If Angels Fall (14 page)

Florence lived alone, but was not lonely. She had
Buster, her budgie. And there was her hobby, true crime, mystery, and detective
stories. She walked in Hammett’s footsteps, Pronzini’s, and others. On
vacations, she took famous murder-scene tours, visiting police museums. She devoured
novels and textbooks. She clipped articles, filing them meticulously. To what
end, she didn’t know, For each day of her life was marked by the three china
and three sterling silver spoons she used for tea, which she took in the
morning, afternoon, and evening as she read, Three times daily, as a steam
plume rose from the kettle, she pondered the meaning of her life, wondering
what God’s purpose was for her. It had become her eternal question.

She now knew the answer.

And this afternoon she would act on it.

After choir rehearsal, Florence prepared to clean the
pews. She went to the utility room at the rear of the church and tugged on the
chain of a bare bulb. The room smelled of disinfectant. It had a large
janitor’s sink, bottles of furniture polish, wax, rags, pails, all neatly
organized. Florence closed the door, and checked inside her bag. Everything was
set. If it happened again today, she was ready. She slipped on her apron,
collected a rag, some polish in a pail, and went to work cleaning pews.

“And how are you this blessed afternoon, Flo? I heard
the choir from the rectory. The gang sounds wonderful.” Farther McCreeny smiled
as she gathered old church bulletins from the first pew.

“Very well thank you, Father. And you.”

“Tip top, Flo. Tip top.”

You may say so, Father, but I know you’re bearing a
heavy cross.

Father William Melbourne McCreeny had been with Our
Lady for years. A fine-looking man standing six feet, five inches tall, who at
sixty-two, still maintained the litheness of his seminary days as a basketball
player. With the exception of crack dealers and pimps, he was love by everyone.
McCreeny was instrumental in establishing a new soup kitchen in Our Lady’s
basement, using bingo proceeds to provide hot meals for the homeless. McCreeny
checked his watch, then surveyed his empty church. ”Five minutes before
afternoon confessions. I’d better get ready.” He stopped near the altar on his
way to the sacristy and turned to her. “By the way, Flo. I almost forgot. This
weekend I’ll be asking for help at the shelter. We’re getting more clients as
the word on the street goes ‘around. I know you already do so much, but please
consider it.”

“I will Father.”

He smiled his handsome smile.

Later McCreeny emerged carrying a Bible, wearing a cassock,
surplice, and purple stole. He genuflected, crossed himself before the altar.
He seemed taller. Florence’s heart fluttered. Seeing him like this emphasized
that he was a Godly man, a human tower of strength. McCreeny lit some vigil
candles at the alcove of the Virgin then proceeded to one of the confessional
booths, the rustling of his vestments echoing softly as he walked.

Overcome with fear, Florence wanted to cry out to him
and gripped a pew to steady herself. Father, help me! The words wouldn’t come.
What was happening? She had arrived at the church that morning confident she
would do what was right. Now she was consumed by doubt. McCreeny entered the
confessional. She needed his guidance. Father, please turn around! The latch
clicked. The small red ornate light above the confessional went on. McCreeny
was ready to perform the sacrament, ready to hear the confession of sins.

Florence went back to cleaning, touching her eyes with
the back of her hand. For the next hour, she concentrated on her work. During
that time nearly two dozen people trickled in and out of the church. Florence
smiled at those she knew. The children held their tiny hands firmly together at
their lips, prayer-like. Adults were less formal, clasping theirs loosely,
letting them fall below their waists. One by one they entered the curtained
side of the booth, knelt, and whispered their confessions to Farther McCreeny.
As she worked, Florence heard the shuffle of old tired feet, the smart snap of
heels, and the squeak of sneakers as each person left the booth for an
unoccupied pew where they could say their penance, some to the muted clicking
of rosary beads.

Maybe it wouldn’t happen today, she thought, allowing
herself a degree of relief. Maybe not today. Maybe not ever again?

Florence was calmer. She had nearly finished her work.
Two more pews. Then she would go home, make some tea, and read. Moving to the
last pew, she reminded herself to pick up some cream. That’s when she looked up
and all the blood drained from her face.

He
had come.

Her hand trembled. She dropped her bottle of furniture
polish. It bounced and rolled, making a terrible noise. He stood at the back,
dipped his hand in the holy water basin, and took a place in line. Florence had
little time. Suddenly he glanced at her. Florence had seen him occasionally at
the soup kitchen.

A crepe-sole shoe squeaked. A woman entered the
confessional.

He was next.

Florence collected her cleaning things into her pail,
stepped into the main aisle, genuflected, crossed herself, and glanced at the
huge crucifix behind the altar for inspiration. She went to the utility room,
tugged on the light. She ran the faucet full force, gazing at the ventilation
register near the ceiling. It was Mary Atkins who had discovered the register
was part of the ductwork system for the confessionals on the other side of the
wall. And that it was an excellent conductor of sound.

“It’s clear as a bell. Like listening in on a
telephone extension.” Mary giggle to Florence one afternoon. “You should try
it, Flo.” Mary’s eyes grew. “It’s better than the soaps.”

For a few months after the discovery, they secretly
compared the confessions they overheard. Soon they realized the sins of their
fellow churchgoers were actually minor. For Florence, the thrill wore off. And
she’d always felt uneasy about what they were doing. “I just don’t want to do
it anymore. It’s not right,” Florence told Mary, who agreed, saying she felt
ashamed and promised to stop. Florence tried to avoid the utility room when
confessions were being heard.

