I parked in front of Dr. Jackson’s room at the motel. He must have been looking out the window, because he came out to the car and shook Duff’s hand warmly. I thought maybe I should have told him that Duff wouldn’t be impressed by a hearty reception. He usually mistrusted overly enthusiastic people.

Nevertheless he went along to Dr. Jackson’s room without even looking back at me. I sat in the car for a while, wondering what they were talking about, and then decided to kill some time in the motel coffee shop.

The Reverend Peter Jackson was sitting at the counter, drinking coffee. I took the stool next to him. He greeted me and apologized for any remarks that might have offended me the night before.

“Forget it,” I said. “I’ve said and done worse things at parties. One time—”

“Maggie, I think maybe this isn’t going to do any good.”

“Duff’s session with your brother? Why?”

He shook his head. The girl brought my coffee then and I waited until she moved away. “Listen,” I said, “this was your idea. If you’re suggesting now that your brother isn’t competent—”

“Maggie, the church was vandalized last night. Someone broke the lock on the door and got in. The large statue in the shrine was knocked off its pedestal and broken, and there’s other damage. Broken windows, defaced walls . . . Father Fogarty is pretty upset.”

“I don’t wonder. Do the police have any idea—?”

“No.”

“Well, it wasn’t Duff, I’m certain. I’m sure—or reasonably sure—that he didn’t go out last night. He was in bed when I got home.”

Father Jackson didn’t say any more until I finished my coffee. Then he asked me to drive him back to the rectory.

“I walked over here this morning,” he said. “Whoever wrecked the church did a pretty good job on my car too.”

It would have been hard to improve on what age and the elements had done already, I thought, but I was wrong. The car was in the rectory drive with all its tires flat, its windows smashed and its radiator punctured.

“There’s something else,” Father Jackson said. He led me to the front of the car. The windshield was still intact, but someone had written on it with a grease pencil, “Shit priest, stay out of it.”

“Someone doesn’t like your association with the Caines,” I said.

“So it would seem. I can’t think of anything else I’ve been doing lately that would lead to this.” He hesitated. “What time did you get home last night, Maggie?”

“A little after ten. Why?”