Last Breath Page 5

  “Dear God.” His shoulders slumped. “I hope I die before I ever see anything like this again.”

  “You may. Father. Are you hearing me?”

  After a bit, he looked up at her. “I hear you.”

  “Be careful what you say to anyone, especially the cops. You're in their sights right now. Even an innocent comment could put you behind bars.”

  “But what can I do except tell the truth?”

  “Say as little as possible. Trust me, I’m going to look into this.”

  “Thanks, Chloe.”

  But she had already melted away into the night.

  Chloe was just stepping out of the shower when the phone started ringing. By the time she'd wrapped a towel around herself and another around her wet hair, her voice mail had picked it up. But then it started ringing again.

  As a criminal defense attorney, Chloe never gave out her home phone number or address. The types she dealt with were often not the kind of people she wanted to show up unannounced on her doorstep.

  She padded to the phone by the second ring, and checked the caller ID. Diel, Matthew. She hesitated, not wanting to talk to him, but then she grabbed the receiver before the fourth ring, when the phone company's voice mail would take over the call.

  “What do you want?” she asked without preamble. She could hear him sigh.

  “One of your most charming features, Chloe, is your incredible talent for rudeness.”

  “I’m just getting to the point fast. You called, I’m tired, what do you want?”

  “I want to know if you're going to buck me on this investigation.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you hate me?”

  Chloe settled onto the couch and tried not to shiver as the air-conditioning turned on, sending a draft of cold air over her wet, bare shoulders. “I don't hate you, Matt. I never have.”

  “Okay. You're just supremely indifferent.”She didn't answer.

  “You didn't answer my question. Are you going to mess with me on this?”

  “I’m just going to make sure you don't get tunnel vision.”

  He sighed again. “I get less tunnel vision than most. You of all people ought to know that.”

  “Maybe.” She didn't care for references to her past. “I’m not going to mess with you unless you start to mess up.”

  “How the hell are you going to know if I mess up?” The question was challenging.

  Chloe lifted one foot and looked at the goose bumps that were running down her legs. “You ever heard of quid pro quo?”

  “Yes. I’m not stupid because I’m just a dumb cop.”

  She ignored his irritation. “I’m going to suggest a little quid pro quo. One hand washes the other. I tell you what I find, you tell me what you find.”

  “You know I can't discuss an investigation.” “Sure you can. Nobody will know except me.”

  He was silent for a few moments. “So you want to do a little horse trading? What have you got to trade?”

  “Not on the phone.” She could tell he was on his cell phone, by the way it faded and crackled, and there was no guaranteed privacy on a cell phone.

  “Kramer's Diner on Fletcher. Fifteen minutes.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Okay, thirty. And you better have something to share.”

  Thirty minutes later, Diel watched Chloe walk into the diner. Isolation seemed to surround her, making it look as if she existed on another plane, despite the students and a couple of drunks who filled booths. He'd managed to get away from them, into a quiet corner, and a tip to the waitress had given him at least a reasonable guarantee that she'd try to shuffle any newcomers to the far end.

  When she slid onto the vinyl bench across from him, he noticed her hair was damp. She'd probably just gotten out of the shower when he called. The realization made him feel things he didn't want to feel for this ice queen, but the image of drops of water sparkling on her skin made him shift uncomfortably.

  The waitress came over immediately.“What'll it be?”

  “Coffee, decaf,” Chloe said. “Wheat toast, dry.”

  She'd always eaten like a sprite, as if her body needed little mortal sustenance. Matt was not so lucky. He needed to eat, but rarely had the opportunity to do so except in quick gulps.

  “A full stack with maple syrup. Coffee, leaded.”

  Then they were alone, facing each other like old antagonists. Which they were. Silent, unspoken tension rose between them.

  “So,” he said, wanting to ignore the discomfort she always made him feel.

  “So.” Ever so slightly the corners of her mouth tipped up. “You first.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.” He figured if she didn't have anything, this would be their last meeting. He was willing to trust her. “The vie was dead before he was crucified. Shot in the back of the head. Small caliber, probably a .22. There's powder on his scalp.”

  “So it was an execution?”

  “Or he didn't hear the perp come up behind him. We'll know more after the full autopsy.” Matt shrugged. “Now you.”

  “There's a whispering campaign against Father Brendan. There've been complaints to the chancery, vague ones. I wouldn't trust a lot of what I hear, if I were you.”

  Matt looked at her, ruminating. “Why do they hate him?”

  “Anybody's guess at this point. The Church is a funny place, Matt. There are people who are willing to do almost anything to return to the Middle Ages. There's still a powerful right wing that hasn't recovered from Vatican II.”

  “And he's too modern?”

  “For some, I’m sure. And not modern enough for others. Like most priests, he's walking a fine line all the time. We may be one body in Christ, as they say, but we have all the failings of any group of human beings.”

  “But why would that involve the kid?”

  “I didn't say it did. I just want you to be aware that there are agendas out there.”

  He sighed. “There always are, Chloe. Tell me something I don't know. So there have been complaints about him to the chancery?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “About what?”

