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Eight-2
RED AND BLUE LIGHTS flash in the darkness. The normal 3:00 a.m. summer stillness is pierced by the sounds of movement, calls across the parking lot, and uniformed police officers scurrying about, wrapping the area around Rachel Watson’s townhouse in yellow crime scene tape. Some of her neighbors, awakened by the commotion, have gathered on the sidewalk. Others stand in their doorways. A few peek out of their windows. All want a glimpse of what’s going on. A steady murmur joins the chirping of crickets and the light squeaks of bats flying through the moonlit sky. I’m sitting next to Father Leonard in the open door of the ambulance. A blanket’s around his shoulders. He stares straight ahead into the distance. I see his lips moving, but cannot tell what he’s saying. Praying, I suppose. Clos
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