In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

of the doll’s white underwear, which fell to a golden bowl held by an altar boy. Hundreds of sweating parishioners sang out, “Christe exaudi nos.”

He carried the naked doll to a large barrel of water and began to bathe it, before handing it to his assistants, who quickly redressed it in simpler clothes. Afterwards, Martelino used the bathwater to bless his followers.

•   •   •

I enjoyed your service, Father,” Klay said, and accepted a mango slice from a dish an altar boy held out to him. The priest sat behind a heavy Spanish desk across from Klay, in his modest office at the back of the church. Outside, the church’s recessional bells chimed. Sunlight filtered into the priest’s office through a capiz-shell screen.

Martelino leaned forward and plucked a date from the dish. “You were easy to recognize,” he replied, chewing his date. “Few kneel before God anymore.” He glanced at the altar boy, whose dark eyes dropped to the floor and stayed there.

“That’s Sister Marie,” Klay said. “No one eats that flesh without first adoring it. It was on the tongue or off to hell.” He rubbed his knuckles. “She was a tough one.”

Martelino sighed. “Paul the Sixth.” He spread his hands. “So, what can I do for you, Tomas. Is it Tomas?”

“Tomas, yes,” Klay said. “Thomas O’Shea. O’Shea Funeral Home Corporation.” Klay placed a business card on Martelino’s desk.

“Ah, a mortician. So, you understand the importance of rituals.”

“Without them we are out of business.”

“Which did you enjoy most?” Martelino asked, chewing.

“The Hubo—”

“No, of course. What else have you seen?”

“Well,” Klay said. “The fluvial procession was something. It was overwhelming for me, as an American Catholic.”

Klay was tired. He had decided to approach the priest during the country’s Santo Niño festival, when millions of Catholics flock to Cebu. Klay had risen at three a.m. to walk, carrying a small white candle with tens of thousands of believers, talking quietly with them about faith. It was hard not to be moved by the conviction of the people he encountered, especially the many poor, sick, and frail. Most of these ceremonies involved a passing of the hat, taking whatever these faithful could spare. Theater was everywhere. At its most extreme, he watched a Santo Niño icon declared the navy’s supreme captain general and granted command of a navy patrol ship, which it then captained across Mactan Channel, escorted by four patrol ships, two coast guard cutters, a pair of helicopters dropping flowers, and a maritime parade of devotees in hundreds of small boats.

“Oh, I know you Americans find our traditions absurd.”

“Oh no, Father.”

“Please,” Martelino said. “I myself find it all ridiculous. But the people want these things. They insist. And it doesn’t weaken their belief to see the Santo Niño sailing a battleship. It strengthens it. I myself have no doubt of our Lord. I’ve seen too much of Satan’s work not to believe.” He waved his hands. “The circus acts. The magic shows. The baby clothes. We need them. I even make things up and the people follow,” the priest said. “We had a vigil last night. The camareras sat in a room all night waiting for the Santo Niño to come alive.” He laughed.

An air conditioner was doing its best, but the room was hot and Martelino was already growing rancid beneath his heavy robes. Klay could smell him.

“You seem to know exactly what the people need, Father,” Klay said.

The priest waved an arm dismissively. “I told them I had a bad stomach. I went home to bed. Let them stay up all night. Now, what would you like to talk about?”

“I am a mortician. A family tradition. When my great-grandfather started the business, death was a solemn occasion. A time for religious reflection. Families went to church. Now my nephews play video games on Sundays. My brother’s wife can’t be bothered to take them to church.”

“Women are weak,” the priest said. “You are not married?”

Klay gave a short laugh and shook his head.

“But you are not young. Forty-five?”

“More or less. I’m wondering, Father . . . I saw the ivory Santo Niño you used in your ceremony, the carvings here in your office.” He pointed. “They say you have the best collection of carvings in the Philippines. You know master carvers. I am thinking if people in the US could see these images, it might strengthen their faith.”

“Possibly.”

“We have a chain of funeral homes across the United States.”

“Is that so?”

“Do you visit the US much, Father?”

“Not for a long time. My home is here.”

Klay paused, annoyed at himself. He hadn’t needed to ask that question. He knew the answer already, and he didn’t need the priest’s lie. According to Eady’s dossier, Martelino coordinated a network of child exploiters. He traveled to the US an average of four times a year, entering by car through Mexico or Canada. Klay had copies of the priest’s Mastercard charges, Facebook posts, WhatsApp texts, and logs of his cell phone calls. Many of the calls were to a convent-orphanage on the other side of the island, which Klay suspected was supply for customers who preferred young girls.

Klay looked at this overfed, satisfied man smiling back at him through his folds of skin. He took in the ivory crucifixes hanging on the priest’s wall, the ivory child sculptures lying on his bookshelves—the living trophies who were everywhere. All of it a single tentacle leading back to Ras Botha.

Control yourself, he told himself.

“My brother is in the meatball business,” he continued, wondering where the hell that lie had come from and what he was going to do with it now that he’d said it. “He left our family funeral home to work for his wife’s father, making meatballs . . .”

“He left your family.”

“He told my father, ‘People die only once, but they need to eat every day.’ It broke my father’s heart, but my brother was right, you know? Funerals and faith are a dying business . . .”

The priest nodded.

“So, Father, I’m in charge of marketing.”

He reached into his backpack and brought out a