For an instant, Mickey relaxed long enough to hope—maybe all this had been a mistake. Then he felt a sudden jerk.
Pain . . . searing pain!
Icy steel plunged into his throat, severing cartilage in its wake. A metallic taste filled his mouth. Its warmth sucked into his lungs, drowning him. Powerless to free himself, Mickey resisted the blackness with the only redemption possible. He imagined high tide with him adrift. He struggled for air, bobbing just beneath the ocean surface. The sun and blue sky warped with a swirling eddy. Mercifully, sounds of surf rolling to shore clouded the fear when his body began to convulse. Dizziness and a numbing chill finally seized him. And the pounding of his heart drained his ability to move at all.
Then a muffled gurgle dominated his senses—until there was nothing.
Euphoria swept through him with Blair's last breath. The man's body now hung limp in his arms. With a gloved hand, he reached for the night-vision goggles and tossed them to the floor. He filled his lungs with the coppery aroma of fresh blood. Closing his eyes, he released the body to fall hard to the cement. He'd used the ego of his prey as a weapon against him. His plan had worked. As he thought of Mickey Blair lying dead at his feet, only one thing came to mind.
"Death humbles you when nothing else can." The sound of laughter dotted the dark landscape. His men rose from their positions, one by one. It had been a successful hunt. The contractor on this job would be pleased. With the overhead light crackling to life, shadows ebbed from the grisly tableau.
"Job well done, men." He raised his voice, relishing the attention. He stood amidst his men. Their applause and shouts fueled his adrenaline. "But it ain't over. Let's get this place cleaned up. We got a delivery to make. And we're on a tight schedule."
St. Sebastian's Chapel
Downtown Chicago
Father Antonio's footsteps echoed along the dimly lit corridor between the rectory and the chapel, accompanied by the soft rustle of his cassock. The nip of an early freeze bored through mortar and stone, intensifying the musty, dank smell of the old church. The change in season always challenged his patience.
"Holy Father, why do you torment me so? Have I not been a good servant?" The young cleric smiled. His feelings toward the first cold front had been cultivated from childhood. It had nothing to do with his vocation or his faith.
Arched windows lined the hall, offering a secluded view of the church cemetery. His heart sank at the sight of a dusting of snow that outlined headstones and crypts. Images of death, covered by an early winter, encouraged his reflective nature. And sparse lighting along the perimeter of the graveyard only marginally repelled the decaying gloom. He identified with the daunting struggle of light against dark—a symbolic reflection of his life's work. Without slowing his pace, he let his eyes drift from one window to the next as he walked through the dim passageway.
But tonight, a lone man caught his attention. Father Antonio stopped. His breath fogged the small glass pane.
"There you are, my friend. What demons have drawn you out on such a cold night?"
Bundled in a long dark coat, a man hunched against the cold under a pale light, his back turned toward the priest. His body cast a faint shadow in the mantle of snow. A gust of wind swirled white crystals at the man's feet, clinging to the hem of his overcoat. Despite having only a scant glimpse of him, Father Antonio knew his identity by the family tombstone.
Years ago, he'd investigated the gravesite to learn his name. With the man so reticent to talk, the cleric had succumbed to his mortal weakness of curiosity. He'd invaded the stranger's privacy by searching cemetery records and old newspaper stories at the library—a result of another long winter season with too much time on his hands.
"Come inside, where it's warm, my friend. Or do you relish the weather's punishment?" He understood the need for penitence.
It was the man's ritual to stand by the grave before he'd wander into the smaller chapel to sit in the last pew on the left. Always, the man would be rapt in his own contrition. But tonight, his observance changed. He turned to look directly at Father Antonio from across the burial ground. The man peered up through the murkiness of dusk. His eyes locked on to the priest.
Father Antonio gasped. He stepped back from the window, his reaction purely instinctive. With his heart battering his chest, he closed his eyes and filled his lungs. After a moment, he exhaled with deliberation to calm his panic.
"Not very charitable, Antonio," he muttered, shaking his head. Why would he react so strongly? But he knew the answer to that question the instant he examined his recoil.
The eyes of the man were haunting. Beyond the sadness the cleric expected to find, death shadowed the stranger. That fact tempered any further interest the priest had in him. Chastising himself for his weakness, Father Antonio forced his gaze into the graveyard once again. He wanted to redeem himself as a compassionate man. But the stranger had gone.
In that brief instant he'd ducked for cover, the man had vanished, leaving only faint impressions in the snow that he'd been there at all.
"Holy Father, give me strength," he pleaded, whispering for his own benefit. Glancing at his watch, he noticed it was after seven. Already late by his usual schedule. Now, he'd have to rush through prayer after this little delay.
Resuming his duties, he headed for the entrance to the auxiliary chapel. With the larger cathedral closed for restoration work, the smaller facility remained open to the public at this hour. Unlocking the breezeway door into the church, he was surprised to find the chamber dark. Light from the street filtered through the ornate stained-glass windows. Eerie hues of blue and red spilled across the floor, eclipsed by shadows of tree limbs tossed in the brisk winds off Lake Michigan. The stone walls of St. Sebastian's muffled the howl of the winter blast.
He expected the stranger to be seated in his usual spot at the back of the church, not sure how he'd handle the awkwardness of seeing him. A sense of relief came when he found the place dark and empty.
Allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the dark, he remained at the door. He listened to the sounds of a room he knew well. With the stillness, he presumed he was alone. But who had turned out the lights? Feeling his way in the dark, he found the control panel for the interior lighting.
"Let there be light," he commanded. Slowly, he turned the knobs for the fixtures along the walls. It would be all the light he'd need.
With barely a glance through the church, he set about his routine. Late-night confessions in this urban setting brought a variety of sinners to God's door. Over the years, Father Antonio had grown familiar with many of their faces, people who'd be invisible to others in the light of day.
Kneeling at the base of the crucifix, he closed his eyes to pray for his flock. It had become his nightly ritual before he'd slip into his confessional at the first sight of a sinner seeking absolution. The hush of the church graced his prayer, making it easy to lapse into the familiar. But a faint repetitive noise beckoned his awareness, detracting from his purpose.
A rhythmic patter summoned his consciousness.
A measured, tedious sound.
Being a resident of St. Sebastian's, he'd grown accustomed to rain finding its way through the worn roof of the rectory. But the chapel and its sacristy were another story. Opening his eyes, he caught sight of motion to his left. He spied the offending puddle. A dark, slick pool collected at the base of the crucifix. It bled through the spacing between the patterned tiles. Now, a metallic odor invaded his senses, mingling with the sweet aroma of incense. Nearly choking on his next breath, Father Antonio felt the chill of the empty chamber crawl along his flesh.