Vengeance Road by Rick Mofina Page A

been designed in the postwar modernist style. An enormous cross rose from the center section, which resembled a book standing with its covers open to embrace worshippers.
    Gannon parked down the street under the shade of a willow tree. Walking to the main door, he read the church’s outdoor sign, which gave mass times and other messages. He noticed that confessions were being heard today from 2:00 to 3:00 p.m.
    His meeting was for 2:30 p.m.
    The church had a center aisle with pews on each side. Light bled through its stained-glass windows that depicted the Stations of the Cross. The walls were interrupted with alcoves sheltering statues of the Holy Family, the apostles and saints.
    At the front was the altar, graced by a massive crucifix suspended behind it and flanked by magnificent stained glass that ascended from the floor for several stories. The air held a mix of furniture polish, candle wax, incense and piety.
    The building was empty but for a few people scattered among the pews, or waiting to enter the confessionals. Others found unoccupied pews where they said their penance while rosary beads clicked softly.
    How egregious were the sins committed in this white-bread suburb? Gannon wondered as he went to a pew near the front right section, next to a replica of the pietà. The area was vacant. The bench seat of the wooden pew creaked when he sat down.
    This was where he was instructed to meet Tuesday.
    While he waited, he checked his phone.
    No messages.
    He set the ringer to vibrate and read his notes for several minutes, until his pew creaked.
    A white woman in her late twenties sat next to him. She was wearing a charcoal business suit and tank top. The ensemble flattered her figure. Her dirty-blond hair was pulled up into a bun held with a hair clamp. Her face had the pallor of a woman averse to daylight, a condition she’d compensated for by applying a little too much makeup. Her eyes were blue, and Gannon noticed the scent of roses when she nodded to him.
    â€œAre you Tuesday?”
    â€œI’d like to see some identification,” she said.
    He showed her his press ID from the Sentinel, which she studied for several moments. Then she took stock of the area. Satisfied they were alone in their corner of the church, she kept her voice low.
    â€œLotta said I can trust you, is that true?”
    â€œTrust me with what?”
    â€œMy life.”
    â€œBecause of what you know about Karl Styebeck?”
    â€œI don’t want to end up like Bernice.”
    â€œI understand.”
    She looked around.
    â€œYou don’t have a photographer hiding around somewhere with a big lens or anything?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSwear to me that no one will ever know what I’m going to tell you came from me. Give me your word.”
    â€œI don’t reveal sources.”
    â€œTo anyone?”
    â€œTo anyone. No one will know we talked.”
    Tuesday searched his face. Whatever internal security screening she possessed, whatever defence mechanism she’d engaged, Gannon had passed. Her face softened a degree; she spoke in a hurried whisper.
    â€œAfter what happened to Bernie, my girlfriends and I read all your stories. You had the best information. Then things got weird.”
    â€œWeird? How?”
    Gannon took out his notebook. Tuesday looked at it, hesitated.
    â€œDo you have a hidden recorder?”
    â€œNo. Look, you called me. How can I be sure that what you’re going to tell me is the truth?”
    â€œBecause it is.”
    Now it was Gannon’s turn to decide if she was helping him, or playing him. That would depend on what she said.
    â€œTell me what you know about Karl Styebeck,” he said.
    â€œHe was down on Niagara the night Bernice vanished, and when the detectives came around we told them about all the wack jobs and creeps who were down there, including Styebeck.”
    â€œStyebeck was known to the girls?”
    â€œBig-time. But first