Near Death Read Free

hodie; etdimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris: et ne nos inducas in tentationem.”
(Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name: thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread: and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation.)
And Cyrus and the congregation intoned as one, “Sed libera nos a malo.”
(But deliver us from evil.)
    Deliver Tara from evil
, he thought.
Deliver her, Lord. Deliver her
.
    Outside, the crisp autumn morning was suffused with the orange of an ascending sun. He lingered, unconnected to the parishioners but nonetheless taking comfort being in their midst, listening to old-folk conversations about lunch plans. He had no such plans. The rest of his empty Sunday lay before him. His thin-walled apartment sickened him. He supposed he’d try to read but the Pats were playing and the game would be filtering in from both sides. No point asking his neighbors to tone it down; for them it was the big event of the week. Headphones only helped to a point. Their foot-stomping and shouting came through anyway. It would have been a good afternoon to take Tara to a movie and get ice cream but it wasn’t his weekend. He’dprobably just climb in his car, pick a compass point and burn some gas. Maybe stop in a bookstore then find a quiet coffee shop.
    The priest looked up and broke away from a knot of congregants. He had noticed the athletic stranger, a man close to his age, late thirties, forty at most, too handsome and well-hinged to be drifting alone on the stairs of an unfamiliar church. Yet there was also a melancholy about him that beckoned the priest to missionary work.
    Though Cyrus was a large man, he seemed smaller than his physical presence, compacted by mood, his heavy shoulders drooping in a tan blazer, hooded brown eyes cast down, mouth curled in a half-frown. The priest approached him with an open-faced curiosity, his white chasuble billowing in the breeze.
    “Hello there, I’m Father Donovan.”
    “Cyrus O’Malley, Father. Pleased to meet you.”
    The priest leaned in, in a friendly way, his breath smelling of sacramental wine. “Any relation to Bob O’Malley from Needham?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “We haven’t seen you here before.”
    “It’s my first time.” He hesitated and found a two-word explanation. “The Latin.”
    “I’m glad you appreciate it. It’s not for everyone.”
    “Forsitan non, tamen ego utor Latin,” Cyrus answered.
    The priest was taken aback. “I haven’t met someone with a conversational knowledge of Latin since seminary. Are you a scholar?”
    Cyrus smiled at the question. “Hardly. I’m an FBI agent.”
    “Well, I confess that surprises me. Our first encounter and I’m confessing to you! Do you regularly attend somewhere else, Cyrus?”
    “I’m in between. I used to go to St. Anselm’s in Sudbury.”
    “Father Bonner. He gives a good sermon. So you like the Latin mass. You seem awfully youthful for that.”
    “Childhood memories.”
    “From where?”
    “In Brighton. St. Peter.”
    “A local boy. Well, we’d love to see you here again, Cyrus.” He waved his arms at his departing flock. “You’d bring our average age down considerably.”
    Cyrus’s phone chirped.
    “You get that,” the priest said, touching him on the shoulder. “It was good talking to you.”
    The caller ID read AVAKIAN . He pictured Pete’s hairy forearms bulging from the sleeves of his golf shirt.
    “How’re you hitting them?” Cyrus answered.
    “Long and left. Fairways hit: zero. Where are you?”
    “Praying.”
    “Me too. Over my putts.”
    “What do you want?” For them, blunt equaled friendly.
    “Just a heads up. Stanley’s got something new for us. He’s rolling it out tomorrow.”
    “I don’t want it.”
    “I told him you wouldn’t. He’s a shitty golfer but he’s not a bad guy. He’s