Eleventh Hour

The man smothered a laugh, managed a credible sigh, and said, laughing, “You mean to imply that I’m insane, Father?”

“No, not just insane. I think you’re a psychopath—ah, I believe the politically correct word is sociopath, isn’t it? Doesn’t make it sound so evil, so without conscience. It doesn’t matter, whatever you are, it’s worse than anything doctors could put a tag to. You don’t give a damn about anybody. You need help, although I doubt anyone could help the sickness in you. Will you stop this insanity?”

“Would you like to shoot me, Father?”

“I am not like you. But I will see that you are stopped. There will be an end to this.”

“I fear I can’t let you go to the cops, Father. I’m trying not to be angry with you for not behaving as you should. All right. Now I’m just mildly upset that you aren’t behaving as you’re supposed to.”

“What are you talking about—I’m not acting like I’m supposed to?”

“It’s not important, at least it isn’t for you. Do you know you’ve given me something I’ve never had before in my life?”

“What?”

“Fun, Father. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Except, maybe, for this.”

He waited until Father Michael Joseph looked toward him through the wire mesh. He fired point-blank, right through the priest’s forehead. There was a loud popping sound, nothing more because he’d screwed on a silencer. He lowered the gun, thoughtful now because Father Michael Joseph had slumped back against the wooden confessional wall, his head up, and he could see his face clearly. There was not even a look of surprise on the priest’s face, just a flash of something he couldn’t really understand. Was it compassion? No, certainly not that. The priest despised him, but now he was shackled for all eternity, without a chance for him to go to the police, no opportunity for him even to take the drastic step of leaving the priesthood. He was silent forever. No loophole now.

Now Father Michael Joseph didn’t have to worry about a thing. His tender conscience couldn’t bother him. Was there a Heaven? If so, maybe Father Michael Joseph was looking down on him, knowing there was still nothing he could do. Or maybe the priest was hovering just overhead, over his own body, watching, wondering.

“Good-bye, Father, wherever you are,” he said, and rose.

He realized, as he eased out of the confessional and carefully closed the narrow wooden door, that the look on the Father’s face—he’d looked like he’d won. But that made no sense. Won what? The good Father had just bought the big one. He hadn’t won a damned thing.

There was no one in the church, not that he expected there to be. It was dead silent. He would have liked it if there had been a Gregorian chant playing softly. But no, there was nothing, just the echo of his own footsteps on the cold stones.

What did that damned priest have to look happy about? He was dead, for God’s sake.

He walked quickly out of St. Bartholomew’s Church, paused a moment to breathe in the clean midnight air, and craned his neck to look up at the brilliant star-studded sky. A very nice night, just like it was supposed to be. Not much of a moon, but that was all right. He would sleep very well tonight. He saw a drunk leaning against a skinny oak tree set in a small dirt plot in the middle of the sidewalk, just across the street, his chin resting on his chest—not the way it was supposed to be, but who cared? The guy hadn’t heard a thing.

There would be nothing but questions with no answers for now, since the cops wouldn’t have a clue. The priest had made him do things differently, and that was too bad. But it was all close enough.

But the look on the priest’s face, he didn’t like to think about that, at least not now.

He whistled as he walked beneath the streetlight on Fillmore, then another block to where he’d parked his car, squeezed it between two small spaces, really. This was a residential area and there was little parking space. But that, too, was just the way it was supposed to be. It was San Francisco, after all.

One more stop to make. He hoped she’d be home, and not working.

TWO

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Special Agent Dane Carver said to his unit chief, Dillon Savich, “I’ve got a problem, Savich. I’ve got to go home. My brother died last night.”

It was early, only seven-thirty on a very cold Monday morning, two weeks into the new year. Savich rose slowly from his chair, his eyes on Dane’s face. Dane looked bad—pale as a sheet, his eyes shadowed so deeply he looked like he’d been on the losing end of a fight. There was pain radiating from his eyes, and shock. “What happened, Dane?”