It began to snow.
“Snow?” Bill said aloud. “Snow?”
What was that supposed to tell him? A snowstorm in July would be a sign. In January it meant nothing.
Except that the ground he had disturbed tonight would go undetected for a long time. Maybe forever.
He threw the shovelful of earth into the hole where it landed atop Danny’s writhing blanket.
There, Lord. I’ve started it. I’ve played Abraham. I’ve raised the knife over the closest thing to a son I’ll ever have. It’s time for you to stop me and say I’ve passed the test.
He threw in another shovelful, then another.
Come on, Lord. Stop me! Tell me I’ve done enough. I’m begging you!
He began shoveling the loose dirt into the hole as fast as he could, tumbling in clumps of frozen earth, kicking little avalanches with his feet, working like mad, whimpering, screaming deep in his throat like some crazed animal, blanking his mind to what he was doing, knowing it was the best and only thing for this little boy he loved, throwing off the clutching, restraining bonds of a lifetime of conditioning, two millennia of beliefs, keeping his eyes averted from the hole even though there was nothing to see within its black, hungry maw.
And then the hole was full.
“Are you satisfied?” Bill shouted at the flake-filled sky. “Can I dig him up now?”
He had dirt left over, so he had to force himself to step onto the fill, to stomp it with his feet, to pack it down over Danny, and then throw some more on top. And still more loose dirt remained, so he mounded some of it and scattered the rest.
And then he was done. He stood there sweating and steaming in the cold as the tiny flakes swirled around him with heartless beauty. He fought a mad urge to start digging again. He threw the shovel over the wall so he couldn’t change his mind.
Done.
With a moan that tore loose from the deepest place within him he dropped to his knees atop the grave and leaned forward until his ear was against the silent earth. Fifteen minutes now. Fifteen at least since he’d smothered that wasted little body. No reprieve now. He had done the unthinkable. But Danny’s pain was over. That was all that really mattered.
Was this the only way? God help me, I hope so!
“Good-bye, pal,” he said when he could speak. “Rest easy, okay? I’m going away for a while, but I’ll be back to visit you when I can.”
Feeling utterly lost and empty, he rose, took one last look, and then climbed the leaning oak and jumped down outside the wall. He picked up the shovel, threw it in the back of the station wagon, and began to drive.
And as he drove, he began to curse. He screamed out his disgust for a God who’d allow such a thing to happen, he cursed the medical profession for being helpless against it, he swore vengeance on Sara, or rather the woman who had usurped the real Sara’s identity. But rising through it all was a tide of loathing, for himself, for everything he had been, for everything he had done in his life, especially what he had done tonight. Self-loathing—it poured from him, it swirled and eddied around him until the inside of the car was awash with it, until he thought he would drown in it.
Somehow he managed to keep driving. Earlier in the evening he’d gone to the bank and emptied out his savings account. He had a few hundred in cash and that was it. He’d have had more if he’d settled his folks’ estate, but he hadn’t pushed on that so it was still pending.
A few hundred wouldn’t take him far, but he didn’t care. He really didn’t have the heart to run. Would have preferred to turn himself in at the nearest precinct house and have done with it. But they’d want to know where Danny was. And they’d keep on him until he told them. And when he finally broke down and told them they’d dig up Danny’s body so a different crew of doctors could take it apart.
Bill couldn’t allow that. The purpose of tonight’s horrors had been to lay Danny to rest, to give him peace.
He didn’t want to face a murder trial either. Too many others, innocent people, would suffer—the priesthood in general, the Society in particular. That wouldn’t be fair. He’d done this on his own. Better to disappear. If they couldn’t catch him, they wouldn’t know Danny was dead. If Bill wasn’t in court and in the papers every day, the furor would die down. People would forget about him and what he’d done.
But Bill would never forget.
He thought of heading for the East River, of locking the wagon’s doors, opening the windows a couple of inches, and driving off one of the embankments. Who knew when they’d find him?
But someone might find him too soon. They might save him. And then he’d have to go through the court scenario.
No. Better for everyone if he kept on the move.
So he drove. The snow accumulated steadily as he wound through the residential streets of Queens, avoiding the area where the Loms had lived, and avoiding the St. Francis area as well. The police would be looking for him now and they’d certainly be watching those two places.
Near dawn he reached the western rim of Nassau County and saw that his fuel was getting low. He found an open 7-11 and filled up at the self-serve. In the store he made himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a buttered bagel. As he was paying the Middle Eastern clerk for everything, he glanced at the little portable TV behind the counter and almost dropped his coffee. His face was on the screen. The clerk saw his expression and glanced at the set.
“Terrible, is it not, when you cannot trust your children to a priest?” he sing-songed in his high-pitched voice. “It is getting so you cannot trust anyone.”
Bill tensed, ready to run, sure the clerk would see the resemblance. But perhaps because the screen was so small, and Bill had been clean-shaven, well rested, and years younger when that photo had been taken, the man made no connection. He shrugged and turned to the cash register to ring up the gas and food.
Then the phone began to ring. A long ring that wouldn’t stop. The clerk dropped the change into Bill’s trembling hand and stared at the phone.
