Last Breath (7 page)

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want, but I’m not crazy. I know my job. I took the damn body away from the church. It should have been found in an alley!”

Silence answered him. And silence filled him.

Because they both knew what this meant.

Someone else knew what was going on.

Chapter 5

The biscotto went untouched. The coffee was barely sipped. Brendan appeared to be the mere shadow of the youthful, vibrant man he had been only yesterday morning. As a priest, Dominic felt he ought to have some comfort to offer. But all the platitudes of his priesthood seemed thin this sunny Easter morning. Promises of eternal life and resurrection couldn't take the pain from a wound caused by such an atrocious act, and he knew it. That comfort would come later.

He considered offering to take all the Masses this morning, then decided Brendan needed to be busy, needed to be immersed in all the grace and sanctity the rite could offer.

With little more than a distant nod, Brendan rose from the table and left. Minutes later, Dominic heard him leave through the side door for the church. First Mass wasn't for an hour yet. The pastor must want to pray.

Dominic sat at table for a while, but his thoughts moved far away from his concern about Brendan. For the first time it struck him that he and Brendan had been soundly asleep only yards away when that heinous act had occurred.

The evil chill he had felt earlier returned, stronger this time, running down his back like ice water, and clinging like wet, dead leaves.

St. Simeon's had padded kneelers in all the pews. Many of the newer churches skipped them, for monetary reasons or because the congregation didn't want them, but St. Simeon had been built when such things were never omitted. Since kneeling during Mass had been introduced only in the nineteenth century, Brendan didn't particularly care whether his parishioners stood or knelt during the consecration, as long as they were respectful, just as he didn't care if they showed up in shorts and T-shirts, as long as they came.

But kneeling … kneeling was sometimes the only way he felt right about approaching God. Kneeling went back to his childhood, and to his seminary days, and to the two years he'd spent at the monastery, mending his soul. Kneeling was uncomfortable after a while, especially on knees battered by years of playing basketball, but he needed that discomfort. He needed to enter into some of the suffering of his Lord.

And right now, the pain in his protesting knees felt like a small measure of atonement. Because he felt guilty. Guilty for the death of Steve King, even though he had no direct hand in it. He was second-guessing himself, wondering if he could have made any difference. He assumed the young man had to have been murdered Friday night. Certainly after everyone was gone. But then he recalled that he hadn't seen Steve at all on Friday. Might he have been murdered on Thursday night. After the adoration?

The thought made him shudder. If that was the case, then he could certainly have prevented the young man's death simply by staying after the adoration to help him close up. But to think he'd probably been lying soundly asleep in his bed when that young man's life had been taken, when the church had been desecrated …

He put his face in his hands, wrestling with an anguish too huge to bear.

It wasn't the first time in his life he'd faced a terrible personal loss, but this was one area of life where experience didn't help at all. Besides, this was so heinous, every time he thought of it, he felt punched.

He was facing an evil greater than any he had ever faced before. It was not only the loss of Steve's life that ripped at him; it was the manner of it. That any mind could be so cruel, so blasphemous, so …
evil.

He lifted his head, looking up at the altar, but there was no cross, no corpus, to remind him that others had suffered such evils. There were only satin banners, hung swiftly yesterday by the facilities manager to cover what would have otherwise been a distracting hole behind the altar. White banners embroidered in gold with doves and rays of light.

But there was nothing there for him. For the second time in his life, he had entered the dark night of the soul, when God was out of reach, hidden from him when he needed Him most.

Cut loose from the most important mooring in his life, Brendan felt as if his mind were tumbling down a bottomless dark tunnel, where questions gnawed at him like hungry mouths. How did he know it wasn't just all bullshit? How did he really know there was a God? How could he be sure Jesus had ever existed? How was all of this any different from the rites and panoply of a pagan shaman?

How could any merciful God allow such things to happen?

The questions weren't new to him. He'd faced them before. He'd even answered them countless times from the comfort of his faith … when he felt it.