  She shook her head. “Even he doesn't know. He keeps getting vague phone calls asking him what's going on down here.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you his attorney?”

  She almost smiled. “If I were, I wouldn't be telling you this. Apparently there have been enough phone calls that he's been feeling a little paranoid.”

  Matt mulled that over. It could be tied in with the kid, but he didn't say so. “I’ll keep that in mind. What else?”

  “Nothing you won't find out if you get a subpoena.”

  “Save me the grief. I haven't got any reason to get one yet.”

  “I know.” Again that faint smile, as if she enjoyed having the upper hand. “He was a navy chaplain for twelve years. His jacket is full of commendations.”

  “How'd you find that out?”

  “I have connections who have connections at the chancery.”

  He nodded. “Okay. What else?”

  “He spent two years in a monastery before being assigned here.”

  That made Matt lean forward. “Why would he do that?”

  “You'll have to ask him.”

  “Damn. Why should he tell me?”

  “Because,” she said, as his plate of pancakes was placed in front of him, “he's an honest man.”

  “Yeah, right.” Matt snorted. “Diogenes never did find one.”

  “Well,” she said, a soft smile tracing her lips, “Diogenes apparently didn't look in St. Simeon's.”

  The early edition of the paper started hitting the streets around four in the morning. Hardly anyone was up and about, and the delivery trucks drove through streets nearly empty of traffic. At each newsstand, they stopped and loaded a stack of fresh papers, and cleared out yesterday's edition, if any were left.

  Home delivery dri
vers tooled around in their vans and trucks, tossing plastic-wrapped papers on driveways and lawns as the eastern sky began to brighten.

  It was not the kind of Easter Sunday edition most people wanted to see. Yes, beside the masthead was the greeting Happy Easter in purple ink, but below it the headline screamed news that seemed to come from another world:

  MAN CRUCIFIED IN CHURCH

  Below it, in sharp color, was a photo of the facade of St. Simeon's Church, surrounded by police cars and crime scene tape.

  Dominic had set his alarm early, and so reached the front stoop long before Brendan stirred out of his room. He pulled the paper from the plastic, read the story with a deepening sense of evil chill, then hastily bundled it into the trash can behind the rectory. If Brendan wanted to see what the news hounds had to say, then he was going to have to go out and buy a copy. Otherwise, it was Dominic's considered opinion that Brendan did not need to see that headline or story sitting beside his morning coffee cup. He offered a brief prayer asking forgiveness for his act of charitable deceit.

  Then he went into the kitchen to make the pot of special blend coffee that always started their day. The Starbucks coffee was Dominic's introduction, a small self-indulgence. He was a diocesan priest, which meant he hadn't taken a vow of poverty, and hence if his family chose to send him money, he could indulge in a few things of this nature.

  Brendan, however, was an ordinal priest, a Jesuit who took his vow of poverty seriously. If he laid claim to any possessions at all in the world, they were probably the clothes on his back, and the old basketball autographed by Larry Bird. The ball had, Brendan explained, belonged to his father, who had lived, bled, and died Celtic green.

  Dominic had watched him on more than one occasion take money out of his pocket and give it to someone in need. Brendan wore clerical clothes that were frayed, apparently replaced only when someone in the church noticed that he needed some new ones. His shoes, according to Lucy Gallegos, had been resoled twice since he had come to the parish. Dominic suspected that he used his entire meager stipend for haircuts, gas, and gifts to the poor.

  Which was admirable, and Dominic felt no resentment of Brendan's charity. But he did rather like the way his nominal superior appreciated the change in coffee brands. He'd also noticed that Brendan wasn't averse to having a biscotto with his coffee, if one happened to be there. Just one, though. Never more. A moderate man.

  It was, Dominic thought as he poured himself a cup of fresh brew, probably not surprising that Monsignor Crowell disliked Brendan. In a church that coddled its priests, seeing to all their needs, an austere man like Brendan might niggle at some consciences. Especially Monsignor Crowell's, for the monsignor had a taste for the finer things in life.

  Ah, well.

  All he knew for sure was that he felt good about getting rid of the newspaper. Brendan's pain was clearly bad enough.

  Another man awaited the early edition eagerly. The killer, restless all night and worried that he might have failed, was wide-awake and pacing the floor of his pleasant suburban home, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb his wife. When he heard the clatter of the truck at the corner, he waited only a few minutes before darting out to go get a copy.

  Inside again, his hands shook as he turned on the light and unfolded the paper.

  So sure was he that the story would be a small one, he almost missed the screaming headline.

  But when he saw it, his knees gave way.

  The watcher, having a calmer conscience at the moment — after all, he hadn't had anything to do with the kid's death, not really — didn't get his paper until the rosy spring sun was washing away a fine mist from overnight.

  In the absentminded way he usually did, he bought it at the stand in front of the convenience store without looking at it. He tucked it under his arm and went inside to buy his large cup of coffee, cream, no sugar. Then he strolled back to his motel, where he sat at a rickety table in the corner of his room. Only after he had removed the cover from the coffee and stirred it twice did he open the paper.

  What he saw made his heart stop.

  Then the phone started ringing.

