O.C. closed his eyes, but the bandages prevented me from reading his expression. “How did they find him?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Catherine said, “I bet Carolyn sent someone over with food and to check on O.C. after Monsignor Shannon left that message with the rectory.”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “What message?” O.C. asked.

  Although he was asking Catherine, she was staring at me, wondering if I was going to tell the truth or not.

  “I went over to talk with Monsignor Shannon this morning. Really early, like four or so. He was having coffee and I wanted to ask him questions, to tell him about you.”

  “You were peeping in our windows?”

  I nodded. “Anyway, he was fine when I left him. He wanted to give the Lawrence County Sheriff’s detectives some more time to help you. So he called the rectory to tell them you weren’t feeling well and wouldn’t be in today.”

  “Monsignor Shannon lied?” O.C. asked.

  “No,” I protested. “You aren’t going in today, are you? And I would guess you’re not feeling so well, right?”

  O.C. closed his eyes again. “What are the police saying about the break-in?”

  “Not much at this point. Maybe they’ll tell you more when they stop by. All we know is that they think someone stole your computer.”

  “My research,” he said. “Poor Monsignor Shannon told me this would happen again.”

  “So why didn’t you listen to him? Now you’re both hurt because you didn’t take his advice,” Catherine scolded.

  “Actually, we’re both hurt because I did take his advice. He said this would happen again, but he encouraged me to dig into the Father Darby story. Actually helped me whenever he could. Between the two of us, we were able to reconstruct quite a bit of the files that were stolen from him, plus build more upon the theories.”

  Catherine rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes.

  Agatha asked, “Need more quarters, cupcake? So you can say a few more decades for Monsignor Shannon?”

  Catherine rose from the chair and held out her hand for the fistful of quarters Agatha handed her, waddling off to the cafeteria to forage for more snacks.

  Agatha said, “O.C., Boots explained part of what was in your report and I have a question for you. You think what’s happened to you and now Monsignor Shannon has something to do with your research, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Why? What would someone have to gain from stealing these reports, the studies on something that happened nearly a century ago?”

  I squeezed his hand, noticing how he was starting to doze off. His eyes blinked open. “I don’t know. I really can’t think.”

  “You’re tired,” I said. “And you’ll probably have a busy day today. Get some rest. We’ll be back after we see Monsignor Shannon.”

  “Good,” he said, his words trailing off as he fell sound asleep.

  I slowly let go of his hand and eased off the bed.

  When Catherine returned with an armful of candy, we told her to let O.C. sleep and to postpone her rosary for Monsignor Shannon until later. She seemed relieved, telling us she was planning to get a little sleep herself.

  Before the hour-long drive to Rapid City Regional, I told Agatha I had to make one stop. I pulled into the parking lot of St. Ambrose and asked her to wait in the car. I went inside the front doors of the empty church, tiptoeing between the pews and out the side door so no one could hear my footfalls echoing, just in case someone was in the rectory, office, choir loft, or out of view.

  The side yard of O.C.’s house looked different by daylight and from my vantage point I could see there were crime scene technicians moving through the house, standing out front within the cordoned-off area, but no one was in the backyard. Placing my hands on the rail after a short jog, I was able to mount myself over the chain-link fence by the same window I’d peeked in the night before. I looked down and noticed someone had already taken a plaster cast of my boot print, the ones I was still wearing.

  I peered in the kitchen window and saw dusting powder everywhere I had sat just a few hours ago. I was sure it would take them no time to find my fingerprints in AFIS, not to mention match the boot prints at the window with those they dusted on the floor inside. I sighed, knowing it was only a matter of time before Nolan was on my ass about this.

  None of that mattered as I stared at the small puddle of blood on the floor behind Monsignor Shannon’s overturned chair. His coffee cup was broken on the floor nearby, but no coffee had spilt. Had Monsignor Shannon gotten up to refresh his mug, just as he had with me, when the assailant struck him?

  The coffeepot was where it should have been and no coffee was spilt, which meant he hadn’t retrieved any yet. As unsteady as Monsignor Shannon was, I wondered if he had simply fallen backward as he rose from his chair, possibly knocking his head on the ground. That’s what it looked like to me, at least. If not for the home being ransacked, I would have assumed this was just a fall by an elderly man.

  And yet, there were my fingerprints and boot prints at his table across from him, the dust obviously showing on the table, the cup, the floor, and the door. I heard muffled voices from inside and ducked, scanning the length of the side yard before making a getaway back to the side door of the church.

  Agatha was on her cell phone when I climbed back into her truck. From her sappy cooing, I imagined that Nolan was on the other end of the call. After a few pleasantries, she handed the phone my way.

  “He wants to talk with you,” she said, appearing annoyed and turning the key to the engine.

  “Nolan?” I said, sticking the phone to my ear.

  “How’s Monsignor Shannon?”

  “We’re not there yet.”

  He paused. “Why not? What have you been doing this whole time?”

  I glanced over to O.C.’s house as we drove through the parking lot, spying a technician in the upstairs window holding up a laptop with gloved hands, inspecting it from every angle.

