Page 148 of The Grey Wolf
“You must,” said Dussault, who’d been listening. “Why did Robert send for you, if not to ask for your help? And to do that, you’d have to know what was happening.”
“No, you don’t understand Robert. He sent for me because his conscience got the better of him. He ran away from Washington to the Curia, but his God followed him, of course, and demanded that he do something. He had to tell someone, so he sent for me.”
“So he did tell you,” said Dussault.
“No. He only said that something awful was going to happen, and he was afraid for his life. They said they’d kill him if it even looked like he might talk.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” demanded Lacoste.
“You don’t think I’ve asked? But he wouldn’t tell me anything else. I was furious. I’d given up my job and come all this way, and he chickened out. I should’ve known.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Brother Robert’s a coward, okay?” It was practically spat out. “Always was. He wanted to give me his burden, hand it off to me.”
“But he didn’t,” said Dussault.
“No. So I sent for Sébastien, thinking he might tell him. But Robert left as soon as Sébastien arrived. We followed him here. When he still refused to see us, Sébastien asked Dom Philippe to come.”
“Why him?” asked Dussault.
“Wait a minute,” said Lacoste. “Before we get to that, let’s back up. Brother Robert must’ve heard about whatever was planned while he was in DC. Is that right?”
Irene nodded.
“How did he hear it?”
“From a parishioner, in confession.”
“But he’s a monk,” said Dussault. “He can’t hear confessions.”
“Well, he can,” said Irene. “But he can’t give absolution.”
“So what good is it?” asked Dussault.
“Not a lot. He used to fill in at the local church when the priest on duty was too tired.”
Lacoste wondered if “too tired” was a euphemism.
“No one knew it was a monk, not a priest, on the other side. It was wrong, but Robert felt he had no choice. He was always cowed by authority. If a priest told him to do it…”
“But that would mean Brother Robert was not bound by what he heard. Not bound by the confessional,” said Dussault.
“True.”
“And if the person who confessed discovered that…”
“Yes.”
“If he wasn’t bound by the confessional,” said Lacoste, “why not go to the police? Why not tell someone?”
“I tried to get him to, but you’d have to know Robert. He’s very smart, brilliant, but fragile. These butterflies would terrify him.”
They were flitting all around them now, and Isabelle had to admit, she was finding them a little off-putting. All that movement right in her face.
Dussault coughed, having inhaled what looked like a moth.
“Is that what happened with the karaoke?” asked Lacoste.
