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Overview
Catherine Coulter won acclaim for her "fast-paced twists and turns, believable dialogue, and case of well-developed characters" (San Francisco Chronicle). Now Coulter delivers the suspense thriller of her career in Eleventh Hour.
When FBI agent Dane Carver's twin brother, Father Michael Joseph, is brutally murdered in his San Francisco church, husband-and-wife agents Lacey Sherlock and Dillon Savich take a personal interest in the investigation. Then Nicola "Nick" Jones, a homeless woman and the only witness to the shooting, is scared out of her mind because she's trying to hide from her own monsters - who are drawing closer and closer.
The chase goes from San Francisco to the Premiere Studios in Los Angeles and its new television hit, a show all about murder.
Packed with surprises, Eleventh Hour finds Catherine Coulter at her quintessential best.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780515135732 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 06/24/2003 |
| Series: | FBI Thriller Series |
| Edition description: | Reissue |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Sales rank: | 65,509 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.74(w) x 10.92(h) x 1.02(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
S A N F R A N C I S C O
Nick sat quietly in the midnight gloom of the nave,
hunched forward, her head in her arms resting on the pew
in front of her. She was here because Father Michael
Joseph had begged her to come, had begged her to let him
help her. The least she could do was talk to him, couldn’t
she? She’d wanted to come late, when everyone else was
already home asleep, when the streets were empty, and
he’d agreed, even smiled at her. He was a fine man, kind
and loving toward his fellow man and toward God.
Would she wait? She sighed at the thought. She’d given
her word, he’d made her give her word, known somehow
that it would keep her here. She watched him walk over to
the confessional, watched with surprise as his step suddenly
lagged, and he paused a moment, his hand reaching
for the small handle on the confessional door. He didn’t
want to open that door, she thought, staring at him. He
18882_ch01.qxd 4/15/03 5:19 AM Page 1
didn’t want to go in. Then, at last, he seemed to straighten,
opened the door and stepped inside.
Again, there was utter silence in the big church. The air
itself seemed to settle after Father Michael Joseph stepped
into that small confined space. The deep black shadows
weren’t content to fill the corners of the church, they even
crept down the center aisle, and soon she was swallowed
up in them. There was a patch of moonlight coming
through the tall stained-glass windows.
It should have been peaceful, but it didn’t feel that way.
There was something else in the church, something that
wasn’t restful, that wasn’t remotely spiritual. She fidgeted
in the silence.
She heard one of the outer church doors open. She turned
to see the man who was going to make his midnight confession
walk briskly into the church. He looked quite ordinary,
slender, with a long Burberry raincoat and thick dark hair.
She watched him pause, look right and left, but he didn’t see
her, she was in the shadows. She watched him walk to the
confessional where Father Michael Joseph waited, watched
him open the confessional door and slip inside.
Again, silence and shadows hovered around her. She
was part of the shadows now, looking out toward the confessional
from the dim, vague light. She heard nothing.
How long did a confession take? Being a Protestant, she
had no idea. There must be, she thought, some correlation
between the number and severity of the sins and the length
of the confession. She started to smile at that, but it quickly
fell away.
She felt a rush of cold air over her, covering her for a
long moment before it moved on. How very odd, she
thought, and pulled her sweater tighter around her.
She looked again at the altar, perhaps seeking inspiration,
some sort of sign, and felt ridiculous.
After Father Michael Joseph had finished, what was she
supposed to do? Let him take her hand in his big warm
ones, and tell him everything? Sure, like she’d ever let that
happen. She continued to look up at the altar, its flowing
shape blurred in the dim light, the shadows creeping about
its edges, soft and otherworldly.
Maybe Father Michael Joseph wanted her to sit here
quietly with nothing and no one around her. She thought in
that moment that even though he wanted her to talk to him,
he wanted her to speak to God more. But there were no
prayers inside her. Perhaps there were, deep in her heart,
but she really didn’t want to look there.
So much had happened, and yet so little. Women she
didn’t know were dead. She wasn’t. At least not yet. He
had so many resources, so many eyes and ears, but for now
she was safe. She realized sitting there in the quiet church
that she was no longer simply terrified as she’d been two
and a half weeks before. Instead she’d become watchful.
She was always studying the faces that passed her on the
street. Some made her draw back, others just flowed over
her, making no impact at all, just as she made no impact on
them.
She waited. She looked up at the crucified Christ, felt a
strange mingling of pain and hope fill her, and waited. The
air seemed to shift, to flatten, but the silence remained absolute,
without even a whisper coming from the confessional.
Inside the confessional, Father Michael Joseph drew a
slow, deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t want to see
this man again, not ever again, for as long as he lived.
