Broken Angels by Richard Montanari Page B

BC. It is sometimes designated by OS, meaning Old Style. Unfortunately, for many of our younger parishioners, OS means Operating System. I’m afraid the Julian calendar is woefully outdated in a world of computers, cell phones, and DirecTV.”
“So you don’t celebrate Christmas on December twenty-fifth?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not a scholar in these matters, but it is my understanding that, as opposed to the Gregorian calendar, due to solstices and equinoxes, the Julian calendar has picked up a full day every 134 years or so. Thus we celebrate Christmas January seventh.”
“Ah,” Jessica said. “Good way to pick up on the after-Christmas sales.” She was trying to lighten the mood. She hoped she wasn’t being disrespectful.
Father Greg’s smile lit up his face. He really was a handsome young man. “And Easter candy, as well.”
“Can you find out when Kristina was last here?” Jessica asked.
“Certainly.” He stood, walked over to a huge calendar tacked to the wall behind his desk. He scanned the dates. “It would have been a week ago today.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
“I have not.”
Jessica had to get to the hard part. She wasn’t sure how to go about it, so she dove right in. “Do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm her? A spurned suitor, ex-boyfriend, something like that? Perhaps someone here at the church?”
Father Greg narrowed his brow. It was clear that he did not want to think of anyone in his flock as a potential killer. But there seemed to be an air of ancient wisdom about him, tempered by a strong sense of the street. Jessica was sure he was wise to the ways of the city, the dark motives of the heart. He circled the far side of his desk, sat back down. “I did not know her all that well, but people talk, yes?”
“Of course.”
“I understand that, as fun loving as she may have been, there was a sadness about her.”
“How so?”
“It seemed as if she might have been a penitent. Perhaps there was something in her life that filled her with guilt.”
It was as if she was doing something about which she was ashamed, Sonja had said.
“Any idea what that might be?” Jessica asked.
“No,” he said. “I am sorry. But I must tell you that sadness is a common thing among Ukrainians. We are a gregarious people, but we’ve had a hard history.”
“Are you saying she may have had the potential to harm herself?”
Father Greg shook his head. “I cannot say for sure, but I don’t think so.”
“Do you think she was the sort of person to intentionally put herself in harm’s way? To take chances?”
“Again, I do not know. It’s just that she—”
He stopped himself abruptly, ran a hand over his jaw. Jessica gave him an opportunity to continue. He did not.
“What were you about to say?” she asked.
“Do you have a few moments?”
“Absolutely.”
“There is something you should see.”
Father Greg rose from his chair, crossed the small room. In one corner was a metal cart holding a nineteen-inch television. Beneath it was a VHS machine. Father Greg flipped on the TV, then walked over to a glass-front cabinet full of books and tapes. He searched for a moment, extracted a VHS tape. He inserted the tape into the VCR, hit play.
A few moments later an image appeared. It was handheld footage, sparsely lit. The image on the screen quickly resolved to Father Greg. He had shorter hair, wore a plain white shirt. He was seated on a chair, surrounded by young children. He was reading them some sort of fable, a story regarding an old couple and their granddaughter, a little girl who was able to fly. Behind him stood Kristina Jakos.
Onscreen Kristina wore faded jeans and a black Temple University sweatshirt. When Father Greg was finished with the story, he stood, removed his chair. The children gathered around Kristina. It appeared that she was teaching them a folk dance. Her students were about a dozen five- and six-year-old girls, adorable in their red and green