“Did he tell you anything?”
“You mean who tried to kill him?”
“That’s a good start.”
“No. He did ask for forgiveness. I listened to a private confession.”
“Might any of that confession lead us to the shooter?”
“I’m not a police investigator, but I highly doubt it. His concern was more of seeking God for strength, love, and ultimate forgiveness for his sins.”
“Did he suggest who might have shot him?”
“No.”
“Father, if you are approached by the media, there are still some TV trucks in the lot, please don’t say anything that will indicate Spelling is still alive.”
“Why?”
“We don’t want the shooter to know he failed.”
“I can’t lie.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“What are you suggesting, Detective?”
“Spelling’s testimony is crucial in a major trial. If his shooter believes Spelling did die, then he won’t try again. Spelling can heal in a safe area and be brought in to testify in a couple of weeks. Working with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and the FBI, we’ve indicated his recovery was not successful.”
Father Callahan was quiet for a moment. “I see.”
“Thank you, Father.”
As the detective and the officer turned to go back down the hall, Father Callahan said, “I was approached by one reporter in the ER earlier.”
“Oh, what’d he ask?”
“I think he saw Sam Spelling making a confession to me, and he wanted to know what he said. Of course, I told him that was confidential. The reporter is with the Sentinel. Said his name is Brian Cook.”
Detective Grant looked up at a security camera a second. He said, “The guy must be new. I know their crime reporters. Don’t recognize the name. Do you have a card?”
“I do. Here you go. My lips are sealed, Detective. Good night.” Father Callahan started to walk down the corridor. Then Grant asked, “Father, there was a Department of Corrections officer posted at Spelling’s door. He’s not there. Have you seen him?”
“Maybe he took a break. Sam Spelling will be in recovery for some time.”
“No doubt. It’s just that Deputy Gleason is here to relieve the guard.”
“If I see him, I’ll pass that along.”
As Callahan walked down the hall, Deputy Gleason noticed that the priest had a slight limp. The left foot. Almost undetectable, but it was there.
THIRTEEN
Charlie Williams paced in his tiny world like a trapped animal. He walked from the steel bars to the thick wall of reinforced concrete, back and forth. A cage, eight by nine feet, had been his home for more than ten years. Soon they would be moving him to another cell, this one closer to the death chamber. At thirty-three, he felt life fifty- three. Face and body now a scarecrow. His hair had turned gray. The dark circles under his eyes never faded. His stomach burned as if a pipe constantly leaked acid. He could feel his rib cage under his skin. Weight dropping because food seemed almost obscene as the state readied him to die.
He stopped pacing and looked at the picture of Alexandria Cole. It sat next to a photograph of Charlie and his mother. In the picture, he was a boy holding his mother’s hand on the banks of the New River in North Carolina. It was where the family went weekends in the summer. It was where Charlie Williams learned to swim-where he was baptized. Now he felt like a man drowning.
He stepped to the small steel shelf, picked up the picture of Alexandria and said, “You know I didn’t do it. You’re probably the only one who knows that-just you and the bastard who really did it. But you can’t tell a soul. I miss you, Lexie. Looks like I’ll be joining you soon, baby. Maybe I can get it right with you in the next world.”
A single tear rolled down his check and splashed across the forever smiling face of Alexandria Cole.
Father Callahan walked out of the front entrance to Baptist Hospital, said good night to a security guard, and looked around for any reporters. Two TV news satellite trucks sat in parking lot, their diesels humming, engineers adjusting antennas while reporters scribble notes and spoke loudly into cell phones.
Father Callahan carried his Bible, umbrella in one hand, and walked from the hospital down the city streets toward his church. Dark clouds rolled over the moon as if a candle had been snuffed out. Lightning flickered in the distance. He opened his cell phone to dial Sean O’Brien’s number. Before he could punch the keys, the phone rang. “Hello,” Father Callahan said.
“Father, this is Detective Grant. I wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. What did you say was the name of the Sentinel reporter?”
“Brian Cook.”
“I just called the Sentinel. The only Brian Cook they have is the food writer.”
“That’s strange. I’m sure that’s the name he gave me. He looked legitimate. Carried a copy of the newspaper folded under one arm. Had one of those reporter’s notebooks and a pen.”
“He probably got the name of the food guy right out of the paper. He’s an imposter.”
“I don’t follow you, Detective.”
“I think the guy you spoke with is the man who tried to kill Sam Spelling.”
FOURTEEN
Father Callahan disconnected with the detective, stopped under a streetlamp to see the numbers on his phone, as the battery grew weaker. He punched in Sean O’Brien’s number. “Sean, are you near? My phone battery’s about to die.”
“Be there soon, Father. Bad storm’s moving your way. It blew down a tree across State Road 44. I’m in my Jeep. I’ll go around the cars and cops. I’ll just be a few minutes late.”
“I just spoke with a detective. He said the reporter who approached me in the ER lobby was an imposter.”
“What?”
“The detective said he believes the man was the same person who shot Sam Spelling. Spelling’s letter says-”
“Father, can you hear me? You’re voice is fading. If you can hear me, I’ll be there very soon.
Deputy Tim Gleason was hoping to get a final refill of his coffee when he saw a priest approaching, walking down the long hospital corridor. There was something different about the way Father Callahan walked. The slight give to the left foot was gone. Now he moved with an aggressive step. He had a more determined gait than when he’d spoken with Gleason and Detective Grant earlier.
Deputy Gleason could see the man approaching wasn’t Father Callahan. This man wore a fedora hat. Could be because of the pouring rain, thought Gleason. The priest had wider shoulders, neatly trimmed dark beard and black frame glasses.
Maybe priests have a shift rotation, too. Maybe he was from a different church.
The priest stopped a few feet away from the room door.
Deputy Gleason stood and said, “He’s still out of it, Father.”
