No Witness But the Moon(33)

“I’m just trying to make sure every door in life is open for you. Like Lita did for me.”

“One little rose on my shoulder isn’t going to close any doors,” said Joy. “The problem isn’t with the tattoo, Dad. It’s with the way you see me.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I want to be a doctor anymore.”

“Oh.” Vega tried to mask his disappointment but it sat there between them like a deflated balloon. Joy had wanted to be a doctor since she was twelve years old. Her dream had become his. He didn’t want to let it go.

“Can I ask what you do want to be?”

Joy rubbed a hand along the black fuzz of her jacket, stroking it like a kitten.

“I like working with young children a lot. Maybe a kindergarten teacher—”

“What? You want to waste your talents on—on—wip-ing snotty noses and teaching kids to crayon their ABCs?”

“Oh, that’s rich.” Joy rolled her eyes. “Coming from a man who shoots people for a living.”

Vega turned away without saying anything. Then he shifted the truck into gear and nosed back into traffic.

“Sorry, Dad,” she said after a minute. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Forget about it.”

“If you want to talk—”

“I’m okay.”

Vega drove around St. Raymond’s Church looking for parking. He couldn’t find anything nearby so he parked about eight blocks away, around the corner from his mother’s old building. They’d have to walk back to the church. Vega grabbed his aviator sunglasses and Yankees baseball cap from his glove compartment and slipped them on.

“It’s not sunny out,” said Joy.

“That’s not why I’m wearing them,” said Vega. “I don’t want to chance getting recognized.”

“Is that why you haven’t shaved since you got home?”

Vega hadn’t really thought about it. But yeah. Maybe. He wanted to hide from the world. A beard was one way to do it. If he stayed on administrative leave long enough, maybe he’d grow out his hair, too.

St. Raymond’s was an imposing sandstone-colored church with filigreed stained-glass windows and twin spires that looked like cake decorations. The inside smelled of incense and lemon oil. There were no services going on so they were the only people in the nave with the exception of a janitor sweeping the pews, an older, heavyset Hispanic-looking man with a broad weathered face. Vega asked if Father Delgado was around.

“I’m not sure if he’s in the rectory, se?or. He was out making rounds at the hospital earlier. He will be here for Saturday evening Mass.”

“Is there any way you could find out if he’s in the rectory right now? It’s important that I speak to him.”

The janitor’s dark, sad eyes settled on Vega’s. He brushed a hand across his gray mustache. Vega sensed the man knew who he was. Was there no place any longer where his reputation didn’t precede him?

“I will see if I can find him.”

“Is there a bathroom around here?” asked Joy.

“I will show you, se?orita.”

Joy followed the janitor out of the nave and into a side hallway that presumably led to the rectory. Vega knelt at the edge of one of the pews and made the sign of the cross. Old habits died hard, he supposed. He slid himself onto the smooth wooden bench and folded his hands on the pew in front of him. Not in prayer. He’d been an altar boy long enough to know all the words. But they conjured no faith inside of him. He looked up to the ornate peaked rafters and stained-glass windows of saints and wished that all the glory and majesty of this place could quiet the hollow echo in his soul. He felt lost. So terribly, terribly lost.

I’ve killed a man. I’ve killed an unarmed man. For the first time, the full weight of those words fell upon him. He’d been looking for ways to relieve the burden. But Greco was right. If he ever wanted to make something good happen, he first had to come to grips with the unalterable nature of what he’d done.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

The words startled Vega. He turned to see Father Delgado striding up the aisle toward him. For a man pushing seventy, he had a brisk way of moving. Vega could see why he was everybody’s favorite priest. He had soft, deep-set eyes that never wandered when he was listening to you and a sort of Zen-like calmness that made you feel instantly like you were in safe hands. But he wasn’t all prayer and mumbo jumbo, either. He was a die-hard Yankees fan, an excellent poker player, and a lover of all things spicy and fried. He was not above making priest jokes either—one of the reasons Vega supposed his mother loved him so much. They both shared an irreverent sense of humor.

Father Delgado bent down and crossed himself, then scooted into the pew next to Vega.

“I guess you’ve seen the news,” said Vega. “I realize I’m not the most popular person to be seen talking to right now.”

“Nonsense. Your mother would have been glad you reached out.” Delgado pulled down the kneeling bench and clasped his hands in front of him. “Shall we pray together?”

“I’m not here for spiritual guidance, Father,” Vega said sheepishly.

“Sometimes the thing we need most, we can’t bring ourselves to look for.”