The Judas Child by Carol O'Connell Page A

to the glass wall and the green plants just beyond it. There should be two feet of snow in his garden. What was the Lady Nature thinking of to be so late? What else might be wrong with the world?
    Myles picked up the dragging end of the conversation. “What if you were a child killer’s confessor, Mortimer? Would you shield a bastard like that?”
    Mortimer only stared at the last drops of wine in his glass, but he could feel Myles’s eyes on him. In peripheral vision, he caught the quizzical tilt of the doctor’s white head.
    By the time Dodd appeared, all real conversation had ended, dying off to banal small talk. While the servant cleared away the debris of decanter and wineglasses, Ali walked William out to the car, and Myles Penny lingered awhile to stand by the glass wall with his host.
    Mortimer was preoccupied by the dregs of his burgundy and one drop of red on the cuff of his white shirt. And now Myles also fixed upon this spot, pointing to it.
    “So what does that remind you of, Mortimer?”
    The psychiatrist averted his eyes from the stain and from the man who hovered close by—too close. Mortimer could sense the intense scrutiny of every gesture and perhaps even his thoughts, for Myles was a canny observer.
    “I know why you’ll never tell.” Myles’s voice had the tone of a tentative foray. “It’s not the threat of ruin for exposing a patient. It’s pride, isn’t it? Your ethics, your rigid laws and rules for a life. The heart is my brother’s territory, but I’d say you’re practicing the religion of a man who’s about to have a massive coronary.”
    Mortimer gave no sign that he had heard any of this, though every word was true. Since he had ceased to take his medication, he could even roughly figure the timing of his final heart attack.
     
    Rouge parked his old Volvo at the main entrance to St. Ursula’s Academy. The front of the immense redbrick institution was even more imposing than the lakeside view. Four white columns supporting the portico marked it as a serious temple, and atop the black shingles was a cupola of wood and glass, the architect’s idea of a formal hat. The only light and gentle elements were taped to the second-floor classroom windows: bright paper silhouettes of Christmas angels, snowflakes and bells.
    Rouge glanced at his watch. He was fifteen minutes early for his appointment with Eliot Caruthers, the school’s director.
    He walked around the side of the building and up the gravel path to Mrs. Hofstra’s cottage. This week, each of the small group homes would hold only one scholarship child and a housemother. All the students with real families would be gone over the holidays. Though it was early afternoon, the sky was overcast and dark. Warm yellow house lamps and multicolored Christmas tree lights glowed in the cottage window. David was standing on the front stoop, bundled up in a parka that bulged with layers of sweaters. One gloved hand rested on the brass doorknob.
    “David!”
    The boy jerked his hand away from the knob, as if caught in the attempt to steal it. And now he gaped at the policeman.
    “Sorry,” said Rouge, drawing closer. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the baseball card. “I thought you might want this back.”
    David reached out and accepted the card. He looked down at it, admiring his new autograph.
    “So you like baseball?” A stupid question, but where else to make a beginning?
    David nodded, his eyes still cast down on the card in his hand.
    “What position do you play?” Ah, now they had a problem. This question required words. But at least David was looking at him. That was progress.
    The door opened, and Mrs. Hofstra stood in a warm cheery rectangle of light. “Well, Rouge Kendall. What a nice surprise.”
    By her voice and her smile, he knew she was pleased but not surprised to see him again. In his student days, he had lived at home with his parents. Only the boarding