Eleventh Hour

Mortimer Grist, paid for it. It’s a good thirty feet above the roof.”
    “Everything seems well tended.”
    “Let’s go inside the church first,” Delion said. “You need to see where everything is.”
    He needed to see where his brother’s life was ended. Dane nodded, but as he walked down the wide central aisle, closer and closer to where Michael had been shot, in the third confessional, Delion had told him, the one that stood nearest to the far wall, each step felt like a major hurdle. His breathing was hard and fast. As difficult as it had been to see his brother lying dead on that gurney, this was harder. He suddenly felt a vivid splash of color hit his face and stopped. He looked up at a brilliant stained-glass window that spewed a spray of intense colors right where Dane was standing. He didn’t move, he just stood, looking up and then beyond the colors, to the scene of Mary and Joseph in the stable, the baby Jesus in the manger in front of them. And angels, so many of them, all singing. He could practically hear the full, brilliant chorus of voices. He drew in a deep breath. The air began to feel warmer, and the crushing pain eased just a bit. He couldn’t see the confessional. Rather than a yellow crime-scene strip, they’d rigged up a tall black curtain that cut off the confessional from prying eyes and curious hands. Delion moved the black curtain aside to reveal the confessional—all old, dark wood, tall and narrow, a bit battered, with two narrow doors, the first for the penitent and the far door for the priest. The dazzling colors from the windows were shining down on it now, making it look incandescent.
    Slowly, he opened the door and sat down on the hard bench. He looked through the torn mesh netting. His brother had been just there, speaking, listening intently. He doubted the man had used the kneeler, not with the angle of the bullet. Did Michael know the man would kill him?
    Dane rose and walked to the other side. He opened the door and eased down on the cushioned seat where his brother had sat. He didn’t know what he expected to feel sitting there where his brother had died, but the fact was, he didn’t feel any fear, nothing cold or black, just a sort of peace that he let flow deeply into him. He drew a deep breath and bowed his head. “Michael,” he said.
    Delion stood back, watching Special Agent Dane Carver walk out of the confessional. He saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, said nothing.
    “Let’s go talk to the rectory people,” Dane said, and Delion just nodded.
    They walked around to the back of the church to the rectory, which was set off by eucalyptus trees, a high fence, and more well-tended grounds. It was quieter than Dane thought it would be, the sounds of traffic distant. The rectory was a charming two-story building, with ivy trailing over the red brick walls, the tinkling of a small fountain in the background. Everything smelled fresh.
    Michael was dead and everything smelled fresh.

FOUR
    Father Binney immediately rose to greet them from behind a small reception desk. He was very short, and on top of his neck sat the head of a leprechaun. Dane had never before seen hair that red, without a single strand of white. Not even Sherlock could match this. Father Binney was also nearly sixty years old. Amazing.
    He stuck out his hand when he saw Delion, but in the next instant he looked like he was going to faint. He grabbed the edge of a chair, staring at Dane.
    “Oh, you gave me a start.” He grabbed his chest. “You’re Father Michael Joseph’s brother, that’s it. Our sweet Father in Heaven, you’re so much alike, you scared me there for a moment. Ah, do come in, gentlemen, do come in. Inspector Delion, it is good to see you again. You must be exhausted.”
    “It was a long night,” Delion said as he followed Father Binney. He said to Dane, “I visited briefly with Father Binney this morning about eight o’clock, after the forensics team finally cleared the church for use again.”
    And you didn’t say a word about it to me, Dane thought. He would have been surprised, though, if Delion hadn’t been camping on the rectory’s doorstep as quickly as possible.
    “He spoke to everyone,” Father Binney said. “You didn’t find anything in Father Michael Joseph’s room, did you, Inspector Delion?”
    “Nothing that one wouldn’t expect.”
    Father Binney was shaking his head as he led them into a small parlor. It was packed with dark-grained Chinese