Page 60 of Tortured Eyes
I nod.
“You have two days left on your suspension, but you are right. This session has no official bearing on your return to duty,” he finishes.
As soon as he utters the words, I’m up and heading to the door, barely a glance at him.
“A word of advice, though, Ms McCarthy." I half-turn, wondering what he thinks he has to offer someone like me. "In this line of work, you will need to talk to someone. Don’t leave it until it’s too late.”
Whatever.
With his ominous warning ringing in my head, I exit the building, bypassing the normal entrance, and head for home. I have two days to put everything I can together on whoever Samuel is. I don't need warnings or advice. I need answers.
And then I need revenge.
* * *
The information from New York only widens the search for anyone and anything that can lead me to Logan Cane’s son. It seems that Samuel is a fucking popular name, and I don’t even know if this child exists.
Everything inside of me obsesses about Logan, and that includes my feelings towards him. It would be naïve to deny I have them. And it seems that my problem stems from how to categorise them rather than admit them. Easier said than done. My mind drifts back to the more carnal nature of our relationship, which only taints my feelings further. It blurs the lines I’ve carved out for revenge, and the longer I take to act, the harder it is to keep hold of the viciousness I first felt towards him when I escaped. I've even found myself missing him near me as if I want to talk to him and find out more about who the hell he is. I mean, that guy who rode a bike like a demon and then let me go, glazed features all over his face, was nothing like the asshole I knew before that point in time.
The laptop taunts me as I pace around my apartment. I should have gone to the gym to take out my rage with Jimmy, but that feels like I’ll be falling back into old habits and not facing the problem head-on. The ghosts of my dad’s cases still haunt me at every turn. If I had the guts to investigate the cases properly to begin with—looked at taking my questions to Cane in the beginning, perhaps I wouldn’t be in this position at all?
“Fuck it!”
I drop into the seat and open up a new search window. My fingers whip over the keys, and I wait for the result. It’s not the first time I’ve done a photo search for Logan, but it’s the first time I've been looking for people other than the man himself. More specifically, I'm looking for any woman he’s been photographed with. The eventual images are familiar. Parties, nights out, cars, and in each one, there’s a different girl. No one I can say stands out as being in his life more than it would take for Logan to fuck and leave her, though. But the photos grow scarcer, just as his business shifted.
I end up amending my original search with a date parameter and wait again. This time a few newer photos spring up, far less of the partying ones clouding the search. One of the photos is very recent, and looking at the date and the accompanying headline, it was at Vico’s funeral a few months back in New York. I open the results and find a dozen other photos from the day, including a photo that clearly shows Logan staring at the priest performing the service. The gaze makes me look at Logan, still trying to figure him out. No vibes of aggression, he seems solemn,anguished even. Especially in black from head to toe. Black suit. Black shirt. Black tie. Long black coat. It all matches his hair and his damned eyes. And he's dangerously fucking handsome for it.
The low hum of interest in my guts makes me blink and rip my gaze away from him, my eyes going back to the priest instead. Under the image, the caption reads—Rev Samuel Cleary at the funeral of Benjamin Vico.
Samuel.
I note the name, close the window and go back to the other photo. This one is at a charity auction, a room full of donors with pillars of balloons at the entrance. And Logan, clearly talking to the same priest. Samuel Cleary.
A wispy memory of a black cross surfaces from somewhere and makes me consider the priest for a moment longer.
I close down the window and search the remaining photos. Nothing. A handful of photos, most of which are duplicates from earlier searches, but even as I close the window and head to the fridge for a beer, a nagging thought enters my head. Why did I jump to the conclusion that Samuel was Logan’s son? He could be anyone. But a priest? Logan can’t be religious, surely? It doesn’t make any sense, but even as I think that, a thought whispers in my ear. Follow the facts. Don’t apply your own bias.
Another search brings up everything I can about Samuel Cleary. Nothing incriminating. Seems he's the modern equivalent of Jesus. Regular services. Occasional trips to other parishes. A few photos of him performing wedding ceremonies, none of which show him in any great detail. And,of course, the general literature pertaining to his church and weekly events held there.
