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  She realized how ridiculous that sounded, but didn’t know what else to say except “Yes.”

  He picked the plaque up and examined it while talking to her. “You don’t want to be here, do you?”

  She buried her hands in her blazer pockets. “I told you. Basement’s fine. St. Paul is—”

  He cut her off. “I mean the bureau.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? I want to be with the bureau. I love this job.”

  “Sure you do,” he said tiredly. He carried the plaque over to the wastebasket, dropped the award inside, and stepped around her to get to the door.

  She said to his back, “I do.”

  He put his hand on the knob and said, without turning around, “Finish up with those files by tomorrow, Agent Saint Clare. I don’t care where you read them. Take them into the damn john if you want.” He yanked open the door and walked out.

  “I do like my job,” she said to the closed door.

  Bernadette ate lunch at a downtown deli, hardly tasting the sandwich. She went home and sat at the kitchen table, sifting through the remainder of the Archer folders and scratching notes. She told herself she’d tackle the Olson pile the next day. She had trouble concentrating, and found herself rereading entire pages because she couldn’t remember what she’d just seen. Garcia’s words combined with her fumble at the wake left her feeling insecure about her work and her sight. Her decision to get drunk and sleep with Augie didn’t leave her feeling any better about her personal life.

  She really needed to see the Franciscan that night—if for no other reason than to hear someone validate her existence on the planet. Any good priest could do that.

  Twenty-six

  She was surprised to find the front doors open but not a soul in the pews. The church was dimly lit, making Bernadette wonder if the Franciscan had forgotten about their midweek rendezvous. She decided to give him a chance and wait around a while.

  She took a back bench, off to one side. Bernadette shuffled into the pew and went down on her knees, unzipping her bomber but leaving on her gloves. She folded her hands together and propped them on the back of the bench in front of her. The church was so quiet she was sure she could hear her own heart beating. She rested her forehead on top of her hands and closed her eyes. Reflecting on what had brought her to this place, she replayed bits of conversation in her head.

  Come back to my bed.

  You don’t play fair, and I really have to go.

  Just a little longer. Lie with me a little longer. Please.

  You don’t want to be here, do you?

  I want to be with the bureau, I love this job.

  Sure you do.

  I do…I do…I do.

  “I do,” she said out loud—more loudly than she’d intended.

  She opened her eyes and lifted her head off her hands. She half expected someone to shush her for being disorderly in church, but she remained the lone congregant. She glanced at a saint standing against the wall, just across the aisle from where she knelt. He was frozen in a niche and cloaked in shadows, but she saw enough detail to know he was St. Patrick. She recognized the staff in his hand, and could see the snakes writhing at his feet. Help me slay my serpents, St. Patrick, she silently petitioned.

  She was startled by the sound of footsteps and looked toward the noise. With the grace and flutter of a wind-tossed leaf, his robed figure suddenly glided onto the altar. In one practiced, fluid motion, he simultaneously genuflected and made the sign of the cross. He was still wearing the hood pulled over his head; that couldn’t be regulation for his order. She speculated that this particular man had embraced this manner of dress and calling to hide from the world. She smiled bitterly to herself. An insecure priest counseling an insecure woman. Which cliché applied? “The blind leading the blind”? “It takes one to know one”?

  Bernadette bent her head as if she were immersed in prayer. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he floated down an aisle on the opposite side of the church. He went to the front doors. She stole a look over her shoulder and saw him turn the dead bolt on the door. Why is he locking the two of us inside?

  She quickly snapped her head back around and faced the front, looking down but keeping her eyes wide open. He hurried back up the aisle, again genuflected and crossed himself on the altar, and went into the sacristy without acknowledging her presence. Perhaps she’d hidden herself too well. Besides, she’d sought him out, and it was rude to make him traverse the church to come to her. She slid out of the pew and headed closer to the altar, stopping at a pew in the second row. Like all Catholics—practicing or not—she shied away from sitting in the very front. She slid between the benches and again went down on her knees, this time making the sign of the cross before tipping her head.

  He walked out onto the altar again. With his back to the pews, he genuflected and crossed himself. Stepping off the altar, he headed down her aisle. She was baffled when, instead of coming up next to her, he took the pew behind hers.

  “Good to see you again, daughter.”

  “Good to…” Still kneeling, she glanced over her right shoulder. With the rosary wrapped around his left fingers, he had folded his hands together and was resting them on the back of her pew. “Why are you sitting there, Father?”

  “Thought you’d be more comfortable this way, should there be anything…sensitive you wish to confide. Confess.”

  She faced the front again. “Why the shortage of lights? Trying to save on the electricity bill?”

  “This church is usually closed and dark at this hour, daughter. As a courtesy, the parish priest let me keep the front door open for you.”

  “Is that why you locked up after I got here?”

  She detected a slight halting in his voice as he answered. “Yes…We can’t have other visitors coming in this late. Who knows who could walk through the door?”

