"In the boiler room of St. Anne's," Patrick whispers.
"Today? Now? You're kidding."
Impatient, Patrick pokes at the briefs with one gloved finger. "Okay, I've got a pair with robots, one with trucks, and two that are plain white with blue trim. Does anything sound familiar?"
"No. These were boxers. They had baseball mitts on them."
How she remembers this, he can't imagine. Patrick couldn't even tell you what pair of shorts he has on today. "There's nothing here that matches, Nina."
"It's got to be there."
"If he kept them, which we don't know he did, they could very well be in his private quarters. Hidden."
"Like a trophy," Nina says, and the sadness in her voice makes Patrick ache.
"If they're there, we'll get them with a warrant," he promises. He doesn't say what he is thinking: that the underwear alone will not really prove anything. There are a thousand ways to explain away that kind of evidence; he has most likely heard them all.
"Have you talked to-"
"Not yet."
"You'll call me, won't you? After?"
"What do you think?" Patrick says, and hangs up. He bends down to fork all the spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alcove behind the boiler. Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand but cannot grab it. Patrick looks around the custodial closet, finds a fireplace poker, and slides it behind the bulk of the boiler to the small hollow. He snags a corner of it-paper, maybe?- and manages to drag it within his arm's reach.
Baseball mitts. One hundred percent cotton. Gap, size XXS.
He pulls a brown paper bag from his pocket. With his gloved fingers, he turns the underwear over in his hand. On the left rear, slightly off center, there is a stiff stain.
In the custodial closet, directly beneath the altar where Father Szyszynski is at that moment reading Scripture aloud, Patrick bows his head and prays that in a situation as unfortunate as this one, there might be a shred of pure luck.
Caleb feels Nathaniel's giggle like a tiny earthquake, shuddering up from the rib cage. He presses his ear down more firmly against his son's chest. Nathaniel is lying on the floor; Caleb is lying on him, his ear tipped close to the boy's mouth. "Say it again," Caleb demands.
Nathaniel's voice is still thready, syllables hanging together by a string. His throat needs to learn how to hold a word again, cradle it muscle by muscle, heft it onto the tongue. Right now, this is all new to him.
Right now, it is still a chore.
But Caleb can't help himself. He squeezes Nathaniel's hand as the sound flounders out, spiky and tentative. "Daddy."
Caleb grins, so proud he could split in two. Beneath his ear, he hears the wonder in his son's lungs.
"One more time," Caleb begs, and he settles in to listen.
A memory: I am searching all over the house for my car keys, because I am already late to drop Nathaniel at school and go to work. Nathaniel is dressed in his coat and boots, waiting for me. "Think!"
I say aloud, and then turn to Nathaniel. "Have you seen my keys?"
"They're under there," he answers.
"Under where?"
A giggle erupts from deep inside him. "I made you say underwear."
When I laugh along with him, I forget what I've been looking for.
Two hours later, Patrick enters St. Anne's again. This time, it is empty. Candles flicker, casting shadows; dust motes dance in the slices of light thrown by the stained-glass windows. Patrick immediately heads downstairs to Father Szyszynski's office. The door is wide open, the priest sits at his desk. For a moment, Patrick enjoys the feeling of voyeurism. Then he knocks, twice, firmly.
Glen Szyszynski glances up, smiling. "Can I help you?"
