“All right, come on, you can use the second bedroom upstairs. I’ve got to get home and get some sleep myself. I’m a working woman, remember.”
He nodded, rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, Marion, for everything. The tae kwon do was a bonus I hadn’t counted on, but it was a good one.”
She smiled. “It was the first time I’ve ever had to use it. Good to know it works.”
He got up, wobbly, and let her guide him to the stairs. “I feel like I haven’t slept for a week. That wine’s hitting me like a piano.”
“A piano?”
“Being dropped out a window.” He smiled again…He looked so damned good to her.
She laughed, pushed him gently upward. “You can use the towels in the bathroom. They’re clean. Don’t answer the phone. I’ll call you tomorrow—I’ll let it ring twice, hang up, then call again. So you’ll know it’s me.”
“Ring twice, then hang up. Right.” He turned and began the trip upstairs.
She watched him till he reached the top. “Peter?”
“Yeah?” He turned and looked down at her.
She wanted to ask him if he wanted her to stay, but forced herself to simply say: “Take care. Things will be better in the morning.”
God, she sounded so stupid!
He smiled. “I know. Thanks, Marion. I mean it.”
“I know you do. Good night.”
He disappeared down the upstairs hall and she went into the kitchen to call a cab.
She didn’t want to know what time it was as she watched the yellow taxi speed off, heading south on West End. The exhilaration and sheer adventure of the evening had slowly seeped away. Left behind were extreme fatigue and an odd kind of longing, as though something vital, something terribly important was suddenly missing from her life.
Entering her building, Marion nodded to the security concierge, walked to the elevators. The contemporary decor of the lobby seemed sterile. It was as though she were entering a mausoleum. The “something missing” feeling wouldn’t go away, and Marion knew herself well enough to realize Peter Carenza and his special problem lay at the core.
Her heart often spoke to her like that. Sometimes she listened, sometimes not. Her professional persona sought equal time under the Fairness Doctrine, and that particular inner voice was screaming a different message: you might be sitting on the biggest story of the century.
She exited the elevator and keyed the lock to her co-op apartment. Urban paranoia insisted that she inspect all the rooms and closets before she could feel comfortable and resume her train of thought. The ritual was one she’d learned from her friend Suzette, and if it was a bit on the pathological side, so what? It made her feel better to know immediately that she hadn’t been robbed and that no creep with a knife lay in wait for her, curled and twisted like a demented pretzel.
Once the paranoia tour had been completed, she collapsed on her bed without even getting undressed. Her body ached from exertion, but her mind was revved like a dragster’s engine, ready to jump off at the lights. Her life had changed irrevocably since she’d visited the Saint Sebastian rectory, where she’d met a priest so handsome he could have been a film star, who could shoot lightning bolts from his hands and who, by the way, said he’d been cloned from the blood of Jesus Christ.
Yeah, right.
Business as usual in the world of a hustling journalist. The news of the day, or the news of the century? He might not be Jesus Christ, but he certainly displayed something beyond normal human abilities. A mutant? A freak? A monster? Whatever else he might be, Father Peter Carenza was definitely News, and she didn’t know what in hell to do about it.
TWENTY
Brooklyn, New York—Ellington
* * *
August 27, 1998
When his friend didn’t meet him Monday morning, Dan Ellington had become immediately concerned. When Peter didn’t call to explain, either that night or in the next two days, Dan’s concern had escalated into mild panic.
It simply was not like Peter to do something like that. As long as Dan had known him, Peter had been a considerate, thoughtful guy. He just wouldn’t skip out on an appointment unless something unforeseen had happened.
Knowing Peter’s delicate relationship with Pastor Sobieski, Dan had been reluctant to call the rectory. But three days had passed with no word from Peter. The hell with it…
Dan picked up the phone, punched in a number.
An unfamiliar male voice answered, identified himself as Father Ryan.
“Good evening,” Dan said. “I’m trying to reach Father Carenza, please.”
“He’s not here right now,” said Ryan.
“Well, do you have any idea when he’ll be back? I had an appointment with him, but he missed it.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t.” Father Ryan’s voice carried no suggestion of tension or dissembling.
“Well, could you please tell me where he is? Where I might contact him?” For some reason, Dan’s instincts were telling him something was wrong. Remembering how upset Peter had been, and especially considering the weirdness of what had happened, he had a feeling Peter was in deep trouble.
“I don’t think so,” said Ryan. “Father Carenza’s out of the country. He’s gone to Rome.”
“What?!” Dan couldn’t hide his surprise. “When did he leave? What for?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t know. It was arranged by the pastor, but Father Sobieski’s not here right now. And I don’t know any of the details.”
The man sounded extremely sincere. If he was lying, he should’ve been an actor instead of a priest.
“When do you expect your pastor?”
“Not until later tonight,” said Ryan.
“All right, I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”
“That will be fine. He should be here all day.”
“Okay,” said Dan. “Thank you very much.”
“Is there any message I can leave for him? Who should I say is calling?”
Dan left his name, then hung up.
Rome? What was Peter doing in Rome? But even as the question formed in his mind, Dan imagined the old pastor getting cranked up about the “miraculous” overtones to Peter’s mugging. As a Jesuit, Dan was painfully aware of the old committees in the Vatican Curia devoted to the study of miracles. Although most modern Jesuits considered the committees silly, and a general embarrassment to the Church, he was certain the “old boy” network in Rome would be anxious to learn what had happened to Peter.
Rome. The more he thought about poor Peter being dragged before a bunch of old Cardinals, the more it made sense.
And the less anxious he felt. It still bothered him that Peter hadn’t called before running off to the Vatican—or after arriving. Still, knowing Peter, he was probably afraid to incur the expense of a transatlantic call—even if that call would be paid for by the wealthiest church in the world.
