Eleventh Hour (FBI Series #7)

S A N F R A N C I S C O\ Nick sat quietly in the midnight gloom of the nave,\ hunched forward, her head in her arms resting on the pew\ in front of her. She was here because Father Michael\ Joseph had begged her to come, had begged her to let him\ help her. The least she could do was talk to him, couldn’t\ she? She’d wanted to come late, when everyone else was\ already home asleep, when the streets were empty, and\ he’d agreed, even smiled at her. He was a fine man, kind\ and loving toward his fellow man and toward God.\ Would she wait? She sighed at the thought. She’d given\ her word, he’d made her give her word, known somehow\ that it would keep her here. She watched him walk over to\ the confessional, watched with surprise as his step suddenly\ lagged, and he paused a moment, his hand reaching\ for the small handle on the confessional door. He didn’t\ want to open that door, she thought, staring at him. He\ 18882_ch01.qxd 4/15/03 5:19 AM Page 1\ didn’t want to go in. Then, at last, he seemed to straighten,\ opened the door and stepped inside.\ Again, there was utter silence in the big church. The air\ itself seemed to settle after Father Michael Joseph stepped\ into that small confined space. The deep black shadows\ weren’t content to fill the corners of the church, they even\ crept down the center aisle, and soon she was swallowed\ up in them. There was a patch of moonlight coming\ through the tall stained-glass windows.\ It should have been peaceful, but it didn’t feel that way.\ There was something else in the church, something that\ wasn’t restful, that wasn’t remotely spiritual. She fidgeted\ in the silence.\ She heard one of the outer church doors open. She turned\ to see the man who was going to make his midnight confession\ walk briskly into the church. He looked quite ordinary,\ slender, with a long Burberry raincoat and thick dark hair.\ She watched him pause, look right and left, but he didn’t see\ her, she was in the shadows. She watched him walk to the\ confessional where Father Michael Joseph waited, watched\ him open the confessional door and slip inside.\ Again, silence and shadows hovered around her. She\ was part of the shadows now, looking out toward the confessional\ from the dim, vague light. She heard nothing.\ How long did a confession take? Being a Protestant, she\ had no idea. There must be, she thought, some correlation\ between the number and severity of the sins and the length\ of the confession. She started to smile at that, but it quickly\ fell away.\ She felt a rush of cold air over her, covering her for a\ long moment before it moved on. How very odd, she\ thought, and pulled her sweater tighter around her.\ She looked again at the altar, perhaps seeking inspiration,\ some sort of sign, and felt ridiculous.\ After Father Michael Joseph had finished, what was she\ supposed to do? Let him take her hand in his big warm\ ones, and tell him everything? Sure, like she’d ever let that\ happen. She continued to look up at the altar, its flowing\ shape blurred in the dim light, the shadows creeping about\ its edges, soft and otherworldly.\ Maybe Father Michael Joseph wanted her to sit here\ quietly with nothing and no one around her. She thought in\ that moment that even though he wanted her to talk to him,\ he wanted her to speak to God more. But there were no\ prayers inside her. Perhaps there were, deep in her heart,\ but she really didn’t want to look there.\ So much had happened, and yet so little. Women she\ didn’t know were dead. She wasn’t. At least not yet. He\ had so many resources, so many eyes and ears, but for now\ she was safe. She realized sitting there in the quiet church\ that she was no longer simply terrified as she’d been two\ and a half weeks before. Instead she’d become watchful.\ She was always studying the faces that passed her on the\ street. Some made her draw back, others just flowed over\ her, making no impact at all, just as she made no impact on\ them.\ She waited. She looked up at the crucified Christ, felt a\ strange mingling of pain and hope fill her, and waited. The\ air seemed to shift, to flatten, but the silence remained absolute,\ without even a whisper coming from the confessional.