Downstairs in the morgue office, I removed a set of keys from the wall, and I went outside to the parking lot and unlocked the driver’s door of the dark-blue station wagon we sometimes used to transport bodies. It was not as obvious as a hearse, but it wasn’t what one might expect to see in a neighbor’s driveway, either. Oversized, it had tinted windows obscured with blinds similar to those used by funeral homes, and in lieu of seats in back, the floor was covered with plywood fitted with fasteners to keep stretchers from sliding during transport. My morgue supervisor had hung several air fresheners from the rearview mirror, and the scent of cedar was cloying.
I opened my window part of the way and drove onto Main Street, grateful that by now roads were only wet, and rush hour traffic not too bad. Damp, cold air felt good on my face, and I knew what I must do. It had been a while since I had stopped at church on my way home, for I thought to do this only when I was in crisis, when life had pushed me as far as I could go. At Three Chopt Road and Grove Avenue, I turned into the parking lot of Saint Bridget’s, which was built of brick and slate and no longer kept its doors unlocked at night, because of what the world had become. But Alcoholics Anonymous met at this hour, and I always knew when I could get in and not be bothered.
Entering through a side door, I blessed myself with holy water as I walked into the sanctuary with its statues of saints guarding the cross, and crucifixion scenes in brilliant stained glass. I chose the last row of pews, and I wished for candles to light, but that ritual had stopped here with Vatican 11. Kneeling on the bench, I prayed for Ted Eddings and his mother. I prayed for Marino and Wesley. In my private, dark space, I prayed for my niece. Then I sat in silence with my eyes shut, and I felt my tension begin to ease.
At almost six P.m., I was about to leave when I paused in the narthex and saw the lighted doorway of the library down a hall. I wasn’t certain why I was guided in that direction, but it did occur to me that an evil book might be countered by one that was holy, and a few moments with the catechism might be what the priest would prescribe.
When I walked in, I found an older woman inside, returning books to shelves.
“Dr. Scarpetta?” she asked, and she seemed both surprised and pleased.
“Good evening.” I was ashamed I did not remember her name.
“I’m Mrs. Edwards.”
I remembered she was in charge of social services at the church, and trained converts in Catholicism, which some days I thought should include me since it was so rare I went to Mass. Small and slightly plump, she had never seen a convent but still inspired the same guilt in me that the good nuns had when I was young.
“I don’t often see you here at this hour,” she said.
“I just stopped by,” I answered. “After work. I’m afraid I missed evening prayer.”
“That was on Sunday.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m so glad I happened to see you on my way out.” Her eyes lingered on my face and I knew she sensed my need.
I scanned bookcases.
“Might I help you find something?” she asked.
“A copy of the catechism,” I said.
She crossed the room and pulled one off a shelf, and handed it to me. It was a large volume and I wondered if I had made a good decision, for I was very tired right now and I doubted Lucy was in a condition to read.
“Perhaps there is something I might help you with?”
Her voice was kind.
“Maybe if I could speak to the priest for a few moments, that would be good,” I said.
“Father O’Connor is making hospital visits.” Her eyes continued searching. “Might I help you in some way?”
“Maybe you can.”
“We can sit right here,” she suggested.