funeral arrangements.”
He hung up quickly and made his way down the darkened hall into the kitchen. The light above the stove cast a thin yellow glow over half of the room, leaving the other half in shadow. A soft snoring noise came from the corner where Walks-On lay on his blanket, his hind leg stretched back at an angle, as if to make room for the missing leg.
Father John lifted the coffeepot. It felt light in his hand. He slammed it down and whirled about, his gaze on the gray-shadowed cabinets, the counters. There was no alcohol at the mission. That was the first rule he set for every new assistant, even an eminent scholar like Joseph Keenan. No alcohol! What he didn’t explain was the fear behind the rule—his fear that he would be the one to consume any alcohol brought on the premises.
Now he wished a bottle were here, hidden in a cabinet behind the canned goods, wedged behind boxes of rice and pasta, stashed under the sink with the can of cleaner and bottle of dishwashing liquid. But there were no whiskey bottles in the kitchen. None at the mission.
Unless—the thought came like a light streakingthrough the night sky—Father Joseph had brought a bottle with him. Why not? A man used to faculty cocktail parties and dinners, conference banquets. Joseph had nodded when he’d mentioned the rule, but the bottle might have been packed in one of the suitcases or cardboard boxes. It could still be here.
Father John hurried down the hall and up the dark stairs. Moonlight slanted through the small window over the landing and bathed the upstairs hall in a soft white light. He strode to the closed door halfway down the hall and pushed it open, flipping on the light as he stepped inside. Gianelli and Banner had left the room tidy: bed made up like an army cot, blankets tucked at the corners; books neatly arranged on the small bookcase; magazines stacked on the desk; shaving kit on the bureau. He flung open the closet door and swept one hand across the shelves above the hanging clothes, pushing aside a couple of sweaters, an umbrella. Nothing. He checked under the bed, behind the drapes, the usual hiding places. He knew them well. He pulled open the bureau drawers, lifting out the clean shirts and underwear. Then the desk drawer, rummaging through the folders. Still nothing.
He slammed the drawer shut and sank onto the edge of the bed.
My God
, he thought. What was he doing? Desecrating a dead man’s things, and for what? A drink. An almighty, all-powerful drink.
He switched off the light, closed the door, and made his way back downstairs to the kitchen. After brewing another pot of coffee, he sat at the table a long while, sipping on the steaming, black liquid. A calmness gradually came over him and with it the understanding that he could not wait for Joseph’s murderer totry again. On edge, riven with guilt and thirst. Like a fly pinned to a board, awaiting the merciful blow. There would be no more murders. He understood what he had to do.
7
V icky pointed the Bronco west on Ethete Road, darting in and out of the pale bands of moonlight. Clouds had rolled eastward to reveal a clear sky and a sea of stars. A rim of light outlined the high peaks in the distance, and flat, violet shadows drifted down the foothills like smoke.
She drove on automatic, her thoughts on John O’Malley. The killer had missed him this afternoon, but he would try again. After the mourners and well-wishers had driven out of the mission grounds, after Elena had finished tidying up and said good night, after Leonard Bizzel had checked the buildings and gone home, the killer would return. In the blackness of the night, when John O’Malley was alone.
Or would the killer wait for him to dash across the grounds to a meeting, or walk to the altar for Mass? Is that when it would happen? Or would there be another dying woman begging for the last sacrament? Vicky felt her whole body grow tense, her heart thump with the certainty that, if an
He hung up quickly and made his way down the darkened hall into the kitchen. The light above the stove cast a thin yellow glow over half of the room, leaving the other half in shadow. A soft snoring noise came from the corner where Walks-On lay on his blanket, his hind leg stretched back at an angle, as if to make room for the missing leg.
Father John lifted the coffeepot. It felt light in his hand. He slammed it down and whirled about, his gaze on the gray-shadowed cabinets, the counters. There was no alcohol at the mission. That was the first rule he set for every new assistant, even an eminent scholar like Joseph Keenan. No alcohol! What he didn’t explain was the fear behind the rule—his fear that he would be the one to consume any alcohol brought on the premises.
Now he wished a bottle were here, hidden in a cabinet behind the canned goods, wedged behind boxes of rice and pasta, stashed under the sink with the can of cleaner and bottle of dishwashing liquid. But there were no whiskey bottles in the kitchen. None at the mission.
Unless—the thought came like a light streakingthrough the night sky—Father Joseph had brought a bottle with him. Why not? A man used to faculty cocktail parties and dinners, conference banquets. Joseph had nodded when he’d mentioned the rule, but the bottle might have been packed in one of the suitcases or cardboard boxes. It could still be here.
Father John hurried down the hall and up the dark stairs. Moonlight slanted through the small window over the landing and bathed the upstairs hall in a soft white light. He strode to the closed door halfway down the hall and pushed it open, flipping on the light as he stepped inside. Gianelli and Banner had left the room tidy: bed made up like an army cot, blankets tucked at the corners; books neatly arranged on the small bookcase; magazines stacked on the desk; shaving kit on the bureau. He flung open the closet door and swept one hand across the shelves above the hanging clothes, pushing aside a couple of sweaters, an umbrella. Nothing. He checked under the bed, behind the drapes, the usual hiding places. He knew them well. He pulled open the bureau drawers, lifting out the clean shirts and underwear. Then the desk drawer, rummaging through the folders. Still nothing.
He slammed the drawer shut and sank onto the edge of the bed.
My God
, he thought. What was he doing? Desecrating a dead man’s things, and for what? A drink. An almighty, all-powerful drink.
He switched off the light, closed the door, and made his way back downstairs to the kitchen. After brewing another pot of coffee, he sat at the table a long while, sipping on the steaming, black liquid. A calmness gradually came over him and with it the understanding that he could not wait for Joseph’s murderer totry again. On edge, riven with guilt and thirst. Like a fly pinned to a board, awaiting the merciful blow. There would be no more murders. He understood what he had to do.
7
V icky pointed the Bronco west on Ethete Road, darting in and out of the pale bands of moonlight. Clouds had rolled eastward to reveal a clear sky and a sea of stars. A rim of light outlined the high peaks in the distance, and flat, violet shadows drifted down the foothills like smoke.
She drove on automatic, her thoughts on John O’Malley. The killer had missed him this afternoon, but he would try again. After the mourners and well-wishers had driven out of the mission grounds, after Elena had finished tidying up and said good night, after Leonard Bizzel had checked the buildings and gone home, the killer would return. In the blackness of the night, when John O’Malley was alone.
Or would the killer wait for him to dash across the grounds to a meeting, or walk to the altar for Mass? Is that when it would happen? Or would there be another dying woman begging for the last sacrament? Vicky felt her whole body grow tense, her heart thump with the certainty that, if an
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