\ Inside the confessional, Father Michael Joseph drew a\ slow, deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t want to see\ this man again, not ever again, for as long as he lived.\ When the man had called Father Binney and told him he\ could only come this late—he was terribly sorry, but it\ wasn’t safe for him, and he had to confess, he just had\ to—of course Father Binney had said yes. The man told\ Father Binney he had to see Father Michael Joseph, no one\ else, and of course Father Binney had again said yes.\ Father Michael Joseph was very afraid he knew why the\ man had come again. He’d confessed before, acted contrite—\ a man in pain, a man trying to stop killing, a man\ seeking spiritual help. The second time he’d come, he’d\ confessed yet again to another murder, gone through the\ ritual as if he’d rehearsed it, saying all the right words, but\ Father Michael Joseph knew he wasn’t contrite, that—that\ what? That for some reason Father Michael Joseph\ couldn’t fathom, the man wanted to gloat, because the man\ believed there was nothing the priest could do to stop him.\ Of course Father Michael Joseph couldn’t tell Father Binney\ why he didn’t want to see this evil man. He’d never really\ believed in human evil, not until the unimagined\ horror of September 11th, and now, when this man had\ come to him for the first time a week and a half ago, then\ last Thursday, and now again tonight, at nearly midnight.\ Father Michael Joseph knew in his soul that the man was\ evil, without remorse, with no ability to feel his own, or\ another’s, humanity. He wondered if the man had ever felt\ truly sorry. He doubted it. Father Michael Joseph heard the\ man breathing in the confessional across from him, and\ then the man spoke, his voice a soft, low monotone, “Forgive\ me, Father, for I have sinned.”\ He’d recognize that voice anywhere, had heard it in his\ dreams. He didn’t know if he could bear it. He said finally,\ his voice thin as the thread hanging off his shirt cuff,\ “What have you done?” He prayed to God that he wouldn’t\ hear words that meant another human being was dead.\ The man actually laughed, and Father Michael Joseph\ heard madness in that laugh. “Hello to you, too, Father.\ Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re right, I killed the\ pathetic little prick; this time I used a garrote. Do you\ know what a garrote is, Father?”\ “Yes, I know.”\ “He tried to get his hands beneath it, you know, to try to\ loosen it, to relieve the pressure, but it was nice strong\ wire. You can’t do anything against wire. But I eased up\ just a bit, to give him some hope.”\ “I hear no contrition in your voice, no remorse, only satisfaction\ that you committed this evil. You have done this\ because it pleased you to do it—”\ The man said in a rich, deep, sober voice, “But you\ haven’t heard the rest of my tale, Father.”\ “I don’t want to hear anything more out of your mouth.”\ The man laughed, a deep, belly-rolling laugh. Father\ Michael Joseph didn’t say a word. It was cold and stuffy in\ the confessional, hard to breathe, but his frock stuck to his\ skin. He smelled himself in that sweat, smelled his dread,\ his fear, his distaste for this monster. Dear Lord, let this\ foul creature leave now, leave and never come back.\ “Just when he thought he had pulled it loose enough so\ he could breathe, I jerked it tight, really fast, you know,\ and it sliced right through his fingers all the way to the\ bone. He died with his damned fingers against his own\ neck. Grant me absolution, Father. Did you read the papers,\ Father? Do you know the man’s name?”\ Father Michael Joseph knew, of course he knew. He’d\ watched the coverage on television, read it in the Chronicle.\ “You murdered Thomas Gavin, an AIDS activist who’s\ done nothing but good in this city.”\ “Did you ever sleep with him, Father?”\ He wasn’t shocked, hadn’t been shocked by anything for\ the past twelve years, but he was surprised. The man had\ never taken this tack before. He said nothing, just waited.\ “No denial? Stay silent, if you wish. I know you didn’t\ sleep with him. You’re not gay. But the fact is, he had to\ die. It was his time.”\ “There is no absolution for you, not without true repentance.”