Eleventh Hour
Page 4
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“My brother—” For a moment Dane couldn’t speak, and just stood in the open doorway. He felt in his gut that if he actually said the word aloud, it would make it real and true and so unbearable he’d just fold up and die. He swallowed, wishing it were last night again, before four o’clock in the morning, before he’d gotten the call from Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD.
“It’s all right,” Savich said, walking to him, gently taking his arm. “Come in, Dane. That’s right. Let’s close the door.”
Dane shoved the door shut with his foot, turned back to Savich, and said, his voice steady and remote, “He was murdered. My brother was murdered.”
Savich was shaken. Losing a brother to a natural death was bad enough, but this? Savich said, “I’m very sorry about this. I know you and your brother were close. I want you to sit down, Dane.”
Dane shook his head, but Savich just led him to the chair, pushed it back, and gently shoved him down. He held himself as rigid as the chair back, looking straight ahead, out the window that looked out at the Justice Building.
Savich said, “Your brother was a priest?”
“Yes, he is—was. You know, I’ve got to go see to things, Savich.”
Dillon Savich, chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit at FBI headquarters, was sitting on the edge of his desk, close to Dane. He leaned forward, squeezed Dane’s shoulder, and said, “Yes, I know. This is a terrible thing, Dane. Of course you have to go take care of it. You’ll have paid leave, no problem. He was your twin, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, an identical twin. He was my mirror image. But inside, as different as we were from each other, we were still so much alike.”
Savich couldn’t imagine the pain he must be feeling, losing a brother, a twin. Dane had been in the unit for five months now, transferred in from the Seattle field office, by his request, and strongly recommended by Jimmy Maitland, Savich’s boss, who told Savich that he’d had his eye on Dane Carver for a while. A good man, he’d said, very smart, hard-nosed, tough, sometimes a hot dog, which wasn’t good, but reliable as they come. If Dane Carver gave his word on something, you could consider it done.
His birthday, Savich knew, was December 26, two hours after midnight. He’d gotten lots of silly Christmas/birthday presents at the office party on the twenty-third. He’d just turned thirty-three.
Savich said, “Do the local cops know what went down? No, back up a moment, I don’t even know where your brother lived.”
“In San Francisco. I got two calls, the first just before four a.m. last night, from an Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD, then ten minutes later, a call from my sister, Eloise, who lives down in San Jose. Delion said he was killed in the confessional, really late, nearly midnight. Can you believe that, Savich?” Dane finally looked at him straight on, and in that instant there was such rage in Dane’s eyes that it blurred into madness. He slammed his fist on the chair arm. “Can you actually believe that some asshole killed him in the confessional? At midnight? What was he doing hearing a confession at midnight?”
Savich thought Dane would break then. His breath was sharp and too fast, his eyes dilated, his hands fisted hard and tight. But he didn’t. His breathing hitched, suspended for a moment, and then he made himself breathe deeply, and held himself together. Savich said, “No, it doesn’t make sense to us, just to the person who killed him, and we’ll find out who and we’ll find out why. No, stay seated for a minute, Dane, and we’ll make some plans. Your brother’s name was Michael, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, he was Father Michael Joseph Carver. I need to go to San Francisco. I know the reputation of the department out there. They’re good, but they didn’t know my brother. Not even my sister really knew him. Only I really knew him. Oh God, I thought I’d never say this, but it’s probably better that my mom died last year. She’d wanted Michael to become a priest, prayed for it all her life, at least that’s what she always said. This would have destroyed her soul, you know?”
“Yes, I know, Dane. When did you last speak to him?”
“Two nights ago. He—he was really pleased because he’d managed to catch a teenager who’d been spraying graffiti on the church walls. He told me he was going to make the boy a Catholic. Once he was a Catholic, he’d never do that again because he wouldn’t be able to bear the guilt.” Dane smiled, just for an instant, then fell silent.
“So you didn’t sense anything wrong?”
“It’s all right,” Savich said, walking to him, gently taking his arm. “Come in, Dane. That’s right. Let’s close the door.”
Dane shoved the door shut with his foot, turned back to Savich, and said, his voice steady and remote, “He was murdered. My brother was murdered.”
Savich was shaken. Losing a brother to a natural death was bad enough, but this? Savich said, “I’m very sorry about this. I know you and your brother were close. I want you to sit down, Dane.”
Dane shook his head, but Savich just led him to the chair, pushed it back, and gently shoved him down. He held himself as rigid as the chair back, looking straight ahead, out the window that looked out at the Justice Building.
Savich said, “Your brother was a priest?”
“Yes, he is—was. You know, I’ve got to go see to things, Savich.”
Dillon Savich, chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit at FBI headquarters, was sitting on the edge of his desk, close to Dane. He leaned forward, squeezed Dane’s shoulder, and said, “Yes, I know. This is a terrible thing, Dane. Of course you have to go take care of it. You’ll have paid leave, no problem. He was your twin, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, an identical twin. He was my mirror image. But inside, as different as we were from each other, we were still so much alike.”
Savich couldn’t imagine the pain he must be feeling, losing a brother, a twin. Dane had been in the unit for five months now, transferred in from the Seattle field office, by his request, and strongly recommended by Jimmy Maitland, Savich’s boss, who told Savich that he’d had his eye on Dane Carver for a while. A good man, he’d said, very smart, hard-nosed, tough, sometimes a hot dog, which wasn’t good, but reliable as they come. If Dane Carver gave his word on something, you could consider it done.
His birthday, Savich knew, was December 26, two hours after midnight. He’d gotten lots of silly Christmas/birthday presents at the office party on the twenty-third. He’d just turned thirty-three.
Savich said, “Do the local cops know what went down? No, back up a moment, I don’t even know where your brother lived.”
“In San Francisco. I got two calls, the first just before four a.m. last night, from an Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD, then ten minutes later, a call from my sister, Eloise, who lives down in San Jose. Delion said he was killed in the confessional, really late, nearly midnight. Can you believe that, Savich?” Dane finally looked at him straight on, and in that instant there was such rage in Dane’s eyes that it blurred into madness. He slammed his fist on the chair arm. “Can you actually believe that some asshole killed him in the confessional? At midnight? What was he doing hearing a confession at midnight?”
Savich thought Dane would break then. His breath was sharp and too fast, his eyes dilated, his hands fisted hard and tight. But he didn’t. His breathing hitched, suspended for a moment, and then he made himself breathe deeply, and held himself together. Savich said, “No, it doesn’t make sense to us, just to the person who killed him, and we’ll find out who and we’ll find out why. No, stay seated for a minute, Dane, and we’ll make some plans. Your brother’s name was Michael, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, he was Father Michael Joseph Carver. I need to go to San Francisco. I know the reputation of the department out there. They’re good, but they didn’t know my brother. Not even my sister really knew him. Only I really knew him. Oh God, I thought I’d never say this, but it’s probably better that my mom died last year. She’d wanted Michael to become a priest, prayed for it all her life, at least that’s what she always said. This would have destroyed her soul, you know?”
“Yes, I know, Dane. When did you last speak to him?”
“Two nights ago. He—he was really pleased because he’d managed to catch a teenager who’d been spraying graffiti on the church walls. He told me he was going to make the boy a Catholic. Once he was a Catholic, he’d never do that again because he wouldn’t be able to bear the guilt.” Dane smiled, just for an instant, then fell silent.
“So you didn’t sense anything wrong?”
