The St. Jude Mysteries

The dawn over St. Jude’s was rarely a dramatic affair. Normally, it would arrive as a slow peeling back of several grey layers, one slight shade at a time. A world dampened by salt and heavy with the scent of cedar, pine, spruce and fir would be revealed. He liked this special hour. His whole world would be enveloped with a sacred hush. Most of his flock would be sleeping, and the only voices heard were those of the gulls and the ever-restless Atlantic. He stepped onto the trailhead that wound toward what the locals called Sentinel Cliff with his lanky frame moving at a deliberate, careful pace. The path was a narrow one for the most part. Not much more than a ribbon of dark earth and loose shale that clung to this edge of the world.

Quentin stopped near a cluster of wind-bent pines. His hazel eyes scanned the horizon for a Peregrine falcon he had been tracking for several weeks now. The bird was a ghost, a blur of grey and white that usually favored the high crags. He raised a pair of his favorite binoculars to his eyes, but his focus was caught by something entirely different than what he expected. Down below, where the jagged teeth of the shore met the churning froth of the high tide, there was a spot of displaced color. It was a bright, synthetic blue against the slate-colored rocks and the dull green of the sea kale. He felt a strange thumping against his ribs. His pulse quickened. Something was very wrong. The object was the color of the windbreaker Leo Gable had worn to the social hall just three nights ago.

The descent was a treacherous one. Quentin’s boots could easily slip on the slick moss, so he had to use his hands to steady himself against the cold stone with his optics swinging on its tether circling his neck. By the time he reached the bottom his breath was coming in short bursts. He then clearly saw the body laying, sprawled across a flat shelf of granite just inches from the spray of the sea. It was Leo. The young man’s face was turned toward the sky, eyes wide open and clouded, reflecting nothing but the overcast heavens. His limbs were broken, angled at sharp, impossible degrees. A sure testament to the violence of the fall from the cliffs above. He looked so much smaller here, with his six foot frame crumpled in this compacted head. Here, he was stripped of the vibrant energy that had made him such a presence in the pews of St. Jude’s.

Quentin knelt as his knees sank slightly, pressing into the wet sand. He reached out toward the lifeless body as his fingers hovered just above Leo’s cold hand. He whispered a short prayer for the departed soul of his parishioner. As he began to study the scene, he looked closer. A frown creased his forehead, changing his appearance altogether. Leo was an experienced naturalist, a young man who treated the cliffs with the reverence it deserved. He never went anywhere without his heavy, high-end Nikon binoculars—an heirloom he open and the case was empty. Quentin scanned the surrounding rocks and the shallow pools of water nearby. There was no sign of the glass. It was an odd detail, a missing piece in a puzzle that didn't quite fit.

The sound of heavy boots crunching on gravel announced the arrival of the law approaching behind him.. Sheriff Boyd Sterling was descending the last few feet of the trail with the practiced ease of a man who had lived his entire life on this coast. He looked, sighing heavily as he took in the scene.

"Dammit, Leo," Boyd muttered, the words thick with a weary sort of grief. He looked at Quentin, his grey eyes were hard. "Found him on your walk, did you, Padre?"

"I did," Quentin said, standing up and brushing the sand from his trousers. "I was looking for the falcon. Sheriff, this doesn't look right. Leo knew these trails like the back of his hand. He grew up on these rocks."

Boyd stepped forward, his heavy ring of keys jingling with every movement. He peered down at the body, then up at the towering height of Sentinel Cliff above them. "Mist was thick this morning. You know that these granite rocks are like ice when they’re wet. It doesn't matter how well you know the path if you catch a patch of black ice or lose your footing in a gust. It’s a tragedy, but it seems to me to be a simple accident, if there is such a thing." His voice trailed off as he removed his hat from his head.

"But his binoculars are gone," Quentin pointed out, gesturing to the empty leather case. "He wouldn't have been hiking without them, and he certainly wouldn't have left the case open. If they fell with him, they should be again, a long, rattling sound. "They probably bounced off a ledge halfway down or got wedged in a crevice. Look, Padre, I appreciate the concern, I really do. But I’ve got a body to move before the Atlantic decides to claim it. The boy slipped. It happens."

"He came to see me two days ago," Quentin said softly, his voice steady. "He said he had a burden. He wanted to talk in private, but the vestry meeting ran late and I told him we’d speak after this Sunday's service. He seemed... anxious. Not like a man who was about to go for a careless stroll along the edge of a cliff in the fog."

Boyd’s face remained like granite. "People have burdens, Quentin. That’s why they go to church. It doesn't mean someone pushed them off a cliff. Now, please, let my deputies get in here. We need to clear this area."

Quentin felt a flare of frustration, but he nodded a reluctant agreement. He knew when a door was being closed, but this one wasn't going to be locked shut, he would see to that. He watched as the deputies began the grim work of securing the scene. Their movements were methodical and as detached as possible. The priest climbed back up the trail with his legs feeling heavier than they had on the way down. The weight of Leo’s death was settling in to his head and his heart, creating a cold pressure in his chest that prayer couldn't quite ease.

When he reached the sanctuary of St. Jude’s, the church was still empty. The light filtered through the stained glass windows on the east side of the sanctuary, casting long shadows snaking across the pews. Quentin sat in the front pew, staring at the altar. A small group of parishioners having heard the sirens, began to trickle in. They stood in the vestibule, their voices hushed and trembling. Mrs. Gable’s neighbor was there clutching a damp handkerchief, her face a mask of shock.

Quentin rose to meet them. He offered the comfort he was trained to give, speaking of peace and the mystery of God’s timing, but the words felt hollow in his own ears. In his mind's eye, he kept seeing that empty binocular case. And in his mind's ears, he kept hearing Leo’s voice during that quick meeting they'd had earlier in the week asking for a moment of his time. I have a burden, Father.

Later that afternoon, Quentin stood in the churchyard looking back toward the distant silhouette of Sentinel Cliff. The fog had lifted, and now you could clearly see the sharp, unforgiving edges of the landscape. He thought about the town, and about the families who had lived here for generations, and the secrets that surely gathered like dust in the corners of their old Victorian homes. Sheriff Sterling wanted a tidy ending, a closed file that wouldn't disturb the peace or the tourists. But Quentin felt a different calling. It wasn't about the soul just now; It was about the rightness of things. It was about the truth. Leo deserved it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his antique watch, checking the time. The ticking was a small, persistent heartbeat in the silence that surrounded him. He had promised to look after his flock, and Leo was still part of that flock, even now. He wouldn't let the boy be remembered as a careless victim of the weather, if, in fact, he wasn't. He looked at the cliffs one last time, his purpose in this business was now set. He would find out what Leo Gable was carrying that had been so heavy he couldn't stay on the path.