Delion said, “Why the hell didn’t you come forward right away? Good God, woman, it’s Tuesday morning. He was murdered midnight Sunday.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I had to call you from a public phone, and I finally found one that worked by a convenience store about two blocks from the church. I called nine-one-one, told the operator what I’d seen. But I couldn’t stay, I just couldn’t. This morning I knew I had to come and talk to you, that just maybe I could help, but I really don’t think so.”
“Why couldn’t you stay and talk to us on Sunday night?”
“I was just too scared.”
“Why?”
She didn’t say a word, just shook her head.
“Okay,” Delion said, backing off for the moment. “I want you to take a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself. Now then, I want you to tell us everything that happened Sunday night, and don’t leave out a single detail. We need everything. Can you do that?”
She nodded, closed her eyes a moment against the fearsome pain, the terror of Father Michael Joseph’s violent death.
Dane watched her twist the old red wool cap between her long fingers, thin and very white.
She stared down at that woolen cap as she said, “All right, I can do this. I was sitting in one of the front pews on the far side of the church, waiting for Father Michael Joseph to finish.”
“So you came in after the man had already gone into the confessional?” Delion asked.
“No, I’d been speaking to Father Michael Joseph, and he wanted me to stay, to talk to him when he’d finished hearing this one confession.”
Dane said, “Was anyone else in the church?”
“No, it was empty, except for the two of us. It was very dark. Father Michael Joseph left me, walked to the confessional, and went inside.”
“You saw the person come into the church?”
“Yes, I saw him. I didn’t see him clearly, mind you, but I could see that he was slender, lots of black hair, and he had on a long Burberry coat, dark. I wasn’t really paying all that much attention. I saw him go into the confessional.”
“Could you hear either Father Michael Joseph or the other person speaking?”
“No, nothing. There was pure, deep silence, like you’d expect in a church at night. A good amount of time passed before I heard a popping sound. I knew instantly that it was a gun firing.”
“How’d you know it was a gun?” Delion asked. “Most people wouldn’t automatically think gun when they heard a popping sound.”
“I went hunting a lot with my father before he died.”
“Okay, what next?” Dane said.
“Just a moment later the man came out of the confessional. I think he was smiling, but I can’t be sure. He was holding a big ugly gun in his hand.”
SIX
She took another sip of water, trying to get herself together. She was shaking so badly she spilled some of the water on the woolen cap in her lap. She stared at it, and swallowed.
“You okay?” Father Michael Joseph’s brother said.
She nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
“Do you think he saw you?” Dane asked.
She shook her head. “I was in the shadows, down under the pew. No, he didn’t see me.”
“Okay, when you’re ready, tell us the rest,” Delion said.
“When I heard the gun fire, I slipped down beneath the pew. I was terrified that he’d come out, see me, and kill me. He looked around, but like I said, I’m sure he didn’t see me. I watched him unscrew a silencer off the end of the gun-he did it very quickly, like he was really proficient at it-and he slipped both the silencer and the gun into his coat pocket. Then he did something strange, and it nearly scared me to death. He pulled the gun back out of his pocket. He held it pressed to his side. I think he was whistling as he walked out of the church.
“I didn’t move for a real long time, just couldn’t, I was just too scared that he was waiting behind the side door to see if anyone would come out, and then he’d kill me, quick and clean, just like he killed Father Michael Joseph.
“I finally went to the confessional.” She swallowed, closed her eyes for a moment. “I looked at Father Michael Joseph’s face. His eyes were open wide and I could see that he was gone. Oh God, he had such beautiful eyes, dark and kind, he saw so much. But his eyes were blank, vague in death, and there was a small red hole in his forehead. It looked so harmless, that little hole, but he was dead. There was something else, something in his expression. It wasn’t fear or terror, you know, from knowing in that instant he was going to die; it was something else. He looked somehow pleased. How could that be possible? For God’s sake, pleased about what?”
“Pleased,” Delion said. “That’s odd. You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Or maybe like he was finally satisfied about something. I’m sorry, I’m just not sure.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Then I heard someone coming out of the vestry off to the left. I froze. God, I thought it was the murderer and he was coming back. I thought he’d see me because I wasn’t hiding in the shadows anymore. He’d know that I saw him kill Father Michael Joseph, he’d believe that I could identify him, and he was coming back to kill me, too.
“I ran as fast as I could to the side door, flipped up the dead bolt, and managed to slip outside without making much noise. I waited there, it seemed like forever, but I didn’t hear or see anything. Then I ran to try to find a phone.”
“Where’d you go after that?” Delion asked.
“Back to the shelter on Ellis, near Webster, Christ’s Shelter.”
“That’s a long way from Saint Bartholomew’s,” Delion said.
“Yes, it is. Father Michael Joseph was very involved in the shelter’s activities and the people who stayed there. That’s where I met him. He, ah, was very fond of history, particularly the thirteenth century. His hero was Edward the First.”
“Ah, you know about that,” Dane said, and felt his voice seize up. He swallowed, knowing they were looking at him. “He loved history. I never had the knack for remembering dates, but Michael could. I remember he’d talk me into a coma, going on and on about the Crusades, particularly the one with Edward.”
“That’s all well and good,” Delion said, “but let’s get back to it, all right?” He watched Dane collect himself, and lightly gripped his shoulder.
“Are you sure you didn’t see more?” Delion said. “Anything else?”
“No, I’m sorry. The man was in the confessional when he shot Father Michael Joseph. The light was real dim-you know how the light is really soft and almost black at midnight? And the shadows, they were thick, deep, all over the church.”
Dane nodded.
“It was like that. I’m sorry, but I got only a vague impression of him. The Burberry, the black hair, nothing else, really.”
Dane said easily, “Do me a favor. Close your eyes just a moment and picture yourself standing inside Saint Bartholomew’s. Can you see that incredible stained-glass window that shows the stable scene of Christ’s birth? It’s just behind the confessional.”
“Oh yes, I can see it. I’ve stared at it many times, wondering, you know, how something made of glass could make you so aware of just being.”
Yes, he thought, satisfied, she knew the window well. He said, “I saw it for the first time yesterday, stared at it, felt all those colors seep into me. It made me feel close to something bigger than I am, something deep inside that I’m rarely aware of, something powerful.”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
“I can imagine how, even when it’s dark in the church-that midnight dark you spoke about-how that window still shines like a beacon when just a hint of light comes through it. It would make all that black, all those shadows, take on a glow, a pale sort of shine, concentrated, as if from a long way off. I can see that. Can you?”