"Put it down, please, Father," Callie asks.
He does.
We both watch as Callie puts on a pair of gloves. She doesn't reach into the bag to remove the chalice, but instead opens the top of the bag and then pulls it down toward the base. The chalice is gold and it gleams even in the poor night light of the church. Callie takes out a fluorescent flashlight and proceeds to examine the outer surface.
"Nothing on the exterior at all," she says. "Not even any smudges."
Disappointment rises, but then an idea occurs to me.
"Check on the bottom, underneath the base. I bet that spot gets missed during cleaning by most. If she wanted to leave us a clue, she'd want to make sure that it couldn't get wiped away by accident."
Callie upends the chalice and applies the light. She looks at me and smiles.
"Bingo. Nice big thumbprint, clear as day."
That electric feeling, all over again. It's not the endgame, but we're on our way there.
Callie makes the print visible with fingerprint dust and raises it with clear celo-tape. She attaches the tape to a white card. She takes digital pictures of the print as well, so we have a backup in case something happens to the print card. The camera flashes seem alien here, man-made lightning strikes. Jesus and the altar appear in a moment of daylight before returning to the shadows caused by the candle flames. The chalice lights up like it's been set on fire.
I stare at it and wonder, when exactly did this happen? How did I arrive here? When I was a girl, I sipped from the lip of a similar cup and it meant that I was close to God. Now it means I am close to a monster.
Is it a choice? I ask myself. The monsters or God? Is it possible to get so near them, to understand them as well as I do, and still have room for a concept of the divine?
The flash fires and I wince against its painful brilliance, a light that has nothing to do with God, nothing at all.
"That's all I need for now," Callie says.
I turn to Father Yates. "We need to take the chalice, Father."
He grimaces. "Feel free. It's not fit for use anymore, as far as I'm concerned."
"Her thumbprint erases God's presence? Seems like a lot of power you're granting her."
He finds that smile, the one he's been giving me all along as I've challenged him with my own disbelief and bitterness. One-part tolerance, two-parts compassion, and kindness, through and through.
"No, it's not that. I simply won't allow any part of them to coexist with that holy moment. They don't deserve it."
I realize that I've been projecting. Father Yates has been troubled by recent events, true, but his faith has never been shaken. Uncertainty about God is my bailiwick; he's always remained loyal.
"What are you going to pray for now, Father?"
"Justice, of course."
My mouth twists as some more of that dark bitterness rises inside me. It seems like there's no end to it.
"My kind of justice, or God's?"
"I don't have to pray for His justice. His justice is certain. So I guess I'll pray for yours."
*
*
*
"WE'RE CLOSE NOW," CALLIE SAYS as we drive back. "We'll know who they are soon."
"Yes."
"Must be nice, to have the kind of faith that man has."
"I suppose. I take it you don't?"
She laughs and pops a Vicodin she'd had waiting in her hand.
"I believe in me and a select few and that's hard enough as it is."
A-fucking-men, I think.
"What about you?" she asks.
"Ask me after we catch him. I will tell you one thing, if you can keep your big mouth shut."
"The unkindest cut." She sighs. "But tell me."
"Tommy and I are going to move in together. In the middle of all this, that's one thing I was able to figure out, and I'll admit, Father Yates played a part."
She's quiet.
"I'm so happy for you, Smoky."
Her voice is thick with relief, a release of tension that puzzles me until I study her and understand.
"You worried about me too much, Callie. I was always going to be fine."
"That's--" She swallows, shakes it off, flashes me one of those mega-watt smiles. "That's one of the many things good friends do."
I reach out to touch her, but pull my hand back. Intimacy with Callie is a dance all its own.
"Let's go catch a killer, friend."
That we can share. No problem at all.
37
"FATHER STRAIN WAS PRETTY SHARP," ALAN SAYS. "WHEN I explained what I was looking for and why, he remembered something right away. A cripple. Guy in a wheelchair came in, had been a drunk and stumbled out into traffic one day, ended up paralyzed from the waist down. He hit it off with Lisa Reid."