\ “Why am I not surprised you feel that way? Thomas\ Gavin was just another pathetic man who needed to leave\ this world. Do you want to know something, Father? He\ wasn’t really real.”\ “What do you mean he wasn’t really real?”\ “Just what I said. He didn’t really ever exist, you know?\ He wasn’t ever really here—he just existed in his own little\ world. I helped him out of his lousy world. Do you know\ he contracted AIDS just last year? He just found out about\ it. He was going nuts. But I saved him, I helped him out of\ everything, that’s all. It was a rather noble thing for me to\ do. It was sort of an assisted suicide.”\ “It was vicious, cold-blooded murder. It was real, and\ now a man of flesh and blood is dead. Because of you.\ Don’t try to excuse what you did.”\ “Ah, but I was giving you a metaphor, Father, not an excuse.\ Your tone is harsh. Aren’t you going to give me my\ penance? Maybe have me say a million Hail Marys? Perhaps\ have me score my own back with a whip? Don’t you\ want me to plead with you to intercede with God on my\ behalf, beg for my forgiveness?”\ “A million Hail Marys wouldn’t get you anywhere.” Father\ Michael leaned closer, nearly touched that evil,\ smelled the hot breath of that man. “Listen to me now. This\ is not a sacramental confession. You believe that I am\ bound by silence, that anything anyone tells me can go no\ farther than the confessional. That is not true. You have not\ made a sacramental confession; you are not contrite, you\ seek no spiritual absolution, and I am not bound to silence.\ I will discuss this with my bishop. However, even if he disagrees\ with me, I am prepared to leave the priesthood if I\ have to. Then I will tell the world what you have done. I\ won’t allow this to continue.”\ “You would really turn me over to the cops? That is very\ impassioned of you, Father. I see that you are seriously\ pissed. I didn’t know there was a loophole in your vow of\ silence. I had wanted you to be forced to beg and plead and\ threaten, but realize you’re helpless and let it eat you alive.\ But how can anyone predict someone’s behavior, after\ all?”\ “They’ll throw you in an institution for the rest of your\ miserable life.”\ The man smothered a laugh, managed a credible sigh,\ and said, laughing, “You mean to imply that I’m insane,\ Father?”\ “No, not just insane. I think you’re a psychopath—ah, I\ believe the politically correct word is sociopath, isn’t it?\ Doesn’t make it sound so evil, so without conscience. It\ doesn’t matter, whatever you are, it’s worse than anything\ doctors could put a tag to. You don’t give a damn about\ anybody. You need help, although I doubt anyone could\ help the sickness in you. Will you stop this insanity?”\ “Would you like to shoot me, Father?”\ “I am not like you. But I will see that you are stopped.\ There will be an end to this.”\ “I fear I can’t let you go to the cops, Father. I’m trying\ not to be angry with you for not behaving as you should.\ All right. Now I’m just mildly upset that you aren’t behaving\ as you’re supposed to.”\ “What are you talking about—I’m not acting like I’m\ supposed to?”\ “It’s not important, at least it isn’t for you. Do you know\ you’ve given me something I’ve never had before in my\ life?”\ “What?”\ “Fun, Father. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Except,\ maybe, for this.”\ He waited until Father Michael Joseph looked toward\ him through the wire mesh. He fired point-blank, right\ through the priest’s forehead. There was a loud popping\ sound, nothing more because he’d screwed on a silencer.\ He lowered the gun, thoughtful now because Father\ Michael Joseph had slumped back against the wooden confessional\ wall, his head up, and he could see his face\ clearly. There was not even a look of surprise on the\ priest’s face, just a flash of something he couldn’t really\ understand. Was it compassion? No, certainly not that. The\ priest despised him, but now he was shackled for all eternity,\ without a chance for him to go to the police, no opportunity\ for him even to take the drastic step of leaving\ the priesthood. He was silent forever. No loophole now.\ Now Father Michael Joseph didn’t have to worry about\ a thing. His tender conscience couldn’t bother him. Was\ there a Heaven? If so, maybe Father Michael Joseph was\ looking down on him, knowing there was still nothing he\ could do. Or maybe the priest was hovering just overhead,\ over his own body, watching, wondering.