The Black Angel

“Shit,” he said.

“If you don’t walk away now, those men will kill you.”

They exchanged a look.

“I never did like Bobby anyway,” said the white guy.

“Who’s Bobby?” said the black guy.

They walked away, and I left with Je

“Is this okay?” she said.

“It’s fine.”

“I like the Beatles. Their version is better, but this is good too. It’s sadder.”

“Sometimes sad is good.”

“Are you married?” she asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Got a girlfriend?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer.

“I used to, but not any more. I have a little girl, though. I had another daughter once, but she died. Her name was Je

“Was that why you came back for me, because we have the same name?”

“If it was, would that be enough?”

“I guess. What will happen to Poppa Bobby?”

I didn’t answer.

“Oh,” she said, and she said nothing else for a time. Then: “I was there, y’know, the night G-Mack got killed. That wasn’t his real name. His real name was Tyrone.”

We were driving along the highway now, away from the interstate. There was little traffic. Ahead of us, red lights ascended into the air like fireflies as a distant car scaled a dark, unseen hill.

“I didn’t see the man who killed him,” she said. “I left before the police came. I didn’t want any trouble. They found me, though, and they asked me about that night, but I told them that I wasn’t with him when he died.”

She stared out the window. Her face was reflected in the glass.

“I can keep a secret, is what I’m saying,” she said. “I won’t tell. I didn’t see the man who killed Tyrone, but I heard what he said before he pulled the trigger.”

She didn’t turn her face away from the glass.

“I won’t tell anyone else,” she said. “Just so you know, I won’t ever tell another soul.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘She was blood to me…’”

There are still boxes in the hallway and clothes on the chairs. Some of them are Rachel’s, some are Sam’s. They buried Ellis Chambers’s son Neil today, but I did not attend the funeral. We save those whom we can save. That is what I tell myself.

The house is so very quiet.

Earlier, I walked down to the seashore. The wind was coming from the east, but I felt a warm breeze on my face when I looked inland, and I heard voices whisper to me in passing as the sea called to them, welcoming them into its depths, and I closed my eyes and let them wash over me, their touch like silk upon me and their grace momentarily resonating in some deep part of me before it dissipated and was gone. I looked up, but there were no stars, no moon, no light.

And in the darkness beyond night, Brightwell waits.

I have been sleeping, seated in a wicker chair on the gallery, wrapped in a blanket. Despite the cold, I do not want to be inside, lying in the bed where, so recently, she too once lay, looking at the empty reminders of our life together. Now something has awoken me. The house is no longer silent. There is a creak from a kitchen chair. A door closes. I hear what might be footsteps, and the laughter of a child.

We told you that she would go away.

It was my decision. I will add no more names to the palimpsest of the heart. I will make reparation, and I will be forgiven my sins.

The wind chime in the hallway casts its song into the still, dark night, and I feel a presence approach.

But we will never leave.

All is well, all is well.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Much of the historical detail is this novel is based on fact, and the monasteries mentioned are all real. In particular, the ossuary at Sedlec is much as I have described it, although far more impressive visually than I could convey in words. Anyone interested can pay a virtual visit through my website (www.johnco

Finally, I would like to thank Sue Fletcher, my editor at Hodder amp; Stoughton, and Emily Bestler, my editor at Atria, for their kindness, advice, and support. Thanks also to Swati Gamble, Kerry Hood, Lucy Hale, Sarah Branham, Jodi Lipper, Audra Boltion, Judith Curr, Louise Burke, Karen Mender, Justin Loeber, and all the staff at both publishing houses who have done so much for my books; to Chuck Antony; to Darley Anderson and his staff, for looking out for me; to Heidi Mack, my wonderful web maven; to Megan Underwood, my lovely publicist; to my mother and Brian; and to Je

The following books and articles proved useful in my research:

Altova, Blanka-Sedlec Cistercian Monastery (Hora, 2001)

Aries, Philip-The Hour of Our Death (Knopf, 1981); Western Attitudes Toward Death (Marion Boyers, 1976)

Binski, Paul-Medieval Death: Ritual and Representation (British Museum Press, 1996)

Chlibec, Horyna, Jirasek, Novak, Pinkava-Memento Mori (Torst, 1998)

Goodrick-Clarke, Nicholas-The Occult Roots of Nazism (Tauris Parke, 2004)

Heald, David and Kinder, Terry L.-Architecture of Silence: Cistercian Abbeys of France (Harry N. Abrams, 2000)

Henry, Mark R.-The US Army in World War II (Osprey, 2001)

Laughton, Rodney-Scarborough (Arcadia, 1996)

Leroux-Dhuys, Jean-François-Cistercian Abbeys: History and Architecture (Konema

Levenda, Peter-Unholy Alliance (Second edition, Continuum, 2003)

Link, Luther-The Devil (Reaktion, 1995)

Pagels, Elaine-The Origins of Satan (Allen Lane, 1995)

Prophet, Elizabeth Clare-Fallen Angels and the Origins of Evil (Summit University Press, 2000)

Tice, Paul (and Fra Poggius)-Hus the Heretic (Book Tree, 2003)

Tobin, Stephen-The Cistercians: Monks and Monasteries of Europe (Herbert Press, 1995)

Duffy, Peter-“Blitzkrieg Cabbie” (New York Press, March 24-30, 2004)

Gray, Jeffrey-“Code of Quiet” (Village Voice, June 25, 2002) Prout, Jade-“Mayhem amp; the Maine-iac” (Portland Phoenix, March 26, 2004)

Thompson, Ginger-“On Mexico’s Mean Streets, The Si