He found himself praying fervently that the young woman might return, but she did not.
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- Le ventre de Paris (French Edition).
- Okay, Let’s Shoot The Magician;
- I Walk Alone (Marty Robbins song);
But it was twenty minutes after six when he gave up hope that she might come back. Finally, aware of the weight of his years and the spiritual burden of his role as confessor, Fr. Aiden placed both hands on the arms of his chair and got up slowly, wincing at the sharp thrust of pain in his arthritic knees.
Shaking his head, he began to walk to the door but stopped for a moment in front of the chair where the young woman had been sitting. I can only pray that if she really has knowledge that the crime of a murder is about to be committed, she does what her conscience is telling her to do.
She must prevent it. He opened the door and saw two people lighting candles in front of the statue of St.
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Jude in the atrium of the church. A man was kneeling on the prie-dieu in front of the Shrine of St. Anthony, his face buried in his hands.
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Aiden hesitated, wondering if he should ask the visitor if he wanted to go to confession. Then he reflected that the posted hours for hearing confessions had been over for nearly half an hour. Maybe this visitor was begging for a favor or giving thanks for receiving one.
The Shrine of St. Anthony was a favorite stop for many of their visitors. Aiden walked across the atrium to the door that led to the passage to the Friary. He did not feel the intense gaze of the man who was no longer deep in prayer but had turned, pushed up his dark glasses, and was studying him intently, taking note of his rim of white hair and slow gait. She was only in there less than a minute, the observer thought. How much did she tell that old priest? The man could hear the outer doors of the church being opened and the sound of approaching steps. Quickly he replaced his sunglasses and pulled up the collar of his trench coat.
He had already copied Fr. For the moment he had no answer. What he did not realize was that he, the observer, was being observed. Sixty-six-year-old Alvirah Meehan, the cleaning woman turned columnist and celebrity author who had won forty million dollars in the New York Lottery, was also there. She had been shopping in Herald Square and then, before going home to Central Park South, had walked down the few blocks to the church to light a candle in front of St. When she saw the man seemingly deep in prayer in front of the shrine, she had paid a visit to the grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes.
A few minutes later, when she saw Fr.
I'll Walk Alone
Aiden, her old friend, leave the Reconciliation Room, she had been about to run up and say a quick hello to him. Then to her astonishment, the man who had seemed so engrossed in prayer suddenly jumped up, his dark glasses raised. No mistake about it, he was watching Fr. Aiden make his way to the door of the Friary.
Alvirah dismissed any passing thought that that guy might have wanted to ask Fr.
Aiden to hear his confession. He wanted to get a good look at Father, she thought, as she watched the man pull his glasses back over his eyes and turn up the collar of his coat. She had taken off her glasses so he was too far away for her to see him clearly, but from the distance she judged him to be about six feet tall.
His face was in the shadows but she could see he was on the thin side. Her impression, when she had passed him at the statue, was that he had no gray in his full head of black hair.
He had been covering his face with his hands. Who knows what makes people tick, Alvirah asked herself as she watched the stranger, now moving quickly, exit by the door nearest him. As soon as Fr.
I'll Walk Alone
Aiden left the Reconciliation Room, whatever that guy had to say to St. Anthony, he wound it up fast. About The Author. Mary Higgins Clark. Product Details.
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