Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel

Author:Margaret Coel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US

THE AA MEETING had let out at nine, but it was ten minutes later before Father John had helped Leonard finish locking up Eagle Hall and started for the residence. He looked forward to the meetings every week—the sense of purpose and resolve that permeated the atmosphere. He felt stronger afterward, the thirst weaker, receding into the past where it belonged.

Three pickups were still parked in Circle Drive, and Leonard and several others who had been at the meeting huddled together close to the vehicles, their voices cutting through the moonlight that flooded the grounds. Father John gave them a wave as he walked past, then thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and dipped his chin into the folds of the collar. His boots scraped against the ice-hard ground.

He was halfway across the field enclosed by Circle Drive, the frozen stalks of grass snapping under his boots, when he noticed the light glowing in the corner window of the museum. Catherine must have forgotten to turn off all the lights. And yet, he hadn’t noticed the light on his way over to the meeting earlier.

He veered left toward the museum, ran up the porch steps, and tried the door. Locked. He fished the key ring out of his jeans pocket, moving sideways down the porch toward the glowing window as he did so. Everything looked normal in the entry, except for the light spilling from beneath the closed door to Christine Nelson’s office. His breath made a little smudge on the glass pane. Christine Loftus, he reminded himself.

He walked back to the door, jiggled the key in the lock, and stepped inside. A rush of warm air came at him like wind out of a tunnel. In the gallery ahead, a residue of light played over the photographs of long-dead Arapahos. He started toward the office and stopped. A sound, almost imperceptible, like the sound of snow. He stood very still. The next sound, when it came, was the hard, definite thud of a drawer pushed shut.

He moved closer, took hold of the knob, and threw the door open. Seated behind the desk was a large man who looked to be in his early fifties, with a squared-jaw; dark, bushy eyebrows; and reddish, short-cropped hair. He was thumbing through papers in one of the folders scattered over the desk.

“What are you doing here?” Father John said.

“Father O’Malley, the pastor, I presume.” The man flipped over a page, not looking up. “I’ve been expecting you.” He lifted his massive chin and stared across the desk with eyes as opaque and steady as stone. “Where’s my wife, pastor?”

“Eric Loftus. How’d you get in here?”

Loftus threw back his head and gave a loud guffaw. “Took about half a second to get through the lock on the front door. Could’ve cleaned out your precious artifacts and all those Curtis photos before anybody knew I was here. I want my wife, pastor, and you were the last man to see her.”

“The FBI and police are looking for her.

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