Last Breath (25 page)

“This time you could save a life.”

Hallwood smiled. “I already agreed, Detective. You don't need to butter me up any more. And I recall the recent case. We all do. Crucifixion doesn't happen every day. But odd, very odd. We're all still wondering.”

“About what?” Matt asked, realizing that he was being prodded for information, and willing to share a little to get what he needed.

“Well … why shoot the man, then crucify him? There's something very … personal about that choice, don't you think?”

Matt hesitated, but before he could speak, Hallwood forestalled him.

“I’m an amateur profiler,” he explained apologetically. “Don't mind me. But the two things only add up one way.”

“And that is?”

“Everyone around here is suspecting some kind of ritual, some kind of serial killer who's just expanding his repertoire. But it doesn't strike me that way.”

“No?” Matt leaned forward.

“No, I see at least two different sets of perps here. I don't think the shooter crucified the young man. The killing was execution style. The crucifix … that was something more. Something that doesn't fit.”

“Apart from the fact that a single man couldn't have put the victim on that cross.”

“That, too.” Brett nodded slowly. “It's a very tangled case. But that crucifixion …” He drew the word out and looked at Matt over his glasses. “That was something
personal.
Take my word for it. Something
very
personal. And I’m not sure that it was intended to be a profanity.”

“Because?”

“Because, from what I read of the M.E.’s report, not a bone in that boy's body was broken. That required great care. Loving care. But” — he slapped his palms on the desk — “you wanted me to compare the ballistics. Wait here a moment while I go get the file.”

Chloe looked at Matt. “Are the hairs on the back of your neck prickling?”

He nodded reluctantly. “I never thought of that as a loving act.”

“Me neither.” She looked away a moment. “I belong to a faith that believes in miracles.”

Now his neck was
really
prickling. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I believe in miracles. I believe the miraculous is all around me, in every leaf and blade of grass. But by the same token, I don't believe major miracles happen in my church, in my life.”

He wanted to scold her for going off the deep end, but something held him back.

She looked at him again. “We're never going to find out who put him on that cross.”

“Maybe not.”

“And that may be the most significant thing about this entire case.”

“Don't go nutso on me.”

“I’m not. But do
you
really think that a bunch of guys who had nothing to do with the murder went into the church and did that?”

“I’m choking on the ‘bunch of guys.’ ”

“Exactly.”

“But it's possible.”

“That's just the point, Matt.
Anything
is possible.”

“Hallwood is right. This case is tangled.We've got an execution-style slaying with a twenty-two. A body that was then moved to an alley, then moved again back to a church to be crucified.”

“That's the point, Matt. Why take the body away, then bring it back? I can understand removing it, but bringing it back? Unless someone was sending a warning …”

“We knew it was a message from the start.”

“I’m not talking message here. I’m talking warning. I’m talking trying to
save
Father Brendan's life.”

“The phone calls were a warning.”

“Would any of us really have worried about those phone calls if Steve King's body hadn't been found? Or if it had been found in an alley in a bad part of town? Would we have made any connection? I doubt it. But putting the body on the cross signaled the threat was against the Church. Even before the calls came, we suspected we needed to protect Father Brendan.”

He nodded, tight-lipped. “Just don't tell me God put that boy on the cross.”

“I’m not saying that. I have no way of knowing that.”

“Good. As long as you're not losing touch with reality.”

She shook her head, smiling almost sadly. “The thing is, Matt, the miraculous
is
reality. The greatest reality of all.”

Hallwood returned then, bearing a file. He opened it on his desk and pulled out a couple of photos of a scored bullet casing. Beside it, he placed the fax photos.

“Okay,” he said. “I couldn't say it in court, because I need a clearer photo, but off the cuff I’ll tell you … it's the same gun. Get me a better photo from the Virginia ballistics, and I can swear to it.”

Matt rose. “The photo will be here tomorrow, Mr. Hallwood. I’ll see that you get it. And thanks so much for your time.”

“Just one thing,” Hallwood said.

“Yes?”

“If you find out who crucified that man and why, I want to know.”

