{"product_id":"eleventh-hour-isbn-9780515135732","title":"Eleventh Hour","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author, Catherine Coulter, comes \u003ci\u003eEleventh Hour\u003c\/i\u003e. The murder of a priest leads FBI agents Sherlock and Savich to their most baffling case yet, in this riveting novel of suspense.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCatherine Coulter won acclaim for her \"fast-paced twists and turns, believable dialogue, and case of well-developed characters\" (\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e). Now Coulter delivers the suspense thriller of her career in \u003ci\u003eEleventh Hour\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen FBI agent Dane Carver's twin brother, Father Michael Joseph, is brutally murdered in his San Francisco church, husband-and-wife agents Lacey Sherlock and Dillon Savich take a personal interest in the investigation. Then Nicola \"Nick\" Jones, a homeless woman and the only witness to the shooting, is scared out of her mind because she's trying to hide from her own monsters - who are drawing closer and closer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chase goes from San Francisco to the Premiere Studios in Los Angeles and its new television hit, a show all about murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePacked with surprises, \u003ci\u003eEleventh Hour\u003c\/i\u003e finds Catherine Coulter at her quintessential best.\"VINTAGE COULTER: exciting, enthralling and totally mesmerizing.\" -\u003cb\u003eBookBrowser\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Fast-paced romantic [and] suspenseful.\" -\u003cb\u003eBooklist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eCatherine Coulter\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the FBI Thrillers featuring husband and wife team Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock. She is also the author—with J. T. Ellison—of the Brit in the FBI series. She lives in Sausalito, California.S A N F R A N C I S C O\u003cp\u003eNick sat quietly in the midnight gloom of the nave,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehunched forward, her head in her arms resting on the pew\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein front of her. She was here because Father Michael\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoseph had begged her to come, had begged her to let him\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehelp her. The least she could do was talk to him, couldn’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe? She’d wanted to come late, when everyone else was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ealready home asleep, when the streets were empty, and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe’d agreed, even smiled at her. He was a fine man, kind\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand loving toward his fellow man and toward God.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWould she wait? She sighed at the thought. She’d given\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher word, he’d made her give her word, known somehow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat it would keep her here. She watched him walk over to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe confessional, watched with surprise as his step suddenly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elagged, and he paused a moment, his hand reaching\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor the small handle on the confessional door. He didn’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewant to open that door, she thought, staring at him. He\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e18882_ch01.qxd 4\/15\/03 5:19 AM Page 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edidn’t want to go in. Then, at last, he seemed to straighten,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eopened the door and stepped inside.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain, there was utter silence in the big church. The air\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eitself seemed to settle after Father Michael Joseph stepped\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto that small confined space. The deep black shadows\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eweren’t content to fill the corners of the church, they even\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecrept down the center aisle, and soon she was swallowed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eup in them. There was a patch of moonlight coming\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethrough the tall stained-glass windows.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt should have been peaceful, but it didn’t feel that way.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was something else in the church, something that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewasn’t restful, that wasn’t remotely spiritual. She fidgeted\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the silence.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe heard one of the outer church doors open. She turned\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto see the man who was going to make his midnight confession\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewalk briskly into the church. He looked quite ordinary,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eslender, with a long Burberry raincoat and thick dark hair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe watched him pause, look right and left, but he didn’t see\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher, she was in the shadows. She watched him walk to the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econfessional where Father Michael Joseph waited, watched\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehim open the confessional door and slip inside.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain, silence and shadows hovered around her. She\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas part of the shadows now, looking out toward the confessional\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom the dim, vague light. She heard nothing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow long did a confession take? Being a Protestant, she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehad no idea. There must be, she thought, some correlation\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebetween the number and severity of the sins and the length\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof the confession. She started to smile at that, but it quickly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efell away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe felt a rush of cold air over her, covering her for a\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elong moment before it moved on. How very odd, she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethought, and pulled her sweater tighter around her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe looked again at the altar, perhaps seeking inspiration,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esome sort of sign, and felt ridiculous.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter Father Michael Joseph had finished, what was she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esupposed to do? Let him take her hand in his big warm\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eones, and tell him everything? Sure, like she’d ever let that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehappen. She continued to look up at the altar, its flowing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshape blurred in the dim light, the shadows creeping about\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eits edges, soft and otherworldly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe Father Michael Joseph wanted her to sit here\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003equietly with nothing and no one around her. She thought in\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat moment that even though he wanted her to talk to him,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe wanted her to speak to God more. But there were no\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eprayers inside her. Perhaps there were, deep in her heart,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut she really didn’t want to look there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo much had happened, and yet so little. Women she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edidn’t know were dead. She wasn’t. At least not yet. He\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehad so many resources, so many eyes and ears, but for now\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe was safe. She realized sitting there in the quiet church\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat she was no longer simply terrified as she’d been two\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand a half weeks before. Instead she’d become watchful.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe was always studying the faces that passed her on the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estreet. Some made her draw back, others just flowed over\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher, making no impact at all, just as she made no impact on\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethem.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe waited. She looked up at the crucified Christ, felt a\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estrange mingling of pain and hope fill her, and waited. The\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eair seemed to shift, to flatten, but the silence remained absolute,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewithout even a whisper coming from the confessional.