Having just witnessed what had to have been a miracle, Ali eased her Taser back into her purse. For the longest time, no one in the congregation moved or uttered a word. It was as if they’d all been frozen in place—some in their pews and some still standing in the aisle awaiting Communion. Then Archbishop Gillespie broke the silence.
“Please take me back to the dais, Father Mike,” he said. “I would like to take Communion today along with everyone else.”
Then, to Ali’s astonishment, Father Howard picked up exactly where he’d left off, almost as though nothing had happened. The organ started up again, and soon the congregation returned to singing “Amazing Grace,” more softly than before, but she had the sense that as the familiar words came from the singers’ mouths, they did so with a whole new meaning.
After receiving his own Communion, the archbishop closed the service by reciting the Lord’s Prayer, joined by every person in the Cathedral of the Holy Mother. For Ali in particular, and most likely for everyone else who heard them, those words resonated more powerfully than ever before. Everyone there had been within a matter of feet from what could have turned into a mass shooting, and yet they’d all walked away unscathed. Was it the calming words of Archbishop Gillespie that had saved them, or was it something else? Someone else?
The recessional was a song Ali had never heard before—“When I Come to the End of the Road”—and it seemed entirely appropriate, not only for Father Andrew O’Toole but also for Rachel Higgins. She hadn’t died today, but in every way that mattered, her life was over. There would probably be years of court proceedings before her fate was ultimately determined, but for now she no longer posed a danger to anyone other than herself.
Since Father O’Toole was returning to Pennsylvania for burial in the family plot, the casket, along with all the masses of flowers, remained in the church when everyone left. Ali glanced back in that direction as she departed and saw a single multicolored ray from the stained-glass windows crowning the top of the polished wood casket, almost as though it were bestowing a final blessing. For some reason that, too, seemed oddly appropriate.
There was a public gathering in the cathedral’s social hall. After that a much smaller group headed back to the archbishop’s residence, where, in the main dining room, Sister Anne had produced a sumptuous buffet luncheon.
Approaching Archbishop Gillespie’s head table, Ali was surprised to see Jack Stoneman—a clean-shaven, neatly dressed Jack Stoneman—sitting there chatting with the archbishop while Gavin James looked on from the sidelines.
“I’m so sorry about Father O’Toole,” she heard Jack say. “I’ll be forever grateful for his kindness, and I can’t thank you enough for bringing Mr. James on board.”
“You’re most welcome,” the archbishop said. “I’m glad I could be of help, but I believe I had some outside help on that score,” he added, giving Ali a wink that neither Jack nor Gavin could see.
Sister Anselm, now in civilian clothing, was back to fussing. “You mustn’t overdo,” she warned her patient. “Officiating at the funeral was one thing, but playing host to a whole group like this…”
“I can manage, Sister Anselm,” he told her. “If being at that funeral this morning didn’t kill me, I’m a lot tougher than you give me credit for.”
Ali could see that Sister Anselm didn’t appreciate what came dangerously close to being a reprimand. When she walked off to stand by herself for a while, Ali went to join her.
“He is tough,” Ali noted. “Rachel Higgins came to that funeral determined to kill him, and he talked her down.”
“That may well be,” Sister Anselm retorted, not the least bit mollified, “but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s my patient and he’s still just a matter of hours out of the ICU.”
Ali had been concerned that Detectives Lasko and Horner might turn up at the residence, asking too many questions about how exactly the folks from High Noon had known as much as they knew, but the investigators must have had other fish to fry, and they didn’t make an appearance. For the time being, it looked as though Frigg’s assistance in solving the case would go unnoticed, and that was all to the good.
Toward the end of the early-afternoon luncheon, Father Daniel entered the room looking distressed and holding an envelope. He went straight to Archbishop Gillespie, and the two men huddled together for some time, speaking back and forth in urgent but hushed tones. Finally the archbishop pulled away and tapped on his glass with a spoon, silencing the general conversation.
“I left Father Daniel a message earlier today, which he will forward to the proper authorities in due time,” Archbishop Gillespie announced. “For now it’s not fair to leave him carrying the burden of that message all on his own. The letter tenders my resignation as archbishop of the Phoenix Archdiocese.”
Audible gasps erupted around the room. Ali looked quickly in Sister Anselm’s direction and saw that her friend’s face had suddenly gone paler than usual.
“I was brought on board to deal with some very specific problems here in the archdiocese,” the archbishop continued. “Some of those had already come to light by the time I arrived. Others, like the one with Father Needham, didn’t surface until later. Father O’Toole’s unfortunate death and what happened today are the final culmination of that shameful story. And now that it’s over, I need to put it behind me as well.
“I’ve had a good run. I loved working here with Father Daniel and Father Andrew. And I’ve loved working with the nuns and priests who are always on hand doing the Lord’s work. But I’m old. I no longer have the kind of stamina it takes to do this job. And now, after years of mending the church’s fences, I have some fence mending of my own to do.
“Some of you know that I have an older brother named Anthony from whom I’ve been estranged for decades. He’s in ill health and confined to an assisted-living facility in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Once I turn in my miter, that’s the first place I’m going—to Green Bay to see if there’s any way to put the quarrel between my brother and me to rest while there’s still time.
“After that there’s a monastery near Santa Fe that takes in broken-down priests like me and puts us out to pasture. So with that, and before Sister Anselm pitches a complete fit, I’m going to ask Father Mike here to wheel me back to my quarters so I can have a lie-down. She’s right, you know, I’m not as young as I used to be, and for that matter, Sister Anselm, neither are you.”
For the first time in a long time, it appeared as though Archbishop Francis Gillespie had had the last word.
Ali had been invited to spend a second night, but she declined. Instead, at three o’clock, once again in full afternoon traffic made worse by its being Friday, she headed home, first up the 51 to the 101 before eventually merging onto I-17. As she inched along, she found herself looking around at the bright blue sky above the desert scenery, and it was as though, for the first time in months, she was seeing it—as though the dark clouds left behind by Alex Munsey’s death had finally lifted. Maybe the challenges of the last few days had been enough to drag her out of the doldrums.
Somewhere north of Cordes Junction, she called B.
“So it’s over, then,” he marveled when she finished telling him the story. “The killer’s in jail, and nobody else got hurt.”
“That’s how it looks,” Ali replied. “I can’t help but feel sorry for Rachel, though. She lost everything, yet all it took for her to hand over her weapon was for someone to finally get around to saying he was sorry.”
“Didn’t the cops wonder how it was that you were always one step ahead of them?”
“They might have wondered,” Ali allowed, “but they didn’t ask.”
“Sounds like a job well done,” B. said. “So I guess you can hang up your Wonder Woman costume for the time being.”
They both laughed at that, but then B. fell quiet. “I’m going to miss Archbishop Gillespie,” he said finally. “From the moment I met the man, I felt like he was my rock. Now, after everything we did—and especially after what you did—to save him, with him retiring, it sounds as though we’re going to lose him anyway.”
“You must not have read the fine print,” Ali said.
“What fine print?” a puzzled B. asked.
“It’s all part of the grand bargain,” Ali replied. “If you let yourself care about someone, it’s always with the understanding that someday, one way or another, you’re going to lose them. I felt the same way when Leland Brooks went back to the UK, and I know I’ll feel that way again when Sister Anselm finally retires. That’s how life works.”
B. paused again. “So you’re saying better to have loved and lost?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Ali told him. “One hundred percent.”