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MURDER AT MIDNIGHT
by Marshall Cook
PROLOGUE
A long black sedan glides slowly into the parking lot. Its headlights briefly illuminate the statue of the Virgin Mary, then swing to discover the low brick school. The car stops a few feet from the church. The passenger side door opens, releasing a small pool of light and spilling Debussy's "La Mer" into the warm night air. A small man wearing black shirt and slacks and the white clerical collar of the priesthood emerges.
"Are you sure you won't come in for a nightcap?" the small man says, bending down into the still-open doorway.
A thickset man, also yoked with the collar of the priesthood, leans over. "It's late, Michael," he says, "and I have miles to go before I sleep."
"And promises to keep, I'm sure." The little man straightens up, gives his shirt an unnecessary tug, and closes the car door with a solid thump. "Good night, then," he says.
The sedan pulls slowly away. The small priest stands, his right hand in the air, as if blessing the departing man.
The car bellies through the gully and turns onto the highway. The priest slowly mounts the steps of the church, his black wingtips clicking on the concrete. He pauses to peer up into the serene face of the blessed mother. The church behind her is dark, the tall cross on the spire thrusting toward the distant, unblinking stars.
"Hail Mary, full of grace," he murmurs, his voice thick with the brogue he has never lost, "the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."
A breeze stirs the leaves in the oaks looming over the church.
He puts a hand on the pedestal, pats it. "Sweet mother of mercy," he says. "Pray for us, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ."
He walks the few steps to the church, grasps the handles of the heavy wooden double doors and pulls. The doors stay fast. He shuffles around the far side of the church, where the little cemetery stretches down a gentle slope to the highway. The graves nearest the church run parallel with the highway. He has buried many of their occupants: Schumakers, Grossmans, Kroegers, Voghts, Schmidts. Beyond these, running perpendicular to the highway, a smaller number of tombstones announce the resting-places of Fitzgeralds, Malloys, O'Malleys, and Durnions.
The priest threads the narrow, well-worn dirt path hugging the church to the rectory. Mrs. Dudley has left the light on over the door for him.
He fishes the heavy ring of keys from his trouser pocket, fingers the door key and shakes it free of the others with a bright jingling. He inserts the key and rams the door with his shoulder, but it holds fast.
"Damned humidity," he mutters.
He again twists the key and the handle and rams harder. The door pops open, nearly throwing him into the entry hall. He extracts the key, lets the ring of keys slide back into his left trouser pocket, and is about to slip into the house when he stops and mutters again. "Damn! Mrs. Johnson's gerbil!"
With a sigh, he closes the door behind him and crosses the blank asphalt to the school. The school door opens easily, and the priest disappears inside to feed the pet.
A short, slight man steps out from behind one of the pine trees lining the far end of the parking lot. He stands motionless until a light flashes on behind one of the classroom windows. He begins walking steadily and without hurry across the parking lot. The bell in the church tower begins tolling the hour, and he counts the chimes in his head.
He reaches the door of the school and grasps the handle with his right hand. His left hand grips the hilt of a long knife, the kind a hunter might use to gut a deer.
The schoolhouse door closes silently behind him as the tower bell proclaiming the twelfth hour echoes in the still night air and is gone.
CHAPTER ONE
Doug had the coffee perking and the "New York Times" propped up at her place at the table when Mo shuffled into the kitchen on a warm October morning.
One of the advantages of being married to a morning person.
She poured herself a mug of coffee, brought it with her to the table, and settled in with the front section. Reaching out, she picked up the portable radio aligned between the salt and pepper shakers, snapped it on, and set it next to her coffee mug.
"...supposed to be out of bed ten minutes ago, you slug!" an irritating voice told her. "Get up! Time's a-wastin'! This is the old Boomer, Stan the Man, bringing you the local haps, traffic and weather in the a.m. before we get back to your calls."
Frowning, she snapped the radio off, switched it from AM to FM, and tuned it to her public radio station before clicking it on again. The considerably more mellow tones of Steve Inskeep told her it was twenty-one minutes before the hour.
The screen door on the back porch squawked open and slapped shut. Doug stomped the dirt off his sneakers before pushing his way through the back door into the kitchen.
"The world's record for the 10K is safe for another day," he announced, bending to kiss the top of her head.
He toweled off his face and neck with the square of terrycloth he kept on the porch. He picked up the radio and resettled it between the salt and pepper shakers. He walked to the counter and swiped up a spill Mo had made when she poured her coffee.
"Saw two deer up on Presque Isle Road," he said.
He took his water bottle from the refrigerator and straddled the chair across the table from his wife. He took a long swig and let out a satisfied "Aaaah," fanned open his "Wall Street Journal," and scanned the headlines.
"How was your run?" When he didn't respond, she looked up to find him grinning at her. "What?"
"Nothing. Just basking in my wife's beauty."
(continued on the next page)
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