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInside the confessional, Father Michael Joseph drew a\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eslow, deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t want to see\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethis man again, not ever again, for as long as he lived.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen the man had called Father Binney and told him he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecould only come this late—he was terribly sorry, but it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewasn’t safe for him, and he had to confess, he just had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto—of course Father Binney had said yes. The man told\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFather Binney he had to see Father Michael Joseph, no one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eelse, and of course Father Binney had again said yes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFather Michael Joseph was very afraid he knew why the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eman had come again. He’d confessed before, acted contrite—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea man in pain, a man trying to stop killing, a man\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eseeking spiritual help. The second time he’d come, he’d\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econfessed yet again to another murder, gone through the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eritual as if he’d rehearsed it, saying all the right words, but\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFather Michael Joseph knew he wasn’t contrite, that—that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhat? That for some reason Father Michael Joseph\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecouldn’t fathom, the man wanted to gloat, because the man\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebelieved there was nothing the priest could do to stop him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf course Father Michael Joseph couldn’t tell Father Binney\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhy he didn’t want to see this evil man. He’d never really\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebelieved in human evil, not until the unimagined\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehorror of September 11th, and now, when this man had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecome to him for the first time a week and a half ago, then\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elast Thursday, and now again tonight, at nearly midnight.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFather Michael Joseph knew in his soul that the man was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eevil, without remorse, with no ability to feel his own, or\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eanother’s, humanity. He wondered if the man had ever felt\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etruly sorry. He doubted it. Father Michael Joseph heard the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eman breathing in the confessional across from him, and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen the man spoke, his voice a soft, low monotone, “Forgive\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eme, Father, for I have sinned.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe’d recognize that voice anywhere, had heard it in his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edreams. He didn’t know if he could bear it. He said finally,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis voice thin as the thread hanging off his shirt cuff,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What have you done?” He prayed to God that he wouldn’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehear words that meant another human being was dead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man actually laughed, and Father Michael Joseph\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eheard madness in that laugh. “Hello to you, too, Father.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re right, I killed the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epathetic little prick; this time I used a garrote. Do you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eknow what a garrote is, Father?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes, I know.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“He tried to get his hands beneath it, you know, to try to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eloosen it, to relieve the pressure, but it was nice strong\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewire. You can’t do anything against wire. But I eased up\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust a bit, to give him some hope.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I hear no contrition in your voice, no remorse, only satisfaction\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat you committed this evil. You have done this\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause it pleased you to do it—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man said in a rich, deep, sober voice, “But you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaven’t heard the rest of my tale, Father.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t want to hear anything more out of your mouth.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man laughed, a deep, belly-rolling laugh. Father\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMichael Joseph didn’t say a word. It was cold and stuffy in\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe confessional, hard to breathe, but his frock stuck to his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eskin. He smelled himself in that sweat, smelled his dread,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis fear, his distaste for this monster. Dear Lord, let this\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efoul creature leave now, leave and never come back.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just when he thought he had pulled it loose enough so\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe could breathe, I jerked it tight, really fast, you know,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand it sliced right through his fingers all the way to the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebone. He died with his damned fingers against his own\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eneck. Grant me absolution, Father. Did you read the papers,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFather? Do you know the man’s name?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFather Michael Joseph knew, of course he knew. He’d\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewatched the coverage on television, read it in the Chronicle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You murdered Thomas Gavin, an AIDS activist who’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edone nothing but good in this city.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Did you ever sleep with him, Father?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe wasn’t shocked, hadn’t been shocked by anything for\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe past twelve years, but he was surprised. The man had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enever taken this tack before. He said nothing, just waited.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No denial? Stay silent, if you wish. I know you didn’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esleep with him. You’re not gay. But the fact is, he had to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edie. It was his time.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“There is no absolution for you, not without true repentance.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why am I not surprised you feel that way? Thomas\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGavin was just another pathetic man who needed to leave\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethis world. Do you want to know something, Father? He\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewasn’t really real.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What do you mean he wasn’t really real?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just what I said. He didn’t really ever exist, you know?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe wasn’t ever really here—he just existed in his own little\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eworld. I helped him out of his lousy world. Do you know\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe contracted AIDS just last year? He just found out about\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit. He was going nuts. But I saved him, I helped him out of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeverything, that’s all. It was a rather noble thing for me to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edo. It was sort of an assisted suicide.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It was vicious, cold-blooded murder. It was real, and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enow a man of flesh and blood is dead. Because of you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDon’t try to excuse what you did.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Ah, but I was giving you a metaphor, Father, not an excuse.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYour tone is harsh. Aren’t you going to give me my\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epenance? Maybe have me say a million Hail Marys? Perhaps\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehave me score my own back with a whip? Don’t you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewant me to plead with you to intercede with God on my\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebehalf, beg for my forgiveness?