Except for today.

Today she wanted to hear the confession of the man she
recognized from the shelter. She
had
to hear it. But she was paralyzed,
agonizing over whether to eavesdrop on his confession. Again.

The first time was some months ago.

McCreeny was hearing confessions when she had to go in
the utility room for more polish. She was certain no one was in the
confessional with McCreeny at the time. She was wrong. A man was confessing to
him. Florence was trying to hurry, to get out, but she could not find the
polish. She kept searching, unable to avoid the voices. At first she did not
understand what she was hearing. Thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. A man
was begging Father McCreeny to absolve him. A chill inched up Florence’s spin
as she listened in horror, hearing him describe his sin in detail. She grew
nauseous, and dabbed at her face with cold water. The man implored Father
McCreeny to swear he would honor his vow and never reveal what he was hearing.
McCreeny assured him. The man hinted he would return.

During the following weeks, Florence was tortured with
indecision. She couldn’t tell Father McCreeny what she knew, nor any priest for
that matter. She couldn’t. The man would return to confess. Without warning.
Once Florence saw him leaving, and made a mental note of it. He had unique
tattoos on his arms.

As days passed, her conscience screamed at her: tell
someone!

She did.

When the three-year-old boy was abducted from the
subway, Florence called the reporter at
The San Francisco Star
who had
written about Tanita Marie Donner’s murder. But he didn’t believe her. She
knew. She couldn’t blame him. But she didn’t know what to do. What if the man
had
abducted the boy? She looked for answers in the steam cloud of her kettle. She
found one: she needed to provide proof. God showed her the way.

Now get going.

She had a few seconds. With the water still running,
Florence opened her bag, removed a miniature tape recorder she had bought a
month ago, should the man ever return. Now he was here and she was ready.
Florence set the volume and pressed the record button, like the clerk showed
her. The red recording light glowed and she stepped up on an old file cabinet
near the wall and hung the recorder by its strap from a nail above the
register. Then she locked the door and shut the water off.

Voices floated through the air duct, tinny and
dreamlike.

“Go ahead,” McCreeny’s voice was encouraging.

Silence.

“Don’t be frightened. God is present.”

Silence.

“I’ll help you begin. Bless me Father—“

“It’s me, Father,” Tanita Marie Donner’s killer said.

Reed spotted
Ann and Zach in the
Star’s
reception area.

“Could you cover for me?” Reed, standing to leave,
said to Molly Wilson, who followed his attention to his wife and son.

“Sure.” She was typing. “Just remember you’ve got the
professor coming and I’m leaving soon for an FBI interview about Becker.”

Passing a hand through his hair, tightening his tie,
he was suddenly nervous.

“Hi, Dad.” Zach leapt up. He must’ve sprouted another
inch. He was wearing a Giants’ ball cap backward, sweatshirt, jeans, Nikes, and
a beaming smile.

“Hey, big guy.” Reed hugged his son.

“Are you sure you’ve got time today? You’re not too
busy?” Ann observed the hectic newsroom.

“Naw,” He walked them to an empty room. “You look
good, Ann.”

She was letting her chestnut hair grow out. Dressed in
a pastel silk jacket, matching pants, and pearl necklace, she embodied a
successful business woman. In her fresh-scrubbed face, her soft lips, her
sculpted cheeks, and lovely brown eyes, Reed saw the woman he fell in love
with—a love evinced in their son.

The glass walls of the office faced the Metro Desk and
two dozen cubicles where reporters worked at their computers. The family sat at
an empty round table. Reed gave Zach a brown envelope.

“What’s this?”

“A present.”

Zach pulled out an action color eight-by-ten of
Giants’ left fielder Barry Bonds sliding into home. “Wow! Thanks, Dad.”

“It’s nice, Tom.”

“So, Zach, tell me how you’re doin’.”

“Well, I don’t like getting up so early so Grandma can
drive me to school. I don’t like going over the bridge so much.”

“The school’s break is coming fast, son.”

“And I miss playing with Jeff and Gordie.”

“Meet any new friends in Berkley?”

“Not really.”

“Zach, if there’s something you want to get off your
chest then now’s the time to tell us,” Reed said.

Zach put the picture down, keeping his eyes on it.
“Know what the kids at school say?”

“Tell us what the kids at school say.”

“They say my mom left my dad because he was washed up
as a reporter after making a man kill himself because of a screw up.”

Reed swallowed hard.

“That’s not true,” Ann lied.

“Is that what you think too, Zach?” Reed said.

Zach shrugged and met his father’s gaze. With his
mother’s eyes, flawless skin, he emanated innocence. “I told them my dad found
the guy who killed the little girl and the police didn’t like it. I told them I
am going to be a reporter, too.”

Reed was awed by his son. After all he had put him
through, his love survived. Unyielding. Unconditional.

“You still got to put in more time at being a kid.”

“Know what else they say?”

“What else?” Ann asked.

“They say that when your folks split and move out,
they never get back together. No matter what they tell you, it never happens.”

“Son, look. I know it’s tough,” Reed said. “But you can’t
put much stock in what kids say. Listen to your heart. We want to move back
together, that’s why we’re talking about it. And that’s better than not talking
about it, right?”