“Certainly. What can I do to help?” He looked at Maggie.
“I understand you heard Ronald Jeffreys’ last confession,” Nick continued.
“Yes, but I cannot share any of that with you. I hope you understand.” His voice was suddenly frail, as though the subject drained the energy from him.
Maggie wondered whether he was sick, something terminal that would explain the gray pallor to his skin. Even his breathing came in thick, short gasps when he talked. When he was silent, a soft wheeze lifted his bony shoulders in an odd rhythm.
“Of course, we understand,” she lied. The fact was, she didn’t understand, but she prevented the impatience from creeping into her tone. “However, if there is anything that would shed light on the Alverez case, I would hope you’d share it with us.”
“O’Dell, that’s Irish Catholic, yes?”
Maggie was startled and annoyed by his distraction. “Yes, it is.” Now she allowed a bit of the impatience to slip out. He didn’t seem to notice.
“And Maggie, named for our very own St. Margaret.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Father Francis, you do understand that if Ronald Jeffreys confessed anything that would lead us to Danny Alverez’s murderer, you must tell us?”
“The sanctity of confession is to be preserved even for condemned murderers, Agent O’Dell.”
Maggie sighed and glanced back at Morrelli, who also looked as though he was becoming impatient with the old priest.
“Father,” Morrelli said. “There’s something else you might be able to help us with. Who, other than a priest, can or is allowed to administer last rites?”
Father Francis looked confused by the change of subject. “The sacrament of extreme unction should be administered by a priest, but in extreme circumstances, it’s not necessary.”
“Who else would know how?”
“Before Vatican II, it was taught in the Baltimore Catechism. The two of you may be too young to remember. Today, I believe, it is taught only in the seminary, although it may still be a part of some deacon training.”
“And what are the requirements for becoming a deacon?” Maggie asked, frustrated that this might add to their list of suspects.
“There are rigorous standards. Of course, one must be in good standing with the church. And unfortunately, only men can be deacons. I’m not sure I understand what any of this has to do with Ronald Jeffreys.”
“I’m afraid we can’t share that with you, Father.” Morrelli smiled. “No disrespect intended.” Morrelli glanced at Maggie, waiting to see if she had anything more. Then he said, “Thanks for your help, Father Francis.”
He motioned to her for them to leave, but she stared at Father Francis, hoping to see something in the hooded eyes that held hers. It was almost as though they were waiting for her to see what they revealed. Yet, the priest only nodded at her and smiled.
Morrelli touched her shoulder. She turned on her heels and marched out alongside him. Outside on the church steps she stopped suddenly. Morrelli was down on the sidewalk before he realized she wasn’t beside him. He looked up at her and shrugged.
“What’s wrong?”
“He knows something. There’s something about Jeffreys that he’s not telling us.”
“That he can’t tell us.”
She spun around and ran back up the steps.
“O’Dell, what are you doing?”
She heard Morrelli behind her as she threw open the heavy front door and walked quickly up the aisle. Father Francis was just leaving the altar, disappearing behind the thick curtains.
“Father Francis,” Maggie yelled to him. The echo instantly made her feel as though she had broken some rule, committed some sin. It did, however, stop Father Francis. He came back to the middle of the altar where he watched her hurry up the aisle. Morrelli was close behind.
“If you know something… If Jeffreys told you something that could prevent another murder… Father, isn’t saving the life of an innocent little boy worth breaking the confidence of a confessed serial killer?”
She didn’t realize until now that she was breathless. She waited, staring into those eyes that knew so much more than they were willing or able to reveal.
“What I can tell you is that Ronald Jeffreys told nothing but the truth.”
“Excuse me?” Her impatience was rapidly changing to anger.
“From the day he confessed to the crime to the day he was executed, Ronald Jeffreys told only the truth.” His eyes lingered on Maggie’s. But if there was something more they were saying, she couldn’t see it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Morrelli was at her side. They stood quietly, watching the priest disappear behind the flowing fabric of the curtains.
“Jesus,” Morrelli finally whispered. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we need to take a look at Jeffreys’ original confession,” she said, pretending to know what she was talking about. Then she turned and walked out, this time carefully keeping her heels from clicking noisily on the marble floor.
Chapter 19
He skidded out of the church parking lot. The bag of groceries tumbled across the seat and spilled onto the floor. Oranges rolled underneath his feet as he pressed down on the accelerator.
He needed to calm down. He searched the rearview mirror. No one followed. They had come to the church asking questions. Questions about Jeffreys. He was safe. They knew nothing. Even that newspaper reporter had insinuated that Danny’s murder was a copycat. Someone copycatting Jeffreys. Why hadn’t it occurred to any of them that Jeffreys was the copycat? The fact that Jeffreys had also been a cold-blooded murderer had simply made him the perfect patsy.
Within blocks of the school, parents scurried like frightened rats leading their children, huddling at intersections. They carted them to the curb. They watched them skip up the steps of the school until they were safely inside. Until now, they hardly noticed their children, left them alone for hours, pretending that “latchkey” was a term of endearment. Leaving them with bruises and scars that, if not stopped, would last a lifetime. And now those same parents were learning. He was actually doing them a favor, providing a precious service.
The wind hinted at snow, biting and whipping at jackets and skirts that would be quickly out of season. It reminded him of the blanket in the trunk. Did it still have blood on it? He tried to remember, tried to think while he watched the rats cover the sidewalks and clog the intersections. He stopped at a stop sign.
Waited for the crossing guards. A stream of rats crossed. One recognized him and waved. He smiled and waved back.
No, he had washed the blanket. There was no blood. The bleach had worked miracles. And it would be warm, should the weather turn cold.
As he drove out of town, he noticed a flock of geese overhead getting into formation like fighter pilots from the base. He rolled down his window and listened. The squawks and honks cut through the crisp morning air. Yes, this time the thick, bulging clouds would bring snow, not rain. He could feel it in his bones.
He hated the cold, hated snow. It reminded him of too many Christmases, quietly unwrapping the few presents his mother had secretly put under the tree for him. Following his mother’s instructions, he would get up early Christmas morning and unwrap his gifts by himself. Quiet enough to hear his mother keeping his stepfather preoccupied in their bedroom, just several feet away.
His stepfather never suspected a thing, grateful for his own early-morning present. Had he found out, he and his mother would have both received beatings for their frivolous waste of his stepfather’s hard-earned money. For it was that first Christmas beating that had initiated their secret tradition.
He turned onto Old Church Road and drove along the river. The riverbank was on fire with brilliant reds, oranges and yellows. Thousands of cattails waved at him, poking up out of the tall, honey-colored grass. The snow would ruin all of this. It would cover the vivid colors of life and leave its shroud of white death.