Outrun the Moon(47)

“No. I would have seen her pass me. We left the laundry together. She might’ve gone to the chapel.” It occurs to me that I haven’t seen Father Goodwin, either.

“Then we’ll use the street entrance. Father Goodwin always keeps it open after the time someone left a baby on the doorstep.”

As I follow her down the street, her gaze flits to me. “You lost your accent. You talk . . . like us.”

“I was born here.”

“Yes, but I thought . . .” Her cheeks pinken, and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry you had to lie.”

“And I’m sorry for my deception.”

She smiles, nudging something askew in my heart back into place.

We reach a door with a push bell. There doesn’t seem to be any damage to the door frame, at least from this side.

“You might want to stand back.” I tug open the door, praying the brickwork stays intact.

To my relief, nothing falls. We venture into the short hallway, which also appears undamaged, though that only makes me more nervous. This whole time, we thought we were standing on solid earth, but the ground was as rotten as a summer squash come winter.

“Father Goodwin?” I call.

Katie knocks on the only door in the hallway. When no one answers, she attempts to open it, but it doesn’t budge. Just when I think it’s jammed for good, it swings open, causing a small avalanche of ceiling particles.

While Katie tears dust from her eyes, I venture in, but stop in my tracks so quickly that I nearly lose my balance. “Father?”

On the bed, Father Goodwin lies curled against a woman with his face buried in her graying blond hair.

So Father Goodwin does—or did—have a cocotte. A chunk of ceiling impales the unfortunate pair, and the bed has fallen to the floor, held up by a single bedpost.

Katie shrieks, then slaps a hand over her mouth. I feel her trembling beside me. “They’re, they’re . . .”

“Yes, they’re gone.”

Katie doesn’t want to get any closer, but I move in. “Oh no,” I breathe.

There are Madame Du Lac’s delicate features—the aristocratic nose, the high brow—frozen in a last expression of peace. The night of my lark, I saw her by the convent. I remember the chuen pooi she longed for—to make her more attractive to her younger lover.

Despite my dislike for the woman, no one deserves such a gruesome death. She was a mother to someone, and even if I don’t like her, either, there is no pain like losing a family member.

My thoughts return to my own family. Whoever is listening, Mary, Joseph, or Jesus, keep them safe. May this be the only street in San Francisco torn apart, may that fighting pair have taken their struggle somewhere far away, somewhere without people. The walls of this windowless room seem to squeeze in on me, and the scent of death hangs heavy, like flowers kept too long.

“God keep us in Your palm, sinners and all,” I whisper, reciting one of Mr. Mortimer’s platitudes.

We make our way into the sanctuary. The roof has crumbled on one side, leaving the pews covered with rubble. There doesn’t look to be anyone left inside, but then I hear a moan.

I hurry to the woman’s side. “Headmistress Crouch!” She’s stretched out on one of the benches, one hand grabbing the back of the pew, the other covering her heart. Her face is bright red and drenched with sweat. Is she having an attack?

I help her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

She nods. “It’s my blood pressure. Gives me dizzy spells. It’ll be the death of me.” She lifts her gaze to the crumbling ceiling.

And us, too, if we don’t leave now.

“Get my cane, girl.”

I find it under the pew along with her gray felt hat.

Headmistress Crouch plunks the hat onto her head and uses the cane to drag herself forward. She comes to a halt in front of Father’s chambers. “So thirsty. I need water.”

“But, we should leave,” I protest, thinking about what, or who, lies beyond the doorway. “It’s not safe.”

“If I am going to heaven, I shall not go parched.”

Katie passes me a look of exasperation.

“I’ll get it. You stay here,” I say. While the thought of seeing those dead lovers again makes my stomach roil, I suspect it’d be easier to remove a stuck nail than get Headmistress Crouch to budge. I hurry into the bedroom and grab the man’s pitcher, which is still half-filled with dusty water. I quickly turn to leave.

But Headmistress Crouch is in the doorway, frowning at the scene. Behind her, Katie shrugs at me helplessly.

I help the headmistress drink from the pitcher, and when she’s finished, she grimaces. No doubt the bad taste in her mouth comes more from the grisly spectacle than the water. The drink revives her enough that she shakes off our help and stumbles to the exit on her own. “God help Father Goodwin and whoever she was. We shall not speak of this matter to anyone.”

Katie’s green eyes go round. Was it possible Headmistress Crouch didn’t recognize Elodie’s mother? Her face was half buried in a pillow.

We leave Father Goodwin with his dark secrets and return to the others.

I hardly notice the chaos around me, with the horror of that scene still fresh in my mind. I’d seen lots of corpses in my time at the cemetery, but they were always carefully arranged, and I never knew any of them personally. Despite his questionable choices, Father Goodwin struck me as a kindly sort, the sort you’d think God would keep around, especially as one of His biggest advocates.