by Mark Stone
That seemed entirely foreign to me. Both my mother and my grandfather were God fearing people. They instilled a sense of faith in me from an early age and, of all the things I was thankful to them for, that might have been the most important.
I couldn't imagine what life would have been like without it.
"I thought that maybe if I explored that aspect of things, it might help me out," Peter said. "I know that might seem crazy or even sad, but the truth is, I didn't know where to turn. I saw Father Jameson a couple of months ago. He was coming out of the grocery store of all places. He must have seen something missing in me, because he looked right at me and said that the doors of his church were always open." He shook his head again. "I laughed it off at first, but a few weeks later I found myself sitting across from him in his rectory office, spilling my guts like he was a therapist or something."
"He's a good man," I said. "Saw me through a lot. He saw Boomer through more than a lot." I looked over at my brother. 'You can wait with the others if you want. Father Jameson has a big group of people in there, all praying that he makes it out. I'm guessing they wouldn't mind another set of clasped hands."
"I think they might," Peter said, looking over at me with a closed mouth smile. "I'm sure the people in there love Father Jameson, but I'm sure they love you too. Our father wasn't good to you, Dillon." He blinked. "I wasn't either. I wouldn't want to put any of them out with my presence. Besides, I haven't exactly worked my way up to praying yet. Maybe someday." He nodded. "I just wanted to come and clear my name, in case you come across it in your investigation. I can account for my whereabouts tonight as well, in case you're wondering."
"Not yet," I admitted. "But I might be later."
"I was at home with my wife," Peter said. "Security at my cul-de-sac can confirm. We have tapes of people entering and exiting." He swallowed hard. "But that's not the only reason I came here tonight, Dillon. In truth, that could have waited until the morning."
"Then why didn't it?" I asked, pushing myself off the truck and staring my brother down. "What else is going on?"
"You don't think this was an accident, do you?" he asked, taking a deep breath.
"I'm not sure," I said.
"Yes, you are," he replied. "I might not know you as well as I should, but I recognize that look. Things aren't adding up for you." He took a step closer to me. "I don't think it was an accident either, Dillon. I think someone has been after him. I think someone wants him dead, and I think I know who it is."
Chapter 7
“Tell me what you know, Peter,” I demanded, my chest tight and my stomach in knots. My brother was trying to do the right thing here or, at least, that’s what it looked like. I could respect that. In fact, it might have even been a step up from the man he used to be, but I couldn’t give him props for that just yet.
Today had been too dramatic, too much of a rollercoaster. It started with the highs of cracking a case involving a missing girl and finally getting to go out on a long awaited date with Rebecca to being confronted with Charlotte on that date and then the gut punch of what had happened to Father Jameson. I was spinning and now that my brother was here, opening up and giving me information that hopefully would shed some light on what really happened to the priest tonight, it was taking all I could do to focus on what was in front of me. Any sort of acknowledgement of Peter doing the right thing would have to wait until I knew Father Jameson was going to survive.
“I don’t know anything for sure,” Peter answered, raising his hands in front of him. “But I did have my suspicions that something was going on with the man.”
“Cut to the chase,” I said. “If someone tried to kill this man, then every second counts, especially this soon after the crime.”
“Like I said, I’ve been to see him a few times,” Peter started, running a tired hand over his face again, his eyes almost glassy as he looked right through me. “Most of the time, we met in his church office or rectory, but the last two times, we met in his house.”
“That’s odd,” I muttered. For as long as I had known Father Jameson and as well as I thought we got along, I had never been to the man’s home. We had gone through the concession process numerous times, I had come to him for advice and the like after my mother died, and I’d even helped with church charity drives in the past. All of that was done on church grounds. None of it ever brought me to his house. In fact, I had never known any parishioner who had ever set foot inside the man’s home.
Until now, I suppose.
“He said he was feeling under the weather or something,” Peter said, shaking his head. “Said that was why he hadn’t performed mass the last couple of weeks.”
I blinked. I was ashamed to say that I’d missed church the last couple of weeks. Cases had kept me busy and though I felt a little torn about it, Father Jameson had given me absolution on the phone. He hadn’t mentioned anything about being sick though, and certainly hadn’t sounded poorly when we spoke.
“Alright,” I said, taking in Peter’s words and deciding to hold my questions off until later. “What happened when you saw him? That is what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”
Peter nodded. “We always talked about me, about what would make me happy or feel complete and, honestly, I never felt like I was boring him.” Peter sighed. “Until we started meeting at his house. He seemed off then, like he was preoccupied with something. I assumed he just wasn’t feeling well and that maybe it was taking a toll on him, but the last time I saw him something happened.”
“What?” I asked, swallowing hard and leaning toward my brother. ‘What happened, Peter?”
“His phone rang,” Peter said, his eyes moving to the ground. “He excused himself and suggested that I put on a pot of tea and wait for him.”
