Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter

beautiful spray of colors.”
    “Yes. I hadn’t realized how incredible it was.”
    “Which hand was he holding the gun in?”
    “His right hand.”
    “He used his left hand to unscrew the silencer?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was he a young man?”
    “No, I don’t think so. He didn’t move like a young man moves, like you move. He was older, but not old, close to Inspector Delion’s age, but he wasn’t carrying any extra weight. He was slightly built but straight as a conductor’s wand. He stood very straight, military straight. He had his head cocked to the right side.”
    “What was he wearing?”
    “A long trench coat—you know, the Burberry. It’s exactly the same sort of overcoat my father used to wear.”
    “What color?”

    “Dark, real dark, maybe black. I can’t see it all that clearly.”
    “Was he tall?”
    “Not terribly, maybe five-foot-ten. I know he was under six-foot.”
    “Bald?”
    “No, like I said, he had dark hair, lots of it, really dark, maybe black, just a bit on the long side. He wasn
    ’t wearing a hat or anything.”
    “Beard?”
    “No beard. I remember his skin was light, lighter than anything else about him; it was like another focal point, a splash of white in all that gloom.”
    “You said he was smiling?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did his teeth look like?”
    “Straight, very white, at least they looked very white in all that darkness.”
    “When he walked away, was he limping? Did he favor one leg over the other? Did he walk lightly?”
    “He was fast, his stride long. I remember that his trench coat flapped around his legs, he was walking so fast, and he was graceful, yes, I can remember how graceful he was.”
    “Did he ever put the gun back in his pocket?”
    “No, he just kept it held down, close against his right side.”
    Her breathing hitched.
    Dane leaned forward and patted her hand. Her skin was dry, rough. She blinked, so surprised at what she’d remembered so clearly, seen so clearly, that she just stared at Father Michael Joseph’s brother.
    She said, “Your name is Dane Carver?”
    He nodded.
    Delion waited another couple of seconds, saw that it was over, and said, “Not bad, ma’am.”
    “Yes, you saw quite a lot,” Dane said, and now he leaned forward and lightly touched his fingers to her shoulder. It felt reassuring, calming, that touch of his, and she realized that he knew it and that’s why he’d done it. Dane said, “That was really good. Inspector Delion will call up a forensic artist next. Do you think you could work with an artist?”
    “Yes, certainly. I really don’t think I can identify him if you ever catch him, though.”
    “Now back up a minute,” Delion said. “Why were you in the church at midnight?”
    “Father Michael Joseph told me that he had to meet this man really late for confession, but he said he wanted me to stay, he wanted to talk to me, see if maybe he could help me work things out.”

    “Help you with what?”
    She shook her head.
    “Maybe we could help you,” Dane said.
    She shook her head again, lips seamed together.
    “You know,” Delion said, “life has a funny way of changing things around. People you don’t particularly trust one day, you can confide in the next.”
    “Look,” she said, “I don’t want any help. I don’t want to tell you what I was going to speak to Father Michael Joseph about. I don’t want you to keep asking me about it, all right?”
    “But maybe we could help,” Dane said.
    “No. Leave it alone or I’ll disappear.”
    Delion and Dane looked at each other. Slowly, Dane nodded. “No more questions about you and your situation.”
    “Okay. Good.” Suddenly she started crying. Not a sound, just tears running down her face.
    Delion looked like he wanted to run.
    Dane grabbed a couple of Kleenex off the lieutenant’s desk and handed them to her.
    “Oh goodness, I’m sorry, I—”
    Dane said, “It’s okay. You’ve had a couple of tough days.”
    She wiped her face, her