"Clever. Why didn't his name come up if he left when Lisa was murdered?"
"He was smart. Made up some story about a daughter he was reconciling with. He was scheduled to fly to California to meet her a few days before Lisa's trip. I'm guessing he'd already killed Ambrose before he left the church. He probably hung out at Ambrose's until Lisa left and then followed her to and from Texas."
It all makes sense and it reinforces our image of him; intelligent, decisive, organized. In all the prior murders, he sent "Andrea" in to locate the victim. She was their public face. With Lisa he could come out into the light. It must have been very satisfying.
"Alan, I need you to switch places with Callie and run the print we got from the Redeemer through AFIS. Callie, I need you to get on the phone with forensics in Virginia. I need them to go to Strain's church and see if there's a print there too."
"Do you think it'll be on the chalice?"
"It's the first place I'd look."
He couldn't have resisted. No more hiding, right? He probably grinned without knowing it as he left his mark for us to find.
"HERE WE GO," ALAN CALLS out.
I hurry over to his desk. On the screen of his computer is a photograph of Andrea True. She's younger in this picture, her hair is shorter, but there's no denying that it's her.
"Frances Murphy," I read. "Why is she in the database?"
"Past criminal record." He scrolls down. "Get this: arrested for assaulting a Catholic priest. That particular priest was later arrested for child molestation and, let's see . . . no dispensation from the judge because she wasn't one of those the priest had molested. He liked boys."
"Known associates?"
He taps a key and three words appear that take my breath away.
"Brother, Michael Murphy," I read aloud. "Look him up."
Michael Murphy's photograph appears on the screen. He's a male version of his sister, with the same big, sad eyes. He's handsome enough, not a pretty boy. He has a strong face and a certain intensity; he'd have had no problems with the ladies.
"He took part in the assault on the priest," Alan notes. "Twenty years ago. No dispensation. He wasn't one of the molested either."
"What else?"
A few more taps and their rap sheets appear.
"A familiar pattern," Alan observes.
The list of offenses starts at the age of eighteen and continues forward for about four or five years. Petty thefts, larceny, check-kiting--
nothing huge. The convictions taper off at about twenty-two for both of them. There's nothing after that other than the assault on the priest.
"Check out the birthdates," Alan says.
"January twenty-second and . . . January twenty-second?" I blink.
"They're twins."
"Think they'll look good in matching jumpsuits?"
Kirby's voice startles me. She'd crept up behind us. I'd been so engrossed that I hadn't noticed her coming in.
"Twins acting as a killing team?" I mutter. "How does that work?"
"He'll be the one in charge," Kirby says. "Look at her. She's weak around the eyes." Her voice is filled with contempt. "I ran into a brother/sister killing team once down in--well, s
omewhere else. Killing just seemed to run in the family. Even the dad was a good hitter. Kind of cute too."
I glance at her. She grins.
"I can take a hint. I'll talk to Callie later. Have fun with Dick and Jane."
I murmur something in reply as she leaves.
Weak, huh? I consider her act as Andrea, her commitment to that persona, and have to disagree with Kirby's assessment. I wonder, were the scars on her arm fake? Or had she cut herself sometime in the past, so that she could play the part of a failed suicide to perfection?
The probable answer is as disturbing as everything else about these two.
"Let's find them, Alan."
Coming up on the end of you, Preacher. You and your sister may have shared everything, but you'll die apart. I'll make sure of that.
"GOT A PRINT SCANNED IN and on its way to me via e-mail," Callie says. "Give me a sec to match it up with our Mr. Murphy and we'll have all the confirmation we need."
"Alan, where are we on possible current locations for these two?"
"Still working on it."
The door to the office swings open and James walks in with Jezebel. Both have grim expressions on their faces.