But this time … this time they gnawed harder, filling him with a clawing sense of abandonment worse than any he had known. His faith had shriveled in the night hours and was now blowing away on a frigid wind that ripped through his soul, gutting him.

Leaving him utterly alone and dangling over an abyss of despair.

His spiritual director at the monastery had told him once that faith was a matter of acting as if, even when one didn't feel it. So when the time came, as the first people began to enter the church for the early Mass, he rose and went to the sacristy, vesting himself as he had countless times over the last fifteen years. The actions should have felt familiar and comfortable, but this morning they felt strange and awkward. As if he were doing something for the first time in his life.

Just as he finished, Dominic entered the sacristy from the rectory-side door, letting in a breath of fragrant, humid morning air. “I’m concelebrating,” he said.

Brendan didn't question or disagree. He didn't have the heart to do either. He waited for his assistant to finish dressing, then they walked in silence to the back of the church, where the altar servers were already waiting.

People were still entering through the narthex doors, and greeted the priests. Some faces were tired, others were bright and smiling. Ordinarily, Brendan would have loved chatting, but this morning his face felt like wood. He couldn't even make himself smile.

The sheer pointlessness of it all was weighing down every muscle in his body. His legs felt like lead as they processioned up the aisle to the altar. His arms felt weighted in cement as he raised them in the opening blessing. His heart. … his heart was gone.

The readings seemed to pass in a blur as lectors came up to the ambo and departed. Then the Alleluia. His lips moved with the words, but no sound came out of him. How he got through the Gospel reading he had no idea. But then it was time for the homily. A homily he had constructed before yesterday's horror. A homily that had been written by a different man. He didn't know if he could do it. But he also knew he had to, nor could he ignore what had happened.

He paused, looking down at the sheaf of papers before him, covered with his awkward scrawl. Then, drawing a deep breath he looked up, seeing a sea of expectant faces.

“Yesterday,” he said, his voice cracking briefly, “yesterday a terrible thing was discovered in this church. A terrible, sad thing. Many of you know that we have lost young Steve King, one of our most devoted parishioners. Many of you knew Steve, knew he was planning to dedicate his life to the priesthood. Many of you have heard what was done to him.”

A murmur passed through the congregation, and Brendan felt as if it passed through him as well. A quiet wail of sorrow. He drew another breath, forcing himself to continue, when every cell in his body was suddenly demanding that he run from this place and never return. But he knew what his duty was, even if his heart was gone, even if he didn't believe it himself.

“Today, more than ever, we must cherish our belief in the resurrection. Today, more than ever, we need our faith.” Bitterness, corrosive and hot, began to fill the void left by the absence of his faith. He fought it down. This wasn't for him, this was for these people.

“Today commemorates the day that Christ taught us there is no death. That for those of us who believe, there is eternal life. Steve has moved on, and I have no doubt his rewards are great.”
Liar.
He had every doubt at this moment in time. “Today,” he finished, “is the test of everything we believe. May God bless you all.”

Then, his prepared homily utterly ignored, he returned to his seat to the rear and far side of the altar. A moment later he rose to lead the renewal of baptismal vows, but with a nudge of his elbow, he signaled Dominic to do it. His fellow priest did so at once.

Brendan couldn't even bring himself to mouth the familiar words, or say “I do” in answer to the age-old questions. It was gone. Everything he had lived for was gone.

Dominic took the rest of the Masses that morning. He had to. Brendan refused to say them.

“I’m not worthy,” he told Dominic after the early Mass was over, after he had failed even to stand out front and greet the departing congregation.

Dominic paused as he was removing his stole, and looked at him. “Why aren't you worthy?”

“I don't believe.”

Dominic never for an instant believed that was a permanent state of affairs, but he didn't say so. Forgetting for the moment his need to vest fully for the coming Mass, he sat beside Brendan on one of the folding chairs and put his hand on his shoulder. “That doesn't matter, Brendan. You know that. The worthiness of the celebrant has no bearing on the consecration.”

