Until Dark - Mariah Stewart [98]
“I was going to stay at Selena Brennan’s, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. I think maybe I’ll go over to Father Tim’s until she gets back.”
“That’s good,” the chief replied, waving to his small crew of investigators. “Want me to send a car with you?”
“That won’t be necessary, thanks. I’ll have a guardian, complements of the federal government. He should be here soon, I imagine. Besides, I can’t think of any place safer than Father Tim’s.”
Father Tim spread mayonnaise on two slices of bread and proceeded to stack it high with ham and cheese. A little lettuce, a little onion, and the priest’s favorite lunch was ready.
As always, the lunch hour at the Mission of Hope was serve yourself, and at some point between eleven-thirty and one-thirty or so every day, that was exactly what the residents did.
“So, Jimbo,” the priest asked as the tall thin man came into the kitchen. “How’s the job search going?”
“Not so good,” the man they all called Jimbo replied. “But I’m not giving up, you know.”
“You never give up, son,” the priest agreed. “Peter, how’s your mother? She any better this week?”
“She’s hanging in there, Father,” Peter told him from the doorway. “I appreciate that you let me use a car whenever she has one of her spells. I appreciate it a lot.”
Father Tim had picked up his plate. He had a meeting in five minutes with someone who was willing to donate a couple of televisions to the Mission. They weren’t new, but they were still televisions. The priest was a big “Survivor” fan himself.
“Well, Peter,” Father Tim said, moving toward the doorway where the young man stood, “I know how hard it is to watch a parent go downhill like that. I remember all too well what it was like to watch my own father in the last stages of his illness. You need to be there when she needs you. Anything I can do to lend a hand, I’m happy to do it.” Father Tim gave Peter a reassuring slap on the back as he passed him. Peter flinched.
“Something wrong?” Father Tim turned to ask.
“Oh, I . . . I tripped over one of those loose flagstones out by the walk this morning. Fell and hit my back on the gate. I guess I bruised it.”
“I’ll bet that hurts like the blazes. Why don’t you skip the gardening this afternoon and go on upstairs and take a hot bath, then maybe lay down for a while.”
“Thank you, Father. Thank you. I think I’ll do that.” Peter, always soft spoken and humble, nodded.
“Good, good. Nothing like a hot bath. Now, I’ll be in my office,” Father Tim’s voice trailed away as he walked down the hall. “Send Mr. O’Banyon in when he gets here, please. . . .”
Peter made himself a sandwich and ate it standing up, then put away the bread and washed off his knife. Everyone was expected to clean up after themselves here. It was only right, after all. Father Tim was so good to them all.
The car pulled into the drive just as he reached the second floor landing. He glanced out the window as he passed, then stopped, and watched.
Kendra Smith was parking out near the garage. Henry, one of the older men who lived in the Mission and the acknowledged number one gardener, stopped to chat with her. She got out of the car, followed by a tall man who had FBI written all over him. Both of them walked with Henry to the garden.
Peter stood on the landing, debating, his heart beating wildly.
So close. So close.
He couldn’t touch her here. Not anywhere on Father Tim’s grounds. It would be disrespectful to his benefactor, and without Father Tim’s generosity, he reminded himself, where would he have been these past few weeks? Besides, she seemed to have acquired a companion. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out again.
The bodyguard looked like he might know a thing or two about taking care of his charge.
He went up to his room and closed the door, pacing, trying to decide what to do. The time was right, he told himself, but the place was all wrong. And