Catherine Coulter - Eleventh Hour

Why did she faint? Hunger?

“Here’s some water. She show any signs of life yet?”

“Soon.” Dane lightly slapped her cheeks, waited, then slapped her again.

A couple of inspectors stuck their heads in. Delion waved them off. “She’ll be okay, don’t call the paramedics, okay?”

A woman officer said, “She looks really down on her luck. The last person she should want to see is you, Delion.”

Her eyelashes fluttered. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinked a couple of times, and focused on Dane’s face above her.

“Oh no,” she said, so low he could barely hear her. She tried to get away from him by pressing herself against the back of the sofa. “Oh God, am I dead?”

Dane said, “No, you’re not dead. I’m not dead either. You knew my brother, didn’t you? Father Michael Joseph?”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, my twin brother. We’re identical twins. My name is Dane Carver.”

“You’re not a priest?”

“Nope,” said Delion. He brought his face down close to hers, which made her shrink back even more. Delion backed off, said, “He’s the other end of the scale.”

“You’re a criminal?”

“No, I’m not. That was just a bit of police humor. Here, drink a bit of water.”

He cupped the back of her head, brought her up a bit, and put the paper cup to her mouth. She sipped at it, then said, “Thank you, no more.”

Delion pulled up one of Lieutenant Purcell’s chairs, straddled it, waved Dane to the only other chair in the small room. Dane pulled it up next to the sofa.

Delion said, “You here to tell us about Father Michael Joseph? You know something about his murder? You wouldn’t be the woman who phoned in the murder about midnight Sunday night, would you?”

“Yes,” she said, unable to look away from Father Michael Joseph’s brother. She lifted her hand, touched her fingertips to his cheek, the small cleft in his chin. Dane didn’t move. She dropped her hand, swallowed tears. Dane saw that her fingernails were as ragged as her sneakers, her hands chapped. “You’re so like him,” she said. “I only knew him for two weeks, but he was always kind to me, and I know he cared about what happened to me. He was my friend. I’m not Catholic, but it didn’t matter. I was there Sunday night, in the church, when that man shot him.”

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.”

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.”