Backfire
Page 55
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When she walked back to the vestibule, she saw Father Gautier standing by the big closed double doors, arms crossed over his chest, an umbrella open at his feet to dry. He was St. Francis’s longtime pastor, always soft-spoken and patient. Father Gautier gave her a long look. “I hope you found what you needed, Eve. I noticed you weren’t in church today. Is something troubling you?”
She told him that Mickey O’Rourke, whom Father Gautier had known as his parishioner far longer than she had, was dead, a violent death. She gave him no details.
He took her hand as he closed his eyes a moment. He whispered, “I am so very sorry, for his family, for all of us. Requiem in pace.”
They stood quietly for a moment, then Father Gautier said, “You’re wet,” and his voice held a touch of humor, bless him.
Eve said, “Not so much now. It’s so very warm inside. I think I’d like to stay that way.”
When Father Gautier left her, she pulled out her cell. “Harry, sorry to call when you’re just getting home. Would you come get me at Saint Francis Church on Larkin? It’s not too late, and I could use the company. I can make us something to eat, if you like.”
“If you’re up to it, so am I,” he said.
Judge Sherlock’s home
Mulberry Street, Pacific Heights
San Francisco
Sunday evening
Sean was lying boneless against Savich’s shoulder, Savich stroking his back. He’d fallen asleep between his grandparents in front of the TV watching Sunday Night Football.
He took Sean to the second guest room next to his and Sherlock’s bedroom, gently eased him down on his back on the twin bed, the crib long stored away in the basement. He pulled the dinosaur sheet and two blankets over him, since Sean liked to be warm when he slept. He kissed him, breathed in his kid smell, and straightened. He felt the light touch of Sherlock’s hand on his arm.
“He’s so beautiful, so perfect, and we made him,” she whispered. “Isn’t that amazing?”
Savich turned and hugged her. He said against her ear, “I was thinking that right now it’d be good to be as innocent as Sean.” He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. “I can’t get Mickey O’Rourke’s face out of my mind, or that farm shack where he was beaten and murdered.” He hugged her more tightly. “Life is so fragile. You’re here, then you’re not, and it’s final, no going back, no changing anything at all.”
She held him, stroking her hands up and down his back and said against his cheek, “Dillon, I’ve been thinking about what Cheney said—that a woman wouldn’t have killed Mickey O’Rourke like that. I don’t see it, either. Not only was the killing savage, she would have had to carry O’Rourke back to the car, a good distance from the shack, and then she would have had to carry him an even longer distance to bury him. Remember, Ellie and Rufino said after he left O’Rourke’s grave, they heard the car start up from a good ways away? Sue is slightly built. Even with superior upper-body strength, I don’t see how she could have managed. O’Rourke was a big guy—taller than you. What does it mean?
Savich said, “It means our Sue isn’t a woman.”
Hyde Street, Russian Hill
San Francisco
Sunday night
Eve’s back hurt so badly when they arrived at her condo she didn’t think she could walk a step until Harry’s hand cupped her elbow. “Harry’s hands are here to minister to you so you have a chance at some sleep tonight. First, though, you need a long, hot shower. I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I can make you some coffee.”
“I’ll make it while you shower. After you’re dry and warmed up, I’ll see to your back. I’ll call Feng Nian Palace and get us some Chinese delivered. We can stretch out in front of the TV, watch what’s left of the football game, and munch on egg rolls.”
After her shower, Eve walked into the living room to see the Patriots’ QB Tom Brady complete a pass to Wes Welker and gave a small cheer. “I think Wes Welker would make a great marshal,” she said. “He’s strong and fast, and you can tell that brain of his is high-voltage.” She grinned down at Harry as she tossed him the tube of muscle cream. She carefully sat beside him on the sofa, eased her robe off her shoulders, and leaned forward. Her hair was loose down her back. He looked at her hair for a moment, then shoved it over her shoulder and began smoothing the cream over her back. He stroked her until the final whistle blew. She really didn’t want him to stop, but finally she said, “Your hands will cramp up. I’m fine now, thank you. I can’t believe how stiff I was. Goodness, it’s almost nine o’clock. Are you hungry yet?”
