Last Breath Read online

  Just as he finished, Dominic entered the sacristy from the rectory-side door, letting in a breath of fragrant, humid morning air. “I’m concelebrating,” he said.

  Brendan didn't question or disagree. He didn't have the heart to do either. He waited for his assistant to finish dressing, then they walked in silence to the back of the church, where the altar servers were already waiting.

  People were still entering through the narthex doors, and greeted the priests. Some faces were tired, others were bright and smiling. Ordinarily, Brendan would have loved chatting, but this morning his face felt like wood. He couldn't even make himself smile.

  The sheer pointlessness of it all was weighing down every muscle in his body. His legs felt like lead as they processioned up the aisle to the altar. His arms felt weighted in cement as he raised them in the opening blessing. His heart. … his heart was gone.

  The readings seemed to pass in a blur as lectors came up to the ambo and departed. Then the Alleluia. His lips moved with the words, but no sound came out of him. How he got through the Gospel reading he had no idea. But then it was time for the homily. A homily he had constructed before yesterday's horror. A homily that had been written by a different man. He didn't know if he could do it. But he also knew he had to, nor could he ignore what had happened.

  He paused, looking down at the sheaf of papers before him, covered with his awkward scrawl. Then, drawing a deep breath he looked up, seeing a sea of expectant faces.

  “Yesterday,” he said, his voice cracking briefly, “yesterday a terrible thing was discovered in this church. A terrible, sad thing. Many of you know that we have lost young Steve King, one of our most devoted parishioners. Many of you knew Steve, knew he was planning to dedicate his life to the priesthood. Many of you have heard what was done to him.”

  A murmur passed through the congregation, and Brendan felt as if it passed through him as well. A quiet wail of sorrow. He drew another breath, forcing himself to continue, when every cell in his body was suddenly demanding that he run from this place and never return. But he knew what his duty was, even if his heart was gone, even if he didn't believe it himself.

  “Today, more than ever, we must cherish our belief in the resurrection. Today, more than ever, we need our faith.” Bitterness, corrosive and hot, began to fill the void left by the absence of his faith. He fought it down. This wasn't for him, this was for these people.

  “Today commemorates the day that Christ taught us there is no death. That for those of us who believe, there is eternal life. Steve has moved on, and I have no doubt his rewards are great.” Liar. He had every doubt at this moment in time. “Today,” he finished, “is the test of everything we believe. May God bless you all.”

  Then, his prepared homily utterly ignored, he returned to his seat to the rear and far side of the altar. A moment later he rose to lead the renewal of baptismal vows, but with a nudge of his elbow, he signaled Dominic to do it. His fellow priest did so at once.

  Brendan couldn't even bring himself to mouth the familiar words, or say “I do” in answer to the age-old questions. It was gone. Everything he had lived for was gone.

  Dominic took the rest of the Masses that morning. He had to. Brendan refused to say them.

  “I’m not worthy,” he told Dominic after the early Mass was over, after he had failed even to stand out front and greet the departing congregation.

  Dominic paused as he was removing his stole, and looked at him. “Why aren't you worthy?”

  “I don't believe.”

  Dominic never for an instant believed that was a permanent state of affairs, but he didn't say so. Forgetting for the moment his need to vest fully for the coming Mass, he sat beside Brendan on one of the folding chairs and put his hand on his shoulder. “That doesn't matter, Brendan. You know that. The worthiness of the celebrant has no bearing on the consecration.”

  Brendan shrugged. “It would still be blasphemy.”

  Dominic arched one salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Really. So let's see. You've lost your faith but still believe in blasphemy?”

  Brendan merely looked at him from hollow eyes.

  “Okay, Brendan,” Dominic said after a moment. “Okay. I’ll take the Masses. But you have to promise me one thing.”

  Again, just a look, no verbal response.

  “Promise me you'll stay right here until I’m done.”

  One corner of Brendan's mouth hooked up mirthlessly. “I won't do anything stupid.”