“What on earth?”
Bill too stared at the phone. That ring! He spun and scanned the empty store, then peered through the windows into the snowy dawn. No one else about. He looked back at the phone as the clerk lifted the receiver.
How?
Faintly he heard that familiar, terrified little voice.
“What?” he heard the clerk say. “What are you saying? I am not your father, little boy. Listen to me…”
No one knew he was here, no one had followed him—it couldn’t be!
Unless … unless the caller wasn’t hampered by human limitations.
But who? Who or what was tormenting him, mocking him with Danny’s cries for help?
More evidence that his life had fallen under the thrall of something as evil as it was inhuman.
His heart pounding like an air hammer, Bill hurried for the door. Out—into the snow, to the safe-and-sane interior of the station wagon, and back onto the streets.
He realized that if he was going to remain free he’d have to get out of the city, out of the state, out of the Northeast. But to do that he’d have to go through Manhattan.
No—he could go over the Verrazano Bridge, cut across Staten Island, and slip into New Jersey.
He headed south toward the Belt Parkway.
5
They put the call through to Renny. Some foreign guy, his voice accented but easily understandable.
“Mr. Detective, sir, I believe I have seen this priest you are searching for.”
Renny grabbed a pencil.
“When and where?”
“Not more than one hour ago in the store where I work in Floral Park.”
“An hour! Jesus, why’d you wait so long?”
“I did not know it was him until I come home and see his picture on my TV screen. He did not look the same but I believe it was him.”
Not exactly a positive ID, but it was all they’d had.
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, he was
. There was no child with him, at least none that I saw.”
“Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”
“I do not remember.”
“Didn’t you look?”
“Perhaps, but I was too upset by a telephone call that—”
Renny was suddenly on his feet.
“Telephone call? What kind of call?”
The man described a call exactly like the one Renny had picked up in the hospital, same ring, same frightened child’s voice, everything.
What was Ryan up to? And what was the story with the phone calls? Was Ryan making them, using them as a distraction? Or was someone else behind them? Like whoever had posed as Sara.
This whole thing was getting loonier by the hour.
Long Island … hadn’t Ryan grown up on Long Island? Monroe Village or something like that? Maybe that was where he was headed. Headed home.
He reached for the phone.
6
The morning had lightened but the sun stayed locked behind the low-hanging clouds that sealed off the sky and continued to pump the blizzard at the city. The whole world, the very air, had turned gray-white. Bill had the roads pretty much to himself. After all, it was New Year’s Day and snowing like mad. Only crazies and those who had no choice were out. Still, the going was slow and difficult. The Belt Parkway wasn’t plowed and the wagon handled like a barge in a typhoon, slewing this way and that on the curves. He wished he had an SUV, or at least front-wheel drive.
But things improved when he got on the lower level of the Verrazano. Blessedly little snow on the protected stretch of bridge. As he reached the bottom of the span he glanced right just as the storm took a breath. He saw the glowing spires of the Twin Towers and realized he’d never see them again.
Then he was on Staten Island; beyond that lay New Jersey and freedom.
Freedom, he thought grimly. But no escape.
7
“So where the hell is he?” Renny said to anyone who would listen.
He was seated at his desk in the squad room trying to coordinate the search for Ryan. He waited for one of the other detectives seated around him to offer a brilliant answer but they only sipped their coffee and looked at the floor.
All Renny could do was wait. And waiting was pure hell.
They had the Monroe Police force, what there was of it, keeping an eye out for their local boy. Other than that, the bastard could be anywhere on Long Island. Hell, he could have skidded off the LIE and be lying in a ditch freezing to death … and that poor kid freezing along with him. He could—
Connelly rushed through the squad room waving a sheet of paper.
“They think they spotted him on Staten Island!”
Staten Island? Ryan had been spotted in Floral Park before, due east of the medical center. How could they spot him in Staten Island? That was west.
“When?”
“Less than a half hour ago, Island side of the Verrazano. Driving an old Ford Country Squire.”
“They holding him?”
“Well, no,” Connelly said. “Whoever it was slipped through. He was alone. No kid anywhere in sight. Might not have been him. The trooper was pulling him over but got drawn away by an accident.”
“He got away?”
Renny leaped from his chair, spilling his coffee across the top of his drab green desk. He couldn’t believe it. Even though it wasn’t Connelly’s fault, he wanted to strangle him.
“Yeah, but they think they got the island sealed off in time.”
“They think?”
“Hey, look, Renny. I’m only telling you what they told me, okay? I mean, they’re not even sure it was him, but they took precautions, and as soon as they got the phone working, they—”
Renny felt a thrill go through him like an electric shock.
“The phone? What was wrong with the phone?”
“The one in the toll booth. They said there was a hysterical kid on it and they couldn’t get him off it.”
“That was him in the wagon!” Renny shouted. “Goddammit, that was him! We’ve got the son of a bitch! We’ve got him!”
8
Made it!
Bill snatched the ticket jutting from the slot in the machine and started up the southbound ramp of the New Jersey Turnpike. He must have reached the Goethals just in time. He’d been watching in his rearview mirror as much as he dared while the wagon fishtailed up the slippery span. Through the haze of falling snow, as he reached the crest of the bridge, he spotted a group of flashing blue lights converge behind him at its Staten Island base.
