Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes, dark and kind, he saw so much. But his eyes were blank, vague in death, and there was a small red hole in his forehead. It looked so harmless, that little hole, but he was dead. There was something else, something in his expression. It wasn’t fear or terror, you know, from knowing in that instant he was going to die; it was something else. He looked somehow pleased. How could that be possible? For God’s sake, pleased about what?”
    “Pleased,” Delion said. “That’s odd. You’re sure?”
    She nodded. “Or maybe like he was finally satisfied about something. I’m sorry, I’m just not sure.”
    “Okay, go ahead.”
    “Then I heard someone coming out of the vestry off to the left. I froze. God, I thought it was the murderer and he was coming back. I thought he’d see me because I wasn’t hiding in the shadows anymore. He’d know that I saw him kill Father Michael Joseph, he’d believe that I could identify him, and he was coming back to kill me, too.
    “I ran as fast as I could to the side door, flipped up the dead bolt, and managed to slip outside without making much noise. I waited there, it seemed like forever, but I didn’t hear or see anything. Then I ran to try to find a phone.”
    “Where’d you go after that?” Delion asked.
    “Back to the shelter on Ellis, near Webster, Christ’s Shelter.”
    “That’s a long way from Saint Bartholomew’s,” Delion said.
    “Yes, it is. Father Michael Joseph was very involved in the shelter’s activities and the people who stayed there. That’s where I met him. He, ah, was very fond of history, particularly the thirteenth century. His hero was Edward the First.”
    “Ah, you know about that,” Dane said, and felt his voice seize up. He swallowed, knowing they were looking at him. “He loved history. I never had the knack for remembering dates, but Michael could. I remember he’d talk me into a coma, going on and on about the Crusades, particularly the one with Edward.”
    “That’s all well and good,” Delion said, “but let’s get back to it, all right?” He watched Dane collect himself, and lightly gripped his shoulder.
    “Are you sure you didn’t see more?” Delion said. “Anything else?”
    “No, I’m sorry. The man was in the confessional when he shot Father Michael Joseph. The light was real dim—you know how the light is really soft and almost black at midnight? And the shadows, they were thick, deep, all over the church.”
    Dane nodded.
    “It was like that. I’m sorry, but I got only a vague impression of him. The Burberry, the black hair, nothing else, really.”
    Dane said easily, “Do me a favor. Close your eyes just a moment and picture yourself standing inside Saint Bartholomew’s. Can you see that incredible stained-glass window that shows the stable scene of Christ’s birth? It’s just behind the confessional.”
    “Oh yes, I can see it. I’ve stared at it many times, wondering, you know, how something made of glass could make you so aware of just being.”
    Yes, he thought, satisfied, she knew the window well. He said, “I saw it for the first time yesterday, stared at it, felt all those colors seep into me. It made me feel close to something bigger than I am, something deep inside that I’m rarely aware of, something powerful.”
    “Yes. That’s it exactly.”
    “I can imagine how, even when it’s dark in the church—that midnight dark you spoke about—how that window still shines like a beacon when just a hint of light comes through it. It would make all that black, all those shadows, take on a glow, a pale sort of shine, concentrated, as if from a long way off. I can see that. Can you?”
    “Yes,” she said, her eyes closed. “I can.”
    Dane sat forward on the chair, his hands clasped between his legs, his voice lower now, smooth as honey. “You feel like you’re bathed in that light and it makes you feel warm and safe. It allows you to see everything around you more clearly because of that