When he' reached his stop and climbed back up to street level, he saw that the clouds had lowered. Snowflakes swirled among the tiny droplets that sprinkled his face. Sleet. He had no raincoat or umbrella, but he didn't mind. Besides, the grim weather matched his mood perfectly. He lit a cigarette and quick-walked the two blocks to his second-floor apartment.
Renny called American and charged a ticket to Raleigh. He packed quickly, throwing a few clean shirts, a couple of pairs of polyester slacks, and some toiletries into a battered old Samsonite suitcase, then dumped his drawer of socks and underwear on top of everything. He removed his shoulder holster and Smith & Wesson .38 and laid that in among the Jockey shorts. Then he grabbed his raincoat and headed back down the stairs. He could catch the R train and take it to LaGuardia.
But first he had to make a little detour.
Outside it was all snow now. He pulled up his collar and walked south a few blocks, then east until he came to an old boarded-up building. As the snowflakes sifted through his thinning hair and melted on his scalp, he stood and stared up at the facade. The sign to the left of the door was still visible:
ST. FRANCIS HOME FOR BOYS
This wasn't the first time he'd stood before the place where Danny Gordon had lived. He came here regularly to renew a vow he had made here five years ago.
It was snowing then too.
Danny Gordon was dead. Even though his body had never been found, there was no doubt of that in Renny's mind, no doubt that the priest had killed him. Ryan couldn't hide and travel with a child injured like that. No. He'd finished what he had begun, and then he'd faded away. A perfect disappearing act.
Until now. After all these years, a lead had finally surfaced. Renny was ready to follow it to the ends of the earth.
For Danny.
I don't know where you are, kid, but I know you're dead. But just because you've got no folks, no family, don't think there's no one alive who cares about what happened to you. There is. Me. And I'm going to get the guy who did it. That's Renaldo Augustino's promise.
He turned and walked away through the falling snow toward the subway station, whispering another promise to someone else.
And when I find you, Father Bill Ryan, I'll bring you in… but not before I give you a taste of what you did to that poor kid.
ELEVEN
North Carolina
Rafe was right about the stealing. It did get easier. It became so against her will.
With each little theft, Lisl had clung to the guilt, squeezed each incident for whatever remorse she could wring from it, but despite her best efforts the guilt dwindled, the remorse became brittle and desiccated to the point where it crumbled into a fine powder that ran through her fingers like sand.
She had changed. She saw so many things in a new perspective now. Her parents, for instance…
She had gone home for Christmas. There had been no way out. She hadn't wanted to leave Rafe but his own family had been tugging at him as well, so they separated for the holiday.
What a nightmare.
And what an eye-opener. She had never realized before how empty her parents were. How shallow, how narcissistic. After she arrived they'practically ignored her. All they seemed truly interested in was themselves. They'd wanted her home for the holidays, not out of any genuine desire for her company, but because having your only child home for Christmas was the way it should be. No real concern or interest in anything beyond their front door besides how they appeared to others.
The memory of Christmas night dinner was still fresh in her mind, how she had sat there and listened to them talk. All the pettiness, bitterness, jealousy disguised as wit. The subtle put-downs as they questioned her about how far she wanted to pursue this career thing, about remarrying and giving them grandchildren so they could keep up with their old friends the Andersons who now had three. She'd never seen it before, but these few months with Rafe had opened her eyes.
Depressing. And infuriating.
Lisl asked herself what these two people had ever really done for her as parents. They had fed her, clothed her, put a roof over her head—and she supposed there was something to be said for those benefits since not all parents did even that much for their children—but beyond the necessities of life, what had they given her? What had they passed on to her?
She'd realized with a shock that her life had no center. She'd been raised and sent out into the world without a compass. And unless she did something on her own to remedy that, she would remain emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually adrift.
The day after Christmas she had fled back to Pendleton. She'd been overjoyed to find Rafe waiting for her.
"All right," Rafe now said as they stood on the sidewalk down the street from Ball's Jewelry. They'd just completed their twenty-second shoplifting spree. "Who is the lucky passerby to receive our largess?"
Lisl scanned the faces of the post-Christmas shoppers and gift-returners as they flowed past. Then she glanced down at the gold butterfly pin in her hand, lifted from a counter in Ball's only moments before. She was enchanted by the delicate filigree of its wings.
"No one," she said.
Rafe turned to her, his eyebrows raised. "Oh?"
"I like this. I think I'll keep it."
The words shocked her. They seemed to have taken on a life of their own and escaped independent of her will. But they were the truth. She did want to keep this pin.
A slow smile spread across Rafe's face.
"No guilt? No remorse?"
Lisl searched within herself. No. She could find no guilt. The thefts had become routine, actually. More of a chore—an errand, almost—than anything else.
"No," she said, shaking her head and looking down at the gold butterfly. "And that frightens me."
"Don't be frightened."
Rafe took the pin from her, opened her coat, and pinned it on her sweater.
"Why not?" she said.