“That's a promise.”

Chapter 20

“And just what do you think
you're
doing?” Lucy's voice reached Brendan from the office and cut across the hallway, where he was trying to slip past unnoticed.

“When did you become Irish?” he asked her, pausing in the doorway with a sheepish grin. He was sure he hadn't felt like this since he was seventeen and his mother had caught him trying to slip out with Sean Kilkenny to go to a midnight showing of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

“Irish? What does that have to do with anything?” Lucy was proudly Hispanic.

“Then maybe it's a mother thing. But I swear you sounded just like my mother just now. ‘Brendan Quinlan, where in the devil do you think you're going?’ ”

Lucy didn't smile. “You haven't answered my question.”

“Her other favorite line was, ‘Brendan Quinlan, just who the
hell
do you think you are?’ I used to chide her for swearing, but she always said ‘hell’ wasn't a swear word. What do you think?”

“Do you think you're pulling that Irish wool over my eyes?”

In spite of himself, he had to laugh. “I’m going to the hospital. Merv's wife called. He's had a mild heart attack.”

Lucy's faced saddened. Everyone loved Merv Haskell, the facilities manager. But she didn't bend an inch. “I’m sure Merv doesn't want you risking your life to give him an anointing that Father Dom could give him just as well.”

“Dominic is saying Mass and taking the Interfaith Council meeting this morning. That leaves me.”

“I’ll call another parish and see —”

“Lucy, I’m going.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You could get killed!”

“Then so be it. But our Lord didn't stop His ministry because it was dangerous, and it's His example I promised to follow.”

That appeared to stump her. Her dark eyes flickered with annoyance, and finally she muttered something under her breath that he imagined probably translated to “stupid, idiotic, pigheaded Irishman.”

He had to admit he felt a bit guilty, though. He didn't want Lucy worrying. “I’ll be safe in my car and at the hospital, Lucy. Nothing will happen. The killer, if he's really after me, prefers the cover of darkness and the isolation of a sleeping world.”

She shook her head, then pulled open a desk drawer. Out of it she drew a rosary, the glass beads clattering against one another. “I’m going to say a rosary for you,” she said.

“That's always welcome.”

“I’m going to pray that Our Lady knocks some sense into your head.”

“Now you're sounding like my mother again. She must have prayed ten thousand rosaries for me when I was a child.”

“I’m sure she did, because I can see what a mule you are. So go. But be careful.”

“Always.”

He stepped into the office, gave her shoulder a squeeze, then walked out of the front door of the rectory. It was like emerging from prison. He hadn't been on the street alone in so long ….

Nor was he right now. One of the off-duty policemen the parish had hired rounded the corner of the church, saw him, and said, “Now what the hell do you think you're doing, Father?” There was no mistaking the brogue.

An Irish cop and an Irish priest. Brendan almost sighed. Where many others in the parish wouldn't dream of telling him what to do, an Irishman wouldn't hesitate. And a police officer even less.

“I’m going to the hospital.” He held up his leather visitation case. “An anointing.”

“Well, then, I’ll just be riding shotgun. Father.”

“It's not necessary. I’m sure I’ll be safe at the hospital.”

“Maybe so, Father, maybe so. My car or yours?”

Which was how he came to be riding to the hospital in a police cruiser. A police cruiser with a riot gun bolted upright against the dash. Ugly thing.

Behind him, unbeknownst to him, a desperate man watched him drive away, and grew more desperate and angry.

“Jesus.” Matt said the word, but it somehow didn't sound profane the way he said it.

Chloe glanced at him. “What?”

“I don't like where this case is heading. I don't like the feeling that it's going to leave cosmically unanswered questions.”

“Sometimes life is that way.”

“I know, but I don't have to like it.”

“I particularly dislike the idea that someone who works with the government may be involved. Or that Tom Humboldt was terrified of some conspiracy he'd tumbled into that involved encoded messages in photos. I don't like it that Father Brendan knows about it because that could mean he's a target because of his knowledge. Which could make you a target.”

“Or you.”

“I’m not worried about myself.”

“Well, I am.”