If they were confining their search to Staten Island, he was home free. But he couldn’t count on that. So the best thing to do was to put another state between himself and New York. He noticed on his toll ticket that Exit 6 was the Penn Turnpike Extension. That was where he’d go. Take that about a hundred miles into Pennsylvania and leave the car in a shopping mall. Then he’d buy a bus ticket and double back to Philadelphia. From there he’d Amtrak south, all the way to Florida. And after that, who knew? Maybe hitch a ride on a fishing boat to the Bahamas. That would put him less than a hundred miles from Florida but he’d be in a British territory, essentially a foreign country.
He felt so tired. He tried to look to the future but could see nothing there. And he couldn’t look back. God no—not back. He had to forget—forget Danny, forget America, forget the god he had trusted, forget Bill Ryan.
Yeah. Forget Bill Ryan. Bill Ryan was dead, along with everything he had ever believed in.
He had to get away to a place where no one would recognize him, a place where he could lose himself, lose his memories, lose his mind.
A place with no phones.
A heaviness grew in his chest. He was alone now. Truly alone. No one in the world he could turn to. Anything he had ever loved or cared about was either gone or closed to him. His folks were dead; his family home was a vacant lot with a charred spot at its center; he was barred from St. Francis; the Church and the Society would turn him in and disown him if he went to them for help.
And Danny was gone … poor dear Danny was gone too.
Wasn’t he?
Of course he was. Safe and at peace, smothered beneath four feet of frozen, snow-covered earth. How could he be otherwise?
Shuddering, he shook off the horrifying possibility and accelerated, leaving it behind. But its ghost followed him south through the white limbo of the blizzard.
Part III
NOW
JANUARY
TWENTY
North Carolina
Saturday morning and it was top-down weather.
Bill reveled in the warmth of the sun on his shoulders and the back of his neck as he pulled from a parking slot on Conway Street. Warm for late January, even a North Carolina January. He’d just picked up a bargain-priced CD of The Notorious Byrd Brothers and he was itching to play it. How long had it been since he’d heard “Tribal Gathering” and “Dolphin Smile,” tunes they never played on the radio, especially down here.
He pressed the scan button on his radio—one of the old Impala’s few non-vintage accessories—and stopped it when he heard someone singing a plaintive, country-fied version of “Yellow Bird.” A wave of nausea sloshed against the walls of his stomach as he was jerked back to the Bahamas, back to the stretch of lost years he had spent among that cluster of tiny islands straddling the Tropic of Cancer.
He’d arrived in West Palm by train late on January second. First thing the next morning he rented a sixteen-foot outboard, loaded it up with extra gas, and followed one of the tour boats out toward the Bahamas. He ran out of fuel a quarter mile short of Grand Bahama and had to swim the rest of the way in. When he came ashore at West End, he sat on the beach for a while, barely able to move. He was now on British soil, which meant he had to add his native country to the things he had left behind.
Besides his life, he had only one other thing left to lose. He wrote William Ryan, S.J. on the wet sand near the waterline, turn
ed his back, and began walking.
His clothes were dry by the time he reached Freeport.
He experienced most of the next two decades or so through a haze of cheap rum and drugs. Why not? What did he care? He didn’t trust God anymore, at least not the god he’d been raised to believe in. And he didn’t think of himself as a priest anymore either. How could he? He could barely think of himself as human. Not after what he’d done. He’d smothered a child he’d loved more than anything in this world. Buried him alive. No matter that he’d done it out of love, to put the boy out of reach of the forces that were torturing him—he’d done it. He’d dug the hole, and placed the child within, and then he’d filled it.
An atrocity—The Atrocity, as he came to call it. And the memory of the weight of the dirt-laden shovel in his hands, the image of that small, struggling, blanket-shrouded form disappearing beneath the cascades of falling earth, was more than he could bear. He’d had to blot it out, all of it.
He lived in backstreet rooms in Freeport on Grand Bahama, in Hope Town on Great Abaco, in Governor’s Harbor on Eleuthera. His money didn’t last long and he soon wound up on New Providence, bedding down on the sand each night—feeling as hollow as the empty shells washed up by the tide—and during the day wandering Cable Beach selling bags of peanuts or shilling for the ride operators off Paradise Island, getting two bucks a head for every passenger he rounded up for the banana-boats and five each for the parasails, spending it all on anything he could smoke, swallow, or snort to blot out the memory of The Atrocity.
He spent the time stoned or drunk or both. He recognized no limits. Whatever it took, he’d take. A couple of times he overdid it and nearly did himself in. More than once he seriously considered getting together enough stuff for a fatal overdose, but he kept putting it off.
Finally, his body rebelled. Even if his mind did not want to live, his flesh did. And it refused to stomach any more liquor. He sobered up by default. And he found a clear head bearable. The Atrocity had receded into the past. The wounds it had left hadn’t healed, but they had evolved from open sores to a cluster of steadily throbbing aches that flared only occasionally into agony.
The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) Page 175
