Night Visions by Thomas Fahy Page A

opposite sides of his neck. Father Murphy falls forward from the force of the attack—one hand clutching a wound, the other pressing against the floor. Before he can look away from the dark green marble beneath him, a blade pierces the back of his right hand. The pain is blinding. He turns his head to the figure crouching beside him, then hears a gust of air as her arm moves quickly, like a door closing.
    She arcs her left arm toward the ceiling in one fluid motion, slicing the knife deeply across his throat. She removes the other knife from his impaled hand and rolls him over. She carves a circle into his upper chest.
    Â 
    Quando corpus morietur,
    fac ut animae donetur
    Paradisi gloria.
    Â 
    Father Murphy watches the moonlight pass faintly through the stained glass above his head. He doesn’t feel the rope knotted around his ankles, nor is he fully aware that his body is being hoisted from the railing of the staircase until he hangs upside down. His hand bleeds onto the green marble and white bulletins, staining Peter’s suffering red.
    Â 
    Amen. Amen.
    Amen. Amen.
    Â 
    She must hurry now. Outside, the cool wind stings her cheeks as she runs to her car several blocks away. Her legs feel heavy. Sitting behind the steering wheel, she looks frantically for her keys, but it’s too late. Darkness. She collapses into the passenger seat.
    NOVEMBER 16, 1986
10:43 A.M.
    Her mother is a notorious worrier. Since moving home six weeks ago, Christina has gone out several times and not returned until morning. She never remembers where she has been, and her mother never believes her. When Christina was in high school, her mother once called the police and said three rosaries when her only daughter missed curfew by an hour and thirteen minutes. So it is no surprise that she is waiting at the kitchen table, rosary in hand, when Christina walks through the door.
    â€œWhere have you been?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I was so worried. How can you do this to me? You know I sit up all night, worrying, talking to Mrs. Lehntman on the phone—you remember Mrs. Lehntman—her daughter just got married—and wondering, Should I call the police? Should I look for her? Or should I just find a new daughter!”
    â€œMama—”
    â€œYou think you’re not a child anymore. That you can take care of yourself. But you can’t. You leave Washington to follow your father and me here, but you won’t talk to either of us. You don’t talk to any of your friends. You’re tired all the time, Christina. I need to know what’s wrong.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mama. This is just something I need to figure out myself.”
    â€œIs it a man?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œA young lady doesn’t behave this way.”
    â€œIt’s not a man.”
    â€œI keep asking myself, What am I supposed to do, and just yesterday I thought of Father Murphy. I’ll have her talk to Father Murphy. And then that terrible news—”
    â€œWhat news?” Looking at her mother’s face, Christina realizes that something else is wrong. “What news, Mama?”
    â€œIt’s been on the TV all morning.” Her mother becomes visibly upset as she gets up and turns on the small black-and-white television in the kitchen. A reporter holding a notepad is speaking in front of a church.
    â€œFather Patrick Murphy was found murdered in the vestibule of Saint Peter’s Church in Durham, North Carolina, yesterday evening. Police believe that it happened sometime between seven and eight P.M ., while Father Murphy was hearing confession. At this time, officials are not releasing any details about the crime, but sources say that the victim’s throat was cut and his body bound with rope….”
    â€œHe was hung upside down.” Christina speaks in a monotone voice, without being conscious of the words.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI need a shower.”
    â€œYou