  “I thought you said O.C.’s laptop was stolen,” I said.

  “I never said he had a laptop. I said his computer was stolen.”

  “Did Monsignor Shannon have a laptop?”

  The phone went silent. Just as Agatha pulled out of the church parking lot, I noticed Nolan standing in the front yard of O.C.’s house, his back to us as he talked on the phone. A technician had come out of the house and told him something, which made Nolan look up to the same upstairs window I’d been watching. I assumed they told him they’d found a laptop.

  “Nolan?” I asked, worried he’d notice Agatha’s remarkable truck pulling from the nearby lot if I didn’t keep him distracted. I whipped around in my seat, watching Nolan from the back window. He never looked our way.

  “How did you know Father Bill had a laptop?” he asked.

  “Because that’s why we’re late. We were visiting with him before we left for Rapid.”

  He grunted.

  “What? Did you find something?” I asked.

  “This just gets weirder and weirder,” he said.

  I had an attack of conscience and said, “Nolan, let me help you with a couple of things. First, don’t bother with the boot prints and fingerprints you’ll find in the kitchen.”

  He said nothing.

  “They’re mine.”

  Agatha turned to me and smiled.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you earlier. But O.C. asked me to figure this out for him and I couldn’t sleep so I went to see if Monsignor Shannon was awake.”

  “Damn it, Liv.”

  “I was there from about four to five. We drank coffee and talked.”

  “About what?” Nolan demanded.

  “What’s with the computer?”

  He hesitated, then said, “It wasn’t there. Now it is.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The technicians just found a laptop. Under Father Bill’s bed.” His voice changed as if he didn’t want someone nearby to hear him. “I looked myself, Liv. There was no computer earlier.”

  “Who called in? Finding Monsignor Shannon or the break-in?” I asked.

  “A woman named Carolyn. She said she had arrived at work early, had retrieved a message from Monsignor Shannon, and decided to walk over personally to see if the two men were okay. When no one answered, she let herself in with the church key and found Monsignor Shannon on the kitchen floor.”

  “What time was that?”

  Nolan groaned. “Six fifteen. What were you and Monsignor Shannon talking about?”

  “That his files on Father Darby were stolen, too. Years ago when he was assigned to St. Ambrose. Like O.C.”

  “This has nothing to do with a hundred-year-old cold case,” Nolan mumbled.

  “O.C. thinks it does.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

  “Because I was right about Michael Jacob. The results came back on the blood spatter we found on his tennis shoes. Some matched his own blood. Some matched Father Bill’s. And some matched neither.”

  “A third person?”

  “Don’t get too excited. We also found evidence within feet from where Father Bill was beaten that will also be DNA tested.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Unfiltered Camel Mints,” he said.

  “So?”

  “Because the folks at Mustang Sally’s validated that our suspect was not only gambling the afternoon Father Bill was assaulted, but he also told them to watch his drink while he stepped out back for a smoke, flashing them his pack of Camels.”

  “So if not the suspect, a witness?”

  “He never came back.”

  “Anyone I know?” I knew the answer before he told me.

  “We have him on the surveillance cameras, too. Same agitated kid who was picking fights later at the Ten.”

  I drew in a sharp breath, picturing the bloodied knuckles, the young man hiding within his hoodie. The young man who swore he never hit Father Bill.

  I was thinking of Michael Jacob.

  THE INSTANT I SAW my mother keeping bedside vigil for Monsignor Shannon, I wanted to cry. My mother was always there for me. Without a second thought, she was willing to drop everything she had planned for the day, and do as I asked to stay with the elderly priest.

  And she was praying.

  Just like she did when we were little, lining each of us nine children around her big bed, asking us to kneel on the floor, and folding our hands in prayer each night before heading to our rooms. Then she’d read to us, first in the little kids’ room, then the boys’ room, and finally with the big girls, only I doubt if they did much reading. More like talking through issues that needed more privacy than was afforded at the dinner table.

  Agatha helped our mother off the floor and the two women embraced, mother and oldest child. They were about the same size, Agatha an inch or two taller than my tiny mother. I was more like my father. Large-boned and tall.

  As I marveled at her dedication and resolve, I thought about how I’d always thought of her as a leprechaun, a source of good luck when I saw her, magical in so many ways. Then I thought about how she was the most patriotic American I’d ever known, yet she was an Irish Catholic, granddaughter of immigrants. And I nearly cried again, wondering how chance played such a curious role in my life. Sad how the odds seemed to be stacked against Jack Linwood, yet glad that the odds were strongly in my ancestors’ favor, considering they lived through the horrible months at sea during immigration, only to face the euthanasia of the 1920s that must have haunted them in those days.

  “How is he?” I asked, as I bent down to hug my mom. I could feel her lean into me on her tiptoes to reach my neck, which brought a smile to my lips.

  “Good, dear,” she said. “And how are you?”

  She reached up and cupped my cheek in her hand, then felt my forehead and neck, checking for fever.

  “You don’t look well,” she said.

  “She never does,” Agatha chided.

  I cut my glance toward my oldest sister before explaining to my mom, “I just didn’t get much sleep last night, Mom. Worried about O.C.”

