The 7th Canon Read Online Free

computer.”
    “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Simeon put down the stubborn pieces. “Lockdown?”
    “We’re a shelter, Danny, not a penitentiary.”
    “Tell me about it.” Simeon stood. “If we were a pen, we’d get a lot more money from the state, and better food.”
    Father Tom couldn’t argue the logic.
    Simeon faced the bunks and spoke in an uncanny Sylvester Stallone impersonation. “All right, convicts, lockdown. Warden here is taking the keys. Anyone leaves, better hope to find a stairwell smells like urine to sleep in.”
    Father Tom smiled and shook his head. He walked out the door, checking his watch. He was really late. He hurried down the hall, sandals slapping the worn linoleum. A streak of lightning flashed overhead. He looked up to the chicken-wire-reinforced skylight. It shone blue. Seconds later, thunder rumbled. Music to his ears.
    Then the lights cut out.
    “Damn,” he said, stopping. He hoped it was the weather and not PG&E cutting power to the building. He was late paying his bills again, though he’d called and they’d said they’d work with him. He hoped it was just a blown fuse. The building was old and still on a breaker system, and fuses were cheap.
    From down the hall, he heard the dormitory door open. “What’s going on?” Danny Simeon asked.
    “Could be the storm,” Father Martin said. “I’m going to check the fuse box. Get the flashlights out of the closet, and keep everyone inside the room.”
    The fuse box to the building was in a closet located at the back of the recreation room, which was situated across the hall from Father Tom’s office. Father Tom kept a flashlight in the closet. He sorted through his key ring in the limited ambient light from the skylight, found the key, and unlocked the double-wide doors. Stepping in, he hurried across the room. In the dark, the life-size ceramic Nativity scene at the front of the room looked like a group of San Francisco’s homeless huddled against the cold.
    He’d made it halfway across the linoleum when his sandal slid out from under him and he fell backward. Instinctively, he put out his hand to brace his fall, catching his left wrist at an odd angle. He heard it snap. An electric bolt of pain shot up his arm, momentarily sapping the world of color. On the tile floor he writhed in agony, fighting the nausea and urge to vomit. When he was finally able to sit up, he cradled his arm to his body. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. He’d broken his arm, no question about it, and he’d need to get to the hospital, which meant calling an ambulance and leaving Danny in charge. He looked to the spot where his foot had slid; he needed another leak in the roof like he needed a hole in the head.
    Instead of a puddle, however, he noticed a series of spots, a linear pattern that didn’t fit with a leak. Neither did the dark color, too dark to be water, even with the lights out. He touched a spot with the tip of his finger and held it up to the dim light. Still uncertain, he touched his finger to his tongue and recognized the bitter, iron taste.
    “Blood.”
    He checked his hands and elbows but found no cuts.
    In pain, and with his nausea worsening, he managed to get to his feet. Clutching his arm, he followed the trail of blood to where the three Magi knelt shoulder to shoulder alongside a lamb and cow, all in adoration of the child in the manger.
    “Oh, no.”
    Father Martin stopped. Though his brain urged him forward, his feet remained anchored to the floor. He dropped to his knees and reached out, hoping to touch porcelain but instead feeling flesh.
    Andrew Bennet’s body lay in the manger, arms draped over the sides, knuckles dragging in the puddle of blood beneath the straw.
    Lightning crackled overhead, a strobe of sharp, blue light. A second later, thunder rocked the building, and the first drops of rain splattered on the glass roof.
    The storm had arrived.

Chapter 3
    Donley shut the door on his way out of Benny’s room