Last Breath Read online

  Copyright © 2003 by Sue Civil-Brown

  All rights reserved.

  Published in 2003 by arrangement with Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  The Wheeler Publishing name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette Book Group.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55038-3

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Also by Rachel Lee in Large Print:

  With Malice

  For Fathers Austin Mullen and Eric Peters, both of whom are among the best priests God ever put on this earth.

  National Association for Visually Handicapped serving the partially seeing

  As the Founder/CEO of NAVH, the only national health agency solely devoted to those who, although not totally blind, have an eye disease which could lead to serious visual impairment, I am pleased to recognize Thorndike Press* as one of theleading publishers in the large print field.

  Founded in 1954 in San Francisco to prepare large print textbooks for partially seeing children, NAVH became the pioneer and standard setting agency in the preparation of large type.

  Today, those publishers who meet our standards carry the prestigious “Seal of Approval” indicating high quality large print. We are delighted that Thorndike Press is one of the publishers whose titles meet these standards. We are also pleased to recognize the significant contribution Thorndike Press is making in this important and growing field.

  Lorraine H. Marchi, L.H.D.

  Founder/CEO

  NAVH

  Acknowledgments

  My very deep thanks to Father Eric for answering my questions and sharing so freely with me the joys and burdens of the priesthood. Any errors are mine alone.

  Author's Note

  The Diocese of Tampa is purely the creation of my imagination. It is not intended in any way to resemble any real diocese, nor are any of the characters based on real persons.

  Prologue

  The afternoon of the murder, nothing seemed amiss at St. Simeon's Parish in Tampa, Florida. Except for the presence of Chloe Ryder at a children's class.

  Father Brendan Quinlan sat at the baby grand piano in the parish hall, banging out the accompaniment to “Trust in the Lord” with all his usual verve. What one child had described as “really cool shades” bobbed on the end of a nose set in a rather puckish face. Tall, too thin, and as loving and outgoing a man as God ever created, he had the dozen kids in the room gathered around him, singing at the top of their lungs.

  On other occasions he'd been known to bang out the blues, or jazz, or anything else that struck his fancy. Parish parties were some of his favorite events. Tonight, however, he was participating in an RCIC — Rite of Christian Initiation for Children — class, and the music had to be more appropriate. For now anyway. There was no telling what he might play for these students — ranging in age from eleven to fourteen — by the end of the two-hour class.

  He'd already led them in a rousing chorus of “Jesus Christ Superstar,” but now he was going for the giggles.

  They had reached the second verse, and he could already see the anticipation on the faces around him as they all sang:

  Be not wise in thine own eyes

  But trust the Lord and beware of evil.

  And it shall be health unto thy navel.…

  He answered the expectation by lifting his hands from the keyboard, prying his clerical shirt open a little between two buttons, looking down, and saying, “Navel?”

  A chorus of “Navel?” answered him, followed by giggles and laughs. Even kids this age bought into the joke.

  Then his fingers hit the keys again, and all the kids joined him in the conclusion without missing a beat.

  And marrow unto thy bones.

  Proverbs three: five six seven eight.

  He finished off with a jazzy version of the closing chord as the children begged for another one.

  But there was an agenda tonight, as there always was, and Mary McPhee, one of the teachers, started urging the children back to the long tables that faced the whiteboard.

  “Later,” Brendan promised. “We'll do another song after class.”

  Steve King, a twenty-two-year-old who was about to graduate from the University of South Florida up the road, began passing out small squares of white paper. Brendan was very fond of Steve, knowing all the troubles the young man had been through, and was working with him to help him decide whether he had a true vocation as a priest. A handsome young man with light brown hair and eyes that were always warm, no matter how pained, Steve was always one of the first to volunteer when help was needed.

  Two of the youngsters ran up to give Brendan hugs. Working with children, to his way of thinking, was the best part of being a parish priest. Their delight in life was always a fresh breeze through his soul.

  Tonight the class had an unusual visitor, Chloe Ryder. Chloe was a lifelong member of St. Simeon's but she usually reserved her volunteering to the St. Vincent de Paul Society, a group devoted to aiding those in need of food and shelter. It had surprised Brendan when she'd offered to tell a story to RCIC after one of the students had expressed interest in origami. Chloe always seemed to be folding a piece of paper in her hands, turning out cute little animals and mythical beasts.

  Chloe was an astonishingly beautiful young woman with blond hair and a perfect figure who owned her own law firm. She wasn't married, but Brendan figured that had to do with the still, silent core in her, a core that sometimes seemed as cold as liquid nitrogen.

  She wasn't looking cold tonight though. She took her seat in front of the class and held up a large piece of white paper. “Tonight,” she said, “I’m going to teach you how to fold a crane. Cranes are special, and while I show you how to fold, I’m going to tell you a story. After the demonstration, I’ll work with you to help you fold yours, okay?”

  All the heads nodded.

