31.

No route would be a fast one at this time of day, but Kirsten chose local roads rather than face the tangled expressways. Before long, rain was pelting her windshield. Why had she wasted time meeting Wardell? She should have gone straight to the seminary. Gotten to Truczik before the storm forced the golfers off the course. Warned him. Stayed with him. Not that she’d ever care a whole lot about a guy who Michael’s notes said had been accused of fondling young teenagers. Four boys in three incidents over twenty years ago, all of which he denied. Assuming the charges were true, it was hard to give a damn whether the creep lived or died. But dammit, she still didn’t like the idea of anyone—no matter what hateful things they’d done—being skinned alive. Not on her watch, anyway.

If she’d been paying attention she’d have known about the storm. Besides, now that she thought about it, storm or not, what was so safe about letting a man wander around a golf course, even a busy one? He could have been picked off by someone hiding in the woods with a rifle and a halfway decent scope. Which wasn’t at all the way this killer worked, and she knew she was just beating herself up, not being rational. Still, she should have gone straight to Truczik.

It was past five-thirty when she reached the seminary and found the golf course, called Pine Meadows. Although sundown was still over an hour away, it was very dark. Rain poured down and the sky grumbled almost nonstop with low, rolling thunder, broken periodically by fierce lightning and sharper crashes.

She sat in the car in the parking lot, with her windows fogging up, and called Michael. Again there were lots of rings before he said, “Hello?” in a stage whisper. “I’m watching the movie. Just a minute.” She heard breathing and mumbling, and pictured him crawling over people to get out. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’m out in the lobby. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” she said. “Everything’s fine. I’m at the golf course, looking for Aloysius Truczik. But it’s raining like crazy and obviously nobody’s still playing. Is he likely to be in the bar?”

“Usually not. Unless someone else is buying. Al’s got money, but—”

“I don’t recall meeting him by name when I was there. What does he look like?”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Didn’t I just say everything’s fine? I need to ask him something, that’s all.”

“If he’s there you can hardly miss him. At the meeting Al was the big heavy guy with the sort of irritating voice, who kept—”

“I got it. Thanks, and don’t worry. If I don’t find him here I can talk to him later, or tomorrow or something.” At least I hope so, she thought.

“Should we come back? I mean, the movie’s a loser and—”

“Michael, please. Everything’s okay.”

She ended the call and tried Cuffs Radovich. She got his voice mail. She knew he didn’t check it often, but she stated where she was and that she’d try again.

She couldn’t find the umbrella which should have been under her front seat. She shoved her purse under there instead and got out of the car and made a run for it, holding her jacket up over her head and splashing through deep puddles. Inside, the bar was crowded, but she didn’t see Truczik. She asked for help from a woman serving drinks, and was told there was a “starter” who kept track of all the golfers and Kirsten could find him in the pro shop.

*   *   *

The starter was a young, cheerful Matt Damon look-alike, but in a larger size, wearing crisp blue slacks and—what else?—a golf shirt, pale yellow. “Oh yeah,” he said, “Father Truczik. I was lucky today. I was able to put him with three guys who didn’t already know him. He’s a decent golfer for a guy his weight, but he’s usually by himself looking for a foursome, and there’s a lot of people who won’t … you know…”

“You mean he talks too much,” she said.

He grinned. “You got it.”

“Anyway, he’s not out—” A sharp clap of thunder startled her, and the lights went out, and then back on. “No one’s out on the course, I take it.”

“No way. All that lightning? A person could get killed out there.”

“I was to meet him here,” she said, “but I don’t see him anywhere. Do you think he might … I don’t know … be taking a shower or something?”

“Nah, he usually heads—” He snapped his fingers. “You know, there was a message for him to call someone and I gave it to him. I remember I wrote it on the back of … something.” He rummaged around on the cluttered counter in front of him. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “he took it with him. ’Cause it had the number on it.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “It was a woman on the phone. It wasn’t you, was it?”

“No. But didn’t she give a name?”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember. Christie? Kristen? Something like that.”

“Was it … Kirsten?”

“Kirsten! That’s it! Said she had an urgent message for Father Truczik. That’s the word she used, ‘urgent.’”

The starter’s eyes brightened happily, and just then a deep roll of thunder shook the room. The lights went out … and this time they stayed out.