Say Three Hail Marys and Die: A John Austin Adventure

By John Michael McDermott

As a sinner enters the confessional, he glances about the empty church. Father Dan Rutledge waits patiently for Ray Cronin to begin his declarations of guilt. No one hears the squeak of church door as a tall shadow quietly enters and trains his weapon on the confessional doors. Moments later, Ray Cronin is dead, Father Dan Rutledge is barely hanging on, and the only thing everyone knows is that someone has already killed four priests in Dade County in the last six months.

John Auty Austin arrives at his Florida beach house to celebrate his newfound notoriety as a successful attorney with his girlfriend, Rosie. But as they settle in, Rosie receives horrible news. Her brother, Father Dan, is clinging to life in a local hospital. The police are convinced the shooting is tied to a serial killer, but Auty has a different theory the authorities refuse to accept. Just as Father Dan awakens from his coma, Rosies relationship with Auty becomes strained when she accepts a job with billionaire Devlin Seely, who just happens to be drop-dead gorgeous.

In this gripping mystery, Auty is at it again as he attempts to solve a complex murder case, find four million dollars, and win back his girlfriendbefore she too disappears forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475929683

John Michael McDermott

John Michael McDermott graduated from the University of Wisconsin with a bachelor’s degree in communications, and also holds a master’s degree and doctorate in business administration. A former resident of the Tampa Bay area in Florida, he lives with his wife, Jane, in Madison, Wisconsin.

Book preview

Prologue

Father Dan Rutledge consumed his dinner at an uncharacteristically quick pace. Generally, he’d duke it out with his fellow priests for the last scrap of meat or piece of pie, but not tonight. Excusing himself from his four associates seated with him at the table, he made his way from the rectory dining room down the hall to his office to compose a homily for the following morning’s Mass. His mini sound system softly played Pachelbel’s Canon in D while he sat at the modest metal desk. There was something about listening to great music that opened his mind to inspiration. An undergraduate professor whom he greatly respected had encouraged him to pursue his writing talents in journalism, but by then Dan knew his ultimate calling would be the priesthood. Tonight, Father Dan already had a good idea of what he wanted to say, and it was merely a matter of reducing his thoughts to a brief written outline. He wrote hurriedly, having to pause only momentarily to stare at the ceiling twice to collect his thoughts. After completing his sermon notes, he rehearsed the homily silently, then once out loud. It measured just less than five minutes, an appropriate length, he felt, for the early hour he would present it. His objective was always the same ─ to instill a simple message people could take with them and remember after they walked out of the church. Monday through Friday, Mass never lasted more than twenty-five minutes to accommodate those who needed to get to their jobs or who had other commitments. Generally, they were familiar faces he saw, mostly retired parishioners interspersed with a handful of travelers and working people. However, in winter months the tourists easily outnumbered parish members on weekdays. Father Dan often stated how immeasurably pleased he was when Catholics took their religion on vacation with them.

Predicting precisely who would arrive late and leave early was easy ─ they were always the same people. While Father Dan naturally discouraged the practice of coming late or leaving early, he never neglected to express his gratitude to all who attended. Since the celebration of his very first Mass, he always sent his flock away with the same Irish blessing:

May the road rise to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields,

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

He placed his completed sermon outline in a leather-bound folder on the corner of his desk, then walked from his office, past the dining room to the front door of the rectory and turned on the porch light. A steady rain fell as he hastened down the rectory steps and across the red brick courtyard to the church. The cobblestones in the courtyard here at St. Anthony’s reminded him of his first parish assignment at St. Alphonsus in Roxbury, Massachusetts, a short T ride from his birthplace in Dorchester. After nearly ten years in Miami, his native Southie accent was as pronounced as ever. He glanced at his wristwatch ─ the dial showed 6:58.

Tan, trim and a shade over six feet, Father Dan could have easily passed as the tennis pro at a Miami country club. A former amateur boxer, he stayed fit lifting weights at a local gym, where he mentored underprivileged neighborhood children. Dressed only in running shoes, t-shirt and shorts, his daily workout in Kennedy Park caught the eyes of female regulars on the jogging path until they discovered he was the associate pastor of a nearby Catholic church.