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A million Hail Marys wouldn’t get you anywhere.” Father\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMichael leaned closer, nearly touched that evil,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esmelled the hot breath of that man. “Listen to me now. This\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis not a sacramental confession. You believe that I am\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebound by silence, that anything anyone tells me can go no\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efarther than the confessional. That is not true. You have not\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emade a sacramental confession; you are not contrite, you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eseek no spiritual absolution, and I am not bound to silence.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI will discuss this with my bishop. However, even if he disagrees\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith me, I am prepared to leave the priesthood if I\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehave to. Then I will tell the world what you have done. I\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewon’t allow this to continue.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You would really turn me over to the cops? That is very\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eimpassioned of you, Father. I see that you are seriously\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epissed. I didn’t know there was a loophole in your vow of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esilence. I had wanted you to be forced to beg and plead and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethreaten, but realize you’re helpless and let it eat you alive.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut how can anyone predict someone’s behavior, after\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“They’ll throw you in an institution for the rest of your\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emiserable life.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man smothered a laugh, managed a credible sigh,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand said, laughing, “You mean to imply that I’m insane,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFather?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No, not just insane. I think you’re a psychopath—ah, I\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebelieve the politically correct word is sociopath, isn’t it?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDoesn’t make it sound so evil, so without conscience. It\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edoesn’t matter, whatever you are, it’s worse than anything\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edoctors could put a tag to. You don’t give a damn about\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eanybody. You need help, although I doubt anyone could\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehelp the sickness in you. Will you stop this insanity?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Would you like to shoot me, Father?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I am not like you. But I will see that you are stopped.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere will be an end to this.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I fear I can’t let you go to the cops, Father. I’m trying\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enot to be angry with you for not behaving as you should.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll right. Now I’m just mildly upset that you aren’t behaving\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas you’re supposed to.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What are you talking about—I’m not acting like I’m\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esupposed to?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s not important, at least it isn’t for you. Do you know\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou’ve given me something I’ve never had before in my\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elife?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fun, Father. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Except,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emaybe, for this.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe waited until Father Michael Joseph looked toward\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehim through the wire mesh. He fired point-blank, right\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethrough the priest’s forehead. There was a loud popping\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esound, nothing more because he’d screwed on a silencer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe lowered the gun, thoughtful now because Father\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMichael Joseph had slumped back against the wooden confessional\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewall, his head up, and he could see his face\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eclearly. There was not even a look of surprise on the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epriest’s face, just a flash of something he couldn’t really\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eunderstand. Was it compassion? No, certainly not that. The\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epriest despised him, but now he was shackled for all eternity,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewithout a chance for him to go to the police, no opportunity\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor him even to take the drastic step of leaving\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe priesthood. He was silent forever. No loophole now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow Father Michael Joseph didn’t have to worry about\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea thing. His tender conscience couldn’t bother him. Was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere a Heaven? If so, maybe Father Michael Joseph was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elooking down on him, knowing there was still nothing he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecould do. Or maybe the priest was hovering just overhead,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eover his own body, watching, wondering.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Good-bye, Father, wherever you are,” he said, and rose.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe realized, as he eased out of the confessional and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecarefully closed the narrow wooden door, that the look on\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe Father’s face—he’d looked like he’d won. But that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emade no sense. Won what? The good Father had just\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebought the big one. He hadn’t won a damned thing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was no one in the church, not that he expected\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere to be. It was dead silent. He would have liked it if\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere had been a Gregorian chant playing softly. But no,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere was nothing, just the echo of his own footsteps on the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecold stones.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat did that damned priest have to look happy about?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was dead, for God’s sake.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe walked quickly out of St. Bartholomew’s Church,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epaused a moment to breathe in the clean midnight air, and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecraned his neck to look up at the brilliant star-studded sky.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA very nice night, just like it was supposed to be. Not\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emuch of a moon, but that was all right. He would sleep\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003every well tonight. He saw a drunk leaning against a skinny\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eoak tree set in a small dirt plot in the middle of the sidewalk,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust across the street, his chin resting on his chest—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enot the way it was supposed to be, but who cared? The guy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehadn’t heard a thing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere would be nothing but questions with no answers\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor now, since the cops wouldn’t have a clue. The priest\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehad made him do things differently, and that was too bad.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut it was all close enough.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut the look on the priest’s face, he didn’t like to think\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout that, at least not now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe whistled as he walked beneath the streetlight on Fillmore,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen another block to where he’d parked his car,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esqueezed it between two small spaces, really. This was a\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eresidential area and there was little parking space. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302676156645,"sku":"NP9780515135732","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780515135732.jpg?v=1767726149","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/eleventh-hour-isbn-9780515135732","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}