Field of Graves(42)

He let himself out of the door quietly, as if she wouldn’t notice the beep on the lock as it disengaged. Taylor didn’t turn, just shifted her weight to her other foot. He didn’t know what to say, but she took care of that.

“What’s up, Baldwin?” she asked. He didn’t know how she knew it was him, but was grateful she had initiated the conversation.

“I had a feeling you might want to talk.”

She whirled around, and he could see she had been crying; her nose was red and her eyes puffy. He felt a pang of relief. This gorgeous woman wasn’t perfect; she looked like hell when she cried.

“Talk about what? That this case is getting to me? That I’m feeling overwhelmed and pissed and utterly incapable of stopping this predator? That I’m having panic—”

She stopped herself, and Baldwin realized she must feel she was letting way too much information out. He didn’t blame her. He was a stranger to her. But she’d said enough to let him know she was in pain, and it broke something inside him. He just wanted to reach out and help.

With a last deep inhale, she flipped the half-smoked cigarette out in the street and pushed past him to the door. Baldwin reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Don’t, Taylor. Talk to me.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know you, Baldwin. I don’t know if I want to. Every time I look at you I get the feeling...ahh, screw it. I don’t need this right now.” Yet she didn’t move to grab her passkey. Baldwin seized the moment, spoke quietly, still holding her hand.

“Taylor, circumstance has brought us together in a pretty bizarre way. A couple of days ago, I was willing to be gone from this world, and the next thing I know I’m working a case with a bunch of people who would probably prefer I head back to Virginia and leave them alone. I can’t get a handle on what’s happening either. Maybe I’m running from my own problems by trying to help you with yours. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. But I’m here for you if you want me.”

“You’re here for me?”

He could see he’d said the wrong thing. Her eyes were blazing, her face suddenly transformed into anger. He locked in on her eyes, and felt himself lost in her internal storm. They are the most peculiar shade of gray, he thought to himself. They looked just like the storm clouds that had been rolling through the sky for the past few days. He heard her voice from a distance, and drew himself out of his momentary trance.

“What do you think you can do, Dr. Baldwin?” The sarcasm was biting, and he involuntarily winced. “You think you can ride in here on your white horse and make everything right? You can’t. There are some things you have no idea about, and my life is on the top of the list.” She whipped her hand out of his and drew the passkey through the lock. The door almost struck him as a gust of wind blew it back on its hinges. He watched Taylor stalk down the hall, shoulders straight, back strong.

He smiled ruefully to himself, and looking back over his shoulder at the sky turning black, he whispered, “My white horse? You were the first one in the saddle.”





33



Father Francis Xavier was tired. He’d been hearing confessions for the past three hours, absolving his flock of their daily sins. A mundane bunch today: The most heinous thing he’d heard was from a young woman having lustful thoughts for her boyfriend. At least she’d come to confession. In this day and age, the modernization of the Church sometimes seemed to undermine the very morality its young members were taught to practice. He doubted he’d made much of an impression. He’d probably hear from the same girl next week, asking forgiveness for going through with the act. Oh well. He was doing the best he could.

He emerged from the confessional, stretching his tired back and deciding what to do for dinner. He removed his stole as he walked toward his office. He was expecting a student from Aquinas, Mary Margaret de Rossi, for a quick tea and chat in an hour. Maybe he’d convince her to head up to Starbucks and have some coffee instead. It would be quiet enough to talk and maybe cover some of her Latin language work. He had been tutoring her for several weeks. Her enthusiasm to learn the dead language heartened his soul, and he was thrilled that his young friend wanted to understand more of the ways of the Church. After coffee, he could pick something up on his way home, or run through the buffet line at Belle Meade Cafeteria, get a real meal. One advantage to living in the South, he thought wryly. Meat and threes.

As he turned the corner into the hallway to the administrative offices, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. A man had entered the church and was making a beeline for the confessionals.

“Sir, I’m done for the day. I’ll be hearing confessions again tomorrow morning at ten. I’d be happy to hear your confession then.”

But the man ignored him and ducked into the rosewood box, quickly shutting the door behind him. Father Xavier sighed. Perhaps the man hadn’t heard him. He made his way back to the confessionals, slipped into his side, and repeated his statement. There was no sound from the other side of the box.

“My son?” he asked.

“You will hear my confession now, Father. I have no time left.”

The voice was low, so soft that Father Xavier could barely hear him. There was something in the tone that scared him. He felt a chill snake down his spine. He sat down, draping his stole over his shoulders.