Three parishioners knelt in prayer and reflection anticipating the priest’s arrival to hear their confessions. Except for the Christmas and Easter seasons, one priest could easily accommodate the penitents on hand for evening confessions, and Father Rutledge rotated this sacramental duty with the other priests at St. Anthony’s. A squeak of door hinges in the silent church caused the three women to look up as the priest entered. He acknowledged the ladies with a smile and a nod of his head, and they stood to wait their turn. Miss Marjorie Hopkins, who taught catechism to the grade school children on Sunday mornings, was first in line. She faithfully confessed each week, and the good sisters of St. Anthony’s Parish were quick to point out to the school children Miss Hopkins’ devotion to the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Once, on the playground, Father Dan had overheard three eleven-year-old boys speculating what sins their instructor committed requiring such frequent trips to the confessional. The good-natured priest gently suggested to the youngsters they spend less time discussing Miss Hopkins and more time reflecting upon their own sins. Catherine Everwood, now in her second term on the parish council, stood behind Miss Hopkins. Each week she and her husband, Burt, brought communion to the homes of parishioners unable to attend Sunday Mass, a practice they had begun in their native Buffalo before moving south. In whisper tones she turned to converse with her next-door neighbor, Rita Warrington, a member of the choir, and church organist Monday through Friday.

star.jpg

Ray Cronin stepped off the Metrorail, having almost missed his stop as he contemplated what he was about to do. Unhurriedly, he walked two blocks from the Coconut Grove station to St. Anthony’s Church ─ seemingly oblivious to the sudden downpour and splats of cold rain bouncing from the pavement onto his shoes and pants. He had abandoned the Sacrament of Reconciliation ─ confession ─ as youth in Northern Ireland, where bombings and shootings had been a part of daily life ─ where the good and the bad, the tolerable and the intolerable had seemed so imprecise and indeterminate. Church was a venue more unfamiliar to him now than it had once been, and he soon found himself standing at the front of the entrance to St. Anthony’s, hesitant about going inside. He peered up at the darkening sky, then at the cross atop the steeple. The rain came harder now, soaking his clothing and falling onto his face and into his eyes.

No, it must be done, he decided. He needed to confess in order to cleanse his soul and remove all the guilt ravaging his mind. It was the Catholic thing to do. His conscience sensed an immediate fragment of relief from the decision he had just made. He went inside the church, pausing briefly in the vestibule to brush the raindrops from his coat and wipe his face and eyes with the back of his hand.

Once again, the church would serve as his refuge. As Ray opened the squeaky door, he noticed the women look up at him. He dipped two fingers into the holy water font and made the sign of the cross. The lingering aroma of incense from an afternoon funeral Mass greeted him. Ray was all too familiar with funeral Masses, having seen friends and compatriots laid to rest after being gunned down or blown up. He took a seat in one of the pews in the back of the church, a good distance from the confessionals and the three women standing in line. He saw them muttering among themselves, undoubtedly wondering who this stranger was.

Ray looked directly down the center aisle. His eyes briefly focused on the life-sized marble figures of the Holy Family behind the pulpit, then to the opposite side of the altar, where he saw a sculpture of what he assumed to be the church’s patron saint. Ray’s awareness now switched to the huge crucifix of the Living Christ, illuminated by a flash of lightning through the stained glass window behind it. Sustaining that image in his mind, he closed his eyes, bowed his head and folded his hands. Memories of his youth surfaced as claps of thunder suggestive of the bombs of bloody Belfast echoed within the dark, cavernous church. His family’s parish had often served as a sanctuary, a shelter from the carnage on the street. The repeated thunder rumblings outside made the imagery seem so real.

His conscience told him he was taking the right pathway. There was so much for which to ask forgiveness. Through his teens and twenties, he certainly had not been a saint. The way he lived his life and the way he was raised to live his life were contradictory, to say the least. His list of indiscretions would have been indeed long, but where should he draw the line between what had been sinful and what had been done in the name of a free Ireland, in the name of justice? He was counting on the pluses outweighing the minuses. Whichever side of the line they fell, he was also counting on the priest’s absolution to wipe the slate clean. God would surely understand, but Ray knew the people to whom he had to answer would not be as forgiving. Nobody had ever walked away. His tongue had gotten him into too many skirmishes over the years, and his overpowering attraction to the pint and the shot glass had only made matters worse. He knew he had mouthed off to the wrong people. Moreover, he knew threatening them with what he knew had likely sealed his own fate. He trusted his spiritual affairs would soon be in order. Instinctively, he feared he had little time left to do the same for the rest of his life. The most sustained thunder boom of the storm sounded above the church’s roof. He opened his eyes.

As Ray Cronin entered the confessional, he glanced about the church. The last of the other penitents had apparently exited St. Anthony’s, and the church appeared otherwise empty. He knelt, and made the sign of the cross. Words formed on his lips, but there was no sound.

Father Dan waited patiently. It’s all right, the priest finally assured him. Take a couple deep breaths, whenever you are ready … or if you would be more comfortable, we can sit in my office. The confessional can be a little intimidating at times, although it shouldn’t be. Father Dan’s voice had a pleasant, comforting quality.