The investigation I was working on right before all this shit kicked off springs to mind. Watts was so sure it was the husband because the statistics pointed to him. Nothing more than that. I’ve done the exact thing with this set of evidence. Although, how it all fits together yet, I’m not sure. But I do know that my next stop is New York. I need to interview the good Reverend and see what he can tell me of Logan Cane.
* * *
The flight to New York is easy and uneventful. A few hours in the air and I'm out of the airport and hailing a cab. The clock's ticking, and I need to piece this puzzle together before I'm due back at work.
“St Jude's church,” I instruct, as I jump in the next cab in line. Knowing that he’ll be concerned, I let Jimmy know where I am and then switch off my phone. The journey into downtown New York is smooth and traffic-free, and fortunately, the cabbie isn’t one who wants to know my entire life story.
We pass through the hustle of the city and out into a quieter neighbourhood until he pulls up outside the church and I pause, simply looking out from the car window at the intricate design of the stained-glass of the church. The low afternoon light shows a kaleidoscope of colours splayed out in a traditional round shape above longer pillars of glass. It’s beautiful. Striking.
The fare’s a small fortune, but I tip the driver and walk up the small steps to the heavy door to the church, making room for at least three dozen parishioners who are exiting. I’ve not set foot inside a church since my father’s funeral. Even on the brink of the threshold in a different city, I can still feel the pain of that day bubble up as I take an unsettled step inside. As I enter the narthex, my nerves seem to creep up on me. This shouldn’t be something I’m anxious about. It’s a simple interview—find out what the good priest knows of Logan and if Samuel Cleary could be the light in all of Logan’s dark. Religion. Fuck, I’d never believe it.
The air in the church stills around me, and the faint smell of burning tickles my nose. I look around inside the church. It’s much less grand than I had envisaged from the outside—simple wooden pews on either side of the nave, leading down to the alter and the hanging crucifix.
Light spills in from the windows on each side as if designed to lighten the congregation. Movement catches my eye at the far end, and a shadowy figure moves about, but the shadows turn out to be the billowy movement of Father Cleary’s robes. I observe, keeping myself to one side, and take a seat on one of the pews at the back. The good priest emerges, talking with a woman. They are both calm and quiet, their words hushed. It feels like I'm encroaching somehow. This is a sacred place, and I’m lurking. I shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs.
Sitting and waiting isn’t doing me any good, although I’m not sure how I’m going to approach the conversation I want to have. Hello, do you mind if we talk about Logan Cane, the man who kidnapped me, humiliated me, fucked me and made me enjoy it before beating me up and leaving me in the woods? Oh, and a man I’ve pledged to seek my revenge on via the only good thing in his life. Care to fill me in?
I walk the far side of the church, away from Father Cleary, towards the lit candles. So many people in this world have reasons to light a candle. A gulf of sadness threatens to swallow me whole as I stand in front of these flickering flames. I quickly light the taper and set ablaze my own candle in memory of my dad. The light glows, pulsing as it draws in more of the oxygen around it, growing hotter and bolder as it does.
I should be thinking about my father. What he stood for and what he meant to me. But that’s forever tainted now. Poisoned with doubt and questions. With that thought, a fresh wave of revenge clouds my mind and my eyes drift over to where the priest is still occupied with his flock.
My confusion grows as I struggle to see the connection here. Vico must have meant something to Logan, especially the last few years when it seemed all of Logan’s time was spent in New York running the Vico business. Does the priest take his confession? Does Logan believe that Father Cleary has absolved him of all of his sins and so his conscience is clear?
The questions keep coming, keep burrowing inside of my brain and uprooting still further questions to be answered.
Every time I try to keep my thoughts straight and clear about Logan, my memory plays tricks on me, twisting and turning our time together, forcing my body to remember how it felt when we were together. Forcing my mind to question all the little things that never added up. Nothing about him is simple, and so neither are my feelings for him. In this space, everything inside of me feels charged and raw. And yet, at the same time, nothing is as potent. It all feels calmer, as if all the answers I’ve sought are right in front of me, waiting to be found.
“May I help you?”