  “How is he doing?” my mom asked, her beautiful grace folding in on itself as more worry washed over her.

  “We just left there. He’s doing great. He said to give you and Dad his love. Catherine’s with him.”

  “My dear Catherine Carlsdatter,” my mom said. She often referred to us nine kids by our given names. Alphabetical saints for first names, Norwegian names for middle. St. Catherine was the patron saint of learning and I always learned a lot from my third oldest sister. Carlsdatter was my grandmother’s maiden name on my father’s side.

  She nodded. “I suppose I will drive up to see him while you’re down here with Monsignor Shannon. He hasn’t awakened yet, but the doctor said it should be anytime.”

  “What happened? How did he lose consciousness? Is his skull fractured? Did he lose too much blood?” I asked.

  “Shh, dear. You shouldn’t talk like that in front of the Monsignor. He can hear you. Even if he’s unconscious. Say some prayers instead, won’t you?” She patted my cheek, then Agatha’s, before scooping up her large purse. “I should be back here by three. Love you both.”

  And she was gone.

  We each pulled up a chair and stared at Monsignor Shannon as he lay in the bed, his breathing as steady as the beeps from all the machines around us. From what I could tell, he had no injuries, other than what was under the bandage that capped the top of his head.

  Two minutes later, Agatha rose and said, “See you later. I’ll be back by three, too.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I whispered harshly. “I can’t stay here until three. I have too much to do up in Deadwood.”

  “But Harvey told me—”

  “What does he have to do with this? Did he tell you to ditch me? Keep me out of his way? Leave me stranded without wheels so I wouldn’t interfere with his investigation?”

  She shook her head.

  “Traitor. You’ve gone all goofy on me, now that you let a man into your life, telling you how to act and what to do and who to protect.”

  “Boots, you’re such an idiot sometimes.”

  “Why? What?”

  “He told me to keep an eye on you, let him know what you and Monsignor Shannon talk about. I refused.” And with that she headed for the door. I felt like a total ass. “Text me when you two are done talking.”

  I said nothing as she strutted out the door and down the hall, my brain still reeling from the support she had just demonstrated despite her head-over-heels love for Detective Harvey Nolan. I laid my head on Monsignor Shannon’s bed and mumbled, “I am such an idiot.”

  I heard his low rumble of weak laughter before I felt him stir. I sat up, staring at Monsignor Shannon, his eyelids fluttering open. He mumbled, “You really are sometimes. Troublemaker.”

  He grinned.

  I’d always appreciated Monsignor Shannon’s honesty. He never sugarcoated anything he had to say to me, which was just the way I liked it.

  “True,” I said, smiling back at him. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been hit by a freight train,” he said. He lifted his hands to touch his head, only to find himself tethered with IVs and probes. He shook his head and laid his arms back on the bed. “I am not a fan of hospitals.”

  “Me neither,” I admitted.

  “Where am I?” he said, looking around the room, out the window, and into the hall.

  “Rapid City Regional. I’d heard you were taken to intensive care, but you’re not.”

  “That’s good.” He lay there for a minute before closing his eyes. His breathing settled into a steady rise and fall of his barrel chest, the muscles of his face relaxing.

  I thought he was asleep when the doctor came in so I introduced myself, told him I was a friend, and that Lawrence County Sheriff’s Department Detective Nolan had asked me to stay with the Monsignor.

  The doctor said, “That’s nice, but I’m still not going to share anything with you unless the patient requests we do that.”

  “Request made,” the Monsignor said, not opening his eyes.

  “You’re awake. How’s your head?”

  “Pounding.”

  The doctor moved closer to the Monsignor and asked, “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The doctor pressed some buttons near the bed and at once a nurse appeared and the bed whirred to life as it folded upward. Monsignor Shannon offered me a subtle wink as a scurry of activity whirled around his bed.

  The doctor raked the beam of his tiny flashlight across the Monsignor’s eyes, tapped against his arms, hands, feet, and legs to gauge response, then unwrapped the bandages over his head to check on the wound. I moved in behind the doctor so I could see the damage.

  I was surprised to find a small wound, his white hair shaved around the six or eight sutures on the back of his head. I noticed his skull was not misshapen, nor was there much bruising or other damage, considering someone had struck him on the skull.

  “Everything looks great.” He motioned to the nurse to put a small bandage over the stitches. “We were watching for concussion, but it appears you’re doing quite well. I think we might even be able to release you later today, if you feel up to it.”

  Monsignor Shannon nodded. “I’m up to it.”

  “Wait, what? You can’t release him. Someone tried to kill him. Someone hit him on the back of the—”

  “Liv, stop. No one hit me. No one tried to kill me.”

  “See, doc? You can’t release him. He’s not thinking clearly. That blow to his head has knocked all the sense out of him,” I said, searching the doctor’s face for some kind of recognition, a show of support perhaps.

  But for some reason I was getting none.

  He ignored me and asked Monsignor Shannon, “Are you feeling light-headed?”

  “Not anymore. What’d you feed me?” he said, lifting his left hand and dangling the IV hoses.

 

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