“Father Jameson and his tea,” I muttered, resembling countless occasions when I’d see the man drinking his beverage of choice.
“I didn’t. Tea isn’t my thing,” Peter said, giving me information I absolutely didn’t need. “I did need to go to the restroom while I was waiting though. I had no idea where it was and, while I was looking for it, I inadvertently heard some of Father Jameson’s conversation.” Peter’s eyes moved back up to me. “He was screaming at someone, Dillon. I had never heard him even so much as use a harsh word, and now he was screaming.”
My eyes narrowed. I knew the priest a lot longer than Peter had and I’d venture a lot better. Still, this was unlike him. The idea of someone—anyone—provoking Father Jameson into a screaming fit seemed about as likely to me as the Gulf turning red tomorrow morning. I couldn’t fathom it.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Snippets of things I didn’t really understand,” Peter admitted. “I think he said something like ‘Of course I understand. You’re the one who doesn’t understand.’ Then he said ‘Where is it?’.” Peter shook his head. “I remember because, when he rounded the corner to find me standing there, he had an address written on his palm.”
“An address?” I asked, my hands tightening into fists at my sides. “Do you happen to remember what that address was?”
“Not all of it,” Peter admitted. “But that’s only because his finger was blocking some of it. The part of it I saw read ‘143 Calhoun Drive’.”
“Calhoun drive,” I repeated, the same road Father Jameson was run down on. That couldn’t be a coincidence. My intention had been to go to that road for some clue as to what went down with the priest. Turned out I hadn’t even needed to leave the parking lot. “How long ago was that?” I asked, clearing my throat. “That you heard Father Jameson have that argument?”
“Three days,” Peter said, again looking at the ground. “I didn’t think it was my business. I promise you that, if I’d have thought there was any chance it would have led to something like this—”
“I know that,” I answered quickly. And the strange thing was, it was the truth. Peter might not have been my favorite person in the world. Hell, there was even a time no
t so long ago when I thought he was responsible for a coldblooded murder. I knew him better than that now though. He wasn’t the type to allow someone to be killed. At least, that was the way I saw it. “And let’s not jump the gun. We still don’t know what’s happened here. Just because there may have been something strange going on with Father Jameson a few days ago doesn’t mean this was anything other than a tragic accident.”
Peter gave me a look that insinuated he didn’t believe anything I had just said, which was fair. Even before he laid this new information out in front of me, I had my doubts about the innocence of all of this.
“Any idea who might have driven him to Calhoun drive?” I asked, crossing my hands over my chest.
“I told you everything I know,” Peter said. “I know it isn’t much, but maybe it can help.”
“Help me find the person responsible for hurting Father Jameson or help me keep your name off of the suspect list?” I asked, glaring at him.
“Does it have to be one or the other?” Peter responded. “Look, Father Jameson seems like a good man. He listened to me when I had no one else to speak to. The last thing I ever wanted to see was any harm come to him. When he wakes up—”
“If,” I said, cutting Peter off. “If he wakes up, he’ll be able to tell us what we need to know about what happened. Even if he didn’t see the person driving the car that hit him, he’ll presumably know if someone wants him dead. His injuries are severe though.” I cleared my throat. “I talked to the doctor performing surgery on him before she went into the operating room, when she was receiving the information about his condition,” I said, remembering Rebecca as she took in all the intel as calmly as I’d ever seen her as I rushed to the hospital, nervous as a cat. “It’s not good, and there’s a good chance he either won’t wake up or won’t be the same as he was when he went out. Something about brain swelling.” I shook my head and blinked hard, determined to keep tears out of my eyes. “I’m doing this in case he doesn’t, in case he dies. He deserves justice, even if he can’t ask for it himself.” I turned, rounding the truck and heading toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Peter asked, seemingly shocked that I was moving again.
“To look into this,” I said, nodding at him.
“Are you going to go to the address I told you about?” he continued, his eyes wide.
“I’m going to go where I’m going to go, Peter,” I answered. “You’re not a suspect at this point. You want to keep it that way, then maybe don’t ask me too many questions about this investigation.”
He blinked and nodded, obviously still in shock about everything.
“Look,” I said, opening the door and breathing heavy. “Reasons aside, I appreciate you coming forward with what you know.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you kept what I told you to yourself.” He sighed. “Outside of the official capacity in which I’m sure you’ll have to use it. I asked for discretion from Father Jameson. He was kind enough to oblige and I’d hope to receive the same from you.”
I leered at my brother. “There are worse things in the world than people knowing you’re trying to better yourself.”
“Maybe where you’re from,” Peter answered. “But I just narrowly made it through an attempted takeover of my company. I’m surrounded by vultures, Peter. I’m encircled by people who want to take what’s mine, who insist that I’m not fit to even be part of my company, let alone lead it. Those people would see any talk of me speaking to a priest as weakness, as confirmation that their fears are well founded.” He pushed off the truck and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “being a better person is one thing. Being an effective one is something completely different.” He took another deep breath and turned away from me. “Good luck with the investigation, Dillon. I really mean that.”