  She realized she’d been interrogating him as if he were one of her suspects, and she felt bad about it. She tried to make amends. “You went through a lot of trouble, and I appreciate it. You didn’t even know I would show.”

  “But you did. Why have you come, daughter? Need to talk? Something personal troubling you? Something spiritual?” He paused and then added: “Something about work?”

  “They’re all three usually intertwined,” she said.

  “How can I help?”

  She pulled her hands off the back of the front pew, got up off her knees, and sat down on the bench. “First let me get something off my chest about what you said before. If that’s okay.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, in a voice just above a whisper.

  He stayed kneeling, his hands still perched on the back of her bench, just to the right of her shoulders. The intimacy of his voice and the closeness of his figure made her uncomfortable. Perhaps a confessional would have been better. She was tempted to go back on her knees to put distance between her and him, but she thought he’d find that odd. She stayed where she sat and continued. “When you suggested my sight might be Satan’s work…”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s got to be the opposite.”

  “God’s work?”

  “Yes,” she said defensively.

  “What makes you so sure, daughter?”

  “I was at home, working through an investigation. I was sticking some stuff up on the wall. Post-its.” She paused, knowing he’d find that in itself an unorthodox way to work, let alone how she generated the observations in the first place. “The notes contained clues I’d…um…picked up in the case.”

  “Clues you’d obtained through these visions?”

  “Through regular footwork, too,” she added quickly.

  “Please. Go on.”

  “So I’m slapping these yellow squares up on the Sheetrock. Arranging them in a way that makes sense. Categorizing them. Rearranging. I step back when I’m finished and take a look.”

  “And?”

  “And, without realizing it, I’d positioned the notes up o
n the wall so they formed a cross.”

  The long silence that followed told her she’d disturbed him with this story. She shouldn’t have told him, shouldn’t have come back at all. This guy was going to freak out on her. The whole thing was yet another bad call on her part.

  Confirming her fears, he hissed his next words into her right ear: “A paper cross? Trickery, daughter. Demons twisting your hands and your heart.”

  “There are…no such things as demons,” she said weakly.

  “Demons come in many forms, daughter. Read Timothy in the New Testament. ‘Now the Spirit expressly says that in later times some will renounce the faith by paying attention to deceitful spirits and teachings of demons, through the hypocrisy of liars whose consciences are seared with a hot iron.’”

  “Are you calling me a liar, or are you saying I’m stupid enough to listen to one? I’m not sure which is worse, Father.”

  His tone softened. “If you could tell me about your visions, what you’ve seen…”

  She swallowed hard. Now he had agitated her, and she needed to regain control. “I can’t. Ongoing investigation.”

  “How convenient—for the devil.”

  She started to stand. “I apologize for taking your time. This was a bad idea, my coming here and dumping on you, especially since I can’t give you the full picture.”

  Suddenly changing his tone, he said gently: “Surely there are things you can tell me without jeopardizing your investigation. I need to know more before I can judge whether you’re being led down the wrong road. Can you tell me generally whom you suspect in this case? The sort of soul who may be arrested as a result of these visions?”

  She reluctantly lowered herself again. “He works at a hospital. Spends time with patients.”

  “What makes you believe that? What’s led you to that conclusion?”

  “He was in a room with a sick woman. I think he was studying a book about patients’ stats or vitals.”

  “What, daughter? I don’t understand. A book about patients’ vital signs?”

  “I was using my sight. Seeing through the murderer’s eyes. This guy, the killer, was reading a reference book with a chapter or page titled ‘Numbers.’ I assume it was…”

  “A book in the Bible,” he breathed.

  “What are you saying? What was I looking at?” She turned around in her seat and stared at him. “You know what I was seeing?”

  “Numbers,” said the voice behind the hood. “You were looking at Numbers. The fourth book of the Pentateuch.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “You should know this, daughter. The Pentateuch is the first five books of the Bible.”

  “And one of those books, the fourth one, is called…”

  “Numbers,” he repeated.

  “I thought he was looking at patient stats or something.”

  He got up off his knees and sat down, fingering the rosary as he answered. She saw his hands were trembling. Now he was starting to believe in her ability, and it frightened him. “It does have something to do with statistics,” he said. “The book deals with events during the Israelites’ travels in the wilderness. The name—Numbers—refers to the censuses that God instructs Moses to take at the beginning and end of the wilderness period.”

  “You aren’t shortening the translation for me? Simplifying it?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You’re sure, Father? Numbers? It’s just called Numbers?”

  He said mechanically: “‘The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, in the tent of meeting, on the first day of the second month, in the second year after they had come out of the land of Egypt, saying: Take a census of the whole congregation of Israelites, in their clans, by ancestral houses, according to the number of names, every male individually; from twenty years old and upward, everyone in Israel able to go to war. You and Aaron shall enroll them, company by company.’”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said. She sat forward, burying her face in her hands.

  “What’s wrong? This isn’t the answer you wanted or expected?”

