The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  “Have you talked to—”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll call me, won’t you? After?”

  “What do you think?” Patrick says, and hangs up. He bends down to fork all the spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alcove behind the boiler. Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand but cannot grab it. Patrick looks around the custodial closet, finds a fireplace poker, and slides it behind the bulk of the boiler to the small hollow. He snags a corner of it—paper, maybe?—and manages to drag it within his arm’s reach.

  Baseball mitts. One hundred percent cotton. Gap, size XXS.

  He pulls a brown paper bag from his pocket. With his gloved fingers, he turns the underwear over in his hand. On the left rear, slightly off center, there is a stiff stain.

  In the custodial closet, directly beneath the altar where Father Szyszynski is at that moment reading Scripture aloud, Patrick bows his head and prays that in a situation as unfortunate as this one, there might be a shred of pure luck.

  • • •

  Caleb feels Nathaniel’s giggle like a tiny earthquake, shuddering up from the rib cage. He presses his ear down more firmly against his son’s chest. Nathaniel is lying on the floor; Caleb is lying on him, his ear tipped close to the boy’s mouth. “Say it again,” Caleb demands.

  Nathaniel’s voice is still thready, syllables hanging together by a string. His throat needs to learn how to hold a word again, cradle it muscle by muscle, heft it onto the tongue. Right now, this is all new to him. Right now, it is still a chore.

  But Caleb can’t help himself. He squeezes Nathaniel’s hand as the sound flounders out, spiky and tentative. “Daddy.”

  Caleb grins, so proud he could split in two. Beneath his ear, he hears the wonder in his son’s lungs. “One more time,” Caleb begs, and he settles in to listen.

  • • •

  A memory: I am searching all over the house for my car keys, because I am already late to drop Nathaniel at school and go to work. Nathaniel is dressed in his coat and boots, waiting for me. “Think!” I say aloud, and then turn to Nathaniel. “Have you seen my keys?”

  “They’re under there,” he answers.

  “Under where?”

  A giggle erupts from deep inside him. “I made you say underwear.”

  When I laugh along with him, I forget what I’ve been looking for.

  • • •

  Two hours later, Patrick enters St. Anne’s again. This time, it is empty. Candles flicker, casting shadows; dust motes dance in the slices of light thrown by the stained-glass windows. Patrick immediately heads downstairs to Father Szyszynski’s office. The door is wide open, the priest sits at his desk. For a moment, Patrick enjoys the feeling of voyeurism. Then he knocks, twice, firmly.

  Glen Szyszynski glances up, smiling. “Can I help you?”

  Let’s hope so, Patrick thinks, and he walks inside.

  • • •

  Patrick pushes a Miranda form across the investigation room table toward Father Szyszynski. “It’s just a standard practice, Father. You’re not in custody, and you’re not under arrest . . . but you’re willing to answer questions, and the law says I need to tell you you’ve got rights before I ask you a single thing.”

  Without hesitation, the priest signs the list of rights Patrick has just read aloud.

  “I’m happy to do anything that helps Nathaniel.”

  Szyszynski had immediately volunteered to help with the investigation. He agreed to give a blood sample when Patrick said they needed to rule out anyone who’d been around Nathaniel. At the hospital, watching the phlebotomist, Patrick had wondered if the sickness in this man’s veins was measurable, as much a part of the fluid as the hemoglobin, the plasma.

  Now, Patrick leans back in his chair and stares at the priest. He has faced a thousand criminals, all of whom proclaim their innocence or pretend to have no idea what he is talking about. Most of the time he is able to acknowledge their barbarity with the cool detachment of a law enforcement professional. But today, this slight man sitting across from him—well, it is all Patrick can do to not beat the priest bloody just for speaking Nathaniel’s name.

  “How long have you known the Frosts, Father?” Patrick asks.

  “Oh, I’ve known them since I first came to the parish. I had been sick for a while, and was given a new congregation. The Frosts moved to Biddeford a month after I became a priest here.” He smiles. “I baptized Nathaniel.”

  “Do they come to church regularly?”

  Father Szyszynski’s gaze slides to his lap. “Not as regularly as I’d like,” he admits. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Have you taught Nathaniel in Sunday school?”

  “I don’t teach it; a parent does. Janet Fiore. While the service is going on upstairs.” The priest shrugs. “I love children, though, and I like to connect with the little ones—”

  I bet you do, Patrick thinks.

  “—so after the service, when the congregation is enjoying fellowship and coffee, I take the children downstairs and read a story to them.” He grins sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a frustrated actor.”

  No surprise there, either. “Where are the parents, while you’re reading?”

  “Enjoying a few moments to themselves upstairs, for the most part.”

  “Does anyone else read to the children with you, or are you alone?”

  “Just me. The Sunday school teachers usually finish cleaning the room, and then go up for coffee. The storytime only lasts about fifteen minutes.”

  “Do the children ever leave the room?”

  “Only to go to the bathroom, right down the hall.”

  Patrick considers this. He does not know how Szyszynski managed to get Nathaniel by himself, when all the other children were allegedly present, too. Maybe he gave them the book to look over for themselves, and followed Nathaniel into the bathroom. “Father,” Patrick says, “have you heard how Nathaniel was hurt?”

  There is a hesitation, and then the priest nods. “Yes. Unfortunately, I have.”

  Patrick locks his eyes on Szyszynski’s. “Did you know that there’s physical evidence Nathaniel was anally penetrated?” He is looking for the slightest pinking of the man’s cheeks; a telltale hitch of his breathing. He is looking for surprise, for backpedaling, for the beginnings of panic.

  But Father Szyszynski just shakes his head. “God help him.”

  “Did you know, Father, that Nathaniel has told us you were the one that hurt him?”

  Finally, the shock that Patrick has expected. “I . . . I . . . of course I haven’t hurt him. I would never do that.”

  Patrick remains silent. He wants Szyszynski to think about all the priests around the globe who’ve been found guilty of this offense. He wants Szyszynski to realize that he’s walked himself right onto the gallows of his own execution. “Huh,” Patrick says. “Funny, then. Because I talked to him just the other night, and he specifically told me that it was Father Glen. That’s what the kids call you, isn’t it, Father? Those kids you . . . love?”

  Szyszynski shakes his head repeatedly. “I didn’t. I don’t know what to say. The boy must be confused.”

  “Well, Father, that’s why you’re here today. I need to know if you can think of any reason why Nathaniel might say you hurt him, if you didn’t.”

  “The child’s been through so much—”

  “Did you ever insert anything in his anus?”

  “No!”

  “Did you ever see anyone insert anything in his anus?”

  The priest draws in his breath. “Absolutely not.”

  “Then why do you imagine Nathaniel would say what he did? Can you think of anything that might have made him think it happened, even though it didn’t?” Patrick leans forward. “Maybe a time you were alone with him, something occurred between you two that might have put this idea into his head?”

  “I was never alone with him. There were fourte