Chapter 8
It was the dead of night when I made my way to address Peter had remembered as being scrawled on Father Jameson’s hand the other day and the world was asleep. While Naples had all the trappings of a big city, pieces of it still had the distinct flair of the small coastal town it started out as. This wasn’t New York, where the city never slept, or even Chicago, where there was a nighttime scene nearly as vibrant as the one that existed during the day.
Sure, there were clubs here, places where young people could go dancing or out to meet people when whatever ridiculous dating app they used to hook up was found lacking. This was the middle of the week though, and as close to off season as Naples got to be anymore. Things had warmed up North. The snowbirds had gone, taking their rambunctious teenagers with them and leaving us with the sort of growing heat that all but the most hardcore of tourists found to be oppressive.
As a result, things started closing earlier as Naples settled into a less busy routine and catering to the needs of a clientele that was decidedly older.
That was evident as I crossed through town on my way to Calhoun drive. The businesses were closed and the streets were all but empty. That struck me as wrong somehow. Maybe it was because, in my still shocked mind, I figured everyone in town should be going through what I was going through right that moment. Everyone should know what it was to wait with bated breath and wonder if someone you’ve known since you were a kid was going to pull the night. That was selfish though, and more than a little off base. Just because I believed Father Jameson to be the kind of man the entire world should stop and rally around in his time of need didn’t mean it agreed, and it certainly didn’t mean it would oblige if it did.
Still, there was something cleansing about being on my own, about heading off to do what I liked to think I did best, chase down leads and untangle webs.
On my own, I could focus. I wouldn’t have to worry about Boomer breaking down or distracting me. I could let my mind work and, with any luck, figure out just what happened to the priest tonight.
I made my way to Calhoun drive, pulling my truck over to the side of the road and cutting the engine off as I got out and walked toward the crime scene.
A few orange traffic cones held up a square of police tape that wasn’t even big enough to block the entire road. That made sense. This was a one way drive and the people who lived on this street would have to be able to get out to work in the morning. Besides, Boomer had informed me that people had been out to case the area, to look for things and collect evidence. I hadn’t seen Emma at the hospital. Like the rest of us, she had a lot of respect for Father Jameson. So I had to imagine she was over here, putting her forensic skills to good use.
I settled in front of the square, wondering what they still had to check out in the morning. Whatever it was wasn’t delicate enough to shut the entire road down. My guess was they just wanted to give the area one more overview for good measure.
Kneeling in front of the space, I decided to do that myself.
A large spot discolored the pavement as I knelt. I realized with a sickening thud in my stomach that what I was looking at was blood, blood from someone I cared about deeply. I took a deep breath and lifted my head, surveying the area further. There were no skid marks on the road. Boomer might tell me that was because whoever hit Father Jameson likely didn’t see him and, as such, didn’t have time to stop. While that might be true there was another possible explanation. If someone did see him coming and wanted him dead, they wouldn’t hit the brakes either. They’d just keep going.
But who would be here? This was a residential street; a dead end with no businesses or other exits. If someone came here, it was almost always because they either lived here or knew someone who did. That meant the cars here would be familiar to the neighbors and any that weren’t would almost certainly stand out.
I stood, blinking hard at the pavement. I should have been here. I should have come right to the crime scene instead of doing what Boomer asked and heading to the hospital. If I’d have done that, I wouldn’t have these questions. I would know for a fact that this place was investigated properly because I would have done it myself. Crime scenes w
ere like messages written in the sand though. Even if the tide didn’t come in and wash it all away, time would cause the clarity to fade.
I turned, running a hand through my sandy hair. I needed to get to the address on this street. I needed to—
That was when I saw it. A drop of blood outside of the circle, and then another and another. It was a trail, much smaller and less noticeable than the mass of blood within the square, but there nonetheless.
I walked toward it, looking as I followed the trail off the road and watched it disappear into a thicket of tall, unkempt grass.
My mind raced. Was this someone else’s blood? That didn’t seem likely but, if it was Father Jameson’s blood, that either meant that he’d gotten back up after being run over and walked around or it meant that he was already bleeding when he was hit by the car.
My money was on the latter option. A man of his age wouldn’t have stood up after a hit like that and, even if he had, he would be pouring blood. It wouldn’t be the delicate little spots I saw here.
No. Father Jameson was already injured when he was hit by the car. He was walking away from something, very likely running from something. But what, and from where?
“143 Calhoun drive,” I muttered to myself, repeating the address Peter had given me. I would bet I’d find my answers there.
Treading more quickly now, pushed forward by my newest revelation, I read the mailboxes along the street, looking for the address I needed.
Finding it quickly, I rushed toward the brown and yellow house it correlated with, swallowing hard as I saw dots of blood running back up the driveway. He had gotten hurt here, and I was about to find out why.