only intend to do them again?”
“No, y-you don’t understand. I only bring them peace,” the voice sputtered. He obviously hadn’t come prepared for a confrontation, Father Francis realized with some degree of satisfaction. He had come only for absolution and to do his penance.
“I cannot absolve you of your sins if you intend to only go out and do it again.” Father Francis’ strong, unflinching voice surprised him.
“You must…you have to.”
“I absolved you once before, and you’ve made a mockery of the sacrament by committing the sin again, not once but twice.”
“I am truly sorry for my sins and ask forgiveness from God,” he tried again, mechanically saying the phrase like a child memorizing it for the first time.
“You must prove your remorse,” Father Francis said, suddenly feeling powerful. Perhaps he could influence this black shadow, make him face his demons, stop him once and for all. “You must show your repentance.”
“Yes. Yes, I will. Just tell me what my penance is.”
“Go prove your repentance and come back in a month.”
There was a pause.
“You aren’t absolving me?”
“If you can prove your worthiness by not killing, I will consider absolving you then.”
“You will not give me absolution?”
“Come back in a month.”
There was silence, but the shadow made no motion to leave. Father Francis leaned closer to the wire mesh, again straining to see into the pitch-black cube. There was a soft smack, then a hiss as a spray of saliva flew through the wire mesh, hitting him in the face.
“I’ll see you in hell, Father.” The low guttural tone sent shivers down Father Francis’ spine. He clung to the small shelf, gripping the Bible. And though the sticky saliva dripped down his chin, he couldn’t move even to wipe at it. When he heard the door open and the shadow exit, his paralyzed body made no attempt to follow or look out after him.
He sat for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, no one else came in. Perhaps the snow had kept other sinners home, he thought absently. Which meant no one had seen the shadowy figure enter or exit the confessional.
Finally, his heart resumed its normal beating. He could breathe again. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face with hands trembling more violently than usual. He held on to the walls of the small confessional as he eased himself out of the hard chair and onto wobbly knees. He gathered his leather portfolio and Bible and peered out. The church was empty and silent. Outside, he heard the laughter of children, probably crossing the parking lot to go sledding on Cutty’s Hill. At least they traveled in groups.
He shuffled to the front of the church, hanging on to the backs of pews as he made his way down the aisle. The panic and terror had exhausted him, drained him of energy. He would share this morning’s visit with Maggie O’Dell. The decision to do so made him feel stronger. Already the guilt lifted from his soul. Yes, it was the right thing to do. He started down the hallway from the church to the rectory, and even his feet seemed lighter. The ache in his chest eased to a mere annoyance.
On the way to his office he noticed that someone had left the door to the wine cellar open. He stopped in the doorway and peered down the dark steps. He could smell the musty dampness. A draft made him shiver. Was there a shadow? Down in the far corner, was someone huddled in the darkness?
He stepped onto the first step, clinging with a shaky hand to the railing. Was it his imagination, or was someone huddled between the stacked wine crates and the concrete wall?
He leaned forward on weak knees. He never saw the figure behind him. He only felt the violent shove that sent him sailing down the steps headfirst. His frail body crashed against the wall, and he tumbled the rest of the way. He was still conscious when he heard the steps creak, one by one by one. The sound of the slow descent sent terror through his aching body. He opened his mouth to scream but only a moan erupted. He couldn’t move, couldn’t run. His right leg was on fire and twisted beneath him at an abnormal angle.
The last step creaked just above him. He lifted his head in time to see a blaze of white canvas smash into his face. Then darkness.
Chapter 45
Christine treated herself to Wanda’s homemade chicken noodle soup and buttercrust rolls. Corby had given her the morning off, but she had brought her notepad and jotted down ideas for tomorrow’s article. It was early, and the lunch crowd filtered in slowly, so she had a booth to herself in the far corner of the small diner. She sat next to the window and watched the few pedestrians shuffling through the snow.
Timmy had called and asked whether he and his friends could have lunch at the rectory with Father Keller. The priest had joined them sledding on Cutty’s Hill and, to make up for the inevitably canceled camping trip, he had invited the boys for roasted hot dogs and marshmallows by the huge fireplace in the church’s rectory.
“Great series of articles, Christine,” Angie Clark said as she refilled Christine’s cup with more steaming coffee.
Caught off guard, Christine swallowed the bite of warm bread. “Thanks.” She smiled and wiped a napkin across her mouth. “Your mom’s rolls are still the best around.”
“I keep telling her we should package and sell some of her baked goods, but she thinks if people can take home a batch, they won’t stay here for lunch or dinner.”
Christine knew that Angie was the financial mind behind her mother’s business. Not able to build on to the small diner, it was Angie’s advice to start a delivery service. After only six short months, they had added an extra cook and were keeping two vans and drivers busy, without jeopardizing their normal crowded breakfast, lunch and dinner rushes.
Sometimes Christine wondered why Angie had stayed in Platte City. She obviously had a mind for business and a body that drew plenty of attention. But after only two years at the university and a rumored affair with a married state senator, she had returned home to her widowed mother.
“How’s Nick?” Angie asked while pretending to rearrange the silverware on a nearby table.
“Right now he’s probably pissed at me again. He hasn’t appreciated my articles.” She knew that wasn’t what Angie had wanted to hear, but Christine had learned long ago to keep out of her brother’s love life.
“Next time you see him, tell him I said hi.”
Poor Angie. Nick probably hadn’t called her since any of this mess started. And though he denied it, Christine knew his mind was filled with the lovely and unavailable Maggie O’Dell. Perhaps his heart would finally get broken, and he’d get a taste of his own medicine.
She watched Angie greet two burly construction workers who came in and began peeling off their layers of jackets, hats and overalls. Why did women knock themselves out over Nick? It was something Christine had never understood as she had watched him go from one woman to another without any explanation or hesitation. He was a handsome, charming jerk, and even after days-maybe even weeks-of not calling, she knew Angie Clark would still welcome him back with open arms.
She sipped the steaming coffee and jotted down “coroner’s report.” George Tillie was an old family friend. He and her dad had been hunting buddies for years. Maybe George could supply her with some new information. As far as she could tell, the investigation was at a standstill.
Suddenly, the volume on the corner television blasted the room. She looked up just as Wanda Clark waved at her.
“Christine, listen to this.”
Bernard Shaw on CNN had just mentioned Platte City, Nebraska. A graphic behind him showed its location while Shaw talked about the bizarre series of murders. They flashed Christine’s Sunday headline, From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community With Boy’s Recent Murder, as Bernard described the murders and Jeffreys’ killing spree six years before.
“A source close to the investigation says the sheriff’s department still has no clues, and that the only suspect
