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Back We Were Killers Once
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

Abbot Franklin had pointed out different areas as they strolled through the abbey: the refectory, the pilgrims’ quarters, the monks’ quarters, the infirmary.

Infirmary. That sounded right.

Beaufort asked how big the infirmary was, how many monks it could hold.

They had paused outside the closed door, and Abbot Franklin lowered his voice. “It only has a couple of beds. If one of us is really sick we’re taken to a hospital. Except Father Santangelo, he’s in hospice here.”

“What’s wrong with Father Santangelo?” Beaufort had asked.

“Pancreatic cancer,” Abbot Franklin had whispered. “Lot of pain. When he first came here after retirement he was the sort of saint who could raise a glass while whipping you at the pool table. He’s not expected to live much longer. He’ll leave a hole in our community that no one could expect to fill.”

“Is he a young man?” Beaufort had asked.

“Oh, no. And that’s the blessing of it. He turned ninety-six on his last birthday.”

“Poor old guy. Does he have family?”

“Apparently he was the youngest. No one is left.”

Beaufort put on his best sympathy face. “What about friends? What about people visiting him?”

Abbot Franklin glanced at Beaufort, but if he thought anything was odd about the questions he was too polite to not respond. Oh, how helpful, these monks. So lacking in suspicion. So eager for members that you could go there and say you wanted to be a monk and they believed you. Bending over backward to show the world how good Catholic clergy could be, that they weren’t all money-grubbing pedophiles.

“Someone has called from time to time,” Abbot Franklin said, answering his question, and when Beaufort didn’t say anything, added, “A Father Carlos … something, I don’t quite remember a last name. But I don’t think he’s called in a long while.”

“Well, I’m gonna pray for him,” Beaufort said as he made the sign of the cross before the door of the infirmary. “I’m gonna pray that God won’t make him suffer much longer.”

Abbot Franklin smiled his appreciation. “Would you like to see the grounds? We have a lovely grotto dedicated to Mary.”

That was Monday and this was Thursday night. He had told himself it was wiser to wait at least a few days before returning, less chance of someone connecting his visit. It had been sixty years, for God’s sake, and Meadows didn’t seem to be in a hurry to interview the priest.