Dane nodded.

“It was like that. I’m sorry, but I got only a vague impression of him. The Burberry, the black hair, nothing else, really.”

Dane said easily, “Do me a favor. Close your eyes just a moment and picture yourself standing inside Saint Bartholomew’s. Can you see that incredible stained-glass window that shows the stable scene of Christ’s birth? It’s just behind the confessional.”

“Oh yes, I can see it. I’ve stared at it many times, wondering, you know, how something made of glass could make you so aware of just being.”

Yes, he thought, satisfied, she knew the window well. He said, “I saw it for the first time yesterday, stared at it, felt all those colors seep into me. It made me feel close to something bigger than I am, something deep inside that I’m rarely aware of, something powerful.”

“Yes. That’s it exactly.”

“I can imagine how, even when it’s dark in the church—that midnight dark you spoke about—how that window still shines like a beacon when just a hint of light comes through it. It would make all that black, all those shadows, take on a glow, a pale sort of shine, concentrated, as if from a long way off. I can see that. Can you?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes closed. “I can.”

Dane sat forward on the chair, his hands clasped between his legs, his voice lower now, smooth as honey. “You feel like you’re bathed in that light and it makes you feel warm and safe. It allows you to see everything around you more clearly because of that 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?”