Free The Man Who Murdered God by John Lawrence Reynolds Page B

to have them.”
    He stood and took the box from her. Opening it, he saw snapshots, a few in fading colour, most in harsh black and white. Familiar faces stared back at him. God, we look like kids, he thought. And we really believed we were grown up. Party photographs, with couples seated on a sofa beneath a bad painting of a lighthouse. More couples, all crowded into an open convertible.
    â€œThat’s Jerry Dodgin’s car,” he said. “Remember that car? No reverse gear?” They smiled together. “Jerry’s in Arizona now, I hear. Good for his asthma or something.”
    He turned to another picture. “Who the hell. . . . Is this you?” He held the photograph for her to see, a picture of a young girl with cheque red blouse tucked into tight jeans, her breasts straining at the buttons, her head tossed back, a broad smile on her face.
    Gloria nodded and smiled. A different smile on a different face, tight and sad.
    â€œHell of a figure lady,” he said, meaning it. “Great shape there.”
    â€œJoe, I want you to take them. And when you’re finished looking at them, I want you to burn them.”
    â€œAw, come on, Gloria—” he began.
    She shook her head and swallowed hard. “You don’t have to. But it’s probably better. I want you to do something else, too.”
    McGuire said, “Sure,” slipping the pictures back into the candy box. “What’s that?”
    â€œI want you to work out my funeral arrangements.”
    â€œJesus, Gloria . . .”
    â€œCome on, Joe. Don’t you see? It’s the only thing I’ve got left to plan. It’s nothing special. The nurses here, they’ve been wonderful, and I’d like a little service in the chapel. I’ve even picked out the music. One of the nurses can play the organ, and she knows some Bach hymns. I’d like her to play one for me, maybe ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.’ And I’d like you to give them each a bottle of champagne and a glass, so they can go home later and have a drink.”
    â€œGloria . . .”
    â€œ
It’s all I’ve got left to do, Joe!
” She swallowed hard again. “And you have to do it for me. Because there’s nobody else anymore.” She dabbed at her eyes with the bed sheet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. Maybe . . . maybe we can talk about it when you come around tomorrow, okay? Will we do that, Joe?”
    He said he would. They talked for a while about the priest murders. Gloria said she had been following them, they were always on the television and in the newspapers.
    The nurse entered with her evening injection, and Gloria raised her arm automatically. “When are you going to get him, Joe?” The nurse slipping the needle beneath the skin, Gloria not reacting at all.
    McGuire said he didn’t know, it was different somehow without Ollie Schantz around. “You don’t need Ollie,” she answered, sliding deeper under the covers. “You’ll find him, Joe.” Her eyelids were heavy, her facial muscles were growing slack.
    McGuire said sure.
    But she was already in Lahaina.

Chapter Eight
    â€œNothing, right?” Kavander looked up from the stack of reports McGuire dropped on his desk the next morning.
    McGuire nodded. “A whole lot of nothing.”
    â€œLucas give you any ideas?”
    â€œSure.” McGuire, grinning. “Says whoever it is, he hates priests.”
    Kavander snorted. “You know how much an hour the city pays him to come up with shit like that?” McGuire had no idea. Kavander shook his head in amazement at it all. “What do you figure? We just hope for a break? Or wait for another of the pope’s good guys to get it, this time with witnesses?”
    â€œMaybe. Maybe that’s all we can do. One question I got.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œHow’s he