When the man had called Father Binney and told him he
could only come this late—he was terribly sorry, but it
wasn’t safe for him, and he had to confess, he just had
to—of course Father Binney had said yes. The man told
Father Binney he had to see Father Michael Joseph, no one
else, and of course Father Binney had again said yes.
Father Michael Joseph was very afraid he knew why the
man had come again. He’d confessed before, acted contrite—
a man in pain, a man trying to stop killing, a man
seeking spiritual help. The second time he’d come, he’d
confessed yet again to another murder, gone through the
ritual as if he’d rehearsed it, saying all the right words, but
Father Michael Joseph knew he wasn’t contrite, that—that
what? That for some reason Father Michael Joseph
couldn’t fathom, the man wanted to gloat, because the man
believed there was nothing the priest could do to stop him.
Of course Father Michael Joseph couldn’t tell Father Binney
why he didn’t want to see this evil man. He’d never really
believed in human evil, not until the unimagined
horror of September 11th, and now, when this man had
come to him for the first time a week and a half ago, then
last Thursday, and now again tonight, at nearly midnight.
Father Michael Joseph knew in his soul that the man was
evil, without remorse, with no ability to feel his own, or
another’s, humanity. He wondered if the man had ever felt
truly sorry. He doubted it. Father Michael Joseph heard the
man breathing in the confessional across from him, and
then the man spoke, his voice a soft, low monotone, “Forgive
me, Father, for I have sinned.”
He’d recognize that voice anywhere, had heard it in his
dreams. He didn’t know if he could bear it. He said finally,
his voice thin as the thread hanging off his shirt cuff,
“What have you done?” He prayed to God that he wouldn’t
hear words that meant another human being was dead.
The man actually laughed, and Father Michael Joseph
heard madness in that laugh. “Hello to you, too, Father.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re right, I killed the
pathetic little prick; this time I used a garrote. Do you
know what a garrote is, Father?”
“Yes, I know.”
“He tried to get his hands beneath it, you know, to try to
loosen it, to relieve the pressure, but it was nice strong
wire. You can’t do anything against wire. But I eased up
just a bit, to give him some hope.”
“I hear no contrition in your voice, no remorse, only satisfaction
that you committed this evil. You have done this
because it pleased you to do it—”
The man said in a rich, deep, sober voice, “But you
haven’t heard the rest of my tale, Father.”
“I don’t want to hear anything more out of your mouth.”
The man laughed, a deep, belly-rolling laugh. Father
Michael Joseph didn’t say a word. It was cold and stuffy in
the confessional, hard to breathe, but his frock stuck to his
skin. He smelled himself in that sweat, smelled his dread,
his fear, his distaste for this monster. Dear Lord, let this
foul creature leave now, leave and never come back.
“Just when he thought he had pulled it loose enough so
he could breathe, I jerked it tight, really fast, you know,
and it sliced right through his fingers all the way to the
bone. He died with his damned fingers against his own
neck. Grant me absolution, Father. Did you read the papers,
Father? Do you know the man’s name?”
Father Michael Joseph knew, of course he knew. He’d
watched the coverage on television, read it in the Chronicle.
“You murdered Thomas Gavin, an AIDS activist who’s
done nothing but good in this city.”
“Did you ever sleep with him, Father?”
He wasn’t shocked, hadn’t been shocked by anything for
the past twelve years, but he was surprised. The man had
never taken this tack before. He said nothing, just waited.
“No denial? Stay silent, if you wish. I know you didn’t
sleep with him. You’re not gay. But the fact is, he had to
die. It was his time.”
“There is no absolution for you, not without true repentance.”
“Why am I not surprised you feel that way? Thomas
Gavin was just another pathetic man who needed to leave
this world. Do you want to know something, Father? He
wasn’t really real.”
“What do you mean he wasn’t really real?”
“Just what I said. He didn’t really ever exist, you know?
He wasn’t ever really here—he just existed in his own little
world. I helped him out of his lousy world. Do you know
he contracted AIDS just last year? He just found out about
it. He was going nuts. But I saved him, I helped him out of
everything, that’s all. It was a rather noble thing for me to
do. It was sort of an assisted suicide.”
“It was vicious, cold-blooded murder. It was real, and
now a man of flesh and blood is dead. Because of you.
Don’t try to excuse what you did.”
“Ah, but I was giving you a metaphor, Father, not an excuse.
Your tone is harsh. Aren’t you going to give me my
penance? Maybe have me say a million Hail Marys? Perhaps
have me score my own back with a whip? Don’t you
want me to plead with you to intercede with God on my
behalf, beg for my forgiveness?”
