John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice Read Free Page B

said.
    Father Thomas Scott was a thin man with receding gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and kind brown eyes that shone with intelligence. His body, like his voice, was soft without being effeminate, and his black suit and Roman collar hung loosely on his narrow frame.
    Turning to see Sister Abigail in the corner when she cleared her throat, he said, “Why Sister, what’re you doing skulking about back there?”
    “We need to talk to you, Tom,” she said, “and not about the devil.”
    Suddenly, there was a chill in the overcrowded, musty room.
    “Sister would have us believe that there’s no such thing as spirits,” he said to me. “That everything’s in our minds. All we have to do is get some counseling and we’ll all be fine.”
    “And Father thinks the devil made us do it,” she said.
    “What do you think?” Father Thomas asked me.
    “That I don’t want to get in the middle of an argument between the two of you.”
    “Evasive, but not unwise,” he said.
    Though there was no visible sign of it, I knew Father Thomas was a pipe smoker. Beneath the musty smell of the dusty books and the mildew odor caused by Florida humidity, the sweet ripe-raisin aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the still air.
    “But she’s a nun.”
    “But not a sixteenth-century one,” she said.
    “So Christ performed exorcisms because he wasn’t as enlightened as you?”
    “Can we not do this right now?” she said.
    “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news,” I said, stepping between them.
    “What is it?”
    “I’m very sorry, but—”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just give it to me,” he said. “No need to soften the blow for me.”
    “Tommy Boy is dead,” Sister said.
    “What?” he asked in shock. “No.”
    He looked over at me and I nodded.
    “Are you sure?” he asked. “I just saw him.”
    “We’re sure, Tom,” Sister said.
    “When? Where did it happen? How?”
    “We’re not sure yet,” I said. “His body was found in the bay this morning. I’m very sorry.”
    We were all silent for a moment, and I watched as the realization seeped into his face.
    “Do you have any idea what he was doing near the marina?” I asked.
    “We didn’t come to ask questions,” Sister said.
    “No,” Father Thomas said, ignoring her. “None.”
    “Did he strike you as suicidal?”
    He shook his head. “She’s the expert, but I don’t think so.”
    “John,” Sister said, and I felt as if at any minute my knuckles were going to be rapped with a ruler.
    “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.
    “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do this,” Sister said.
    “I’ve got to…” Father Thomas began, as he made his way over behind his desk and dropped into the chair.
    Sister Abigail walked over to a credenza in the corner, opened a cabinet, and withdrew a bottle of Irish whiskey and a tumbler. Walking over to his desk, she placed the glass before him and poured a couple of fingers of Jameson.
    “Here,” she said.
    “Thanks.”
    “There’s no ice,” she said.
    “Don’t need any,” he said, then turned up the tumbler and took a big gulp.
    I was close enough to smell the whiskey, and I could almost taste it as it went down his throat. Seized with a sudden urge to grab the bottle and take a long pull on it, I took a step back.
    As if reading my mind, Sister screwed the cap back on and said, “Sorry.”
    Of course she didn’t have to read my mind to know what was on it. I had sat for hours letting her probe its dark corners with the bright penetrative light of her insight and intellect.
    “That’s right, you Protestants don’t like alcohol, do you?” Father Thomas said.
    I wasn’t sure I was any more a Protestant than anything else. In fact, I wasn’t sure they had a word for what I was, but it didn’t seem worth mentioning.
    “Actually, this one likes it too much,” I said.
    He nodded and gave a small appreciative smile.
    “I realize this is difficult, but do you know of anyone