  “Okay,” Chloe said, and smiled. “This is called sembazuru in Japanese. It means ‘thousand cranes.’ It's a story that involves a little girl who was injured in the bombing of Hiroshima. Have you heard of Hiroshima?”

  Some had, some hadn't, so Chloe explained. “Back in the Second World War, we dropped an atomic bomb on a Japanese city called Hiroshima. A lot of people were killed, and a lot were made very sick by radiation.”

  Heads nodded, and Chloe started folding her paper. She continued with her story, and with each fold she held the paper up so the students could see what she had done.

  “A little girl about your age — twelve — named Sadako Sasaki got sick with radiation poisoning. While she was in the hospital, she started using her medicine wrappers to fold into cranes.”

  More folds held up for the students to see.

  “Finally, one day, someone asked Sadako why she was folding all these cranes. And she said that she thought if she folded a thousand of them, God would listen to her prayers.

  “At first she prayed for her own h
ealing, but as she saw the children around her sicken and die, she changed her prayer. She started praying for world peace.”

  Another fold.

  “Sadako only finished 650 cranes before she died. But her story was published in newspapers all over the world, and people started folding and sending paper cranes to Hiroshima. When they built a memorial to the people who had died, a statue of Sadako was on top of it, holding a folded crane. And from the statue flowed streamers of origami cranes that had been sent in by people from all over the world.”

  She held up the completed crane. “Cranes just like this one. Even today people around the world still get together to make paper cranes, string them together, and send them to the memorial. And tonight we're making a string of cranes for world peace.”

  Brendan saw the moistening of Chloe's eyes as she told the story, and saw a few other eyes in the room grow moist. His own throat tightened. “That's a beautiful story, Miss Chloe.”

  “It's true.” She gave a small smile. “Okay, kids, let's get to work on yours.”

  Even with all the help, one boy of about twelve couldn't get his crane to come out right. Frustration clouded his face, and he looked on the edge of tears. Brendan sat beside him and put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

  “Having a little problem there, Jimmy?”

  “It won't work right, Father.”

  “How about I help you?”

  Jimmy held up the piece of paper. “It's a mess!”

  “It doesn't matter. It's just a piece of paper.” Brendan accepted a fresh sheet from Mary, who was moving around the room, ready to step in as needed. “See? Now we have a fresh one.”

  “I’m just stupid. I can't do it.”

  Brendan's heart squeezed. He wondered how many times this boy had heard that accusation from an adult in his life, and wondered how he could step in. “You're not stupid. Not at all. You're just trying to do something new for the first time. Even grown-ups have trouble with that. Here, I’ll show you how.”

  But somehow — accidentally on purpose — Brendan's folds turned into a paper airplane. “Hmm,” he said, and tossed it away. It floated across the room, causing Jimmy to laugh. “I guess that wasn't it. Let's try again.”

  After Brendan committed a few more atrocities, and had Jimmy and other students in stitches, he wrote “dunce” across his last creation, a paper hat, and put it on. “Okay. I’m crying uncle over here. Chloe, help!”

  Chloe was laughing, too. That was something Brendan had rarely if ever seen, a cause for celebration in itself. She joined them and with gentle prompting walked Jimmy through the making of a crane. He was so thrilled that he immediately wanted to do another one. Mary gave him another piece of paper, and Chloe kept an eye on the progress.

  “We should send these to Japan when we're done,” Steve said, watching the boy's progress.

  “Yes, but not until after we hang them over the baptismal font for Saturday night,” Brendan said.

  While the dove was the traditional Christian symbol of peace, he knew the Catholic Church had a long history of incorporating — some called it consecrating — symbols from other cultures. He saw no reason not to adopt that pattern here. It would add to the children's feeling of belonging as they were welcomed into the faith at the Easter Vigil. And anything that encouraged children to feel like St. Simeon's was “their” church was fine with him. It was a decision he was prepared to defend if someone complained to the bishop.

  Chloe was now using fine thread to hang the cranes from a frame made of balsa wood rods. As she lifted and twirled the rods, the birds seemed to flap their wings in flight. For Brendan, it called to mind Christ's baptism, and the Holy Spirit descending in the form of a dove. Yes, he would be comfortable standing up to the bishop if the whispering campaign continued.

  For a moment, Brendan's face darkened. He was new to the diocese, and to St. Simeon's, but after twelve years as a navy chaplain he wasn't new to politics, gossip, furtive comments murmured in the chain of command. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the half dozen “friendly calls” he'd received from the chancery over the past six months had been responses to complaints. At times he felt like a marked man, however welcoming his parishioners seemed to be.

  “What's wrong, Father?” Steve asked.

  And that was Steve. The young man had an unerring emotional radar, able to pick up on subtle changes of voice, posture, or expression. It would serve him well in the priesthood, Brendan thought. Steve would be an excellent confessor and counselor.

