“He just confessed to me, Elliot,” I said. “He just told me the truth. He killed Mary and made it look like an accident.”
“He’s a liar,” Father Mathew said, starting to inch sideways along the wall. I shot a look at him, and he quit moving.
Elliot took another tentative step forward. “Put the cue down, Andy. You’re going to jail.”
“He’s been lying to you,” I said, and all at once I realized why it had been Elliot in the Barrens’ house that night and not Father Mathew himself. “He’s setting you up to be a fall guy, Elliot. You’re an usher. You have access to the donations too.”
Elliot’s eyes flicked to where Father Mathew sat, then back to me.
“He’s full of lies,” Father Mathew said. “Shoot him.” His teeth were bared, blood lining the spaces between them. “Shoot him!”
Elliot licked his lips, starting to whisper something under his breath.
“Elliot, give me the gun. We can go upstairs and call the police. We’ll talk to them together,” I said.
“Don’t give him the gun—he’ll kill us both. Then he can tell all the lies he wants.”
More whispering.
“No one has to get hurt. We can sort this all out.”
“Shoot him! Shoot him, Elliot!”
I could finally hear what Elliot was whispering over the thunder of my heart.
“Save me, Lord, from lying lips and deceitful tongues. Thou shalt not kill. Save me, Lord, from lying lips and deceitful tongues. Thou shalt not kill.”
Elliot’s hand tightened on his gun.
“Elliot, please. Don’t.”
“Shoot!”
All the tension went out of Elliot’s body, and he dropped the gun to his side. His head drooped forward. I let out a long sigh, waiting for Elliot to make another move. When he didn’t, I nudged Father Mathew with my foot. “Get up.”
Father Mathew stared at Elliot for another second, then climbed to his feet. I held the cue ready just in case, but the fight seemed to have left him.
“I don’t know what to believe,” Elliot said quietly, still looking at the floor. He sidled out of the way as Father Mathew made to pass him.
Those moments in life that border on precognition. When you can feel the electricity in the air the second before you see the lightning. That plunging sensation when you know you’re going to kiss the person next to you for the first time.
I saw what was going to happen before it did.
I saw Father Mathew lunging, snagging the gun from Elliot’s loose hand. Saw him spinning and training the sights on me as I stood there, stunned into deadly stillness. An easy target. Heard the shot rip apart the close silence of the basement. Felt it tear through my chest.
Father Mathew launched himself at Elliot. The two men jostled. I had time to take a half step forward and raise the cue.
The gun went off.
The muzzle blast lit the room in a flash of yellow, Elliot’s and Father Mathew’s faces highlighted in matching grimaces of struggle. They froze, standing as if ready to embrace each other. Then Elliot staggered backward and hit the wall, a dark stain spreading rapidly down the front of his shirt. He looked up at me with a dreadful pleading and sat down, clutching at the weeping hole in his chest.
Something clattered to the floor. Father Mathew looked down to where he’d dropped the gun and made to pick it back up, but he moved in slow motion. Like he was caught in a dream. I stepped forward and kicked the pistol away. He watched it spin into the darkness.
Elliot made a brief gurgling sound, and his hands fell from the wound. His body relaxed, and he slumped to his side, lying like a tired child at nap time. His leg jerked once, and he was still.
Father Mathew stared down at Elliot’s body. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
“Walk,” I finally said weakly. When he didn’t move, I kicked his fancy dress shoe.
We made our way past Elliot’s body, stepping around the spreading pool of blood. The shock of it all—the fight, the confrontation, the sudden and irreversible death—was like some tainted drug mainlined into my system. I was drunk with sensory overload.
We made it to the basement entry before the cops stormed in.
Shouts, pistols, wide eyes.
I followed directions, dropping the cue and wondering at the absurdity of how I must’ve looked holding it in the first place.
Then I was thrown to the floor, cheek and chin scraping against the concrete. Hands behind my back, cuffed. Then onto my feet, being led out into the downstairs corridor, the only solace seeing Father Mathew’s hands secured behind his back as well. At some point his stupor wore off, and he started talking. Saying I was crazy, saying I’d attacked him and had tried to kill him. Saying I’d killed Elliot. I didn’t try to refute him. Didn’t have the energy.