"Because this is a watershed, a cause for celebration."
"I feel like I've developed a callus on my soul."
"You' ve done nothing of the sort. That's the kind of thinking that holds you back. Negative imagery. It's not a matter of calluses. It's breaking free from your childhood shackles."
"I don't feel free."
"Because only one of those chains has fallen away. There are still more. Many more."
"I don't know if I want to hear this."
"Trust me."
Rafe took her arm and they began walking along Conway Street.
"Up till now," he said, "we've been engaging in faceless acts of liberation."
"Faceless? What's been faceless? There've been plenty of faces involved here."
"Not really. We've been stealing from stores. Faceless corporations that do not feel even the slightest prickle of discomfort from what we've done."
"You're not going to turn Marxist on me now, are you?"
Rafe's expression was disdainful. "Please don't insult my intelligence. No. What I mean is that from now on we're going to get personal."
Lisl didn't like the sound of that.
"What do you mean?"
"Not what—who. I'd rather show you than tell you. And I wish to do a little research first. Tomorrow will be soon enough." He opened the passenger door to his Maserati and bowed her toward the seat. "Your carriage awaits."
A small, cold lump formed in Lisl's stomach as she got in. Her relief that the thefts would stop was undercut by a growing unease about what would replace them.
TWELVE
The following day Lisl opened her apartment door and was startled to find a seedy-looking stranger standing outside. She'd been expecting Rafe. He was due within the hour and when she heard the bell she figured he was showing up early.
"Can I help you?" she said.
He was thin, haggard-looking, but clean-shaven and smelling of a spicy after-shave. A bulky overcoat rounded off the sharp edges of his wiry frame.
"You can if you're Miss Lisa Whitman.
"
"Lisl. That's me. Who are you?"
He fished a black leather folder from within his coat and flashed a badge at her.
"Detective Augustino, Miss Whitman. State Police."
She caught a fleeting glimpse of a blue and gold shield before the flap covered it again, then the folder was on its way back inside the coat.
A sudden surge of panic lanced through Lisl.
Police! They know about the stealing!
She glanced down at her sweater where the gold butterfly with the filigree wings was pinned. She had an urge to cover it with her hand—but that would be like pointing it out to him, wouldn't it?
This was it: shame, disgrace, a criminal record, the end of her career.
"What…" Her mouth was dry. "What do you want with me?"
"Are you the lady who made the complaint about a crank phone call on December sixteenth?"
Crank phone call? December 16th? What on earth was he—?
"Oh, the party! The call at the party! Oh, that's right! Ohmigod, I thought you were—" She cut herself off.
"Thought I was what, Miss Whitman?"
"Nothing! Nothing!" Lisl fought an insane urge to burst out laughing. "Nothing at all!"
"May I come in, Miss Whitman?"
"Yes! Come on in!" she said, opening the door wider and stepping back. She was so weak with relief she had to sit down. "And call me Lisl."
He glanced at the notepad in his hand.
"So it really is Lisl, with an '1' on the end? I thought it was a misprint."
"No. My mother was Scandinavian."
Lisl realized with a shock that she had referred to her mother in the past tense, as if she were dead. After that trip home for Christmas last week, maybe she was dead, in a sense. She brushed the thought away.
"Have a seat, Detective…?"
"Augustino. Sergeant Augustino."
As he sat on her tiny couch and took out a pen, Lisl tried to pin down his accent. There was something strange about the way he talked.
"Now, about that phone call—" he began.
"Why are the police involved?" Lisl said. "I reported it to the phone company."
"Yes, but there's been more than one incident like yours. Southern Bell felt it was serious enough to refer it to the State Police."
Lisl remembered the terror in that child's voice.
"I'm glad they did. It was awful."
"I'm sure it was. Could you describe to me exactly what happened, including the surrounding events? In detail?"
"I already gave that information to the phone company."
"I know, but their report is vague. I need your firsthand account to be sure this is the same. Start at the beginning, please."
Lisl shrank from the thought of reliving that call, but if it would help track down the twisted mind that would pull such a sick stunt, she was all for it.
She told Augustino about the party at Rafe's place, the crowded living room, about the strange endless ring that had set everyone's teeth on edge. She watched him leaning farther and farther forward as she spoke. He was so intent that he wasn't taking any notes.
"And since no one else seemed to want to do it," she said, "I picked up the phone. And that's when I heard that voice." She paused, shivering. "How can I describe the terror in that child's voice?"
Lisl glanced at Sergeant Augustino and knew immediately that she didn't have to describe the voice to him. She saw it in his eyes—the look. Almost like the look she caught in Will Ryerson's eyes every so often.
She said, "You've heard it too, haven't you?"
The woman's words jolted Renny.
How the hell did she know? How could she tell?
Shit, yes, he'd heard that voice. He'd had the unnerving experience five years ago—Christ, it was almost five years ago to the freaking day!—of lifting the receiver on one of those drawn-out rings. He'd heard it. And he'd never forget it. How could he? The voice replayed night after night in his sleep.
