and drove on the right shoulder. Drivers hit their car horns. One man in a pickup truck gave O’Brien the finger as he sped past the truck.
O’Brien pulled completely off the shoulder, driving through a pine thicket, the limbs slapping at his window, birds scattering. He looked at the navigation map, cutting the wheel to the right and following under the clearing of a high-tension power line for less than a half-mile, and then he drove down a slight embankment that connected to a paved road, SR 46. He tried the priest’s cell again. No answer.
SEVENTEEN
Father Callahan’s cell rang as he turned toward the stranger. “Regardless of your point of entry, I’m delighted that a fellow priest is visiting. Not the best of nights for a social, but please enter our Lord’s house. You must be soaked. I can put on some tea, shot of brandy perhaps. I have a change of clothes that ought to match yours well. What brings you to St. Francis?”
Still, the man said nothing, the sound of the rain pelting the parking lot.
“Would you’d be good enough to close the door? At least you can step from the shadows and show yourself. All we have is good old fashion candle power, but for hundreds of years it was all the church needed.”
The man said, “No need for tea or brandy. No need to shut the door, for that matter. I won’t be saying long.” He stepped out of the recess, the long shadows from candlelight dancing off his face. Father Callahan could not see the man’s features.
But he did recognize the voice.
Stall him, Sean’s almost here…
He thought about the souvenir Colt. 45 pistol his father had given him thirty years ago. He kept it in his office, in a framed box with Old West memorabilia. The bullets were in his desk drawer. Father Callahan said, “I detect a very slight accent. Are you from Greece?”
“That’s impressive, Father. Very few people can pick that up. I was born there. One of the islands.”
“I’ve studied linguistics and art history. Which island?”
“Patmos.”
“Indeed, the sacred island. The place where Saint John wrote Revelation.”
The man said nothing.
“Odd,” Father Callahan said, “that you’re Episcopalian rather than Greek Orthodox.”
“I’m neither. Where’s the letter?”
“Letter? What letter?”
“The one Spelling wrote.”
“Perhaps you’re mistaken.”
“Where’s the letter? Answer me!”
“So you’re the one who took the life of the young woman, Alexandria Cole.”
“And I’ll claim yours. Give me the letter!” The man pulled a pistol.
“Please, like a confession, it’s in God’s ear…and his forgiving heart.”
Father Callahan’s cell rang, the sound ricocheting noises in the farthest reaches of the old sanctuary. Father Callahan turned to run to his phone. The intruder fired two shots into the priest’s back. Father Callahan fell down, the bullets hitting him like sledgehammers.
Father Callahan lay on the marble floor a second. He slowly crawled in the direction of the altar. He knew he was going into shock. The darkness was descending-the ringing of the cell phone reverberating in his ears. He could crawl no further, stopping at the first marble step, the right side of his face now against the chill of the stone.
Father Callahan felt his wallet being removed from his back pocket, coat pockets searched. Lying on his stomach, he sensed the man step over him, approaching the altar. There was the sound of bowls crashing from the communion table to the floor. He could hear the coins and dollars stolen from a collection plate.
Father Callahan fought the rising darkness.
He’s making it look like a robbery.
Sweat stung his eyes. He could feel his blood pumping onto the floor. He knew one bullet has exited through the right side of his chest, his body fluids seeping across the white marble. In thirty seconds, the blood pooled close to his face.
The shooter opened the door to Father Callahan’s study and began searching through his desk. He pulled out drawers and rifled through papers.
Father Callahan felt his heart racing. Stay awake. Sean will be here soon. Hold on. Just breathe. Easy. In and out…breathe.
He could taste the blood in his mouth, the gases fueled by fear and adrenaline boiling in his gut. Father Callahan dipped the end of one finger into this blood. He began to write on the marble. His hand shook and he concentrated hard to control his trembling finger. Sweat dripped from his face. He could not get enough air into his lungs. His finger moved across the marble, scrawling symbols in his own blood.
The man in the priest’s study saw car lights rake across the window. He ran from the study, bolting by Father Callahan, the sound of his shoes hitting the marble floor hard as he sprinted to the back door. The man stepped into the dark, leaving the door open.
As Father Callahan wrote, he whispered, “Our Father, who art in Heaven…hallowed be thy name…thy kingdom come…thy will be done in earth as…as it is in heaven…”
Thunder boomed with the ferocity of a mortar round exploding outside the church. The rain sounded like a hail pelting the roof.
“…give us this day our daily bread…”
Stay awake! Must write!
His strength was fading, mind racing, the energy-the life-seeping out of his pores. He could move only his eyes. He looked at the stained-glass windows, backlit from lightning. He scrawled symbols in his own blood.
“…and forgive us our trespasses…as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
Father Callahan felt the chill of the night air, the dark and dampness blowing through the open back door, brushing like ghost fingers against his damp face. The draft caused candles to flicker, light and shadow dancing across the sanctuary.
An explosion of thunder shook the foundation of the church. Father Callahan looked up at the stained glass window as streaks of lightning ignited dark sky. Through the radiance, he could see the face of Christ in the glass.
“…but deliver us from evil…amen…”
The pulse of lightning ended, but the face on the stained glass lingered in Father Callahan’s mind for a few seconds then faded like a dream. His index finger quivered a beat and became still.
A single drop of blood fell from the tip of Father Callahan’s finger and splashed onto the marble.
EIGHTEEN
O’Brien drove through the St. Francis Church parking lot and thought about the last time he attended mass. It was a couple of months after the death of Sherri. More than a year and a half ago.
He had moved back to Central Florida, trying to reconnect with those things he knew growing up. Father Callahan was one of those things-one of those people. He was a special man-a man who loves unconditionally and lives large, splicing his covenant to God into his relationship with people. When O’Brien was trying to come to grips with his wife’s death, Father Callahan had been there for him.
“It’s all about loving and being loved,” O’Brien remembered Father Callahan telling him. “It’s in your heart, Sean. That’s what made you a good detective. Justice begins in a virtuous heart. It’s one thing that won’t leave you. Talent will. Even memory will drift, however, character of heart remains true to you, because it is you.”
But somewhere along the line, somewhere between the war in the Gulf, the body counts on the streets, and