  “No, I know you won't. But you'll make me feel a hell of a lot better if you just hang around.”

  Brendan shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Okay.” Dominic squeezed his shoulder, then finished garbing for Mass. A few minutes later, he left the sanctuary, leaving Brendan alone with his demons.

  But Brendan was facing a particular demon, one he didn't like at all. Almost as soon as the word “whatever” came out of his mouth, he felt a river of self-loathing, rapid and violent, race through him.

  He was acting like a whiny child, shirking his duty, and wallowing in self-pity. He had no business behaving this way. He knew better than to give in to these feelings. Whatever the guilt he might bear in Steve's death, for not making sure the young man wasn't alone late at night, it was no excuse for abandoning his responsibilities. No matter what questions of faith he might be feeling, he still had priestly duties to fulfill.

  And no matter how much anguish he might feel, he had no right to indulge it at the expense of others.

  Rising, he began to vest as a concelebrant, determined that however unworthy he felt, all he could do in atonement was to fulfill his appointed duties.

  Vested, he emerged onto the altar just as Dominic was beginning the blessing. Dominic caught his eye, and smiled in approval.

  By the time they reached the consecration, when he lifted the chalice while Dominic lifted the host, Brendan even began to feel a small measure of comfort in the ritual, even if it was only the comfort of familiarity, of awareness that he was merely another link in a two-thousand-year-old chain of priests who had performed this sacred ritual. He was only that, one small link, of no significance at all.

  His eyes looked out over the congregation, seeing the bored faces, but more importantly, seeing the rapt faces. They were the ones who mattered, those rapt faces. Those who felt the miracle unfolding here in their very hearts. They mattered.

  Then his eyes lit on one face, and his hands faltered. For an instant, he was in danger of dropping the chalice. That face! He'd never thought to see that face again. Fighting for equilibrium, he closed his eyes a moment.

  When he reopened them, the face was gone. He must have imagined it.

  With shaking hands, he replaced the chalice on the altar. It was lack of sleep and grief, he told himself. That and nothing more.

  It could not possibly be anything else.

  Chapter 6

  After five years, Chloe Ryder's law practice was doing well. She even had a partner, and it was to her partner she turned.

  “I need time off, Naomi.”

  Naomi Blancher, a slender, dark-haired woman, looked over the tops of her reading glasses at her. “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just need time to … work on something. I’ll be in and out, helping with case research and so on, but I need my time to be more fluid.”

  “You're asking me to take your court appearances.”

  “And client meetings, as far as you can.”

  Naomi frowned. It wasn't an unfriendly or disapproving expression, but rather a thoughtful one. “That's a lot to ask, Chloe. You know what a DUI practice is like. You used to do it.”

  Chloe had, at first. Driving under the influence was the bread and butter of many criminal defense attorneys, a client base that invariably had enough money to pay for a routine defense of their stupidity. It also caused a lawyer to spend an extraordinary amount of time in courtrooms for hearings and trials. But she'd been able to move beyond that with time, so that now she left t
he routine DUIs to Naomi and handled only the major cases: possession, trafficking, embezzlement, DUI manslaughter, and even, right now, a contract murder case that she believed was a frame job.

  “I know. But I need some slack here, Naomi. A. … friend of mine has a problem.”

  “Could he become a client?”

  “I hope not. But if he does, it'll be pro bono.” That was for sure.

  Naomi's frown faded and was replaced by a grin. “Isn't that always the way? Okay, okay. Have Leah and Marcia put their heads together and see how much they can juggle you out of.” Leah and Marcia were their staff.

  “Thanks, Naomi. I owe you.”

  “Trust me, I’ll take you up on that. I’m getting desperate for a vacation anywhere they don't have telephones.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  In the front office, Chloe told Marcia and Leah what she needed. Both women were worth their weight in gold in talent, knowledge, and drive.

