Eleventh Hour

another phone call, another e-mail, another stupid joke about a priest, a rabbi, and a preacher . . .
    How did people bear this pain?
    Nick was standing just behind him. She picked up his hand, smoothed out the fist he’d made. Her skin was rough but warm. She said, “They’re honoring Father Michael Joseph, doing the best they can, but it’s so very hard, isn’t it?”
    He couldn’t speak. He just nodded. He felt her fingers stroke his hand, gently massage his fingers, easing the muscles.
    She said, “I want to see him one last time.”
    He didn’t answer her, and didn’t look at her, until she returned to stand beside him.
    “He’s beautiful, Dane, and he’s at peace. It’s just his body here, not his spirit. I firmly believe that there is a Heaven, and since Father Michael Joseph was such a fine man, he’s there, probably looking down at us, so happy to see that you’re here and that you’re safe. And he knows how much you love him, there’s no doubt at all in my mind about that. I know he must feel sorry for your pain. I’m sorry, Dane, so very sorry.”
    He couldn’t find words. He squeezed her hand. “Just three weeks ago—Christmas was just three weeks ago, can you believe that? Michael and I went down to San Jose to be with Eloise, her husband, and our nephews. Michael gave me an autographed Jerry Rice football. It’s on my fireplace mantel. Only odd thing about it was that Jerry’s an Oakland Raider now. Michael thought that was a hoot. Jerry in silver and black. I never saw him after I flew out on the twenty-seventh.”
    “What did you give Father Michael Joseph for Christmas? I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call him just Michael.”
    Dane said, “It’s all right. I gave him a Frisbee. I told him I wanted to see his robes flapping around when he ran after the thing. And I gave him a book on the Dead Sea Scrolls, a topic that always fascinated Michael.” He fell silent, wondering what would happen to Michael’s things. He had to remember to ask Father Binney. He wanted to look at that book that Michael had touched, read, and see his inscription to his brother in the front. He’d written something smart-ass, but he didn’t remember exactly what.
    Michael should have lived until he was at least eighty, maybe as an archbishop, like Lugano, that venerable old man with his mane of white hair. But he was dead because some madman had decided to kill him. For whatever reason.
    Dane stood, back against the rectory wall, watching with Nick beside him, silent now, still holding his hand. It seemed that every priest in San Francisco had come, and each of them walked in his measured way over to Dane, each with something kind to say, each telling him what a shock it was to see how much he looked like Michael.
    The whole time, Dane was wondering how they were going to catch the man who killed his brother and the other people. There wasn’t a single good lead, truth be told, even though Chief Kreider had told the media that all avenues were being explored, and some looked very hopeful. All of that was advanced cop talk for we ain’t got diddly, Delion had said under his breath.
    Delion came up to him, nodded to Nick, and stood silently beside him. All three of them stood there in black, just like all the priests.
    Dane said to Delion, “I’ve been thinking. Three murders in San Francisco—and no tie-in among the victims that anyone can find.”
    “True, unfortunately. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a connection. We just have to find it.”
    Dane looked toward his brother’s coffin, surrounded by branches of lit candles. “It seems like it was all well rehearsed, no mistakes, and that got me to wondering. Do you think this man has killed before?”
    Delion frowned as he said, “You mean has he done this same sort of thing in another city?”
    “Yes.”
    “He’s some sort of serial killer? He comes to a city and randomly selects victims, then leaves to go someplace else?”
    “No, not really that,” Dane said. “He targeted my brother, no question about that, maybe even before he killed the old woman and the gay activist. Chances are they were random. What do you think, Nick?”
    She blinked, and he saw her surprise that he wanted her opinion. She said, “If that’s true, then Father Michael Joseph must have been the focus, don’t you think? Maybe the whole point of all this was so the guy could tell Father Michael Joseph what he’d done, and dare