The Perfect Patsy

One-3

I’VE JUST SETTLED INTO bed Friday night at about 9 p.m., intending to spend some quality time with Agatha Christie, when my phone rings. Looking at the caller ID, I see that it's Nate Rodriguez.

“Damn,” I whisper, hoping that Anna did not hear me cursing in the Rectory. Nate has the irritating habit of calling at the most inopportune moments, usually to ask the most inane questions or whine about his relationship with Gladys.

I mean, I like Nate, I really do. Just in small doses and not after 9 p.m. at night.

Still, I try to sound pleasant as I say, “Hi, Nate.”

I barely get the words out of my mouth before he screams, “Father Tom, you’ve got to help me! Something terrible has happened!”

“Nate,” I say, sitting up in bed, “what is it? Is Gladys OK?”

“Yes, she’s fine, but she probably never will be again. Not after this. No, Father, it's Ashley Becket.”

I recognize the name but can’t place it right away, so I just ask, “What’s wrong with her, Nate?”

“Father Tom, I think she’s dead.”

I jump out of bed at this and start moving toward the clothes I lay out every night before I go to bed. My time at Saint Clare’s has taught me to always be ready to be called out for an emergency. “Nate, where are you?” I ask, as I pull my shirt over my head.

“I’m at my apartment. You’ve got to get over here!”

“I’m coming now, Nate. Have you called 911?”

“No, just you,” he says, now sobbing.

I know I need to let someone know what’s going on but I don’t want to hang up the phone. I finish getting dressed and go out of my bedroom and down the hallway to Anna’s room. I knock and call, “Anna!”

“Tom?” Anna says when she opens the door, concern written all over her face, “What is it?”

“Something’s happened at Nate’s,” I explain. “I need you to call 911 and ask them to send the police and an ambulance to his apartment.”

“What’s his address?” she asks.

I’ve been to Nate’s apartment a couple of times, and I know how to get there, but I don’t know the exact address. To the distraught young man on the phone, I ask, “Nate, what’s your address?”

“Huh?” he says, clearly disoriented. “Address? Oh, yeah, I know that.” There’s a pause on the other end before he whispers, “I can’t remember my address, Father Tom!”

“Maybe I can call Gladys,” Anna says.

“No! Don’t call Gladys! Please! She can’t know!” Nate yells. “I mean, she’s going to know, but not now!”

“Nate, OK, OK, we won’t call Gladys.” To Anna, I say, “Look in the parish records. I know he’s registered.”

“Nate,” I say as I go down the stairs. “Try to see if she’s breathing. Put your ear to her mouth.”

“She’s not, Father,” he sobs. “She’s just laying there, not moving, staring up at my ceiling.”

I grab my keys off the hook just inside the door and head out, dashing to my car. “OK, OK. So her eyes are open, right?”

“Yes, they're open, but they’re not blinking or moving or anything. They’re just staring.”

I crank the car and pull out of the driveway. “OK, Nate, I’m on my way. Just stay with me.”

“I will,” Nate says. “Oh, my God. This is all my fault. This is all my fault.”

I don’t ask him what he means.

I’m afraid of the answer.

***

* * * *

THE LIGHT IS ON BUT the door is locked when I get to Nate’s apartment. I bang on the door and call, “Nate! Nate! It’s Father Tom.”

The words are hardly out of my mouth when his door opens and the young man falls into my arms.

I grab him around the waist as a sickly sweet metallic smell, mixed with body odor, assaults my nostrils. I feel something sticky on my hands. For a second, I’m afraid I’m having another panic attack, but soon realize I’m not.

The blood is real.

With Nate leaning against me, I pull my hands away and see them covered with the all-too familiar crimson fluid. Instinctively, I push Nate away from me, trying to see where the blood is coming from.

It’s only then I realize blood is the only thing covering him. Otherwise, he’s naked.

“Nate,” I say, my calm returning now that I realize that this is something real and not a figment of my tormented imagination, “where are you hurt?”

He just stares at me, obviously in shock. I give him a quick once over and cannot see any obvious wounds, at least none that would cause this much bleeding. I begin to gently lower him to the floor.

I take his head in my hands and force him to look at me. “Nate,” I say again, this time more forcefully, “where did all this blood come from?”

This seems to get through, and his unseeing eyes struggle to focus on mine as one whispered word escapes his lips.

“Her.”