He studied Lisl Whitman with renewed respect. This was one sharp gal. Good-looking too.
Looks and smarts—a deadly combination. Renny knew he'd have to watch himself. Not only did he lack any official capacity here in North Carolina, he was impersonating a state cop. And that was molto illegal.
"No, not really," he lied—not well, he knew. "But I've heard the description so many times I almost feel like I have."
She nodded absently. He could tell she didn't believe him.
"Who's behind this?" she said.
"A very sick man. We're trying to track him down."
She looked him squarely in the eyes and said, "Was that a… a real child on the phone?"
"No," Renny said, hoping his eyes didn't betray him. "That was a recording." It has to be.
"But what about my phone cord?"
"What about it?"
"Didn't they tell you? It was disconnected."
He didn't remember the phone company rep mentioning anything about that.
"I don't understand."
"The phone… it wasn't plugged into the wall when I got the call. How is that possible?"
An awful lot of things about this case aren't possible, lady.
"It's not," he told her. "It must have come loose at the end of the call."
"But it didn't. I distinctly remember looking down and seeing the phone cord coiled on the floor a couple of feet away from the phone."
A chill skittered across Renny's shoulders. She had to be mistaken. But after what he'd seen five years ago, wasn't anything possible?
He pulled himself together. This was no way to think. He'd always followed the old Sherlock Holmes dictum to eliminate the impossible. Well, what she was telling him was pretty goddam impossible. It would only muddy the waters if he gave it any space.
Renny shook his head and changed the subject.
"But this is not the address at which the incident occurred, am I correct?"
Renny congratulated himself on how official that sounded.
"No," she said. "It was at Rafe Losmara's. That should be in the report too."
"It is. But every time I call Mr. Losmara or stop by his place, there's no one home."
"That's strange…" she said.
"How long have you known Mr. Losmara?"
"Only a few months."
"Only a few months." Renny sensed he was getting warm. He could feel the excitement building. "So you don't know him that well."
He saw her back stiffen.
"I know him very well."
"Could you describe him to me?" Renny said.
He'd been looking for an answer to that question for nearly two weeks now.
She described Losmara in glowing terms. Obviously these two had a thing going. Lucky Losmara. But Renny found his hot trail cooling rapidly. The man she described was too short, too dark, too small, and about twenty-five years too young.
Not Ryan. No way.
So much for that theory. But that didn't mean that Ryan hadn't been there. Maybe he didn't own the place, but he'd been at that party. No question. Renny would stake his life on it.
"Could I have a guest list?"
"You can't think that anyone at the party—?"
"Of course not. But it's all we have to go on for now. It might be useful."
She rose and went to a small desk in the corner of the living room and began rummaging through the papers that cluttered its surface. Abruptly she held up a sheet of paper.
"Got it! I always knew there was a reason never to throw anything away."
She handed it to him.
"I'll tell you what, though," he said, glancing down at the long list of names. "You could do me a favor and pare this down by eliminating anyone you've known for more than five years or who you're certain has been in the area at least that long."
She picked up a pencil and began drawing lines through some of the names.
"Does that mean you have a suspect?"
Renny chewed the inside of his lip. He'd have to
be real careful here.
"We don't have a name, but we do have an old photo."
She handed back the list, then took her seat again.
"Well…?"
Renny pulled the photo out of his breast pocket and placed it on the coffee table between them. He wished he could have arranged for one of those computer-generated drawings that aged a suspect's face.
"A priest?"
Anxiously, Renny watched her face, searching for some hint of recognition as she picked it up and studied it.
"A Jesuit. As I said, this is an old picture. No doubt he looks a lot different now."
She said, "And you say he's been here less than five years?"
"We believe so. That's when he disappeared. Give it a good look. He might have a beard or a mustache these days." He thought he saw her stiffen. "Remind you of anyone?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. No one."
A thrill shot through Renny as he realized she might be lying. Those last two words, the extra, unnecessary emphasis, gave her away. What was that look in her eyes now? Uncertainty? He caught her quick glance at the list in his hand. The photo must remind her of someone at her party.
"Sure?"
"Positive."
If he'd been on his home turf, Renny would have jumped all over her, maybe even gone so far as to bring her down to the station. But he was in a legally precarious position here. If the department got even a whiff of what he was up to, he'd be in big trouble. So he stood and stuffed the guest list in his pocket. He reached across and took the photo from her.
"Thank you, Miss Whitman. You've been a big help. Maybe we'll finally track down this pervo."
She was staring at him.
"Your accent… you sound like a New Yorker now."
Damn! Time to beat it.
"Yes, well, I spent part of my youth in Queens. Hard to kick some things, don't you think?"
She said nothing.
"Okay, well, I've got to get back to Raleigh. Thanks again."
He hurried out the door and fairly danced down the steps after it closed behind him. Somewhere on that list in his pocket was the new identity of Father Bill Ryan. He was closing in. He could taste it.
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