“A million Hail Marys wouldn’t get you anywhere.” Father
Michael leaned closer, nearly touched that evil,
smelled the hot breath of that man. “Listen to me now. This
is not a sacramental confession. You believe that I am
bound by silence, that anything anyone tells me can go no
farther than the confessional. That is not true. You have not
made a sacramental confession; you are not contrite, you
seek no spiritual absolution, and I am not bound to silence.
I will discuss this with my bishop. However, even if he disagrees
with me, I am prepared to leave the priesthood if I
have to. Then I will tell the world what you have done. I
won’t allow this to continue.”
“You would really turn me over to the cops? That is very
impassioned of you, Father. I see that you are seriously
pissed. I didn’t know there was a loophole in your vow of
silence. I had wanted you to be forced to beg and plead and
threaten, but realize you’re helpless and let it eat you alive.
But how can anyone predict someone’s behavior, after
all?”
“They’ll throw you in an institution for the rest of your
miserable life.”
The man smothered a laugh, managed a credible sigh,
and said, laughing, “You mean to imply that I’m insane,
Father?”
“No, not just insane. I think you’re a psychopath—ah, I
believe the politically correct word is sociopath, isn’t it?
Doesn’t make it sound so evil, so without conscience. It
doesn’t matter, whatever you are, it’s worse than anything
doctors could put a tag to. You don’t give a damn about
anybody. You need help, although I doubt anyone could
help the sickness in you. Will you stop this insanity?”
“Would you like to shoot me, Father?”
“I am not like you. But I will see that you are stopped.
There will be an end to this.”
“I fear I can’t let you go to the cops, Father. I’m trying
not to be angry with you for not behaving as you should.
All right. Now I’m just mildly upset that you aren’t behaving
as you’re supposed to.”
“What are you talking about—I’m not acting like I’m
supposed to?”
“It’s not important, at least it isn’t for you. Do you know
you’ve given me something I’ve never had before in my
life?”
“What?”
“Fun, Father. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Except,
maybe, for this.”
He waited until Father Michael Joseph looked toward
him through the wire mesh. He fired point-blank, right
through the priest’s forehead. There was a loud popping
sound, nothing more because he’d screwed on a silencer.
He lowered the gun, thoughtful now because Father
Michael Joseph had slumped back against the wooden confessional
wall, his head up, and he could see his face
clearly. There was not even a look of surprise on the
priest’s face, just a flash of something he couldn’t really
understand. Was it compassion? No, certainly not that. The
priest despised him, but now he was shackled for all eternity,
without a chance for him to go to the police, no opportunity
for him even to take the drastic step of leaving
the priesthood. He was silent forever. No loophole now.
Now Father Michael Joseph didn’t have to worry about
a thing. His tender conscience couldn’t bother him. Was
there a Heaven? If so, maybe Father Michael Joseph was
looking down on him, knowing there was still nothing he
could do. Or maybe the priest was hovering just overhead,
over his own body, watching, wondering.
“Good-bye, Father, wherever you are,” he said, and rose.
He realized, as he eased out of the confessional and
carefully closed the narrow wooden door, that the look on
the Father’s face—he’d looked like he’d won. But that
made no sense. Won what? The good Father had just
bought the big one. He hadn’t won a damned thing.
There was no one in the church, not that he expected
there to be. It was dead silent. He would have liked it if
there had been a Gregorian chant playing softly. But no,
there was nothing, just the echo of his own footsteps on the
cold stones.
What did that damned priest have to look happy about?
He was dead, for God’s sake.
He walked quickly out of St. Bartholomew’s Church,
paused a moment to breathe in the clean midnight air, and
craned his neck to look up at the brilliant star-studded sky.
A very nice night, just like it was supposed to be. Not
much of a moon, but that was all right. He would sleep
very well tonight. He saw a drunk leaning against a skinny
oak tree set in a small dirt plot in the middle of the sidewalk,
just across the street, his chin resting on his chest—
not the way it was supposed to be, but who cared? The guy
hadn’t heard a thing.
There would be nothing but questions with no answers
for now, since the cops wouldn’t have a clue. The priest
had made him do things differently, and that was too bad.
But it was all close enough.
But the look on the priest’s face, he didn’t like to think
about that, at least not now.
He whistled as he walked beneath the streetlight on Fillmore,
then another block to where he’d parked his car,
squeezed it between two small spaces, really. This was a
residential area and there was little parking space.
What People are Saying About This
"VINTAGE COULTER: exciting, enthralling and totally mesmerizing." -BookBrowser
"Fast-paced romantic [and] suspenseful." -Booklist
