Page 66 of Vicious Behaviors
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sound as sincere as possible.
She sighs. “It’s the strangest thing… having someone be such a permanent fixture in your life, and then suddenly they’re just… not there. It’s like losing a piece of the building’s foundation.”
“Were you close with him?”
“No,” she says quickly, with another shake of her head. “Mother Superior was more so than me. Though, between you and me,” she glances around as if unwilling to repeat her next words, “she didn’t seem too broken up about his disappearance.”
I raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Let’s just say Father McDonagh was even stricter than Sister Margaretta, if you can believe it. He was the fire-and-brimstone type. He offered very little comfort to the parishioners. Very little hope. Father Torres far exceeds him in that regard. I hate to say it, but part of me is relieved he’s gone. Father Torres is a breath of fresh air, more in touch with thetimes. And what’s more, the children respond to Father Torres, whereas Father McDonagh… just scared them.”
“I didn’t realize Father McDonagh or Father Torres were so involved with the school. I thought most of their time would be spent looking after their parishioners at St. Mary’s.”
Sister Agnes gives a faint smile. “Most people assume that. But both priests were deeply involved in every part of our community—the church, the convent, the orphanage, and the academy. We don’t see them as separate entities, but as one living body. That’s why there are usually two priests assigned to St. Mary’s at all times. Only recently were we fortunate enough to get Father Torres to join us. He might not have been so keen to come if he knew that Father McDonagh would pull a disappearing act on him. The poor man has been stretched thin, trying to fulfill his duties to the church and the school.”
“Could it be possible that Father McDonagh just up and left because he no longer wanted to tend to his flock?” I ask, hoping to learn more about the man I’m trying to find.
Sister Agnes gives a dry chuckle, but there’s no warmth in it. “Oh, Father McDonagh did far more than tend to his flock. He was a firm believer that ministry shouldn’t stop at the pulpit. He believed discipline was next to godliness, and that the Church should mold young minds before the world tainted them with sin. Like I said… the children were terrified of him.” She pauses, an acrid note creeping into her voice. “And with good reason. He had a voice like thunder and eyes that could stop a child in their tracks. One sharp look from him, and even the boldest boys at this school would sit up straight and say their prayers twice over.”
She folds her hands, glancing ahead as we walk. “Aside from morning mass, he took confession and taught religious instruction at the academy. And let’s just say—no one dared be late to his class, not even the children from the wealthiestfamilies. He was stern, yes. Unyielding, even. But he cared, in his own way. He believed structure saved souls and sometimes, that structure was more severe for some than for others.”
Her voice softens. “Father Torres, on the other hand, is especially devoted to the children. He’s fond of saying that tending to souls means meeting people where they are—in their grief, in their joy, and in their learning. He visits the orphanage nearly every day, and he’s even taken on all of Father McDonagh’s religious studies classes at the academy. He’s yet to complain while we wait for another priest to be assigned to the church, so he’s not so burdened with all these new duties. But I can tell that the loss of Father McDonagh weighs heavier on him than the workload left behind.”
“I’d love to meet him. Is he here?” I ask, my interest piqued.
“Actually, he should be at the chapel right now. Let me take you to him,” Sister Agnes offers with a beaming smile.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I reply, as we continue walking through the school halls.
We go through a set of doors that connects to the front yard, and I follow Sister Agnes down a stone pathway that leads to the chapel tucked just off to the side.
If Sister Agnes is right, Father Torres may be the closest person Father McDonagh had in his final days—especially if the other nuns, except perhaps Mother Superior, weren’t close to the missing priest. And from what little I’ve seen, she doesn’t strike me as the type to open up easily. But maybe Father Torres will.
If Marcello had anything to do with Father McDonagh’s disappearance, there must have been a falling out between them. Maybe Father McDonagh confided in Father Torres. I mean, they were work colleagues after all. Who better to bitch about their day than to a colleague who might understand what he has to deal with on the daily. It’s a long shot, but at this point, it’s the only thread I have.
Sister Agnes leads me into the small, quiet sanctuary, bathed in soft light from the stained-glass windows all around. But it’s not the chapel’s unexpected, serene beauty that holds my attention. It’s the man currently kneeling in prayer at the base of the altar. His head is bowed, back straight, hands folded in front of him as he communes with a higher power, asking for guidance.
Sister Agnes doesn’t so much as breathe, ensuring not to interrupt his prayers, but he seems to sense our presence regardless. A moment later, he finishes with the sign of the cross, starting from his forehead, chest, then shoulder to shoulder, and finally rises, turning toward us.
Okay. So Father Torres was not what I envisioned in my mind. He looks a few years younger than me, and aside from his Roman collar around his neck, he doesn’t look like a priest in any way. Olive-toned skin, dark eyes, darker hair. But maybe that’s just my bias talking. The ones I grew up around were old, graying, and always bitter. Then again, no one said a man of God had to be homely, so I shouldn’t fault Father Torres for having good genes and being in the prime of his youth.
“Sister Agnes,” he says warmly, “to what do I owe this lovely visit?”
“Good morning, Father. I just thought you should meet someone who will hopefully be helping us out around here,” she replies casually.
“Is that so?” His eyes shift to me as he offers a disarming smile. “And who is this new friend of ours?”
“This is Isobel Graham. She’ll be teaching the girls self-defense classes once a month. Or at least that’s the plan if Mother Superior agrees.”
“How fortuitous,” he says, still smiling. “I’m sure the students will benefit immensely.”
“Perhaps you should join in,” Sister Agnes says with a sad, little smile. “God knows we could all use a few self-defense lessons these days. Especially after what happened.”
There’s a pause, a flicker of tension in the way Father Torres straightens his spine.
“Oh?” I say lightly, tilting my head. “Is there something I’m missing?”
Sister Agnes answers before he can. “The day Father McDonagh disappeared, Father Torres had a bit of bad luck himself.”