"We have a new message from the Preacher. I only watched the beginning of it, but he's showing his face and congratulating us on figuring out who he is."
"Shit," Alan and I say in unison, looking at each other.
"He had eyes on the Redeemer somehow," I say. "He knew there's only one reason we'd show up there, and he knows they left the thumbprint there."
"Think he'll run?" Alan asks.
"I don't know. I think he wants to be caught, but now that it's come down to it . . ." I shrug. "They could be having a change of heart. Let's see the clip, James."
He sits down and we all crowd around the monitor to watch, with the exception of Callie.
There's no lettering at the beginning of this clip, no fancy editing. He's communicating to us in as close to real time as this medium allows. The other difference is that we can now see his face. I examine him and see that Michael Murphy is a man at peace. He's certain. He is doing what he was meant to do and doesn't go to bed at night worrying about whether he's on the side of right or wrong. He's calm, composed, happy. His voice is almost friendly.
"It's come to my attention that those in law enforcement responsible for tracking me down have finally found out who I am. I can't tell you how happy this makes me. My sister and I have been building to this moment for twenty years. Twenty years of hiding, twenty years of planning, twenty years of sacrifice.
"Many will ask: why? If you had something to say, why not just say it? I think the answer to that question is self-evident. Look around you at society today. We live in a world where, more and more, the idea of the soul is scoffed at if it's even thought of at all. Mankind revels in the flesh, and the flesh, I am afraid, only believes what it can see.
"Talk to the flesh of truth and it will sniff and say: 'Truth? What truth? I don't see truth. I see sex. I see drugs. I see sensation.'
"I knew if we were going to prove our point and bring people back to God, that we would have to show them. They would have to see with the eyes, hear with the ears. Only then would they be able to know with the heart.
"And it's working, praise God. The impact of the opus is already being felt. Discussions have opened around the world." He picks up a paper from the table and reads. " 'The Preacher has opened my eyes again to the idea that I could get rid of that space I put between me and God, the space made up of the lies I've been unwilling to let go of. I listened to what he had to say and I walked to my local church and gave my first confession in ten years.' "
"Disgusting," Callie says, curling her lip in scorn. "Did you also confess to agreeing with a murderer?"
Discomfort wiggles inside me. I too had been driven to the confessional by the Preacher. I'll make up for it by catching him.
"That is one of many. Not all agree with me, of course, but the point is--they are talking about it. They are discussing the subject of truth, lie, sin, God, confession, and salvation. The flame has been lit again, praise God. Attempts to block my message are a hopeless activity in today's world. Copies of this and all of my other videos have been put on CD and are being mailed worldwide to media outlets, authors, religious scholars, and skeptics. The message can be slowed; it can't be stopped."
"He's right about that," James says.
"I feel certain that my sister and I will be captured soon."
"He's right about that too," I growl.
"We welcome this. It's the next step on the path we've chosen. It is time that we preach in person, that we be available for discussions, questions, and interviews. Before that happens, I thought it was important to show that we are able to practice what we preach. Come here, Frances."
Frances, who I met as Andrea, steps into the camera lens. She too looks peaceful. Almost radiant. They are more attractive together than apart, light and mirrors reflecting back at each other. She smiles down at her brother, and turns to the camera. He continues speaking.
"Frances and I were born as twins. We were born healthy and have lived healthy, which, as you will come to understand, was God's first gift to us. It could have been much, much different. We lived a difficult life, and it was not without sin or lies. We strayed from God's path on more than one occasion. It's time for us to do what we asked others to do: it's time for our confession."
"This I want to hear," Alan murmurs.
"Our father," he says, "was a Catholic priest."
THE SINS
of
MICHAEL
and FRANCES MURPHY
38
MICHAEL CROUCHED DOWN BEHIND THE CURTAIN AND CARE- fully, oh so carefully, put his ear to the wall of the confessional booth. Mrs. Stevens was in there, she of the blonde hair and the large bosoms. Mrs. Stevens specialized in sins of lust, which made for exciting listening indeed.