She told him that Mickey O’Rourke, whom Father Gautier had known as his parishioner far longer than she had, was dead, a violent death. She gave him no details.
He took her hand as he closed his eyes a moment. He whispered, “I am so very sorry, for his family, for all of us. Requiem in pace.”
They stood quietly for a moment, then Father Gautier said, “You’re wet,” and his voice held a touch of humor, bless him.
Eve said, “Not so much now. It’s so very warm inside. I think I’d like to stay that way.”
When Father Gautier left her, she pulled out her cell. “Harry, sorry to call when you’re just getting home. Would you come get me at Saint Francis Church on Larkin? It’s not too late, and I could use the company. I can make us something to eat, if you like.”
“If you’re up to it, so am I,” he said.
Judge Sherlock’s home
Mulberry Street, Pacific Heights
San Francisco
Sunday evening
Sean was lying boneless against Savich’s shoulder, Savich stroking his back. He’d fallen asleep between his grandparents in front of the TV watching Sunday Night Football.
He took Sean to the second guest room next to his and Sherlock’s bedroom, gently eased him down on his back on the twin bed, the crib long stored away in the basement. He pulled the dinosaur sheet and two blankets over him, since Sean liked to be warm when he slept. He kissed him, breathed in his kid smell, and straightened. He felt the light touch of Sherlock’s hand on his arm.
“He’s so beautiful, so perfect, and we made him,” she whispered. “Isn’t that amazing?”
Savich turned and hugged her. He said against her ear, “I was thinking that right now it’d be good to be as innocent as Sean.” He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. “I can’t get Mickey O’Rourke’s face out of my mind, or that farm shack where he was beaten and murdered.” He hugged her more tightly. “Life is so fragile. You’re here, then you’re not, and it’s final, no going back, no changing anything at all.”
She held him, stroking her hands up and down his back and said against his cheek, “Dillon, I’ve been thinking about what Cheney said—that a woman wouldn’t have killed Mickey O’Rourke like that. I don’t see it, either. Not only was the killing savage, she would have had to carry O’Rourke back to the car, a good distance from the shack, and then she would have had to carry him an even longer distance to bury him. Remember, Ellie and Rufino said after he left O’Rourke’s grave, they heard the car start up from a good ways away? Sue is slightly built. Even with superior upper-body strength, I don’t see how she could have managed. O’Rourke was a big guy—taller than you. What does it mean?
Savich said, “It means our Sue isn’t a woman.”
Hyde Street, Russian Hill
San Francisco
Sunday night
Eve’s back hurt so badly when they arrived at her condo she didn’t think she could walk a step until Harry’s hand cupped her elbow. “Harry’s hands are here to minister to you so you have a chance at some sleep tonight. First, though, you need a long, hot shower. I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I can make you some coffee.”
“I’ll make it while you shower. After you’re dry and warmed up, I’ll see to your back. I’ll call Feng Nian Palace and get us some Chinese delivered. We can stretch out in front of the TV, watch what’s left of the football game, and munch on egg rolls.”
After her shower, Eve walked into the living room to see the Patriots’ QB Tom Brady complete a pass to Wes Welker and gave a small cheer. “I think Wes Welker would make a great marshal,” she said. “He’s strong and fast, and you can tell that brain of his is high-voltage.” She grinned down at Harry as she tossed him the tube of muscle cream. She carefully sat beside him on the sofa, eased her robe off her shoulders, and leaned forward. Her hair was loose down her back. He looked at her hair for a moment, then shoved it over her shoulder and began smoothing the cream over her back. He stroked her until the final whistle blew. She really didn’t want him to stop, but finally she said, “Your hands will cramp up. I’m fine now, thank you. I can’t believe how stiff I was. Goodness, it’s almost nine o’clock. Are you hungry yet?”
