I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [98]
At five of four, he put his name on the outside of the Reconciliation Room, went in, and settled in his chair. His personal prayer before he began to receive the penitents was always the same, that he would meet the needs of those who came for healing.
At four o’clock, he pressed the button so that the green light would go on, and the first person on the line would know it was permissible to enter.
It was an unusually busy afternoon even for the Lenten season, and nearly two hours later, Fr. Aiden decided that since there were only a few others waiting, he would not leave until he had heard all their confessions.
Then, at five minutes of six, the man with the unruly hair came in.
The collar of his trench coat was up around his neck. He was wearing oversized dark glasses. His thick mop of dark hair covered his ears and forehead. His hands were in his pocket.
Fr. Aiden felt an instant sense of fear. This man was not a penitent, he was sure of that. But then the man sat down and, his voice husky, said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Then he paused.
Fr. Aiden waited.
“I’m not sure you’ll want to forgive me, Father, because the crimes I am going to commit are quite a bit more serious than the crimes I have been committing. You see, I am going to kill two women and a child. You know one of them, Zan Moreland. And beyond that I can’t take a chance on you, Father. I don’t know what you have heard, or what you suspect.”
Fr. Aiden tried to rise, but before he could the man drew a gun out of his pocket and held it against the Friar’s robe. “I don’t think they’ll hear this,” he said. “Not with a silencer, and anyway they’re all too busy praying.”
Fr. Aiden felt a fierce, sharp pain in his chest, and then as everything went black, he felt the man’s hands guiding him back into his chair.
Hands. Zan Moreland. That was what he had been trying to remember. Zan had long, beautiful hands.
The woman in confession who he had thought was Zan had smaller hands and short fingers…
Then the image passed out of his mind, leaving him in silent darkness.
66
When they were finally able to leave the courthouse, Willy stepped out through a sea of cameras, ran out into the street, and hailed a cab.
Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, and holding Charley Shore’s hand, Zan raced to get in the taxi. But she could not escape the flashing bulbs and the microphones that were thrust in front of her. “Any statement for us now, Zan?” a reporter called.
Stopping in her tracks, she screamed, “I am not the woman in those photos, I am not, I am not.”
At the curb Willy was holding the cab door open. Charley helped her into it. “The big guy will take care of you now,” Charley said quietly.
For minutes after the cab pulled away, neither Zan nor Willy said anything. Then when they were almost at Central Park, she turned to Willy. “I simply don’t know how to thank you,” she began. “My apartment is a sublet. My bank account is nonexistent. There’s no way I could have made that bail. I’d be in the Tombs tonight in an orange jumpsuit if it weren’t for you and Alvirah.”
“There was no way you were going to be in the Tombs tonight, Zan,” Willy said. “Not on my watch.”
When they reached the apartment, Alvirah was waiting with glasses on the coffee table. She said, “Charley called me, Willy. He said Zan needs something stronger than red wine. What will it be, Zan?”
“I guess a scotch.” Zan tried to smile as she untied her scarf and slipped off her outer jacket, but it was a forlorn effort. “Or maybe two or three,” she added.
As she reached to take the jacket from her, Alvirah wrapped her arms around Zan. “When Charley called to say you were on your way, he asked me to remind you that this is only the first move in a long process and that he is going to fight every step of the way for you.”
Zan knew what she had to say, but she was not sure how to put it. Stalling for time, she