It was past midnight when he let the dog outside for a few minutes. Father Don still hadn’t come in, and he realized he’d been waiting for the other priest, half expecting the sounds of a motor cutting off in front, the front door opening. Surely, if the man had run into any trouble, he would have called.
He started up the stairs, bringing the phone from the hall table as far as the cord would stretch. He set the phone on the top step. He would hear it ring, in case someone needed a priest in the middle of the night.
The sky was clear with the promise of sunshine when Father John walked back to the residence after the early-morning Mass. He always enjoyed the early Mass—the faithful parishioners scattered about the pews, murmuring the prayers, the first daylight blinking in the stained-glass windows.
The front door opened as he came up the steps. His assistant stood just inside, as if he’d been waiting for him. He had no idea when the man had gotten in last night. Late, he guessed, because he’d tossed about a long while, going over in his mind what he’d learned about Duncan Grover: a twenty-five-year-old man running from something, getting ready to start a job, trying to start over. And a girl in a convenience store whom he might never find. Hardly enough to convince a white detective to launch a homicide investigation.
And in the back of his mind, like the relentless beat of a drum, the words in the confessional: There’s gonna be more murders.
“I have to talk to you,” Father Don said, turning into the study.
Father John followed. “What is it?” His assistant had the blanched, drawn look of a man who’d been up all night.
“I’m gonna need a little time off.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Father Don jammed his fists into his khakis and began circling the study, an intent look in his eyes. “Just need a few days to myself. Thought I’d take a drive to the mountains. Find someplace to hide out awhile.”
“Hide out?”
“Do some praying, thinking. Sometimes you have to get away. You know how it is.”
He knew. He’d gone all the way to Boston a couple years ago and stayed two weeks. Still, Don Ryan had been here only a couple months.
“Does this have anything to do with Mary Ann Williams?” he asked.
The other priest yanked one hand from his pocket and waved it into the space between them. “Let’s not turn this into a big deal, okay? I’m taking a few days off, that’s all.”
“What happened last night?” Father John persisted.
“Nothing happened.” The other priest spit out the words. “I called one of Mary Ann’s friends. She came over, and I stayed until the friend got her calmed down.”
Father John walked over and sat down at his desk. His assistant was lying, and the man wasn’t any better at it than dozens of people he’d counseled, dozens of penitents in the confessional—lying to themselves first, hoping that if someone else believed the lies, then they could also believe, as if the believing would make them true.
He glanced up. “Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you get back, should you want to talk.”
Fifteen minutes later—he’d just taken a spoonful of the oatmeal Elena had set before him—Father John heard the front door slam and, a moment after that, tires crunching the wet gravel on Circle Drive.
“Well, I told you so.” Elena plunged a plate into the soapy water in the sink, disappointment etched in the set of her shoulders. Father John understood. Don Ryan wasn’t just another priest in a passing parade. Here for a few weeks, a year, then moving on. He was . . . well, he’d seemed to like the place.
“What makes you think Father Don won’t be back?” He heard the doubt creeping into his own voice.
“I told you before. He was never here,” Elena said after a moment. “His spirit was somewhere else.”
Father John finished the oatmeal. Considering. So many priests through the years. Elena knew. He was going to have to cut back on the summer programs, limit them to what he could handle. Until the Provincial found another assistant. He would be even busier than he’d imagined. Which meant he had even less time than he’d thought to convince Detective Slinger that Duncan Grover was murdered.
He thanked Elena for breakfast and asked her to tell anyone who stopped by that he’d be back later. Then he headed down the hallway, grabbed his jacket and cowboy hat, and left for Lander.
12
The Equitable Building spread over a quarter block at the corner of Seventeenth and Stout streets, massive stone towers with marble-paved floors and 1890s Tiffany stained-glass windows. Vicky found Baider Industries on the directory and rode the bronze-trimmed elevator up several floors.