The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni Page A

concrete walk in an uneven shuffle. God, how he hated that sound. He’d prayed nightly not to hear that sound, prayed it would be the night his father did not come home, left for good. But each night, the boots returned.
    Keys rattled in the lock.
    Donley stepped down one stair and parted his legs shoulder-width, balanced.
    The deadbolt flicked upright.
    The hairs on the back of Donley’s neck twitched—an angel’s breath, his mother called it. Donley pressed down on the balls of his feet and felt his jeans tighten around the muscles of his thighs as the front door swung open.
    He was home.

    The bang startled Donley from sleep. He sat up quickly, saw a dark figure hovering over him, stood, spun, and drew his arms across his body. In the same motion, he’d shifted his weight to his back leg, his front leg coiled and ready to strike. The figure never moved. It remained a headless image on the wall. He looked to the window, to where Ruth-Bell had hung his suit above the radiator, now backlit by the street lamp leaking through the blinds.
    Just a shadow.
    He released a held breath and ran a hand through his hair. His sweatshirt was damp to the touch. The radiator banged again, then went back to its usual ticking and hissing. What time was it?
    He picked up his watch from his desk. Midnight. Damn. He’d fallen asleep for nearly an hour.
    A chill brought goose bumps along his arms. He felt the room shrinking, as it had when he’d visited Father Martin’s cell. The same feeling of claustrophobia enveloped him, suffocating. He couldn’t catch his breath. His skin prickled, and his joints ached. He felt light-headed, dizzy. He needed to get out. He needed to get home. He stuffed books and papers into his briefcase, shoved his wallet and keys into his gym bag, and hurried from his office into the reception area, feeling as though he were being chased. He exited the building peering over his shoulder, certain someone or something was about to step up behind him. Even when he slid inside his car, the feeling of being pursued persisted, enough that he repeatedly checked the rearview mirror on the drive home.
    Not until he’d merged onto the freeway did his body begin to relax, and his thoughts shifted from his father to Kim. He imagined her sitting at the kitchen table sipping a mug of tepid tea, a medical book open, Bo asleep at her feet. They’d spoken on the phone at eight, when Donley called to say good night to Benny. He’d told her not to wait up, that he would be late preparing for the priest’s arraignment. She said she needed to study, but he knew that was only an excuse. Kim didn’t like going to bed knowing he remained at the office. She worried about his safety. She’d be really worried now. Donley wished he’d called her before leaving the office.
    When he reached home, Donley did not raise the electric garage door for fear the vibration would wake Benny. He parked in the sloped driveway and walked along the side of the house, where he’d fenced in a dog run, to reach the door at the side of the house. Entering the garage, he heard Bo’s paws clicking on the hardwood overhead as he made his way to his spot at the top of the back stairs, ready to greet his master. Donley couldn’t go upstairs, not yet. He still felt the rush of anxiety pulsing through his body.
    He heard the door at the top of the stairs open.
    “Peter?”
    “Yeah,” he said.
    “You coming up?”
    “Need a few minutes.”
    He pressed “Play” on the boom box. Bruce Springsteen shouted out “Born in the USA,” the part about a dog being beat too much, spending half its life just covering up. The heavy bass beat of the E Street Band played as Peter’s hands and feet pounded the canvas heavy bag and rattled the metal chain that suspended it from an overhead joist.
    Barefoot and bare chested, he attacked the bag from all angles, feinting and rising, left fist after right, combination kicks. He was fast but felt off-balance and