He closed his eyes and opened his mouth a little. It took a moment, but the voices began to filter through the wood.
"I can't seem to stop touching myself, Father."
A pause. Michael could imagine the priest covering a sigh.
"And where do you touch yourself, my child?"
A sharp breath, indrawn.
She likes this question, Michael thinks.
"Between my legs, Father. Under the panties, and inside the lips of my pussy."
Michael's mouth dropped open farther. What kind of harlot uses the word pussy in a confessional?
He chastised himself for his own hypocrisy. Hypocrisy was a form of pride, and pride was a sin. The truth was, the whole thing had given him a raging hard-on. The idea of Mrs. Stevens (she of the blonde hair and the large bosoms) touching herself there--heck, the idea of her in panties--was an image that boggled the mind's eye. The downside to this, of course, was that he'd have to come clean in confession. He'd have to admit--again--to hiding behind the curtain against the wall, to putting his ear up against the confessional booth, to listening to that most private of moments. In this case, he could add his own lustful thoughts to the quality of the sin. It made it more difficult that the priest he'd be confessing this to was his own father. Not Father Confessor, but Father Dad. No way around it, though. Confession was a must, and Michael would never allow himself to withhold a confession, whatever the price. Failure to confess was a one-way ticket to an eternity in hellfire. Michael believed in hell. No secret was worth that. One of the many things Michael admired about Dad was that he kept the separation between his job as a priest and his job as a father absolute. There was never a hint to Michael in real life that his dad had any personal opinion about what Michael had revealed in confession. As Michael listened to Mrs. Stevens getting more graphic about her sin of masturbation (wet, wet, she whispered, so very, very wet), he experienced a moment of admiration and love for his father. Dad was the best man Michael knew, the most decent, the most honorable. It was a question of character, and Frank Murphy ha
d it in spades. He needed no priest's collar to prove it either.
Dad was the reason Michael wanted to become a priest. Dad was the reason he'd decided to enter the priesthood as a virgin. If he was honest with himself (and Michael prized honesty above all other things), that pledge was what he used to rationalize this moment. He was never going to know the touch of a woman, so was it really so bad to take a gander into the world of Mrs. Stevens and her wet white panties? Just a tiny, dirty peek?
Not so bad, no, he thought, but still a sin. Still to be confessed. He was amazed at his father's patience sometimes. Mrs. Stevens didn't sound all that sorry to Michael. She sounded pretty excited, as a matter of fact. Even at thirteen, Michael could tell she was using this moment to sin some more, that she was getting off on confessing her masturbation to a handsome and celibate priest. She probably had wet panties right now.
Pubic hair as blonde as the hair on her head, glistening as she gasped . . .
This image both repulsed and excited him.
"Who's in there?"
The whisper would have shocked him to his bones if he hadn't sensed her coming. It was nearly impossible for them to sneak up on each other. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because they were twins. Michael pulled his ear away from the booth with great care and some reluctance, making sure the wood didn't creak. He turned to his twin and smiled.
"Mrs. Stevens."
She made a face. "That whore? Why do you like listening to her, anyway? Does it make your pee-pee hard?" she teased.
"No," Michael whispered in protest. "Of course not."
Frances just smiled back. It was a knowing smile. Michael reflected that lying was the other thing they couldn't do with each other.
He sighed and shrugged.
"I'll go to confession."
"Good."
That would be the end of it, he knew. The final thing they shared, the thing in his life he was most certain of, other than his faith, was that his twin would always love him, no matter what.
"Let's move away from here," he whispers.
They pad away from the confessional booth like master thieves. They head back to the living quarters, and their shared room. It was a small room. Some might even call it bleak, but it was home to them. The room was separated by a curtain hung from the ceiling that they could draw shut when they needed to. Father had put it up when Frances had begun to develop breasts.
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