I’ll be all right, he said, clearing his throat.

In those few words, Father Dan detected a bit of a brogue. Do you receive the Sacraments? the priest asked.

It’s been since I was a lad.

I understand, Father Dan said, and Ray Cronin began his confession.

This time there was nobody in the pews to hear the squeak of the church door. A tall gray shadow in a full-brimmed hat and rain-matted trench coat moved slowly down the aisle in the direction of the confessionals, where it came to a halt. The figure gave a cursory scan about the dimly lighted church. Nor this time was there apparently anyone to hear the volley of gunshots that followed, trained on the confessional doors. Their sound reverberated from the arched ceiling, off the marble walls to the floor, and then there was smoky silence.

The following morning the front page of the Miami Herald declared Another Priest Gunned Down, Bystander Succumbs in Attack. A less respected tabloid reported Weapon of Mass Destruction Strikes Again.

One

The jetliner circled far beyond the fringe of the coastline. John Austin, Auty to his friends, gazed out his window seat at the white-crested waves far below. From this distance they appeared almost motionless atop the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Auty would not have admitted it to anyone, but he was totally immersed in the anticipation of seeing Rosie Rutledge again. She was never far from his mind. While in Madison, he had managed to suppress his feelings quite well by focusing on his law practice, winning big cases and taking his reputation to even greater heights. But now that their reunion was imminent, thoughts of Rosie had escalated to an all-encompassing level.

He knew they needed to reach an understanding about where their relationship stood and where it was headed. Having so little communication over all those months hadn’t set well with him. There surely would be accusations hurled back and forth. He knew they were both at fault, with plenty of selfishness to go around. He confidently believed once they got beyond the blame game, their bond would be stronger than ever.

The plane banked toward the shoreline heading for Sarasota-Bradenton International. Auty, looking across the aisle and out the window, recognized his beach house in the distance. The expansive gray tile roof and stands of coconut palms at the four corners of his Florida residence were easy to identify even though he had spent only ten nights in the structure since it was built just over a year and a half ago. Cringing, he reflected how his new residence had come to be. The old beach house had disintegrated with two humongous explosions so powerful they had spewed mortar, wood and glass high into the air and out into the Gulf. On that wretched day, Auty had deferred his morning jogging ritual to loll in bed with Rosie until after she left for Tampa. The would-be assassins watched him enter through the front door after Rosie departed, but didn’t see him exit to the beach by the rear door. Shockwaves from the detonations knocked him to the sand, leaving him dazed as fingers of heat and fire reached out as he retreated to the safety of the Gulf of Mexico. But Auty was alive. Thanks to his and Rosie’s diversion, he was alive.

When his head cleared, he knew immediately Tom and Gary Fielding were responsible. After all, the Fielding brothers had every reason in the world to want Auty dead. Their estranged father had left his multimillion dollar estate exclusively to his only granddaughter, Maggie Lanier, and to Auty on the condition they survive the old man for at least 180 days. The clock was running, and the Fieldings were willing to do anything, including murder, to secure what they believed was their rightful inheritance.

A coastguard helicopter had pulled Rosie and Auty from a wintry black sea that now appeared so beckoningly serene. Looking down at the Gulf of Mexico where the Fielding brothers perished that night, he remembered Rosie’s screams for help as the sinking boat began to list. With hands and feet bound, she lay helpless on the cold slimy deck of the Fieldings’ fishing vessel as the seawater rushed over her. Auty raised Rosie’s head above the churning sea and she gasped what might otherwise have been her last breath. For what had seemed an eternity, he managed to keep himself and Rosie afloat in the numbing cold water until their rescuers found them and they were finally safe.

Sir, please bring your seatback to its upright position. The flight attendant’s reminder brought him from that momentous night to the present. He complied. The jetliner was on the ground and at the gate in a matter of minutes.

Taking his black leather carryon from the overhead compartment after retrieving a small suitcase for the woman seated in the row behind him, Auty was one of the first to exit the plane, and once outside the terminal he recognized the double-parked silver Lincoln of Marshall McGreevy.

Hey, counselor, Auty said, greeting the man behind the wheel. Auty extended his hand as he entered the passenger seat after shedding his sport coat and tossing it and his carryon into the back.

John Austin, welcome back to Sarasota. I trust you had a good flight. No more luggage, John?

I did have a good flight, and this is all I brought. I have a closetful of clothes at the beach. He fastened his safety belt. Glancing over at McGreevy, Auty immediately noticed his formerly convex stomach had all but disappeared.

You’re looking great, and trim, Marshall.

