A Christmas Miracle in Pajaro Bay (Pajaro Bay Series Book 6) Read Online Free
Author: Barbara Cool Lee
tomb.
She cast around for a hiding place. The baby was quiet now, asleep in her arms, heavy and warm.
Where to hide? There was a door opposite. She opened it. A closet, filled with choir robes and costumes from the nativity play, and priests' garb. She could hide behind the robes, but it would be the first place the man would look.
No time.
She set the baby on the floor very gently, then stood. She grabbed a cloak of rough linen, probably one intended for a poor shepherd in a play or something. She wrapped it around her and then picked up the baby again, covering her body with the cloak. She slept on, unaware.
It was no good. She knew this costume wouldn't fool the man. She had to find somewhere to go.
She opened another door, and heard the voices singing loudly. This door led down a little hall into the main church, and the lights ahead and the warmth of the song pulled her forward. She knew there was no safety in numbers, but still, to be around others, it was something.
Lori came out of the hall and found she was in the sanctuary, directly behind the Father leading the service. There was a large nativity scene set up here, with bisque figures, old and dusty and wearing elaborate robes. There were candles all around, tall creamy pillars all alight around the manger.
The choir was still singing.
She cast around for someplace to hide, but all the people in the church were facing forward and looking directly her way. She raised one hand up and put a finger to her lips, then crept over to the midst of the nativity scene.
Then her stomach turned over. She was sure she had heard the creak of the outside door over the sounds of singing.
She knelt at the nativity scene and took the little doll out of the creche. Its bisque face was cracked with age, and the little swaddling was worn and mended.
She set it aside and placed the baby in the creche, then bent over her and bowed her head, covering her own blonde hair and the baby's face with the cloak's hood.
The people kept on singing, probably assuming this was part of the Christmas service.
Then the door from the side hall burst open and she heard it bang against the old church wall.
The singing started to trail off as people gasped in shock. She couldn't see the man but knew what they must be seeing: a killer, gun in hand and murder in his heart.
The voices one by one went quiet, except for one male voice, enthusiastically if erroneously singing "angels who have gotten high, sweetly sleeping on the plane." It was Hector of course, the giver of the crooked little seashell mobile that hung over the empty crib at the lighthouse.
From the corner of her eye Lori could see him smiling away, loopy as ever, happily singing at the top of his lungs, and oblivious to what everyone else was staring at.
He finally stopped when someone nudged him.
She saw his eyes widen as he looked at something behind her. "Dude! Not cool!" he said, outraged. But the same hand that had nudged him pulled his arm and he sat down, muttering.
Total silence. She could hear the hiss as the candles kept burning, their warm, yellow glow so incongruous in what was now to be a house of death.
She prayed that the baby wouldn't wake up. Even if they all were doomed, she prayed somehow for this innocent baby to be overlooked. Even as she tried to think of words for the prayer, she knew it was futile.
Father Anselm spoke. They were words in Spanish, soothing phrases that did not seem to soothe.
She heard a click from the gun, and he stopped talking.
Heavy steps behind her. She could feel an itch between her shoulder blades as if the bullet was already there. She held her breath.
The steps passed her, went down past the father to the main aisle of the church.
She could see the man's feet now as she looked sideways under the edge of the cloak's hood. Booted feet, wet. Slow, purposeful movements as he went to each pew and stopped, seemed to examine all the faces there, then moved to the next. Left and
She cast around for a hiding place. The baby was quiet now, asleep in her arms, heavy and warm.
Where to hide? There was a door opposite. She opened it. A closet, filled with choir robes and costumes from the nativity play, and priests' garb. She could hide behind the robes, but it would be the first place the man would look.
No time.
She set the baby on the floor very gently, then stood. She grabbed a cloak of rough linen, probably one intended for a poor shepherd in a play or something. She wrapped it around her and then picked up the baby again, covering her body with the cloak. She slept on, unaware.
It was no good. She knew this costume wouldn't fool the man. She had to find somewhere to go.
She opened another door, and heard the voices singing loudly. This door led down a little hall into the main church, and the lights ahead and the warmth of the song pulled her forward. She knew there was no safety in numbers, but still, to be around others, it was something.
Lori came out of the hall and found she was in the sanctuary, directly behind the Father leading the service. There was a large nativity scene set up here, with bisque figures, old and dusty and wearing elaborate robes. There were candles all around, tall creamy pillars all alight around the manger.
The choir was still singing.
She cast around for someplace to hide, but all the people in the church were facing forward and looking directly her way. She raised one hand up and put a finger to her lips, then crept over to the midst of the nativity scene.
Then her stomach turned over. She was sure she had heard the creak of the outside door over the sounds of singing.
She knelt at the nativity scene and took the little doll out of the creche. Its bisque face was cracked with age, and the little swaddling was worn and mended.
She set it aside and placed the baby in the creche, then bent over her and bowed her head, covering her own blonde hair and the baby's face with the cloak's hood.
The people kept on singing, probably assuming this was part of the Christmas service.
Then the door from the side hall burst open and she heard it bang against the old church wall.
The singing started to trail off as people gasped in shock. She couldn't see the man but knew what they must be seeing: a killer, gun in hand and murder in his heart.
The voices one by one went quiet, except for one male voice, enthusiastically if erroneously singing "angels who have gotten high, sweetly sleeping on the plane." It was Hector of course, the giver of the crooked little seashell mobile that hung over the empty crib at the lighthouse.
From the corner of her eye Lori could see him smiling away, loopy as ever, happily singing at the top of his lungs, and oblivious to what everyone else was staring at.
He finally stopped when someone nudged him.
She saw his eyes widen as he looked at something behind her. "Dude! Not cool!" he said, outraged. But the same hand that had nudged him pulled his arm and he sat down, muttering.
Total silence. She could hear the hiss as the candles kept burning, their warm, yellow glow so incongruous in what was now to be a house of death.
She prayed that the baby wouldn't wake up. Even if they all were doomed, she prayed somehow for this innocent baby to be overlooked. Even as she tried to think of words for the prayer, she knew it was futile.
Father Anselm spoke. They were words in Spanish, soothing phrases that did not seem to soothe.
She heard a click from the gun, and he stopped talking.
Heavy steps behind her. She could feel an itch between her shoulder blades as if the bullet was already there. She held her breath.
The steps passed her, went down past the father to the main aisle of the church.
She could see the man's feet now as she looked sideways under the edge of the cloak's hood. Booted feet, wet. Slow, purposeful movements as he went to each pew and stopped, seemed to examine all the faces there, then moved to the next. Left and
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