Brendan shrugged. “It would still be blasphemy.”

Dominic arched one salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Really. So let's see. You've lost your faith but still believe in blasphemy?”

Brendan merely looked at him from hollow eyes.

“Okay, Brendan,” Dominic said after a moment. “Okay. I’ll take the Masses. But you have to promise me one thing.”

Again, just a look, no verbal response.

“Promise me you'll stay right here until I’m done.”

One corner of Brendan's mouth hooked up mirthlessly. “I won't do anything stupid.”

“No, I know you won't. But you'll make me feel a hell of a lot better if you just hang around.”

Brendan shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Okay.” Dominic squeezed his shoulder, then finished garbing for Mass. A few minutes later, he left the sanctuary, leaving Brendan alone with his demons.

But Brendan was facing a particular demon, one he didn't like at all. Almost as soon as the word “whatever” came out of his mouth, he felt a river of self-loathing, rapid and violent, race through him.

He was acting like a whiny child, shirking his duty, and wallowing in self-pity. He had no business behaving this way. He knew better than to give in to these feelings. Whatever the guilt he might bear in Steve's death, for not making sure the young man wasn't alone late at night, it was no excuse for abandoning his responsibilities. No matter what questions of faith he might be feeling, he still had priestly duties to fulfill.

And no matter how much anguish he might feel, he had no right to indulge it at the expense of others.

Rising, he began to vest as a concelebrant, determined that however unworthy he felt, all he could do in atonement was to fulfill his appointed duties.

Vested, he emerged onto the altar just as Dominic was beginning the blessing. Dominic caught his eye, and smiled in approval.

By the time they reached the consecration, when he lifted the chalice while Dominic lifted the host, Brendan even began to feel a small measure of comfort in the ritual, even if it was only the comfort of familiarity, of awareness that he was merely another link in a two-thousand-year-old chain of priests who had performed this sacred ritual. He was only that, one small link, of no significance at all.

His eyes looked out over the congregation, seeing the bored faces, but more importantly, seeing the rapt faces. They were the ones who mattered, those rapt faces. Those who felt the miracle unfolding here in their very hearts. They mattered.

Then his eyes lit on one face, and his hands faltered. For an instant, he was in danger of dropping the chalice. That face! He'd never thought to see that face again. Fighting for equilibrium, he closed his eyes a moment.

When he reopened them, the face was gone. He must have imagined it.

With shaking hands, he replaced the chalice on the altar. It was lack of sleep and grief, he told himself. That and nothing more.

It could not possibly be anything else.

Chapter 6

After five years, Chloe Ryder's law practice was doing well. She even had a partner, and it was to her partner she turned.

“I need time off, Naomi.”

Naomi Blancher, a slender, dark-haired woman, looked over the tops of her reading glasses at her. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I just need time to … work on something. I’ll be in and out, helping with case research and so on, but I need my time to be more fluid.”

“You're asking me to take your court appearances.”

“And client meetings, as far as you can.”

Naomi frowned. It wasn't an unfriendly or disapproving expression, but rather a thoughtful one. “That's a lot to ask, Chloe. You know what a DUI practice is like. You used to do it.”

Chloe had, at first. Driving under the influence was the bread and butter of many criminal defense attorneys, a client base that invariably had enough money to pay for a routine defense of their stupidity. It also caused a lawyer to spend an extraordinary amount of time in courtrooms for hearings and trials. But she'd been able to move beyond that with time, so that now she left the routine DUIs to Naomi and handled only the major cases: possession, trafficking, embezzlement, DUI manslaughter, and even, right now, a contract murder case that she believed was a frame job.

“I know. But I need some slack here, Naomi. A. … friend of mine has a problem.”

“Could he become a client?”

“I hope not. But if he does, it'll be pro bono.” That was for sure.

Naomi's frown faded and was replaced by a grin. “Isn't that always the way? Okay, okay. Have Leah and Marcia put their heads together and see how much they can juggle you out of.” Leah and Marcia were their staff.