  “Changes everything,” she said through her fingers. “My assumptions were wrong. I’ve got to start over. Go in a different direction.”

  “Tell me more about what you saw. Perhaps I can help you…”

  She sat up straight. “You’ve already helped more than you can imagine.”

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and started. He was kneeling directly behind her, and she didn’t like it. “You came here to tell me more. There are other things bothering you, matters beyond work.”

  She stood up. “That’s not important now.”

  Behind her, he stood up as well. “Daughter…”

  “Thank you, Father.” She slid out of the pew and ran down the aisle without looking back. She unbolted the door, pulled it open, and disappeared into the night without another word to her confessor.

  Bernadette shivered as she hurried down the sidewalk toward her condo, but she didn’t pin the sensation on the evening chill. The Franciscan’s behavior—locking the door and sitting behind her—had been bizarre. Though she trusted the information he’d given her, she didn’t trust him. Her instincts had told her to stay away from the robed man. There’d be no more late-night counseling sessions. To hell with validation.

  Twenty-seven

  She revisited the wall Thursday morning.

  Bernadette concentrated on the squares containing information she’d collected through her sight. With the revelation that the man had read a Bible and not a medical reference book, the way she’d interpreted what she’d seen through the murderer’s eyes was now in question.

  The physical description of the killer remained valid. Big man. White. Hairy hands. Dark long-sleeved shirt. Blue pants. What about the killer’s behavior toward the patient? She moved to peel off Reached out for sick woman? Woman’s lover? She lowered her hands. Those would still work, even if the guy was religious. In fact, Holy Rollers could be the most convincing actors, leading double lives and keeping lovers.

  Read Numbers. Read another book. She had no idea what the second book was, but the Franciscan had educated her on the first. She snatched the square off the wall and crumpled it. On a fresh sheet, she hastily scrawled, Read Bible passage from Numbers and pressed it back onto the Sheetrock.

  She took a step back and planted her hands on her hips. The new addition to the wall was vital. The killer was more than simply religious. He’d read the book at length, lingering over it. Who would do that? Her hands grew cold as the answer came to her. That couldn’t be who had followed her to the funeral-home parking lot—or could it?

  Why would a member of the religious community kill people and hack off their hands? A youthful memory drifted into her head, something from Sunday school. A verse every Christian would recognize. Was the name of a pastor buried in her unread Olson files? Had she missed the mention of a minister during her read of the Archer case? She turned and stared at the folders piled across the room, on her kitchen table. With the help of the Franciscan, she could now think clearly enough to find the answer—one clergyman helping her nail another one. “Thanks, Father,” she muttered.

  The phone rang, jarring her out of her trance. She went over to the kitchen counter, picked it up, and answered distractedly. “Yeah?”

  “What have you been doing all morning?” Garcia paused and then answered his own question: “The Post-its. Stop wasting time on—”

  She interrupted him. “Our guy isn’t a medical professional after all.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  She hadn’t fixed on a specific faith, and surprised herself with the two words that popped out of her mouth. “Catholic priest.”

  Dead air on Garcia’s end, and then: “I’m coming over.”

  As soon as she threw open her front door, she regretted not changing into work clothes while waiting for his arrival. He was dressed in a dark suit and red tie. His shirt—so white it blinded
her—looked professionally pressed. He stepped into her apartment, a black trench coat thrown over one arm. She extended her hands. “Can I take your jacket?”

  “No thanks,” he said, running his eyes down the length of her figure and frowning at her jeans.

  “I was so busy going over my notes…”

  “Right,” he said dryly.

  She closed the door and nodded toward the kitchen. “Let’s sit down.”

  He walked into the kitchen, threw his coat over the back of a chair, and waited while she sat down across from him. He dropped down onto his seat. “Man of the cloth? This better be rock solid.”

  Man of the cloth. He’d said it reverently—not flippantly. Was she going to have trouble convincing her boss of a priest’s guilt because Garcia was a pious man? Maybe that’s why he didn’t completely discount her sight: he believed in ethereal things. She didn’t want to criticize Garcia’s spirituality when it could turn him into her ally. She offered him a concession: “Maybe I’m jumping the gun on this priest idea.”

  “Serious charge to go throwing around, especially in this town. In case you haven’t noticed, the St. Paul Cathedral sits higher in the city skyline than the State Capitol Building. Catholicism’s a pretty big deal here.”

  The only words that came to her mind next were the ones from Sunday school, a Bible verse Garcia had to recognize if he was indeed a person of faith: “If your hand causes you to sin…”

  “What’re you saying? A priest is killing people and hacking off their hands as some sort of—what?—divine retribution?”

  “I’m open to other possibilities.” She pushed the Olson stack across the table. “Let’s flip through these files. Why don’t you take our pal Hale? See if anything jumps out at you after hearing my theory.”

  “My pleasure.” He pulled the pile closer and opened the top folder. She started sifting through Archer’s folder again, in case she’d missed something.