Desperate Measures

7

The priest was taking off his vestments, setting them on a counter, when he noticed Pittman enter. Deliberate movements and cordlike sinews visible on the priest’s forearms suggested a man who kept his mind and body in condition and control. He became still, watching Pittman approach.

“May I help you?” the priest asked.

“Father Dandridge?”

“That’s correct.”

“I need to speak to you.”

“Very well.” The priest waited.

As Pittman hesitated, the priest cocked his head. “You look nervous. Is this a personal matter… something for confession?”

“No. Yes. I mean, it is personal, but… What I need to speak to you about-” Pittman felt apprehensive about the reaction he would get-“is Jonathan Millgate.”

The priest’s dark eyes assessed him. “Yes, I remember you from the Mass. The anguish on your face as you came up for communion. As if the weight of the entire world were on your shoulders.”

“That’s how it feels.”

“Understandably. If what the newspapers say about you is correct, Mr. Pittman.”

Panic. It had never occurred to Pittman that the priest would be able to identify him. Nerves quickening, he swung toward the door, about to flee.

“No,” Father Dandridge said. “Please. Don’t go. Be calm.”

Something in the priest’s voice made Pittman hesitate.

“I give you my word,” Father Dandridge said. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

Pittman’s stomach cramped. “How did you know…?”

“Who you are?” Father Dandridge gestured, inadvertently drawing Pittman’s attention to his scarred left hand. “Jonathan Millgate and I had a special relationship. It shouldn’t be surprising that I would have read every newspaper article and watched every television report I could find to learn more about what happened to him. I have studied your photograph many times. I recognized you immediately.”

Pittman couldn’t seem to get enough air. “It’s important that you believe this. I didn’t kill him.”

“Important to me or you?”

“I tried to save him, not harm him.” Pittman was suddenly conscious of the amplifying echo in the small room. He glanced nervously toward the archway that led to the altar.

Father Dandridge gazed in that direction, as well. The church was almost empty. A few elderly men and women remained kneeling, their heads bowed in prayer.

“No one seems to have heard you,” Father Dandridge said. “But the next Mass is scheduled to begin in half an hour. The church will soon be full.” He pointed toward two men who entered at the back of the church.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“I ask you again, do you want confession?”

“What I want is what you promised at the end of the Mass. Peace.”

Father Dandridge intensified his gaze, then nodded. “Come with me.