Free Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Page A

again, his breath tight in his chest. The footsteps had also started moving—receding, as if the person had sensed the presence of someone else in the house. The intruder would return, Father John was certain. The violent search—the torn and crushed pieces of Christine Nelson’s life—attested to the fact that he would return. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the person about to vanish knew where Christine was.
    â€œHey!” Father John shouted as he burst around the corner into the living room.
    A woman whirled about. Her mouth hung open a moment, gulping in air. Then she started to scream. She backed into the door, hands flailing behind her for the knob, the screaming moving toward hysteria.
    Father John uncurled his fists and lifted his hands, palms outward. “I’m sorry.” He had to shout over the wail of her voice. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
    The woman threw both hands over her mouth, as if to stifle the noise erupting of its own will. Then she reached around and yankedat the door, moving along the edge until she was in the opening, a step away from the outdoors and freedom.
    â€œI’m Father O’Malley from St. Francis.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “I’m looking for Christine.”
    The woman leaned against the door for support, and, for a instant, he thought she might slide to the floor. She had large eyes that shone with fear. He guessed that she was in her thirties. A slight build beneath the baggy red sweatshirt that dropped over the top of her blue jeans and reddish-blond hair pulled back into a knot with long ends that stuck out like feathers.
    â€œAre you a friend?” he asked.
    She stared at the littered floor, then lifted her eyes to his a moment. “Jana Harris,” she said, tossing her head toward the outdoors. “I live next door.”
    â€œChristine didn’t come to work today.”
    â€œI figured as much,” she said.
    He waited, and finally the woman explained: She and Christine left for work at the same time every morning. It was always a tossup as to who drove away first, but this morning, Christine wasn’t there. Neither was her Range Rover. She figured Christine must’ve left early, but later she’d got to thinking about it. You could set your clock by when Christine walked out of the door every morning. Maybe something had happened. So she’d called the museum and someone else had answered, not Christine. The minute she’d gotten home, she’d come over to check.
    Jana Harris threw another glance around the room. “Last night when I was watching TV,” she went on, “I heard a noise, like somebody sideswiping a car. I looked outside. There was an SUV parked across the street, but nobody was around. I didn’t think any more about it.”
    â€œWhat time was that?” Father John asked.
    She shrugged. “The news just ended. Must’ve been about ten-thirty.”
    Father John kept his eyes on the woman propped against the door, the upended cushions and piles of debris blurring around him. Christine had driven out of the mission grounds about eight-thirty on her way to a meeting. She could have gotten home by ten-thirty and walked in on a burglary, except that this was no burglary and . . . What was it that gnawed at him? The sparseness of the place, the worn furniture and bare walls. Nothing but shredded newspapers, as if Christine had not intended to stay long. Whoever had ransacked the place had conducted a determined, angry search.
    And when he’d left, he could have taken Christine with him.
    â€œI’m going to call the police,” Father John said, starting for the door, his boots crunching the shards of glass. The woman backed outside, and he brushed past her and cut a diagonal across the yard to the pickup. He opened the passenger door and pulled the cell phone out of the glove compartment. Another couple