McGreevy’s usual ruddy complexion showed instead a deep tan, a look Auty had not seen before. I’m feeling better than I have in years, John. My wife finally convinced me the firm could survive without my being there twelve hours a day. You could learn from me. McGreevy looked Auty’s way. Now, I’m in at nine and out at noon ─ play golf six or seven times a week. Makes me wonder why I didn’t listen to her sooner.

Auty inhaled the stale scent of cigars inside the Lincoln. However, you’re still smoking those big stogies, Marshall?

I’m working on it, John. He appeared to catch the expression of doubt on Auty’s face. No, really. I haven’t made any significant progress, but one change at a time is all I can handle.

In the grill room at the Sabal Bay Country Club they ordered drinks and lunch. McGreevy had a Beefeaters martini straight up and Auty opted for his Guinness. Raising his glass, McGreevy offered a silent toast, and then took a long sip of the martini, almost draining the glass. That corner office is still waiting for you, John, any time you’re ready to make the move.

Marshall, I don’t think …

McGreevy caught the cocktail waiter’s eye and pointed to his glass.

Auty, meanwhile, redirected the conversation. I’m going to Pelican Bayou in the morning to see Maggie. I phoned her before leaving Madison and she doesn’t have any classes tomorrow.

She’s turned into quite the young lady, John. I saw her in my office two weeks ago for our quarterly meeting, and then we had lunch here. She asks excellent questions about her account and the investments I select, with her approval of course. McGreevy popped an olive into his mouth from the plastic sword in his drink, and then continued. Maggie still mentions how noble it was of you to renounce your share of her grandfather’s estate. That’s a huge chunk of change you gave up, making Maggie an even richer young woman.

You know what Ed Fielding wanted to give me was merely a way to ease his conscience for what he did to my parents. Maggie would have been set for life even without what Fielding left me.

You’re absolutely correct, John, but you were still very generous.

How’s her portfolio doing? I imagine you’re taking a rather conservative approach.

Even with interest rates the way they are, she’s earning over two hundred thousand a year. We got her out of the stock market at the perfect time, just before the decline.

Not bad for a nineteen year old college student, Auty grinned. It must take you a month to earn that much.

McGreevy belly laughed, drawing the attention of others seated near them. Look who’s talking!

The waiter brought McGreevy another round as Auty nursed his Guinness.

So tell me about your big case, John. McGreevy leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable in anticipation of Auty’s story. He sat upright moments later when their meals arrived.

Oh, there’s nothing much to tell, really. My associates handled everything quite adroitly. In fact, they did all the litigating. I just helped with the preparation and stayed in the background.

You’re too modest, John. I heard your closing argument was almost poetic. There wasn’t a dry eye in the courtroom ─ including the judge ─ and your client received a sinfully large settlement.

It’s what she deserved, but where did you hear about that? Auty had a perplexed expression on his face.

From your secretary. I just happened to call your office the day after the trial ended.

Auty smiled, sipping the foam from his second Guinness. She never mentioned your call.

What about the other case, the pro bono one?

Auty’s grin widened as he set his glass down. You heard about that, too?

Got press coverage down here, but I want to hear the entire story from you. McGreevy relaxed his posture and waited for Auty to begin.

I have to confess, Marshall, I had fun with that one. There’s a University of Wisconsin physics professor with a condo on the twentieth floor across from the State Capitol Building. He invented a laser device, something for which he hasn’t found many practical applications yet. I believe, however, a movie studio graphics department contacted him, and appears quite interested in the potential it has. NASA also contacted him and flew him to Houston a couple times, but that never got off the ground. Last December he projected an image of the infant Jesus onto the capitol lawn. The atheists jumped on the separation of church and state bandwagon and brought suit in federal court, but the public totally embraced his effort.

McGreevy worked on his sandwich while listening intently. Auty managed to get in a couple bites of red snapper between sentences.

Merchants took out ads in local newspapers thanking the professor for bringing business to their shops. A high-tech company presented him a fifty thousand dollar grant so he could continue his research. Downtown churches kept vigils round the clock and their choirs merged to sing Christmas carols throughout Advent and on Christmas Eve. My office looks down on the capitol lawn and I saw everything that was going on. People came from hundreds of miles away to sing Christmas carols, leave poinsettia plants, genuflect and pray. Artists were sketching the image. Teachers brought students on field trips. The international media and wire services covered the phenomenon, amazed at how orderly and well behaved ─ almost reverent ─ everyone was. The judge couldn’t find any reason to side with the plaintiffs, or even rule the likeness of Jesus created a public nuisance ─ although she seemed to try her damndest.

Federal judges are pseudo kings and queens, McGreevy sneered, popping another olive into his mouth, but go on with your story, John. You already know my position on that topic.

Auty put down his fork. Leaning in, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "The professor admitted to me he was just having some fun with the