Chapter Thirty-Five

WHEN I WAS growing up, my father and I used to love watching old Clint Eastwood movies. We loved them all, my father and me, but our favorites were the Dirty Harry films. I was amazed how Clint, as Harry Callahan, always hit whatever he was aiming for, even with that massive 44 Magnum revolver.

Sadly, I was not Dirty Harry. As I feared, my bullet went to the right of its intended target, directly into Father Lawrence’s shoulder. Father Lawrence, not expecting the impact, fell backward onto the altar. Fortunately, Samuel was equally surprised, and it took three to four seconds before he fully realized what had occurred.

I might be a mediocre shot, but I was a fast runner. By the time Samuel began to turn toward Father Lawrence, I’d almost halved the distance between us. I set myself and fired again, aiming for Samuel’s chest. Shooting instructors refer to that as center mass.

Unfortunately, I didn’t properly adjust for the height of the altar. While I got the center part right, the bullet went high and directly into Samuel’s throat. He fell backward, a few feet away from Father Lawrence.

I ran the rest of the way to the altar and noticed Samuel’s gun lying by his side. I kicked it away and stood guard as Samuel continued to bleed profusely from the wound to his throat. Given the murders he was responsible for, the irony was hard to escape. His hand clenched to his neck as he tried to stem the flow of blood, Samuel gasped my name and gestured for me to bend down. He made no move to his pockets or the gun now lying too far away for him to reach. Leaning forward against my better judgement, I heard him again gurgle out my name.

“You would just let me die, Mr. Luvello?”

“To be honest, I’m enjoying it immensely.”

He smiled then, a psychotic’s dying act. “Then I have given you something to confess after all.”

I wasn’t worried. In truth, I was too tired to feel triumph or much of anything else. I’d shot a priest and allowed him to die. If God judged me harshly for that, so be it. I worked in a career that required me to search for the worst in people. Having found that in a church, of all places, all I could think about was sleep.

In the midst of my reflection, I remembered Father Lawrence. Lying several feet to my right, Father was gamely trying to regain his footing.

As I walked over to see if I could help, the back doors of the church blew open; the cavalry had finally arrived. Along with the police, that included at least four emergency medical technicians.

Before they reached Father Lawrence, I said, “You know, Father, I think you guys need a little work on your applicant screening.”

He shook his head and sighed. “I’ll get right on that.”

By that time, the EMTs had taken over and started to wrap Father Lawrence’s wound. I backed away, but Father motioned to me one more time.

“When I told you to trust yourself,” he said, “I don’t remember saying anything about shooting me.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I figured that was implied.”

I chalked up his reply to the shock of being injured, though I’d never previously heard those words coming from a Catholic priest. From the looks on their faces, I don’t think the EMTs had either.

Hannah had entered Saint Edmund’s along with the police contingent. To my surprise, Detective Roberts was there as well, although he limped noticeably. Hannah talked with the other cops surrounding Father Samuel’s body without looking in my direction. She was, in a word, pissed.

Detective Roberts—Andy to his friends—came over to take my statement and said, “Nice shooting, Tex.”

Everyone was a critic.

Before Andy went further, I told him to look under the altar for a bomb. The altar was a guess, but I figured Samuel would prefer something sacrilegious to a more mundane location like a church meeting room.

Andy checked, and I was right on both counts. The bomb appeared to use fertilizer as an explosive. The detonator, which they found in Samuel’s pocket, was a modified version of a device used for fireworks displays.

The bomb squad was called, and they arrived within minutes. Andy then finished taking my statement. I told him what had happened, including the phone call at my apartment, Samuel’s confession regarding the murders, and his desire for me to confess. Andy wrote it all down; then he glanced back at the altar.

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but Samuel thought Father Lawrence and I were the only ones who knew his secret. He wasn’t in a position to shoot me, so he had to have some other method to get rid of us. Two of his family’s businesses involved fireworks and fertilizer. I figured some combination of those would make a nifty explosive.

“I think the whole confession thing was a ruse to justify getting me to Saint Edmund’s. When I finished, Samuel planned on leaving the church with Father Lawrence and me still inside. He could then set off the bomb, drive away, and hope it would be days before anyone realized his body wasn’t also in the rubble.”

With that, Andy closed his notebook and stared briefly at Hannah before turning his gaze back in my direction.

“She’s pissed at you. I’m sure you figured that out. She considered you a partner, and she thinks you violated her trust. I understand why you did what you did. I’ll talk with her, but you may want to give her some room in the meantime.”

I thanked him, promising I would make myself available if he had any further questions. Exhausted, I then sat down in one of the pews. As I was contemplating the night’s events, it occurred to me I’d fired two shots that evening and managed to hit two different Catholic priests. While I’d killed the right one, there still had to be a record in that somewhere. I guess God did laugh after all.

I probably would have stayed in the pew for quite some time if I hadn’t appropriated Paul’s car. He’d be stranded at my apartment, and his wife would have a new reason to hate me. I called to assure Paul I was okay, then walked back to the parking lot.

No one stopped me from leaving the church, though I hadn’t counted on the presence of the news media outside. They yelled out their questions, but I had no interest in becoming part of the frenzy this case was bound to become. To my amusement, their questions ceased when they saw me enter Paul’s minivan. In their minds, nobody of consequence would be driving a minivan.

I drove home, handed Paul his keys, and thanked him for having faith in me. His belief did mean something, maybe more than I cared to admit. I summarized what had happened, including the fact that I’d shot not just one but both of his parish priests. Paul volunteered to stay the night if I wanted him to, but I figured Lydia would be mad at me enough just for taking their car to a shootout. I sent Paul home with my thanks and a promise to provide more detail the next day.

The case had been solved, and that should have felt good. Sitting alone in my apartment, I just felt empty. I told myself the feeling was natural. The biggest case of my career had ended, and anyone would experience some letdown.

I also knew that was bullshit. I knew what, or more accurately who, was behind this feeling. Andy Roberts had told me to give her some time. I would, but I wasn’t sure that would make any difference. Hannah felt betrayed, and given her history, she wasn’t a woman who would tolerate betrayal.

Still, I hadn’t lost her yet. Tonight, more than any other night, I needed that hope. Tonight, for the first time in years, I needed to pray.