Our Lady of Sorrow High School
Omaha, Nebraska

Nick couldn’t find Christine. He wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t waited for him right outside the classroom like she’d said she would. He wandered over to the second-story windows facing the street. No police cruisers. No cops. That was a good sign.

He dug his hands into his jeans pockets. He hated waiting. He could go back in for the second half of Sister Kate’s class and make Christine come get him. Yep, that’s exactly what he’d do. Make her wait on him for a change. He was headed back to do just that when he noticed down the hall the door to Tony’s office was open. He hesitated. He and Tony had known each other a long time. Maybe he’d been too hard on him the other day when all Tony had wanted and needed was a friend, not an attorney.

He reached in and knocked on the open door, startling Tony.

“Hey, come on in.” He nodded at Nick, but his eyes returned to the computer screen and his fingers flew over the keyboard, as if he needed to close down whatever he was working on before Nick could get a glimpse. Or was Nick still just being suspicious?

“You haven’t seen Christine, have you?”

“No, is she here, too?”

“We brought Timmy for the Explorers’ class. I sat in on the first half. I think Christine’s downstairs giving that guy in the monsignor’s office a piece of her mind.”

Tony looked up at the mention of the intruder. Nick tried to figure out whether that was how Tony saw the guy, as an intruder. But Tony just shook his head and reached for a coffee mug that sat on the bookshelf. Nick waited, letting him take a gulp of what he knew was chocolate milk and not coffee. He only put it in a mug to draw less attention, or at least that was his explanation. Nick had ribbed him about it, jokingly asking if he thought a chocolate-milk-drinking priest would be taken less seriously than a coffee-drinking one.

Instead of some explanation of why the guy was going through the monsignor’s stuff, Tony said, “Christine should be careful.”

It wasn’t at all what Nick expected him to say.

“And why is that?”

Tony shrugged, took another sip. “Everyone’s on edge right now. I’m sure the archbishop won’t appreciate the media snooping around.”

“But he doesn’t mind sending some goon to snoop around?”

This time Tony smiled. “Brother Sebastian does look a bit like a goon, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, in a freaky sort of way. Who exactly is he?”

“Assistant to Archbishop Armstrong, his right-hand man.”

“And his job description includes rummaging through dead priest’s offices?” Nick asked.

Another shrug from Tony. “Brother Sebastian would probably do anything the archbishop asked of him.”

Nick leaned against the doorjamb. Tony didn’t seem too concerned. Christine had probably blown it out of proportion. Of course, someone had to go through the monsignor’s stuff, box it up. He had never paid much attention to Tony’s office before, but suddenly he was taking it all in with new eyes, thinking of his own office back in Boston and what someone might find if they had to clean it out for him. Tony’s was a little neater, but not much. Stacks of magazines lined the far corner. Books and computer games were piled together on two shelves of the bookcase. They were an odd combination. The books were mostly English-lit stuff, poetry and Shakespeare. The computer games appeared to be about warriors and crusaders. A bulletin board had layers tacked over each other—anything from class changes and teachers’ phone numbers to Nebraska football ticket stubs, dry-cleaning receipts and take-out menus. A duffel bag had been thrown under his desk, the zippers undone with a dirty towel halfway out and a pair of muddy running shoes beside it. He’d forgotten how small Tony’s feet were. They looked like kids’ tennis shoes.

Nick glanced out into the hall. Then he came in and sat in the recliner Tony kept in the corner. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Christine seems to think the archbishop has a few secrets he’d like to have die with Monsignor O’Sullivan. Don’t worry, I know if something’s going on you probably can’t talk about it.”

He studied Tony while he hoped for a response, but didn’t expect one. There was a heavy sigh and Tony sat back, setting the wood creaking and the rollers squealing as he slid the chair so that they were facing each other. But then Tony crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t say anything. It was almost as if he wanted to hear what Nick thought he knew. Okay, Nick could play that game.

“I have to tell you,” Nick said, this time in almost a whisper. “I didn’t even know Monsignor O’Sullivan was gay.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“Nobody told me, but if he was messing with boys—”

“Pedophiles are rarely homosexuals, Nick.” Tony shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he needed to explain this.

“But I thought that was part of the church’s solution to the mess, to screen candidates better.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time they ignored science and professional research. I guess you haven’t worked on any pedophile cases in Boston, because you’d know that if you had.”

“I’ve been lucky. Since I left Nebraska I haven’t had to work on any other cases involving kids. So how do you happen to know so much about pedophiles?”

“I was a victims’ advocate when I was at Saint Stephen of the Martyr in Chicago,” Tony said, but he was staring out of his window now. “It was an unofficial post, since officially the archdiocese didn’t have a problem to begin with.”

“That had to be tough,” Nick said, watching him. “How could you work with those kids and know the guys who abused them were probably just being reassigned?”

“I didn’t know that. Not at the time. You have to understand, Nick—” and for this Tony met his eyes “—we were told things were being taken care of.”

“It didn’t clue you in when there were no charges brought against them?”

“That’s not the way it works,” Tony answered, but his eyes were away from Nick’s again, darting around the room, out the window and back to Nick. He scraped a hand over his jaw, as if looking for the right words. “The church didn’t look to the county or the state to handle things,” he said carefully, slowly, as if explaining it to a child, but there was nothing condescending in his tone. If Nick didn’t know better, his friend sounded almost remorseful. “Priests are to be held to a higher standard and should be judged as such. They answer to a higher authority.”

“Sure, I know,” Nick said. “You mean a higher authority as in the archbishop?”

“No. I mean a higher authority as in God.”