me to Bill Campbell. “You and you,” she says, pointing. “Come.”

Then she stalks down the aisle without waiting for a response.

Father Aubry raps on the lectern, trying to regain control. He lifts a Bible into the air. “If you would turn to John 14,” he says in a shaky voice.

Stedsan looks from me to Bill, amused by the whole disaster. “Well,” he says. “Don’t keep the lady waiting.”

Bill straightens, as if steeling himself, and walks briskly to the exit.

I slink down the aisle after Garcia, like a dog summoned by a very pissed-off master.

Outside, the sun stabs my eyes. In the parking lot, Parker is pushing Rooney’s head down so he doesn’t hit it on the roof of the police cruiser.Garcia stands at the base of the stairs, watching us descend. She looks furious. “All right, let’s hear it,” she says.

Bill Campbell shuffles his feet but doesn’t say anything. My stomach flutters. “I think the bones you found in the dump belong to Father Foster,” I say. “He was a priest at Coram House when Fred Rooney lived here. He abused the children.”

Garcia’s hand goes to the gold crucifix around her neck. “And where did you get this theory from?”

“Inside—what Rooney said about digging up the bones.” I leave out the shitting part. “Mr. Campbell”—I gesture to Bill—“mentioned they’re missing an excavator from the construction site where Rooney works.”

Garcia nods slowly, connecting the dots, then turns to Bill Campbell. “Is this true?”

He clears his throat and nods, but can’t seem to find his voice.

“Why didn’t you report it?” Garcia asks.

“I—well—I didn’t know it was stolen,” he says. “I thought record-keeping—maybe it was left at another site—”

Garcia raises a hand, cutting him off. “All right, we’ll talk about it later. Where would we find this Father Foster’s grave, then? If we wanted to test this theory.”

Bill clears his throat again and rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to work a kink out of his neck. “I’m not sure exactly, but he’d likely be in the southwest corner. Most of the clergy are buried there.”

It seems strange that he doesn’t know or is pretending not to know. But his expression gives nothing away.

“All right, let’s go.” Garcia steps onto the path that leads into the graveyard, then stops. She looks down at her black heels, now full of snow. Her cheeks turn red, in fury or embarrassment, I’m not sure.

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