thought calling the police might not be such a bad idea. His conversation with Mrs. Hansen about folks gone missing had put the spook into him, though he also knew that Payne had made plans.
"Frederick, I don't think you need to call the police just yet. If you're truly worried, you should follow your heart, but Payne was planning a trip to Los Angeles. That much I can say. I didn't know he would go so soon or be gone so long, but he did tell me he was going."
Something like a ripple worked across Frederick's face, and his eyes grew smaller.
"Why Los Angeles?"
"I can't really get into it, Frederick. Suffice it to say that Payne felt the need to make peace with himself. You ask him when he gets back."
Frederick wet his lips.
"Can you tell me how to reach him?"
"I'm sorry."
"Well, he just left us, Father. We have this station to run."
Father Willie wanted to go home, but Frederick didn't move. The priest already regretted the conversation, reminding himself this was why you could never tell people anything - they always wanted to know more, and seemed to feel it was their right.
"I really don't know what else to tell you. Maybe tomorrow you should call the police like you said."
Father Willie tried to turn, but Frederick caught his arm, and the force of it almost pulled Father Willie off his feet.
"He was planning this trip? It was Los Angeles, you said?"
"I think you'd better calm down."
"Why was he going to Los Angeles?"
Father Willie stared into Frederick's eyes, and felt a fear he had not known since his days volunteering on death row at the penitentiary. He found the pistol in his pocket, and gripped it, then came to his senses. He let go of the gun. He drew his hand from his pocket and patted Frederick's hand, the same hand that held tight to his arm.
"Let go, son."
The eerie wrongness faded from Frederick's eyes, and he made an embarrassed smile.
"Jesus, I can't believe I did that, Father. I'm sorry. I'm just so worried about Payne, is all. Can you forgive me?"
"Of course I can. Let's talk about this tomorrow."
"I'm just worried, you know."
"I can see that."
"Listen, will you let me confess to you? I'm not a Catholic, but would that be okay?"
"We can talk, son. You can tell me anything you need to say. Let's talk about it tomorrow."
"I want to confess, is all. Just like Payne. I got a lot to get off my chest. Like Payne."
Father Willie wanted to comfort this man, but could not divulge that Payne's anguish had remained private. Payne had never confessed, not the things that most tortured him. Payne wanted to confess, knew he desperately needed to confess, but he had not yet found the strength. Father Willie had been seeing Payne as a counselor to help him find that strength, but - so far - had failed.
Frederick stepped away and slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Let's go inside, Father. I won't keep you. I know you want to go."
"We can talk tomorrow. Whatever it is, it will keep. You can come back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
"That's right."
"You're sure it was Los Angeles, where he went? You won't tell me why, but you know it was Los Angeles?"
"Payne's reasons are between himself and God."
"I'll have to go find him. I got no other choice."
"We can talk about it tomorrow."
"Okay, tomorrow. I can find him tomorrow."
Father Willie turned away, but didn't have the chance to slip his own hands back into his pockets. Something powerful lifted him off his feet and carried him struggling to the side of the church. He glimpsed a truck hidden in the darkness.
He did not see the blade, but felt it.
Chapter 16
W hen I first came to Los Angeles, I made the drive on Route 66, mostly because of an old television series I enjoyed as a child, two cool guys played by Martin Milner (the rich mama's boy trying to come into his own) and George Maharis (the rootless loner from the wrong side of town), off in search of themselves and adventure along America's pre-interstate coast-to-coast highway (Route 66).
"Frederick, I don't think you need to call the police just yet. If you're truly worried, you should follow your heart, but Payne was planning a trip to Los Angeles. That much I can say. I didn't know he would go so soon or be gone so long, but he did tell me he was going."
Something like a ripple worked across Frederick's face, and his eyes grew smaller.
"Why Los Angeles?"
"I can't really get into it, Frederick. Suffice it to say that Payne felt the need to make peace with himself. You ask him when he gets back."
Frederick wet his lips.
"Can you tell me how to reach him?"
"I'm sorry."
"Well, he just left us, Father. We have this station to run."
Father Willie wanted to go home, but Frederick didn't move. The priest already regretted the conversation, reminding himself this was why you could never tell people anything - they always wanted to know more, and seemed to feel it was their right.
"I really don't know what else to tell you. Maybe tomorrow you should call the police like you said."
Father Willie tried to turn, but Frederick caught his arm, and the force of it almost pulled Father Willie off his feet.
"He was planning this trip? It was Los Angeles, you said?"
"I think you'd better calm down."
"Why was he going to Los Angeles?"
Father Willie stared into Frederick's eyes, and felt a fear he had not known since his days volunteering on death row at the penitentiary. He found the pistol in his pocket, and gripped it, then came to his senses. He let go of the gun. He drew his hand from his pocket and patted Frederick's hand, the same hand that held tight to his arm.
"Let go, son."
The eerie wrongness faded from Frederick's eyes, and he made an embarrassed smile.
"Jesus, I can't believe I did that, Father. I'm sorry. I'm just so worried about Payne, is all. Can you forgive me?"
"Of course I can. Let's talk about this tomorrow."
"I'm just worried, you know."
"I can see that."
"Listen, will you let me confess to you? I'm not a Catholic, but would that be okay?"
"We can talk, son. You can tell me anything you need to say. Let's talk about it tomorrow."
"I want to confess, is all. Just like Payne. I got a lot to get off my chest. Like Payne."
Father Willie wanted to comfort this man, but could not divulge that Payne's anguish had remained private. Payne had never confessed, not the things that most tortured him. Payne wanted to confess, knew he desperately needed to confess, but he had not yet found the strength. Father Willie had been seeing Payne as a counselor to help him find that strength, but - so far - had failed.
Frederick stepped away and slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Let's go inside, Father. I won't keep you. I know you want to go."
"We can talk tomorrow. Whatever it is, it will keep. You can come back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
"That's right."
"You're sure it was Los Angeles, where he went? You won't tell me why, but you know it was Los Angeles?"
"Payne's reasons are between himself and God."
"I'll have to go find him. I got no other choice."
"We can talk about it tomorrow."
"Okay, tomorrow. I can find him tomorrow."
Father Willie turned away, but didn't have the chance to slip his own hands back into his pockets. Something powerful lifted him off his feet and carried him struggling to the side of the church. He glimpsed a truck hidden in the darkness.
He did not see the blade, but felt it.
Chapter 16
W hen I first came to Los Angeles, I made the drive on Route 66, mostly because of an old television series I enjoyed as a child, two cool guys played by Martin Milner (the rich mama's boy trying to come into his own) and George Maharis (the rootless loner from the wrong side of town), off in search of themselves and adventure along America's pre-interstate coast-to-coast highway (Route 66).
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