  “What the hell were you thinking of?” demanded the voice on the other end, a voice with a face he knew, but no name.

  “I didn't —”

  “No, obviously you didn't think! My God, this was supposed to be quiet, not sensational. What do you think you're doing?”

  “I didn't —”

  “I don't want to hear your excuses, dammit. Do you understand the meaning of covert? My God, man, the police are going to be all over this. The cannon won't dare do a thing for weeks if not months, and I need that fucking priest gone’?”

  The watcher, recovering at last from his own shock, shouted into the phone, “I didn't do it!”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Believe what you want, but I’m not crazy. I know my job. I took the damn body away from the church. It should have been found in an alley!”

  Silence answered him. And silence filled him.

  Because they both knew what this meant.

  Someone else knew what was going on.

  Chapter 5

  The biscotto went untouched. The coffee was barely sipped. Brendan appeared to be the mere shadow of the youthful, vibrant man he had been only yesterday morning. As a priest, Dominic felt he ought to have some comfort to offer. But all the platitudes of his priesthood seemed thin this sunny Easter morning. Promises of eternal life and resurrection couldn't take the pain from a wound caused by such an atrocious act, and he knew it. That comfort would come later.

  He considered offering to take all the Masses this morning, then decided Brendan needed to be busy, needed to be immersed in all the grace and sanctity the rite could offer.

  With little more than a distant nod, Brendan rose from the table and left. Minutes later, Dominic heard him leave through the side door for the church. First Mass wasn't for an hour yet. The pastor must want to pray.

  Dominic sat at table for a while, but his thoughts moved far away from his concern about Brendan. For the first time it struck him that he and Brendan had been soundly asleep only yards away when that heinous act had occurred.

  The evil chill he had felt earlier returned, stronger this time, running down his back like ice water, and clinging like wet, dead leaves.

  St. Simeon's had padded kneelers in all the pews. Many of the newer churches skipped them, for monetary reasons or because the congregation didn't want them, but St. Simeon had been built when such things were never omitted. Since kneeling during Mass had been introduced only in the nineteenth century, Brendan didn't particularly care whether his parishioners stood or knelt during the consecration, as long as they were respectful, just as he didn't care if they showed up in shorts and T-shirts, as long as they came.

  But kneeling … kneeling was sometimes the only way he felt right about approaching God. Kneeling went back to his childhood, and to his seminary days, and to the two years he'd spent at the monastery, mending his soul. Kneeling was uncomfortable after a while, especially on knees battered by years of playing basketball, but he needed that discomfort. He needed to enter into some of the suffering of his Lord.

  And right now, the pain in his protesting knees felt like a small measure of atonement. Because he felt guilty. Guilty for the death of Steve King, even though he had no direct hand in it. He was second-guessing himself, wondering if he could have made any difference. He assumed the young man had to have been murdered Friday night. Certainly after everyone was gone. But then he recalled that he hadn't seen Steve at all on Friday. Might he have been murdered on Thursday night. After the adoration?

  The thought made him shudder. If that was the case, then he could certainly have prevented the young man's death simply by staying after the adoration to help him close up. But to think he'd probably been lying soundly asleep in his bed when that young man's life had been taken, when the church had been desecrated …

&nb
sp; He put his face in his hands, wrestling with an anguish too huge to bear.

  It wasn't the first time in his life he'd faced a terrible personal loss, but this was one area of life where experience didn't help at all. Besides, this was so heinous, every time he thought of it, he felt punched.

  He was facing an evil greater than any he had ever faced before. It was not only the loss of Steve's life that ripped at him; it was the manner of it. That any mind could be so cruel, so blasphemous, so … evil.

  He lifted his head, looking up at the altar, but there was no cross, no corpus, to remind him that others had suffered such evils. There were only satin banners, hung swiftly yesterday by the facilities manager to cover what would have otherwise been a distracting hole behind the altar. White banners embroidered in gold with doves and rays of light.

  But there was nothing there for him. For the second time in his life, he had entered the dark night of the soul, when God was out of reach, hidden from him when he needed Him most.

  Cut loose from the most important mooring in his life, Brendan felt as if his mind were tumbling down a bottomless dark tunnel, where questions gnawed at him like hungry mouths. How did he know it wasn't just all bullshit? How did he really know there was a God? How could he be sure Jesus had ever existed? How was all of this any different from the rites and panoply of a pagan shaman?

  How could any merciful God allow such things to happen?

  The questions weren't new to him. He'd faced them before. He'd even answered them countless times from the comfort of his faith … when he felt it.

  But this time … this time they gnawed harder, filling him with a clawing sense of abandonment worse than any he had known. His faith had shriveled in the night hours and was now blowing away on a frigid wind that ripped through his soul, gutting him.

  Leaving him utterly alone and dangling over an abyss of despair.

  His spiritual director at the monastery had told him once that faith was a matter of acting as if, even when one didn't feel it. So when the time came, as the first people began to enter the church for the early Mass, he rose and went to the sacristy, vesting himself as he had countless times over the last fifteen years. The actions should have felt familiar and comfortable, but this morning they felt strange and awkward. As if he were doing something for the first time in his life.