Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

table and used his finger to trace a path. “There’s a big iron gate that opens from the parking lot Hank specified onto a blacktopped walk. Along the walk are huge stone grottos, spaced irregularly. The walk diverges at one point, up a long set of stairs that lead to the church itself.”

I pointed to the stone structures. “Those are the outside Stations of the Cross.” My mind drifted back to grade school, as we “made” the stations on Good Friday, inside Gesu church. Each stop represented one of Jesus’ moments on the way to his death. I would cry to see Mary hold out her arms to her suffering son, imagining a mother’s pain at seeing her child in torment. In truth, it still moved me.

“Bram and I will be in the woods behind the Stations,” Spider said. “One of us will be able to see you anywhere along that lower path. I contacted a local guy who’s done some work for me. Name’s Tiny Tim.” He handed Bobbie and me a photo. “He’s short, but strong as a bull. He’ll cover the upper path. We’ll all be wearing snow camo.” He pointed to a mostly white snowsuit, with splotches of darker color in a pattern resembling tree branches. “Let’s ice those cinnamon buns and then we’ll get the wire set up, Angie. Although it’s not really a wire. That’s a holdover from pre-chip days.”

The small transmitter fit easily in one of my coat buttons, its black lens blending into the fabric. After cautioning me to be careful while putting the coat on, Bram went outside and walked down the long driveway to the street to test the reception.

Once he and Spider agreed that all was as ready as possible, Spider turned to Bobbie. “You need to arrive in time for the Mass and then hang around inside the church, watching to see if anything looks suspicious. No need for a wire. You can just leave the worship service, go to the men’s room and text my cell if you spot something that worries you. We don’t want to raise Hank’s alert level, so Angie can’t arrive that early.” He handed a set of keys to Bobbie. “These are for the green SUV in the garage. The plates are fake, so don’t get pulled over. It’s, um, disposable, so leave it if you need to.”

Bobbie’s eyes sparkled at that. Then he sobered. “What should I be looking for?”

“Someone who’s obviously not there for the service. Someone who does a lot of watching. Since you’ll be a watcher, too, be subtle. Don’t turn your head much. Move your eyes instead. Take a place in the back of the church and use the opportunity that sitting, standing and kneeling during the Mass will give you to look the congregation over. I imagine most people will be regulars who know one another, so you’ll need a cover story in case they approach you.”

“Hmm.” Bobbie’s eyes rose as he thought. “I’m a recent widower. During her illness, my wife begged me to come here to pray for her soul when she died. Even though I’m not a believer, I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

“That’ll work,” said Bram. “But remember to look like you’re in mourning.”

We covered the various arrival times at Holy Hill once more, then Bram and Spider suited up in their camo and headed for the garage. From the window, we saw them pull away in a huge Ford F650, towing two snowmobiles. “Looks like they’ll come in from somewhere off-road,” Bobbie observed.

Our drives would be under thirty minutes each on dry pavement, but the snow was still falling. He decided to leave at five-fifteen, to arrive for the six o’clock service. I wanted to get there by seven-thirty, so would need to head out around six forty-five.

Bobbie and I each had another cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun, then Bobbie used the facilities, hugged me, assumed his older man gear and headed out. The baby nurse arrived on the dot of six. After introductions, she grabbed a cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun and walked upstairs. I heard a door open, followed by the small sounds of the infants, but resisted the urge to invade Magda’s bedroom as she breastfed.

Left alone in the farmhouse kitchen, I mentally rehearsed the discussion I planned to hold with Hank. Don’t let me screw this up, Lord, I prayed.

Chapter 22

Assassin?…that sounds so exotic…I was just a murderer. — Richard Kuklinski

The eastern horizon barely glowed with the precursor of dawn—technically, twilight, even though the term is usually only associated with the setting sun—as I drove north. Sunrise was at seven-twenty, but the morning clouds and falling snow would make the day a dark one. Thankfully, the roads weren’t slick and the wipers were keeping up nicely with the windshield accumulation.

Per Hank’s instructions, I pulled into the parking area that led to the outside Stations of the Cross. My cellphone showed it was 7:40. I didn’t want to spook Hank, so I sat in the car until the digital display changed to 8:00 and texted Hank: Here

He replied: Station 6

Even though Spider assured me that he and his team would have me in their sights at all times, I sent him Hank’s message and emerged from the car, shivering in the cold temperatures and biting wind. After locking my purse in the trunk, I pulled my knit hat down over my ears and raised my coat collar, then headed toward the tall stone arch that led to the path of the Stations. A sign warned that the walking paths were not maintained in the winter, but only two or three inches of snow lay on the ground. Too cold to melt underfoot from pressure, it squeaked under my boots.

No one was in sight as I ambled along, a devoted member of the faithful, stopping at each Station to bow my head and clasp my hands as an ardent litany ran through my mind: