Assumptions Read online

  Emerson and Quig: Book One

  Assumptions

  By C.E. Pietrowiak

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2010 by C. E. Pietrowiak

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: In the Silence

  Chapter Two: Provident Six Months Prior

  Chapter Three: All Hallows Eve

  Chapter Four: Serendipity Smiles

  Chapter Five: Nobody

  Chapter Six: Leaving

  Chapter Seven: Least Among Us

  Chapter Eight: Grace

  Chapter Nine: Shut and Open

  Chapter Ten: Many Hopes Lie Buried Here

  Chapter Eleven: Atonement

  Chapter Twelve: Clean

  Chapter Thirteen: The Study

  Chapter Fourteen: The Key

  Chapter Fifteen: Mistaken

  Chapter Sixteen: The Messenger

  Chapter Seventeen: Elevenses

  Chapter Eighteen: The Sapphire Book

  Chapter Nineteen: Vespers

  Chapter Twenty: Diving

  Chapter Twenty-One: Ceili

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Gone

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Warm

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Compulsion

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Black and White

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Crossroads

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Christmas Day

  CHAPTER ONE: IN THE SILENCE

  The stars burned bright the night William Emerson died. But for him, at that moment, there was only darkness.

  “Sixteen forever,” he said. His lips formed no words.

  He heard his mother cry. He could not open his eyes to see her.

  Then there was silence. No more crying. No more breathing.

  The cold crept over him and he wondered if it was the same for everyone or if it was peculiar to winter. It was, after all, December in Chicago.

  It had been seven months since his last confession, but he prayed every day, more than once. He had asked for strength and sometimes for patience, but mostly he prayed about death. So that is what he did when his body lay motionless, sprawled over the stone steps in front of the altar at St. Ita Catholic Church, the power of God now lost to him. Forever.

  CHAPTER TWO: PROVIDENT SIX MONTHS PRIOR

  The smell of mud and damp plaster hung thick over the deserted one-lane road. Timothy Stillman wiped his forehead, the sweat already beading in the sultry morning. He ran his fingers through his hair, which had become increasingly more salt than pepper since he left Chicago for this most recent assignment downstate.

  Stillman leaned heavily against his rusted pickup truck, mobile phone pressed to his ear. “She’s dead.”

  “Did you get it?” asked a cold voice on the other end.

  “Yes . . . Yes. I have it. She never knew it was gone." Stillman rubbed at the sting in his sleep-deprived eyes. "It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Contact me when you get back to the city. We’ll make arrangements.” The call ended with an abrupt click. Stillman jammed his phone into the back pocket of his grungy jeans.

  A radio announcer broadcasting from the next county read with half-concerned curiosity, like a gaper safely passing a ten-car pileup on the opposite side of the road. “Yesterday evening, nearby Provident was struck by a series of devastating microbursts. Several shops and homes were damaged in a stormy path of destruction. The number of casualties is not yet known. Keep listening for further details.”

  The news looped in Stillman’s head.

  Keep listening for further details . . .

  Keep listening . . .

  Keep listening while you describe the café tables flattened by what used to be the front wall of the diner. Keep listening while you tell us about the barn roof, ripped off whole, found upside down miles from the farm it once served. Keep listening while you tally the

  dead . . . while you tally the dead . . .

  Butter-yellow siding lay in splinters, scattered across a shimmery cornfield a hundred feet beyond the exposed foundation walls of a once quaint farmhouse. In the front yard a battered chicken-shaped sign advertising “Fresh Brown Eggs for Sale” dangled from its wood post by one loose screw.

  Stillman plodded down the road. He stopped near a small pile of debris and squatted to study the jumbled collection. He picked aimlessly at the remains – a tea kettle with no handle, a dented can of tuna. Under the leg of a dining room table he found a bible, its maroon cover fraying at the corners. A slender sky-blue ribbon still held its place. Stillman read, “Anyone who is trustworthy in little things is trustworthy in great; anyone who is dishonest in little things is dishonest in great. Luke 16:10.”

  He flipped to the front. The bookplate was neatly inscribed, “This book belongs to Miss Dorothea Whitford.” Stillman let the book drop from his hands. It fell open on top of the rubble, its pages fluttering in the light breeze.

  He scanned the destruction then covered his mouth with both hands and bolted to the roadside ditch. He doubled over and threw up, retching until there was nothing left.

  Hunched, hands on his knees, he breathed deliberately. After several minutes he straightened himself and collected the bible. He walked back to his truck. The driver’s door creaked when he pulled it open. He tossed the worn book onto the passenger seat, slipped behind the wheel, and drove away from the farmhouse without looking back.

  CHAPTER THREE: ALL HALLOWS EVE

  William Emerson stood alone at the center of a small church courtyard, backpack at his feet. Somber morning clouds hung low over the Chicago lakefront, echoing the bluestone pavers, coarse and intractable beneath his sneakers. He closed the collar of his coat against the chill.

  Untamed boxwoods hugged the wrought iron perimeter fence, forming a lush backdrop for the diminutive statue of a young woman, Ita, to whom the parish had been dedicated more than a century earlier. The Irish saint, dead nearly sixteen hundred years, stood atop a waist-high pedestal. Her lifelike gaze tenderly graced the lanky, dark-haired boy before her.

  Will fell to his knees and crossed himself, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” Hands raised palms up, eyes fixed on Ita’s face above, he prayed in silence, lingering in the stillness of her expression.

  He crossed himself again, rose, and brushed the dust off the faded knees of his jeans. He snapped up his backpack and jogged to the top of the stairs where he passed through a nondescript door into the soothing darkness of the church.

  The unnatural flicker of electric votives washed up against the sidewall of the towering space. The parishioner’s door of the confessional stood ajar, as it had for weeks. More often than not, the sacrament took place in the pastor’s office where, though the door was closed, passersby always had to make a conscious effort to avoid overhearing the indiscretions of the less than devout.

  At the heart of the sanctuary rested a small gilded cube flanked by a band of eight bas relief angels carved into the white stone of the high altar. Will walked down the side aisle, genuflected, and slid into the empty pew below Ita's window, her beautiful face framed by the hood of her simple gray cloak.

  Will
folded back the sleeves of his coat, swung the kneeler down, and lowered himself, pushing his wrists hard onto the top of the pew in front of him. The edge dug into his flesh, a reminder that, for now, he remained earthbound, physical. He closed his eyes and breathed in the faint sweetness of incense.

  Somewhere in the dark behind him an old woman chanted a Litany of Saints, "St. Raphael . . . Pray for us . . . All the holy Angels and Archangels. . . "

  "Pray for us . . ." Will sang to himself with each of her petitions.

  The swish of robes broke his soft rhythm. He crossed himself and eased back onto the rigid pew.

  "So sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," said a smallish man. He came closer so as not to shout. The man smoothed his mousy hair which receded slightly above the temples. A vertical crease at the inside corner of his brow imparted a profound gravity upon his face.

  He smiled down at Will. The crinkles around his wistful gray-blue eyes and the dimples at his cheeks softened his expression, revealing an austere charm.

  "May I?" The man motioned toward the empty space at the end of the pew.

  "Professor Barrett, uh, sure."

  In a single seamless motion he gathered up his robes and sat. “'Professor’,” he said, shaking his head. “I still haven’t gotten used to that. A little formal at Eastview, aren't they?”

  Will shrugged.

  “Anyhow, I’m just an adjunct. My side job,” said Barrett. “And how are you this morning, young man?"

  "Okay," mumbled Will. "You’re deacon?"

  "Yes, though I'm not sure why they need me on a Friday. Small gathering."

  "Seems like it.”

  "Maybe we’ll have more tomorrow for All Saints. Saturday is tough, though. No obligation.” Barrett smiled softly. "How is your father?"

  "He's fine." Will paused. "I guess." He paused again. "I don't really see him much lately. He just works . . . and he sleeps a lot and . . . works . . ." his voice trailed off. Will turned his attention to the altar server lighting candles at the sanctuary.

  "The loss of your mother must be affecting both of you profoundly." The altar server lit the last of the candles. "Something like that just doesn’t go away, Will. You know you can talk with me anytime, even at school. My office door is always open.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Will smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

  Barrett looked toward the altar. "I should prepare." He squeezed Will's shoulder then slipped out of the pew. He walked to the front of the church, quietly greeting a few parishioners as he passed. Facing the altar, he bowed his head then shuffled up the steps and disappeared through a side opening.

  Will settled back into his hard seat. He pulled the missalette from the slot at his knees and skipped ahead to the day's first reading.

  Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted . . .

  He closed the book and set it on the pew beside him.

  A trio of altar servers carried the processional cross and the newly lit candles to the back of the church. Barrett re-entered the sanctuary, the green stole of Ordinary Time across his chest and an imposing gold plated book nestled in the crook of his arm. The priest joined him. The pair drifted along the side aisle and huddled with the servers. The cantor began to sing. The servers processed down the aisle. Barrett centered himself behind the cross. He raised the Gospel high above his head and marched toward the altar to celebrate Mass.

  The service ran longer than usual. Will sprinted down sidewalk past the morning commuters toward the Bryn Mawr el stop. In the distance three sets of discordant church bells rang out the hour . . . just like they had before . . . last August in Jerusalem . . .

  Will handed his mother a stack of neatly folded khaki shorts, t-shirts, and a couple of salt stained bandanas, all of it finally clean after a full month away from the grit and sweat of the dig where he spent his summer rising before dawn to haul buckets of dirt and scrub bits of pottery for his archaeologist parents.

  Safa Emerson squeezed the bundle into an already fat duffel bag, squashing down the edge of the sagging bed.

  “Is that all of it?” she asked her son.

  “That’s all of my stuff. My room is clear. Don’t know about Dad. He’s always stashing bits of junk everywhere.”

  “That’s no way to talk about your father.”

  Will's brows knitted together. His mother giggled. She ran her fingertips down her son’s cheek and looked into his deep brown eyes, same color as her own. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown.”

  Will grimaced. “You say that every summer.”

  “Well, it's true, isn’t it? Yes. This time it’s definitely true. Look at you. You’re a full head taller than I am. How is that possible? You’ve turned into a young man right before my eyes.” She tiptoed to peck his cheek then returned to her frenetic search. Her black hair swept wildly across her shoulders as she flew around the hotel room double checking dressers, nightstands, under the bed, for whatever they may have inadvertently tucked away over the weeks.

  She let out a self-congratulatory sigh. “Well, I can’t find anything else.” She zipped the bag and heaved it on top of three others stacked near the door. “Help me carry these down to the desk. They’ll be wanting us out soon." She checked the clock on the nightstand. "It’s almost eleven. We better get going.”

  Will lugged two bulging duffel bags out of the room and deposited them with a porter at the front desk. His mother followed with the two remaining shoulder bags. She wore a pale gold scarf tied around her waist. She dropped the bags next to the others. “There. We’ll pick them up when it’s time to leave. Your father is at the Albright wrapping up a few things. He’ll meet us here around one. He has our tickets. We don’t have to be on the sherut to Ben Gurion until two. I still want to get to the souk one last time. I’m famished. Falafel? Shops should all be open by now.”

  “Sure.” Will grinned wide.

  "What? Oh, sorry. Thinking out loud again, am I?"

  "At record speed, I think.”

  His mother elbowed him in the ribs.

  She covered her hair loosely with the scarf and they headed out of the hotel lobby, walking along King David Street in the already intense heat. In the distance, church bells chimed the hour.

  They skirted along the wall of the Old City to Damascus Gate where they passed through the deep rampart into the mouth of the souk, humming with shoppers and gape-mouthed tourists and sandal-clad students on holiday.

  Will and his mother weaved through the Arab Quarter along cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic. They passed stalls blaring Arab pop and walls full of leather shoes, stacks of dusty carpets and spice shops with bins overflowing with pungent gold powders and leafy greens, finally stopping at a hole-in-the-wall no one in the States would confuse with a restaurant. Will's mother squeezed through the narrow doorway. A few minutes later she came out carrying two falafel sandwiches, tahini oozing over the top of the pita. They ate standing until the lone cafe table freed up. They sat and shared the rest of their meal in easy silence.

  Church bells rang. Will's mother pushed back her chair. “Oh no, noon already?" She stood and adjusted her scarf. "I have a shopkeeper to see. I won’t be long. Can you head back to the hotel in case your father is early?”

  “Can’t I come with you?” Will stuffed the last bite of pita into his mouth.

  “Sorry, Habibi. Not today.”

  Will's face dropped. His mother brushed a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. "You need a haircut." She beamed at him, then, without another word, left him to his chewing. He swallowed hard.

  “See you,” he called after her as she vanished into the convoluted streets of the Old City.

  Will wiped his mouth with a scratchy napkin, cleaned up their crumbs, and walked west toward Jaffa Gate, the Old City's exit nearest their hotel. He wandered along the Via Dolorosa past shops selling rough-hewn olive wood crosses and antiqued icons of the Virgin cradling her holy child. He ducked down a narrow alley, pausing a
t the courtyard of the Church of Holy Sepulchre. A woman holding a red plastic carnation above her head pointed out the immovable ladder to a group of camera wielding seniors. Will crossed himself nonchalantly and continued on his way.

  He rounded a corner into Butcher’s Alley, dodging plump women going about their daily shopping, careful to step over the rivulets of bloody runoff in the street. Will inhaled the earthiness of the freshly dead. In one of the shops, a boy struggled to unhook a goat, skinned and hung eye-level by its white-pink ankles. “Yella!” the butcher shouted, hurrying the boy along.

  The street spilled out into a sunny courtyard at the foot of the Citadel near Jaffa Gate. A pair of white-bearded men sat together at a table outside of a sweet shop, talking with their hands and sipping Arab coffee from tiny cups. The man in the shop slid a fresh tray of pastries into the bakery case. Will went inside.

  He pointed at the glazed triangles, golden and shiny. The man handed him a piece of baklava. “Shukran,” said Will, thanking him in one of the few Arabic words he knew. His mother had probably been right when she told him he should have learned to speak the language, but what little he understood kept him out of trouble and his belly full and that was all he really needed.

  Will handed the man some coins and stepped out onto the street. He devoured his sweet in two bites and sucked the honey off his fingers. He watched the chatting men for a moment. He sighed and walked through Jaffa Gate back into the world beyond the walls.

  Will greeted his father in the hotel lobby. He had arrived early, just as his mother anticipated. William Emerson, Sr. was tall, but otherwise looked nothing like his son. Clad in khaki head to toe, his hair and eyes were fair and his features unremarkable. Except for his grubby fedora, which would be put away when they arrived home, he could be anyone born and bred in the heartland of America.