me at home?”
“Will You wear your old Girl Scout uniform?”
“The only part of it I could duplicate are the kneesocks.”
“That’s enough.”
“You’re stirred by that picture, huh?”
“Vibrating.”
“You’re a bad man, Christopher Snow.”
“Yeah, I’m a killer.”
“See You in a little while, killer.”
We disconnected, and I clipped the cell phone to my belt once more.
For a moment I listened to the silent cemetery. Not a single
nightingale performed, and even the chimney swifts had gone to bed. No
doubt the worms were awake and laboring, but they always conduct their
solemn work in a respectful hush.
To Orson, I said, “I find myself in need of some spiritual guidance.
Let’s pay a visit to Father Tom.
As I crossed the cemetery on foot and went behind the church, I drew
the Glock from my jacket pocket. In a town where the chief of police
dreamed of beating and torturing little girls and where undertakers
carried handguns, I could not assume that the priest would be armed
solely with the word of God.
The rectory had appeared dark from the street, but from the backyard I
saw two lighted windows in a rear room on the second floor. A;
After the scene that I’d witnessed in the basement of the church, from
the cover of the creche, I wasn’t surprised that the rector of St.
Bernadette’s was unable to sleep. Although it was nearly three o’clock
in the morning, four hours since Jesse Pinn’s visit, Father Tom was
still reluctant to turn out the light.
“Make like a cat,” I whispered to Orson.
We crept up a set of stone steps and then, as silently as possible,
across the wooden floor of the back porch.
I tried the door, but it was locked. I had been hoping that a man of
God would consider it a point of faith to trust in his Maker rather
than in a dead bolt.
I didn’t intend to knock or to go around to the front and ring the
bell.
With murder already under my belt, it seemed foolish to have qualms
about engaging in criminal trespass. I hoped to avoid breaking and
entering, however, because the sound of shattering glass would alert
the priest.
Four double-hung windows faced onto the porch. I tried them one by
one, and the third was unlocked. I had to tuck the Glock in my jacket
pocket again, because the wood of the window was swollen with moisture
and moved stiffly in the frame; I needed both hands to raise the lower
sash, pressing first on the horizontal muntin and then hooking my
fingers under the bottom rail. It slid upward with sufficient rasping
and squeaking to lend atmosphere to an entire Wes Craven film.
Orson chuffed as though scornful of my skills as a lawbreaker.
Everyone’s a critic.
I waited until I was confident that the noise had not been heard
upstairs, and I slipped through the open window into a room as black as
the interior of a witch’s purse.
“Come on, pal,” I whispered, for I didn’t intend to leave him outside
alone, without a gun of his own.
Orson sprang inside, and I slid the window shut as quietly as
possible.
I locked it, too. Although I didn’t believe that we were currently
being watched by members of the troop or by anyone else, I didn’t want
to make it easy for someone or something to follow us into the
rectory.
A quick sweep with my penlight revealed a dining roohme. Two doors led
from the room-one to my right, the other in the wall opposite.
Switching off the penlight, drawing the Glock again, I tried the nearer
door, to the right. Beyond lay the kitchen. The radiant numerals of
digital clocks on the two ovens and the microwave cast just enough
light to enable me to cross to the pivot-hinged hall door without
walking into the refrigerator or the cooking island. single sm -moon
table against one wall The halfway led past dark rooms to a foyer lit
only by a all candle. On a three-legged, half was a shrine to the Holy
Mother. A votive candle in a ruby-red glass fluttered fitfully in the