39

It was not just the pain in his arthritic knees, which he ruefully referred to as his nocturnal visitor, that kept Fr. Aiden awake for a good part of Wednesday night. It was the woman who had confessed to being part of an ongoing crime and an impending murder, the woman whose name he now knew: Alexandra Moreland.

The incredible irony of meeting her at Alvirah and Willy’s apartment! Between two and four in the morning, Fr. Aiden relived every second of those few moments they had been together. It was apparent to anyone that Zan, as Alvirah had called her, was suffering. The expression in her eyes was like that of a soul in hell, if such a comparison could be imagined. She had said, “God has forgotten that I exist.”

She truly believes that, Fr. Aiden thought. But she did ask me to pray for her child. If only I could help her! When she confessed, she was clear about what she was doing, and about what was being planned. No mistake about it, and no mistake that it was her.

Alvirah, who knew Zan well, had recognized her face on the security camera in the church and said that she was absolutely the person in those Central Park pictures. If I could only broach the subject that if Zan has a split personality, they might try to have a doctor give her some medication to release what is hidden in her mind, Fr. Aiden thought. But I cannot reveal anything, even if it would help her… .

He would pray that in another way, some way, somehow, the truth would come out to save her child, if it was not already too late. After a while his eyes began to close. Just before dawn, he woke again. Zan’s face filled his mind. But there was something else. Something he had dreamed. And it troubled him. There was a seed of doubt in him, and he didn’t know where it was coming from.

Once again he whispered a prayer for her and her little boy, then mercifully fell back asleep until his alarm woke him in time to be ready to celebrate the eight o’clock Mass in the lower church.

At almost half past ten, while Fr. Aiden was going through the mail on his desk, a call was put through to him. It was Alexandra More-land. “Father,” she said, “I’ll have to make this quick. My attorney is going to be here in a minute to go with me to the police station. The detectives on Matthew’s case want to talk to me. For all I know, I’m going to be arrested. I apologize for being so rude to you last night, and thank you for praying for Matthew. And I want you to know this: I was as close as you can get to swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills early this morning, and something about the kind way you looked at me and then took my hands in yours stopped me. Anyhow, I won’t think of that again. I had to say thank you and please keep praying for Matthew, but if you don’t mind, say a word for me as well.”

Then there was a click in his ear. Stunned, Fr. Aiden sat quietly at his desk. That’s what I’ve been trying to remember, the feel of her hands when I held them, he thought.

But what is it?

What could it possibly be?