The Clarity of Cold Steel

FATHER O’MALLEY SINGS in that voice of his. Melodious. Sanctimonious. It’s a song, and it ain’t a sweet one. Through his weeping and mumbling, it’s dark and it’s sad and it’s sick and it’s confessional, and I can barely listen as he sings it long and he sings it somber and he sings it till he falls silent.

I thank Brahma when it ends.

Throughout, Nikunj just stands there with arms crossed, leaning against the wall, frown on his face, nostrils flaring with each breath. It’s just the three of us. I wouldn’t let Brooklyn sit in, and Clipper couldn’t stand it in the end. “You ruined my life,” he mumbled after glaring at the good father for an eon. Then Clipper just up and slouched out. He’s drowning in a bottle somewhere, no doubt.

Me and Nikunj watched him go, his head down. We said nothing. What the hell was there to say?

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” Father O’Malley gasps, eyes glancing for the door.

“No one’s coming through it.” I eye that very same door.

“Oh, lord,” he trembles his hands together in fumbled prayer, eases himself to his knees. “Our Father, who art—”

I slap his hands apart. “Where’s the man in the iron mask?”

“The man in the mask,” tears eke from the corners of his eyes, “he’s… I don’t know where he is. Please.”

Nikunj cracks his knuckles, one by one.

Father O’Malley stops short, looks up, begging. It’s settling in now, soft and heavy, a lead shroud falling on all sides, sealing at the corners, weighing him down. “Maybe we can—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Please—”

I shake my head, mouth the word one last time. It falls silent but thuds like a boulder.

Father O’Malley’s upright posture falters like a wilting daisy, his head drooping onto his chest as he knurls down into himself, his hands grasping, his fingers digging into his skull. “Make it quick.”

“That’ll depend on you,” I say.

Father O’Malley pulls at his lips; he’s staring off now.

“You must know something.” I remove a set of torque pliers from inside my coat and place them on O’Malley’s desk. “I’m offering you a clean route.” Torture. “Don’t make me get creative.” I find it as unpalatable as Father O’Malley, and if it comes to it, I don’t know if I can stomach it. “Give me a name.” But we’re capable of so much more than we know. “Give me a line. Give me a name. Give me something I can use to find this man.” I ratchet open the torque pliers, and they click as they yawn wide like the beak of some desolate beast.

Eyes riveted to the torque pliers, Father O’Malley swallows, smooths out his hair, licks his lips. “The man in the mask is a … a fixer.” He’s accepting it now. “He fixes things for the church.”

“Broken things like you?” I ask.

“Yes. And … other things. Bad things. Problem things.”

“Who’s he work directly for?” I ask.

“I … I don’t know.”

“Who called him in on you?”

“I don’t know,” he closes his eyes, tearing up, shakes his head, “not for sure.”

“If you had to guess?” My voice is tepid, even, smooth.

His fingers slither like pink worms through what’s left of his hair, digging through, gripping, pulling.

“You were posted in Red Chapel at the time?” I ask.

The fingers freeze. He looks up. Nods. “When it was White Chapel. Before the war.”

“Who was bishop at the time?”

“Father Carmody,” his lips purse as he twitches a nod, “he … he probably knew.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Edward Carmody.” Father O’Malley looks at his feet. “He’s the Archbishop of Tinkertown now. He — we went to seminary together. We were friends. He rose fast. I…” Father O’Malley looks up as I aim my weapon.

His eyes close and they don’t ever reopen.