“Detective Slinger’ll be here any minute,” Father John said. Keep Wentworth talking. Delaney wasn’t going to throw Eddie and the girl over on his own.
“You think I’m gonna believe that? The hick detective doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Otherwise he’d be here now. I know about you Jesuits. Too smart for your own good. You figured things out and came up here on your own. Now you’re going to die.”
Wentworth stepped around, and Father John felt the pistol jam against his spine. “Get going,” the man said, shining the flashlight up a narrow incline. “Don’t make me shoot you here.”
Father John started following the dim beam of light, conscious of the gun in the small of his back. His boots slid in the mud, and he had to dig the heels in hard to maintain his balance. The incline narrowed to no wider than a couple of feet. He edged along the cliff, keeping his hand on the sandstone for balance. A few steps and he was at another boulder field directly below the ledge. A faint light was shining above.
“Keep going.” Wentworth pushed the gun in hard, and Father John started climbing. He felt as if spurs were cutting into his sides. The man was huffing behind him. Thunder roared again, followed by a white flash of lightning that made the boulders leap out, dark and shiny in the rain. He made it to the top and managed to haul himself onto the ledge. A bright light shone in his face.
“Why’d you come here, Father?” The voice in the confessional.
Father John knocked the flashlight aside. For an instant he couldn’t see anything, except the blue-and-yellow lights fizzing in his eyes. He blinked hard, trying to bring into focus the figure in the red jacket. Light hair and hooded eyes, pale, sunken cheeks, bulbous nose. He had the lanky frame, alert stance, and pent-up energy of a runner, as if were about to sprint off the ledge. The jacket shone in the light.
“Where are they?” Father John said. The ledge was a mosaic of rain and shadows. He was aware of Wentworth climbing up beside him, taking in loud gulps of air—a man out of shape, Father John thought. Wentworth hurled himself upright and set the flashlight next to the cliff. A thin stream of light washed over the petroglyph.
Father John felt the gun jabbing at his back again as the man in the red jacket shone his flashlight over the prone figures of Eddie Ortiz and Ali Burris, sprawled at the base of the cliff about ten feet away.
Father John could see the picture clearly now, like a video unrolling in front of him: Wentworth and Delaney forcing Eddie and the girl up the mud-slicked path, guns in their backs. Knocking them unconscious on the ledge. And then—two bodies would fly over the ledge, crash through the boulders, drop down the face of the cliff, breaking and flying apart. The injuries so extensive no pathologist would detect the initial blow to their skulls. Just like Duncan Grover.
He walked across the ledge, dropped down on one knee next to the girl, and took her hand. It was as light and cool as a leaf. He probed for a pulse—some sign of life. There it was, the faintest murmuring of blood beneath the skin in the soft underside of her wrist.
“Hang on, Ali,” he said, hoping that his voice might seep into the girl’s unconsciousness. He started to turn toward the motionless body of Eddie.
“Get away!” Wentworth shouted behind him.
A boot slammed into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He felt himself sliding sideways across the wet sandstone, the ledge falling away. He grabbed at the surface, dug into the sandstone with his boots. Slowing himself finally. Stopping. He was at the edge, pain ripping through him. He could feel the abyss opening below.
Lightning zigzagged through the air, and the piñons and junipers stood out in the light a half second before dissolving back into the darkness. There was another crash of thunder. As he started inching away from the edge, he saw the faintest trace of light below, like an electrical charge.
He managed to get onto his hands and knees and crawl backward a few feet. Then he tried to stand up, crouching with the pain that circled his shoulders and rib cage and coursed down his spine. The rain came harder. He wiped the moisture from his eyes.
Wentworth was still standing next to Eddie and the girl. The pistol gleamed in the flashlight beam. The man in the red jacket stood a few feet away.
“Don’t do this, Delaney,” Father John said. “Think of your soul, man. Your immortal soul. You’re putting yourself into hell.”
“Shut up.” Wentworth waved the pistol at him.
“How d’ya know my name?” Raw panic infused Delaney’s voice.
“Detective Slinger knows you’ve been working a diamond deposit. He knows what happened to Duncan Grover. There’s going to be a lot of policemen here in a few minutes.”