  “Well,” said Marcia, immediately switching her computer screen to Chloe's calendar, “you at least picked a good time to do this, boss. You've got a light week. Remember? You wanted time to do research on the Vazquez and Milburry cases.”

  “Great. But I may need more time than this week. Just see how much you can loosen my time without overburdening Naomi and losing any clients, okay? Then let me know what I’ve got left. Right now I need to get to an autopsy.”

  As Chloe departed, Marcia turned to Leah. “Did she say autopsy?”

  Leah nodded. “I didn't know lawyers went to those.”

  Which was pretty much what Matt said when he was walking into the Medical Examiner's office and found Chloe already there. “You can't attend the autopsy.”

  “No?”

  Matt closed his eyes, an expression of long-suffering patience crossing his features. “Look,” he said, opening his eyes again, “even if you had standing or authority to be present, it wouldn't be allowed. This guy was a friend of yours.”

  Chloe, who was seated in one of the institutional chairs in the reception area, simply shook her head. “I’m not going in. But I want to hear everything you know when you come out.”

  “You know it won't be final.”

  “I don't care. I want to know.”

  He dropped onto one of the seats beside her. “Where's the quid pro quo?”

  “It'll come.”

  “So now I’m supposed to go on blind faith?” She gave him a wry little smile. “It'll do your soul some good, Matt.”

  “Haven't you heard? Cops don't have souls.”

  Then he was gone, heading inside for the least favorite part of his job. No matter how many autopsies he attended, he never got over the smell.

  Chloe waited patiently, knowing it might be hours yet, but certain that if she weren't there when Matt came out, he'd find a way to avoid her. Since she hadn't been able to find out exactly when the autopsy had begun, she had no idea whatsoever when Matt might emerge … or whether he'd even stay to the end. So much couldn't be determined until later, with the aid of tests and microscopes, but it was the big picture she was after.

  To her relief, her wait wasn't all that long. Matt emerged a half hour later, looking a little green, and with a jerk of his head signaled her to come outside with him.

  The morning was turning cloudy, the breeze stiffening with the hint of a cold front. By tonight they might need light jackets. Chloe found herself hoping so. Despite having lived her entire life in Florida, she felt that the cool season was too short. She liked the way chilly air invigorated her.

  Side by side they walked to Matt's nondescript sedan, a beige, slightly older model that wouldn't be noticed anywhere it went.

  He leaned back against the car and folded his arms.

  “Well,” she said finally, giving him what he wanted, her impatience.

  “The kid probably was killed Thursday night.”

  A shiver of surprise went through her. She'd been assuming, as had they all, probably, that he'd died on Friday night.

  “Yeah,” he said, as if he shared her shock. “I wasn't expecting that.” He rubbed his chin and stared off into space. “Bullet to the base of the brain. Death was instantaneous. Decay leads the coroner to think the vie was dead at least twenty-four hours.”

  “But he's not sure?”

  “Not yet, but he's pretty good at these things. So someone had to have come back and crucified the guy on Saturday morning.”

  Chloe looked at him. “Why?”

  “Because he couldn't have been there that long before he was found. I mean …”

  Chloe interrupted him with a shake of her head. “Here's a little quid for your quo. That cross was shrouded Friday morning. It's routine. Steve could have been hung there anytime after three-thirty or so in the afternoon, and before the seven-thirty service began, as well as later at night. Although given the number of people who drift in and out of the church on Good Friday, I’d bet he couldn't have been put up there before nine-thirty on Friday night. After the Stations of The Cross. But that's still a thirteen-hour window.” But what if Steve had been hanging there during the Good Friday services? She wanted to shudder at the thought. “And nobody that I can find has seen Steve since Thursday night.”

  “You've been calling around?”

  “Of course.” She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her suit jacket. “What do you think I’ve been doing? The last anybody at church knows, he offered to stay late to clean up the parish hall. End of trail.”

  “And he doesn't have a roommate or anything.”