He glanced her way and felt something so warm, so electric, pass between them that for a moment he was rendered breathless. Then, quickly, he snapped his eyes back to the road and told himself he'd imagined it.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“The station. I want to find out if Jim's learned anything.”

“He's not working at the church?”

“He took a copy of the e-mail with him. Said he had more tools on his own system.”

What they found, waiting on Matt's desk, was a note from Jim, typed and printed out.

“I found it. I was up all night, but I got it. There
is
an embedded message in the photo. At first I thought it was encoded, but after banging my head on the damn thing until five this morning, I realized it's not coded at all. It's a date, time, and a number: 4 23 2030 N14713. I read this as 8:30
P.M
. on 4/23, tomorrow. I have no clue what N14713 is. I thought it might be coordinates, but it doesn't make sense. I'll keep working on it, after I get a nap.”

“Eight-thirty tomorrow,” Matt said heavily. “Well, now we know when it's going to happen. Whatever it is.”

Chloe was still staring at the typed sheet. “That number looks familiar somehow.”

“The one Jim couldn't figure out?”

“Yes. I keep feeling like I ought to know what it is.”

“Well, if you get a glimmer, let me know.”

He went through the rest of his messages and made a couple of calls. “No luck on finding a Wayne Humboldt registered in a local hotel,” he told her. “They're branching out wider and looking for any Humboldts at all.”

“He's probably using a fake name.”

“At this point, I’d believe almost anything. Including the fact that the nonexistent Lance Brucon gave Humboldt a false identity and a credit card in another name.”

“Can we get Humboldt's credit records?”

“I’ll need a warrant.”

“And time's already tight. But you've got enough to get a warrant.”

“Yeah, probably. Might as well, I suppose. Every damn trail seems to lead nowhere.”

Just then Chloe's cell phone rang. She answered it, and Matt watched her face change, going completely blank. Which, he was learning, meant Chloe was feeling too much. That ice wasn't her, it was a façade.

She ended the conversation and collapsed her antenna. “Well, guess what? As if things weren't good enough, the horse bolted the barn.”

“What?”

“Father Brendan's out. On his way to the hospital. Lucy's worried to death.” She rose. “Call me a cab, will you? I know you have work to do. And I’m going to lasso a priest and give him a piece of my mind.”

Chloe found Brendan at Tampa General Hospital, on Davis Island, to the south of the downtown area. He was with Merv and Margaret Haskell, sitting with them and praying a rosary. His visitation kit sat open on the tray table, with the cross upright. She guessed they hadn't gotten to the Anointing for the Sick yet.

So quietly, and a bit irritably, she stayed outside the room. Across the way was a cop, leaning against the wall with folded arms. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Chloe Ryder. Why?”

“What's your business in there?”

She turned to face him fully. “Why is it
your
business?”

“Because I brought the priest down here. You could say I’m his bodyguard.”

A wave of relief went through Chloe. “Thank God. I thought he'd come down here all alone.”

“No. I caught him, you might say. So who are you?”

“A parishioner. I came down here to give him a piece of my mind about bolting the barn.”

The cop smiled. “Yeah, I said a thing or two. I’m Sean Duggan, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Sean.” They shook hands. “You're not from St. Simeon's, are you?”

“No, I’m from Sacred Heart. If you're going to wait, it'll be a while. We just got here.”

“I
am
going to wait. I can't believe he did this.”

Duggan laughed. “Well, I got a wee bit of a lecture on how Christ wouldn't shirk His duties, whatever the risk. Leaves your jaws kinda flappin’ in the breeze.”

“He's good at that.”

“Typical bullheaded Irishman.” Duggan shrugged. “Well, so am I.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Another half hour passed before Brendan emerged from the hospital room. The first thing Chloe noticed was that he looked more at peace than he had in a while.

He caught sight of her and smiled. “Save it,” he said.

“No way. And Officer Duggan is going to keep you right here so I can talk to you after I say hi to Merv and Margaret.”

“Chloe, I don't need the lecture.”

“I’m not going to lecture you. I have some information you need to know.”