\ “Good-bye, Father, wherever you are,” he said, and rose.\ He realized, as he eased out of the confessional and\ carefully closed the narrow wooden door, that the look on\ the Father’s face—he’d looked like he’d won. But that\ made no sense. Won what? The good Father had just\ bought the big one. He hadn’t won a damned thing.\ There was no one in the church, not that he expected\ there to be. It was dead silent. He would have liked it if\ there had been a Gregorian chant playing softly. But no,\ there was nothing, just the echo of his own footsteps on the\ cold stones.\ What did that damned priest have to look happy about?\ He was dead, for God’s sake.\ He walked quickly out of St. Bartholomew’s Church,\ paused a moment to breathe in the clean midnight air, and\ craned his neck to look up at the brilliant star-studded sky.\ A very nice night, just like it was supposed to be. Not\ much of a moon, but that was all right. He would sleep\ very well tonight. He saw a drunk leaning against a skinny\ oak tree set in a small dirt plot in the middle of the sidewalk,\ just across the street, his chin resting on his chest—\ not the way it was supposed to be, but who cared? The guy\ hadn’t heard a thing.\ There would be nothing but questions with no answers\ for now, since the cops wouldn’t have a clue. The priest\ had made him do things differently, and that was too bad.\ But it was all close enough.\ But the look on the priest’s face, he didn’t like to think\ about that, at least not now.\ He whistled as he walked beneath the streetlight on Fillmore,\ then another block to where he’d parked his car,\ squeezed it between two small spaces, really. This was a\ residential area and there was little parking space.

\ From Barnes & NobleIn their seventh crime swoop, FBI agents Lacey Sherlock and Dillon Savich track down a very elusive murderer. Father Michael Joseph, the twin brother of a FBI colleague, is slain, but the only witness to the crime vanishes. To the double mystery of murder and disappearance is quickly added a third element: Sherlock and Savich discover a connection between Father Michael's killing and one "committed" on an upcoming episode of a trendy new TV series. Is the murderer a copycat killer or a psychic?\ \ \ \ \ Publishers WeeklyThe midnight murder of a priest in his confessional and real-time serial killings based on TV scripts are the basis for this latest installment in Coulter's bestselling FBI series (Hemlock Bay, etc.). Dillon and Sherlock Savich, Coulter's husband-and-wife investigative team, take a backseat this time around, making way for D.C. Special Agent Dane Carver. When Carver learns his twin brother, Father Michael Carver, has been murdered in his San Francisco church, Savich sends him out to work the case with the SFPD, who suspect this is one in a spate of recent serial killings. A potential witness, homeless woman Nick Jones, tries to run, and Carver takes her into protective custody in his hotel room. Jones, who is actually a college professor fleeing from her possibly murderous fianc , an Illinois state senator, has no choice but to join forces with Carver. It is she who sees an FBI drama on TV and connects the plot with the recent serial murders. Investigation of the TV studio execs and the show's crew and cast introduces a flock of distinctive Coulter characters who spice up the plot and speed the read. Meanwhile, Carver and Jones fall in love and find themselves in danger as they help Dillon and Sherlock delve into Nick's past. The heavy doses of romance and dearth of procedural detail mean this novel isn't the thing for hardcore FBI thriller devotees, but the complex plotting and likable characters make it a great beach book for Coulter fans, who will welcome Dane and Nick as new protagonists. Author tour. (July)\ \ \ Library JournalCoulter brings back FBI agents Lacey Sherlock and Dillon Savitch for a real test: the priest whose murder they are investigating is a colleague's twin brother, and the clues lead them to a new hit TV series about murder. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.\ \