  Brendan cracked one of his trademark smiles. “Oh, it's nothing. I just think too much sometimes.” He turned to the kids and brightened his voice. “How about another song? I know just the one.”

  To a chorus of unabashed agreement, another example of the gleeful faith he found so refreshing at St. Simeon's, he strutted back to the piano and began to hammer out a series of jazz chords, before he took up the song.

  “O when the saints … go marchin’ in

  “O when the saints go marchin’ in.”

  Steve King added a walking bass voice to those of the children.

  “O Lord I want to be in that number,

  “When the saints go marchin’ in.”

  Steve was still humming the tune hours later, after the Holy Thursday celebration of the Last Supper, after hours of prayer at the Blessed Sacrament, after cleaning and locking up the parish hall. The evening's activities had been both beautiful and deeply moving, and he hadn't wanted to leave.

  Walking to his car, he even started to sing out loud. The children's excitement had been contagious, and he found himself doing a little soft-shoe across the parking lot. “When the saints go marchin’ in.”

  It was his own voice, and the rhythmic shuffle of his feet on the squeaky, damp grass that betrayed him. He never heard the footsteps behind him.

  Nor the gunshot that killed him.

  The man with the gun stood over Steve, unaware that he was watched. He waited, making sure the kid was dead, then turned to melt away into the shadows. Next was the priest. But first … first he was going to make that man's life a living hell, the way his own had been.

  He was going to get even, in spades.

  As he disappeared into the night, the watcher slipped away and made a quick call on his cell phone. “We got a problem,” he said. “The cannon is loose, and there's a mess.”

  Chapter 1

  Victor Singh's eyes scanned over the instruments, then out at the horizon, as he pushed the yoke forward and to the right. This was the critical moment. Up until this moment, he had been on a routine flight path, following instructions from air traffic control, crossing Tampa Bay, avoiding the landing and takeoff patterns for three major airports while gazing down at dolphins leaping in the wake of a fishing boat below. Just another small, private plane out circling so a pilot could log hours to keep his license current. But at this moment, he broke the pattern and heeled his aircraft to the south. The wide runways of MacDill Air Force Base came into view through the windshield. He focused on a smooth descent to one hundred feet. Attack altitude. Thirty seconds after his hard right turn, he crossed the perimeter of the airbase, aiming at the long, three-story, cement-block building, and pulled the lever beside his chair.

  He shut down the flight simulator software. Thirty seconds. That's all he would need to enter the halls of glory.

  At ten-thirty in the morning on Holy Saturday, St. Simeon's church was full of people. It was a joyous time, Father Brendan thought as he watched the candidates and their families swirl around. This was the rehearsal for tonight's Easter Vigil Mass, and the baptism, first communion, and confirmation of the candidates. Most of the forty initiates were adults, joining the church for a variety of reasons. A dozen were older children who were joining with their families, the children who just the other day had been making origami cranes. One or two were adult Catholics who were receiving belated confirmations.

  With them were family members who wanted to
watch and small children who couldn't be left alone at home. It made for a pleasant melee, and Brendan couldn't help smiling, even if the director of religious education, Sally Tutweiler, a middle-aged matron with screaming red hair, was getting hoarse from trying to be heard over the commotion.

  Finally, Peggy Randall, the church pianist, banged out a loud, dissonant chord on the piano. Even the three-year-olds stilled. For a moment.

  Sally, having figured out she wasn't going to succeed by raising her voice, darted up to the ambo — the podium on the right of the altar — and took advantage of the microphone. “All right, everybody. Let's get to it. Catechumens in the front row, candidates in the next three rows, families all together please. Sponsors, sit next to your candidates. Parents, please restrain your small children. We don't want anyone to get hurt.”

  Another hubbub ensued as people headed for their designated pews. A baby started crying angrily. A boy of nine shoved a girl of eight, eliciting more wails. A father grabbed the boy's arm and drew him away, scolding quietly. The boy looked mutinous. Ah, people, Brendan thought happily. For all their faults and foibles, they were wonderful.

  At last there was relative silence in the church. As much silence as there could be when a hundred people gathered and among them were young children.

  “We'll begin with a prayer,” Sally announced to the gathering. “Father Brendan will lead us. Father?”

  He'd been standing toward the back, and now he made his way toward the altar, glad on this day of all days to be a priest and a pastor. There was so much joy in the church at this time of year, with the new people being welcomed into the faith and the resurrection about to be celebrated. His eyes lifted to the crucifix, the corpus covered in a purple Lenten shroud, and he felt the fatigue of the Lent season begin to seep away as Easter prepared to take its place.

  Before he reached the altar, a little girl, maybe five or six, broke away from her mother and ran up onto the altar. Her mother called out in a horrified voice, but Brendan didn't mind. Gone were the days when only a priest or an altar boy could step into those sacred confines. He liked it when children wanted to explore the altar, and was more than happy to tell them all about everything up there.