  “In retrospect, it's odd nobody missed him at Good Friday services.” Then she shrugged. “But it's a busy time, and people don't always show up for these things, even wanna-be priests. He might have had to work, he might have been a little sick. Nobody would really remark on it.”

  “Except maybe a certain priest everybody said the kid was so close to.”

  Chloe kept her face expressionless. “Do you have any idea how busy a priest is at this time of year? There could have been a lot of reasons Steve didn't show up on Friday evening. He might have gone to another church. It's not a required service anyway. Given all the pressures Brendan's under during this season, and given all the reasons Steve might not be there, it probably didn't even cross his mind to wonder.”

  “Thus speaks the defense attorney.” He cocked a brow at her. “So tell me, Chloe. Why'd you go from being a cop to a criminal defense attorney?”

  She looked him dead in the eye. “Because I worked with cops and prosecutors.”

  He astonished her then with a hearty laugh, one of those belly laughs of good humor that she still remembered from the old days. “Touché,” he said, letting the insult pass.

  But then, why wouldn't he? She knew all too well the time he had stood up against corruption. She supposed she ought to give thanks that Matt Diel was heading this investigation.

  “Okay,” he said presently, “what've we got? We got a kid who was shot, then crucified, probably sometime early on Friday morning. He may or may not have been on the cross most of the time in between then and Saturday morning. Nobody had seen him since late Thursday.”

  “What else did the M.E. note?” Past experience had taught her that more had been discovered in today's autopsy. She wondered why Matt was making her drag it out of him.

  Matt shrugged. “Well, he wasn't killed in the church. There was grass and dirt in his mouth, under his nails, and on his clothing.”

  Her lawyer's mind immediately leapt on an apparent logical problem. “But you said he died instantly.”

  “He did. Postmortem paroxysm, not uncommon, especially in brain injuries.”

  “Oh.” She studied the pavement beneath their feet and thought about what she had just learned. “Somebody went to an awful lot of trouble to muddy this trail.”

  “So it would seem. To muddy it, or send a message.”

  She raised her head to look at him. “What else?”

  “What makes you thin
k there's anything else?”

  “I know you, Matt. You always hold something back.”

  He sighed. She wondered what he was thinking, if he was remembering.

  “What the fuck,” he said finally. “Okay. Whoever did the nail job did it without breaking any bones.”

  Chloe fought to conceal the shock she was feeling.

  “Me too,” Matt said, as if she were an open book. “Not to mention the M.E. He's kinda thrown by that. What he said was, ‘Do you know how many small bones there are in the hands and feet?’ ”

  “Yeah.” Chloe knew. She'd taken an anatomy course, thinking it would be useful as a cop. “But it's possible.”

  “Yeah, it's possible. With a knife. Not with nails like those. The bones don't even appear to be nicked.”

  “Cripes. But it could be done.”

  “Yeah. On purpose. The thing is —” He broke off and looked around, making sure there was no one nearby, then he leaned close, lowering his voice. “The thing is, Chloe, that even if those nails had found the path of least resistance and slipped between the bones, there should have been some scraping. Something. The M.E. said those nails were driven with surgical precision.”

  Chloe studied the pavement for a minute or two. “So we're looking for someone with a medical background.”

  “Maybe. Or just some damn lucky fool.”

  “There's another thing, Matt.”

  “What's that?”

  “Nobody's found the corpus.”

  “The what?”

  “The body of Christ that was hanging on the cross to begin with. Carved from solid wood.”

  Matt sighed. “You had to do that, didn't you.”

  “Do what?”

  “Give me another headache. You just can't resist.”

  “Well, look at it this way. I didn't commit the crime.”

  His dark eyes met hers. “Yeah. We gotta take our consolation where we can find it, right?”

  Dominic had the morning Mass, so Brendan sat alone in the rectory, in the dining room, with his cup of coffee. He was still sitting there, thinking too much, when Merv Haskell, the facilities manager, rapped gently on the doorframe.