Read Online Bitter Recoil by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online Page B

out my identification. Parris looked at it and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He nodded and gestured toward a chair. “Please.”
    “Father Parris, I’m assisting Deputy Guzman with an investigation of a pedestrian accident earlier today up the canyon.” A pained look swept briefly across his face. He was wearing slippers, and his right sock was bulging around what was probably an elastic bandage. I didn’t know if the grimace was because of the ankle or my announcement. “Perhaps you heard about it.”
    He nodded. Something was interesting in the pile of the old purple carpeting in that room, because that’s all Parris was looking at. “I heard about it, yes.”
    “Would you take a look at this, please?” I held out the picture of Cecilia Burgess, and Parris took it. With satisfaction I saw his thumb clamp down on the bottom margin of the photo. “Do you know the young lady?”
    “Yes, of course, Cecilia Burgess. I’ve known her and her family for years.” He took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out with a slight shake of his head. He handed the photograph back.
    “Her family? She has relatives in the area?”
    Parris shook his head. “No longer. Her parents died when she was quite young. For a time she was living with her brother in Albuquerque.”
    “Where’s her brother now?”
    “Richard’s dead. About five years ago.”
    “How did that happen?”
    Parris took his time collecting his thoughts before he said, “He was riding his motorcycle on Central Avenue in Albuquerque. A pickup truck ran the red light at Washington. Richard wasn’t wearing a helmet. It probably wouldn’t have done any good even if he had been.”
    I grimaced. “Hard luck family. And he was her only brother? No others? Sisters?” Parris shook his head. “What did the brother do?” Parris glanced up at me, puzzled. “His line of work?” I added patiently.
    “He was a priest.” Parris hesitated and watched me pull a small notebook out of my hip pocket. When my ballpoint was ready, he added, “We attended seminary together.”
    “He was older than Cecilia?”
    “Yes. By about twelve years.”
    “What was your relationship with Cecilia?”
    Parris eyed the carpet again. “We were good friends. As I said, we’d known each other for years.”
    I paused and stuck the pen in my mouth. “Father Parris, are you aware of what happened last night?” Parris nodded. His eyes were closed. I waited until he opened them and looked at me. “Would you tell me how you found out?”
    Parris slumped back in the chair, and his left hand strayed to his pectoral cross. He toyed with it for a minute, then clasped his hands together. “I heard all the sirens, of course. And then this morning I had occasion to drive into the village. I sprained my ankle last night, and I needed an elastic support. Orlando Garcia, at the trading post, saw me and asked if I’d heard.”
    “And what did you do then?”
    “I called the clinic immediately.”
    “Do you remember what time that was?”
    Parris pursed his lips and glanced at his wristwatch, as if the hands might have stopped at the moment in question. “Mid-morning. It was shortly after I’d finished mass here.”
    “And then?”
    “They told me that Cecilia had been transferred to Albuquerque. To Presbyterian. I drove into the city immediately.”
    “So you were aware of the extent of her injuries?”
    Nolan Parris stood up with a grunt and limped across to the bookcase. He rested both hands on the top shelf for support. I waited. Finally he said, “I administered last rites. I was there when she died.” He turned and looked at me without releasing his grip on the bookcase. “I made arrangements. A friend of mine at Sacred Heart will say rosary and mass, probably tomorrow. I did all I could. And then I drove back here.”
    “Father, are you aware that Cecilia was pregnant?”
    “Yes.” His lack of hesitation surprised me.
    “Do you know who the father was?”
    “I’m