Destiny stared at the church doors. She had come back to this place, her one anchor, her last refuge, her sanctuary. Even in this holy place, something evil had followed her. She moved up the stairs cautiously, her footfalls silent, almost gliding above ground. She moved with all the stealth of a hunter. Destiny’s hand was steady as she pushed open the doors to the church. At once she scented blood. The smell was nearly overpowering, a dark richness that beckoned and warned. She felt her heart accelerate and her pulse jump. The palms of her hands were sweaty as she widened the opening. Her stomach knotted, and hunger heightened into a terrible craving.
She scanned the church, found no one hiding, but the reverberations of violence were strong. She lifted her foot and hesitated, trepidation filling her soul. “Father Mulligan?” She called out his name softly and resolutely stepped across the threshold.
Nothing happened. Not a single lightning bolt slammed down from the sky to incinerate her for such a sacrilege. Her heart settled down to a steady rhythm as she gained confidence. She could see easily in the darkened interior. Several candles lit in a small alcove to her left were dim pinpoints of flickering lights. She spotted the priest lying on the floor near the altar. In his brown robes he looked like a dark heap of rags cast aside on the marble stair leading to the altar. Destiny knelt at his side. “Father—not you,” she whispered. “Who would hurt you?”
The priest remained motionless for several heartbeats. Destiny leaned close to him. She could hear his ragged breathing. He was alive, but she was afraid to touch him. He looked so fragile, she was afraid she might hurt him. And a part of her was afraid that if she touched such a holy man, she might be struck dead on the spot. The priest groaned, lifted his fingers to touch his bloody scalp. His lashes fluttered, and then he was looking at her.
“Father? Who did this?” She inched back, automatically seeking the shadows.
“Child, I’m afraid you’re going to have to help me sit up. I’m quite dizzy.” His Irish brogue was still thick despite many years in the States.
“Touch you, Father?” She sounded horrified. “What if I hurt you?”
He managed a smile. “I don’t think you’re going to do any more damage to my hard head than has already been done. Give me a hand.”
Taking a deep breath, Destiny put her arm gingerly around his shoulders. When nothing happened, she took a firmer grip. Very carefully she helped him into a sitting position. He felt much thinner than he appeared in his robes, his bones protruding and fragile.
His body was trembling, and he swayed as if he might not be able to sit alone, so she kept her arm around him. She realized he was older than she had first thought.
“When I realized he was going to hit me, I thought of you and all your late visits. I knew God would send you to me.” He tried a wink and winced instead. “Just to stack the odds a bit in my favor, I sent up a little prayer to ask God to get a message to you.”
“Well, he sent for me a little late.” She was nobody’s heroine. It angered her that anyone would hurt such a generous, compassionate man. “God must have been sleeping when you sent Him the message. He just now delivered it.” She had no idea why she had come to the church but somehow she had felt an urgent need to visit.
“You’re here—that’s all that matters.”
“Can you stand up?” His extreme pallor worried her. “Maybe I’d better call an ambulance.”
“No, no, don’t do that. Just let me sit here for a moment and rest.” The priest patted her hand gently as if reassuring her. “If you call an ambulance, we’ll have to explain all this, and it would be better to get to the bottom of it ourselves.”
Destiny frowned at him. “You’re not making any sense, Father. You have to call the police. Whoever did this should be punished.”