“Don’t worry about it, Lloyd.”
“About checking old shacks. Nick, there’s not much out there that we didn’t check the first time. There’s an old barn about ready to fall down on Woodson’s property. Other than a deserted lean-to or grain bin, there isn’t anything else. Except for the old church, but it’s boarded up tighter than a virgin on Sunday.”
Nick frowned at the reference.
“Sorry,” Benjamin apologized though he didn’t look sorry. “You’re getting awfully touchy, Nick. O’Dell isn’t even here.”
“Check the church again, Lloyd. Look for broken windows, footprints, any sign of entry in the last several days.”
“Hell, we’re not gonna find any footprints with this snow coming down.”
“Just check, Lloyd.”
Nick retreated to his office, already exhausted, and the morning had just begun. Within seconds there was a knock on the door. He slumped into his chair and yelled to come in.
Lucy peeked around the door, assessing his mood. He waved her in. She carried an ice pack and cup of coffee.
“What in the world happened to you, Nick?”
“Don’t even ask.”
She put aside her initial hesitation and came around the desk. She leaned against the corner and her skirt hiked up over her thighs. She saw him notice and made no effort to pull it down. Instead, she reached for his chin, cupping it in her hand and laying the ice pack against his swollen jaw. He jerked away, using the pain as an excuse to wheel out of her reach.
“Oh, poor Nick. I know it hurts,” she said, making baby talk sound sensual.
This morning she wore a rose-colored sweater pulled so tight across her breasts the knitted loops hinted at a black bra underneath. She scooted across the desk toward him, and he jumped out of his chair.
“Look, I don’t have time for ice packs. I’ll be fine. Thanks for thinking of it.”
She looked disappointed. “I’ll leave it in your little refrigerator, in case you want it later.”
She crossed the room to the small cube on the floor. She bent at the waist, purposely giving him a view of what he was missing, and put the ice pack in the small freezer space. She glanced back at him as if checking to see if he had changed his mind, smiled, then swayed out the door.
“Jesus,” he muttered, plopping down into the chair again. What kind of a department had he created? Michelle Tanner’s raging ex-husband was right. No wonder he was no closer to finding the killer.
Chapter 44
Father Francis gathered the newspaper clippings and slid them into his leather portfolio. He stopped, held up his hands and stared at the brown spots, the bulging blue veins and the trembling that had become commonplace.
It had only been three months since Ronald Jeffreys’ execution. Three months since he had listened to the confession of the real killer. He could no longer keep silent. He could no longer preserve the sanctity of a killer’s confession. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference, but he had convinced himself that it was the right thing to do.
He shuffled down the hall to the church. His footsteps were the only sound echoing off the majestic walls. No one waited for confession. It would be a quiet morning. Still, he entered the small confessional.
Despite his having seen no one in the church, the door in the black cubicle next to him opened within minutes. Father Francis sat up and laid his elbow on the shelf, allowing himself to lean closer to the wire-mesh window between the two small rooms.
“Bless me, Father, for I have killed again.”
Oh, dear God. The panic came crashing against the old priest’s chest. It was difficult to breathe. Suddenly, the small, wooden box had only hot and stale air. The throbbing began in his ears. Father Francis strained to see beyond the thick wire mesh that separated them. All he could see, though, was a huddled black shadow.
“I killed Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. For these sins, I am truly sorry and ask forgiveness.”
The voice was disguised, barely audible, as if forced through a mask. Was there anything, anything at all, that he could recognize?
“What is my penance?” the voice wanted to know.
Could he speak if he could not breathe?
“How can…” It was difficult. His chest ached. “How can I absolve you of your sins…heinous, horrible sins…if you only intend to do them again?”
“No, y-you don’t understand. I only bring them peace,” the voice sputtered. He obviously hadn’t come prepared for a confrontation, Father Francis realized with some degree of satisfaction. He had come only for absolution and to do his penance.
“I cannot absolve you of your sins if you intend to only go out and do it again.” Father Francis’ strong, unflinching voice surprised him.
“You must…you have to.”
“I absolved you once before, and you’ve made a mockery of the sacrament by committing the sin again, not once but twice.”
“I am truly sorry for my sins and ask forgiveness from God,” he tried again, mechanically saying the phrase like a child memorizing it for the first time.
“You must prove your remorse,” Father Francis said, suddenly feeling powerful. Perhaps he could influence this black shadow, make him face his demons, stop him once and for all. “You must show your repentance.”
“Yes. Yes, I will. Just tell me what my penance is.”
“Go prove your repentance and come back in a month.”
There was a pause.
“You aren’t absolving me?”
“If you can prove your worthiness by not killing, I will consider absolving you then.”
“You will not give me absolution?”
“Come back in a month.”
There was silence, but the shadow made no motion to leave. Father Francis leaned closer to the wire mesh, again straining to see into the pitch-black cube. There was a soft smack, then a hiss as a spray of saliva flew through the wire mesh, hitting him in the face.
“I’ll see you in hell, Father.” The low guttural tone sent shivers down Father Francis’ spine. He clung to the small shelf, gripping the Bible. And though the sticky saliva dripped down his chin, he couldn’t move even to wipe at it. When he heard the door open and the shadow exit, his paralyzed body made no attempt to follow or look out after him.
He sat for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, no one else came in. Perhaps the snow had kept other sinners home, he thought absently. Which meant no one had seen the shadowy figure enter or exit the confessional.
Finally, his heart resumed its normal beating. He could breathe again. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face with hands trembling more violently than usual. He held on to the walls of the small confessional as he eased himself out of the hard chair and onto wobbly knees. He gathered his leather portfolio and Bible and peered out. The church was empty and silent. Outside, he heard the laughter of children, probably crossing the parking lot to go sledding on Cutty’s Hill. At least they traveled in groups.
He shuffled to the front of the church, hanging on to the backs of pews as he made his way down the aisle. The panic and terror had exhausted him, drained him of energy. He would share this morning’s visit with Maggie O’Dell. The decision to do so made him feel stronger. Already the guilt lifted from his soul. Yes, it was the right thing to do. He started down the hallway from the church to the rectory, and even his feet seemed lighter. The ache in his chest eased to a mere annoyance.
On the way to his office he noticed that someone had left the door to the wine cellar open. He stopped in the doorway and peered down the dark steps. He could smell the musty dampness. A draft made him shiver. Was there a shadow? Down in the far corner, was someone huddled in the darkness?
He stepped onto the first step, clinging with a shaky hand to the railing. Was it his imagination, or was someone huddled between the stacked wine crates and the concrete wall?