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Back We Were Killers Once Save as PDF
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

Beaufort drew his hand away and put the glass back on the table without letting himself be taunted. Then he said, “Okay. Talk.”

When Santangelo did not talk, Beaufort picked up the morphine dispenser and moved it to the table next to the bed.

“There was a confession,” Santangelo said. “The penitent said you were still alive and dangerous. That you threatened to hurt someone. I always suspected that included me.”

“The penitent. Dick Hickock,” Beaufort said. “Say his name. We both know it.”

“Richard Eugene Hickock. Was everything true, what he said about you?” Santangelo asked.

Beaufort felt like the priest was baiting him, and tried not to feel that. “What difference could it make?”

“You’re the one who’s still searching for the answer.”

“And you’re the one who can give it to me. Tell me what he confessed to.”

“Sorry, no can do. I don’t make up the canonical rules. I just follow them.”

“You smug bastard. Was it in writing?”

“Interesting question. If I had a document, and the document made clear who the penitent was, what would I do with that document? Now that I’m dying, who would I give it to? These are great mysteries, yes.” Saying all that exhausted Santangelo, and his head seemed to sink further into the pillow afterward. His hand fluttered over where the morphine dispenser had been.

Beaufort took his index finger and found the pulse in the side of Santangelo’s throat. For a dying man it was pretty strong. Maybe the fear he said he didn’t feel made this so.

“Have you talked with Detective Ian Meadows? Maybe just over the phone? Did you tell him you have the confession?” Beaufort asked.

“That’s three questions and you are, as they say in baseball, striking out.” Santangelo’s eyes gleamed in the dark. He may have been a priest, but he would have made a damn good poker player. He went on, “Do you know, I can tell someone that someone meeting your description was here without breaking the seal of confession? A very small man, with a full head of silver hair, and a face like a weasel’s.”

Somewhere a bell sounded.

“What was that?” Beaufort asked.

“That’s the call for midnight prayers for the die-hards. One of them will check on me.”

“We’re running out of time. Do you understand what I can do?”

“You think it matters to me whether I get another twenty-four hours? I’m near death and can think of less banal ways to spend my last moments.” And the smallest of smiles, or a grimace of pain.