Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

Susan said, “I called a grief counsellor and asked her to go to his place. I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

Barbara took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and entered the priest’s office. He half-rose from his chair as she offered him her hand. He took it with a brief, limp, damp grip, then dropped back into his desk chair.

“I need to go to the hospital to visit those who were injured.” He swallowed hard. “And the families of those who were murdered.” His voice was high-pitched, with a barely noticeable lilt of Ireland. “My... parishioners need me.”

Barbara, at five feet nine inches tall, towered over the diminutive priest, who looked to be about sixty years old. His skin was pink but creased. His black shirt was wrinkled, and his white collar appeared to be at least two sizes too big. Earlier, she’d noticed dark spots on his shoes, which she knew was blood. She wondered if he was aware of it as she tried to make eye contact with him, but his eyes ping-ponged everywhere except at her.

“Are you up to answering more questions?”

He finally looked at her and nodded.

After placing her cell phone on the front edge of the man’s desk, she told him she planned to record their conversation, which he agreed to. Then she recited the time, his and her names, and their location. She said, “I apologize for keeping you here at such a late hour, but it’s important that we get a clear and complete picture of what happened. You being at the front of the sanctuary gave you the best view of... events.”

Barbara waited for Doherty to respond. He’d dropped his gaze to the desktop between them and covered his face with his hands. He made a sound that was both groan and whimper. She prompted him again. “Can you tell me when you first noticed the man with the machete?”

He dropped his hands to his lap and raised his head. His eyes seemed to have homed in on a spot just below her chin. “Dear God, it was horrific.” The lilt of Ireland had transformed into a full-blown brogue.

Barbara gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure, Father. But the more detail you can remember, the better able we will be to proceed with our investigation.”

“What’s there to investigate, Detective? A madman came into my church with a weapon and slaughtered seven of my parishioners.” He muttered something unintelligible and then added, “Another ten are in the hospital.” A keening noise that sounded as though it came from his soul startled Barbara.

“Are you okay, Father?” she asked.

He waved away her concern. “Think of the children. They’ll never forget what they saw.”

Barbara took a moment to slow her breathing, to control her growing feeling of frustration with the priest, who didn’t seem to want to focus on her question. “Just tell me what you remember, Father. Can you do that?”

Doherty expelled an exasperated sigh, closed his eyes for a moment, then looked her straight in the eyes. “I was close to completing the service when I saw a man stand in a row near the back of the sanctuary. He shouted in what sounded like a foreign language — maybe Arabic — raised a machete, swung at the people in the row in front of him, then stepped into the center aisle. He marched up the aisle and...”

After a long beat, Barbara said, “Please go on, Father.”

“It was demonic, Detective. He moved so slowly, so methodically. Chopping to his left, then moving to the pews on his right. Then left again. Back and forth.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do.”

Barbara saw a glint of shame in the man’s glistening eyes. He quickly wiped away a tear with his hand. She waited.

“I saw the man advancing.” After another pause, Doherty added, “There was... joy, yes, that’s what it was. Joy showing on his face. He smiled as though he was ecstatic as he came toward me. I remember dropping the aspergillum and—”

“Aspergillum?” Barbara asked.

“The instrument to sprinkle Holy Water. It has a long wood handle with a silver ball at the end.”

“Thank you. Please continue.”

“It took only seconds for the man to reach the front of the sanctuary. People were screaming and scattering in all directions.” He visibly shuddered. “There was blood everywhere. I saw Peter Brennan step into the aisle as the killer moved toward his daughter.”

“The young woman in the white gown? Lois Brennan?”

“Yes.” Doherty’s voice broke as he said, “She took her vows last evening. That’s why we were all there. Lois Brennan had just become a nun.”

Barbara hesitated a few seconds to allow Doherty to collect himself. Then she said, “Do you remember what happened then?”

“The man swung the machete at Mr. Brennan. It was awful. I can remember the sound the weapon made when it hit his chest. I never heard anything like it before. Mr. Brennan cried out and dropped to the floor.” Tears now fell from the priest’s eyes, over his sallow cheeks, and onto his hands still resting in his lap. He ignored them.

Doherty took a shuddering breath. “Lois Brennan was kneeling in front of the altar. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved in prayer. It shocked me. Here was this mayhem going on behind her and she never moved.” After a second, he said, “She was one of the most devout women I have ever known. She would have become a wonderful nun.” Another pause. “She’s with our Lord Jesus now.” The priest’s eyes widened when he added, “The killer stood behind Lois, shouted something, and struck her again and again and again.”

Doherty’s eyes seemed to go out of focus for a couple seconds.

“It was as though he had come to the church primarily to attack her .” Then he repeated the keening noise, which went on for several seconds. His face seemed to have sagged even more as he reached behind him and took a water bottle off a credenza. He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. After he put down the bottle on his desk, he took a handkerchief from a pants pocket and wiped perspiration from his forehead. After a long beat, he said, “Where was I?”

Barbara could now smell the odor of sour perspiration coming from the priest. His sparse, white hair was plastered to his scalp. “You said you thought the killer might have targeted Lois Brennan. Why do you think that?”

“He moved quickly through the sanctuary, swinging wildly, haphazardly at people, striking each of his targets with one blow. But he spent time over Lois. One strike didn’t satisfy him. As I said before, he struck her repeatedly. She was covered in blood. Oh, my Lord. Her white gown was...” He let the thought hang in the air, incomplete. When he gathered himself, he added, “It was as though Lois symbolized everything he hated.” His tears began again.

“Do you need a moment, Father?” Barbara asked.

Doherty shook his head and blew out a loud breath.

“What happened after that?”

“There were children in the first pew. The killer turned right toward them. That’s when Lois’s brother, Lucas, ran into the aisle, picked up the aspergillum, and went after the killer. He swung at him and hit the back of the man’s head. But the man spun around and stepped toward Lucas, his arm raised high in the air. I thought that he was about to kill Lucas. I’ll never forget it. But Lucas hit him again. I heard something crack when the aspergillum hit the man’s face and he fell to the floor. Then Lucas hit him over, and over, and over again. He seemed possessed. He didn’t stop until I went over to him and grabbed his arm.”

“You know the Brennan family well?”

“Oh, yes. Quite well. They’ve been members of my parish for decades.” He tried to say something else, but nothing came out.