John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice by Michael Lister

Father Thomas seemed to be talking to no one in particular, but Ralph Reid responded.
    “You’re right, Father,” Reid said. “I’m sorry. I was just making it clear to them that we could offer more than one case for reasonable doubt.”
    “It’s the truth I’m concerned about. Not reasonable doubt.”
    “But we don’t know what the truth is, do we?”
    “
I
do.”
    We were riding along the coast, the Gulf to our left, pale in the low light, the horizon closer than usual, beyond which appeared to be nothingness. The scenic road was mostly empty, only the occasional serious fishermen easing by, their beer-loaded boats bouncing along behind their rusted pickups. No one else was out. What few tourists there were and the numerous snowbirds who had flocked here were fast asleep in their warm rented beds.
    “Well, the rest of us are trying to figure it out,” Reid said.
    “We weren’t there. And the truth is, neither were you when Tammy was killed.”
    “I was there,” he said, his voice flat, detached.
    “But unconscious.”
    “I know in my heart she was killed by what was possessing her.”
    “All I’m saying is it could’ve been someone who—”
    “No. No one at St. Ann’s could do something like that.”
    “Is
that
what you’re doing?” Reid asked. “Trying to protect the rest of us?”
    He shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
    Neither he nor Reid had looked at each other during their entire conversation. Father Thomas was looking out his window, though it was opposite the Gulf and offered only a dim view of beach cottages, and Ralph Reid, who had insisted on sitting on the small jump seat in the back, was talking to the center of the truck he was forced to face.
    “Someone could have come from the outside,” Reid said. “Not easily, but it’s at least a possibility.”
    “Without being seen? And at exactly the right moment?”
    “It’s possible,” Reid said.
    “The gate was locked.”
    “It was open when we left this morning,” I said.
    “Only because Brad had opened it for the police and ambulance earlier,” Father said.
    I wondered how, being unconscious at the time, he could know that, but decided not to pursue it at the moment.
    “The murderer could have walked in,” Reid said. “It’d be a good hike, but it could be done.”
    Father Thomas shook his head and let out a long sigh.
    Glancing at him again, I wondered if I was looking at the murderer. Could this kindly old man kill? It didn’t seem likely—at least in one sense. In another, it fit—acting out on repressed sexual frustration, fear of discovery, escalating violence, a final fatal blow he couldn’t take back.
    “Father, his job is just to think in terms of possible defenses,” I said. “Scenarios that will raise a reasonable doubt.”
    “If you’re going to continue to represent me,” he said to Reid, “know that I would rather go to jail than deny the truth or have the finger of suspicion pointed at innocent people.”
    “You’re going to represent him?” I said, looking into the rearview mirror.
    Reid nodded.
    Father Thomas said, “If he does what I tell him and doesn’t profane sacred things.”
    “You don’t think I should?” Reid asked me.
    “Are you a criminal attorney?”
    “I’ve done criminal work,” he said.
    “I’m not talking about your job with Gulf Paper.”
    He didn’t respond.
    “Don’t you think Father needs someone who specializes in it?” I said. “Someone who’s not one of a very few possible suspects?”
    “Being a possible suspect isn’t going to keep you or Steve from investigating, but if Father wants another attorney, I’ll help him find one.”
    “I can’t afford another attorney.”
    “How can you afford him?”
    “Apparently I’m charity,” he said.
    “I’d never dream of charging Father a penny. He’s been as much a priest to me as anyone ever has. We’ve been friends for many years now.”
    “You could be called as a witness,” I