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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 knew he had to send a stronger message, that he meant business. He pulled up the hem of his brown robe until he could get his hands underneath it. He lifted his covered hands and pressed them to Santangelo’s face. Through the cloth he pinched the man’s nostrils shut with one hand and clamped the other over his mouth.

He had caught the priest by surprise. After trying and failing to take one breath the man lay still. When he thought the priest had gotten the message but was still conscious, Beaufort pulled his hands away. The priest opened his mouth and sucked loudly at the blessed air.

“I don’t want to kill you, old man. No matter what you think, I’d take no pleasure in it. Last chance,” Beaufort said. “Where’s the confession?”

Beaufort could barely see the slight move of the head that indicated negation, but negation of what he couldn’t know. He cut off the priest’s air the same as before and whispered as loudly as he dared when he had pulled his hands away and Santangelo had gotten his breath once more. “Where is it?”

“It’s all there, everything. Everything you did, and it’s far away and safe.”

“Where? Did you leave it at Lansing?”

There was almost a flicker of sympathy in those eyes that looked on Santangelo’s killer. “You’re in such a hell. It almost makes me want to absolve you.”

“Did you give it to Father Carlo?”

Taking that chance was worth it to see the old man’s face. Even that bit of name finally cut through the priest’s composure. His eyes and mouth opened wide.

But then he tried to shout for help.

Maybe what they say about the religious living longer because they lead such healthy lives had some truth to it. Even with stage four cancer it took a longer time than Beaufort had expected for the priest to die.

Beaufort picked up the priest’s right arm that dangled off the side of the bed after his struggles. He pressed the palm of the hand to his forehead as if even after death the priest had some power to cool the burning in his brain. It did no good. So, first arranging the arms next to the body, he straightened out a few wrinkles in the bedsheets. It was too dark to tell if the face was reddened where the cloth had been pressed against the man’s face. Not too suspicious, Beaufort thought.

He heard a sound out in the hallway. Beaufort slipped behind the bed, which was out from the wall and raised a bit at the head for the ease of the patient. He hoped the monk coming in was too sleepy to notice any shadows he might cast on the floor.