Well, tomorrow was Dan’s day off. He didn’t have anything to do, so he’d have plenty of time to catch Sobieski and find out exactly where Peter was and when he was due back. He picked up the Cable Guide and checked out the late movie on Cinemax.
A light tapping on his door awakened him. The television driveled on into the dark room—a badly dubbed foreign film. Dan rubbed his eyes as he realized he’d fallen asleep during the spy thriller and lost track of time.
Tap-tap…Tap-tap…
The soft sounds drew him into full wakefulness. Looking at his watch, he was surprised to see it was after 2:00 AM.
Who the hell could be knocking at this hour?
Dan moved to the door and looked out the peephole. In the dim light of the faculty apartment building hallway, he saw the figure of a man in a dark suit, wearing a fedora. His features were indistinct.
“Who’s there?” asked Dan.
“Father Ellington?” said a muffled voice.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Benjamino Ortiz from NYPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions
.”
Was this guy nuts? “Detective, it’s two in the morning. How about tomorrow?”
There was a short pause, then: “Father, it’s about your friend, Peter Carenza…”
Peter! Without thinking, Dan unlatched the steel door. It opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark gray, stylishly tailored suit, an expensive-looking shirt, and a designer tie. His face was lean and deeply tanned; high, angular cheekbones accented deeply set, large brown eyes. The man’s unlined face gave no clue to his age; Daniel thought he could be anywhere from thirty to forty.
“Good evening, Father,” the man said, stepping forcefully into the room.
Automatically, Daniel backed out of his way. The man moved with such grace and power, he commanded immediate respect.
“You said something about my friend, Father Carenza—is there anything wrong?”
“I don’t know,” said the detective. “That’s what I’m here to find out…”
He stood very close to Daniel, radiating an aura of strength and menace. Now that he’d spoken more than a few words, Dan realized his accent wasn’t quite Spanish. Dan frowned. He had no reason to fear a policeman—unless this guy wasn’t a policeman…Damn! He’d been stupid to throw open the door like that!
The man must have read the apprehension in Dan’s face. He stepped even nearer.
“Something wrong, Father?” Was that a smile beginning to form?
“You said you were a detective…” said Daniel. “But you didn’t show me your badge.”
“That’s because I lied.” He chuckled darkly. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“I’m looking for Peter Carenza.” The man seized Dan’s shoulder in a powerful grip and forced him toward a chair in the breakfast nook. “Sit down, please. We must talk.”
“Look, I want to know what’s going on here! You just can’t come busting into my place and—”
The blow came from nowhere. So quick, so fast, and delivered with such power, Daniel felt like he’d been decked by an anvil. The entire side of his head throbbed with violent bursts of pain. White, numbing pain.
“Shut up, please,” the false detective said in his whispery baritone voice. He was terribly calm and businesslike.
Daniel couldn’t speak. His words were slurred moans.
“Peter Carenza is your friend, I know that. I want to know where he is.”
Daniel forced himself to speak clearly. “He’s in Rome.”
“He’s not in Rome. I’ve just come from there. Don’t fuck with me, Father!”
Not in Rome? What was going on here? This guy, whoever he was, assumed Dan knew more than he really did. “Then I don’t where he is, honestly.”
The invader smiled. “Father, believe me. If you know anything about Carenza, I will discover it. You can either tell me easily, without pain, or you can tell me with a great deal of pain.”
Daniel slumped in his kitchen chair. The pain in his jaw had dulled to a low, pulsating ache. His ear had stopped ringing. He looked at his questioner. There was something reptilian about the man.
“Look, I don’t know anything, really! He was supposed to meet me Monday, and he never showed up. Just tonight I found out he’d been sent to Rome.”
“He’s not there now,” said the man, leaning down to peer into Dan’s eyes. “Your friend escaped and took a plane back to New York. He’s been back for more than twenty-four hours.”
“Escaped? Was he a prisoner?”
The man chuckled. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”
Dan’s mind was racing. He strove to keep calm. “Listen, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where he is.”
“We’ll see about that,” said the man, smiling again. He withdrew a small leather case from an interior coat pocket, opened it slowly to reveal a long, wicked-looking hypodermic syringe. From another pocket the man produced a small drug vial.
In an instant of pure, terror-driven reaction, Dan swung his arm and struck the hand holding the syringe case. Its contents fell to the floor and shattered.
The man who called himself Ortiz just smiled. “Oh that is unfortunate. You don’t like needles, Father? Your life would have been so much easier with just a small amount of xylothol. Now, I am afraid I will have to use more old-fashioned means…”
A blur of movement in the corner of Dan’s eye terminated in a starburst of pain at the base of his skull. Then everything just went black.
A splash of ice water in his face brought him around. After a moment of total disorientation, Daniel assessed his situation. He had been stripped naked and bound tightly to the chair with telephone cord. There was enough slack in the wire to allow circulation, but any thought of breaking free was absurd. This guy was a pro, no doubt about that.
The torturer stood before him, carefully arranging a variety of tools and kitchen implements in a row on the dinette table: knives, a corkscrew, a cheese grater, an electric hot-plate, an ice pack, a Black and Decker wireless variable speed drill, a pair of needle-nosed pliers, and a pair of channel-lock pliers. The countertop next to the sink displayed an array of open jars, cans, and other containers.
“You certainly keep a well-stocked home, Father,” said the man, gesturing at the table and smiling. “You must have known I was coming.”
“Look, I’ve told you all I know. What the hell do you want with me?”
It sickened Dan to hear the pleading in his voice, but he felt so incredibly vulnerable. With his legs spread apart and his ankles tied expertly to the back legs of the chair, Daniel felt embarrassment and fear. His penis had shriveled to a nub and his testicles had pulled up close to his body.
The man picked up a small paring knife, moved to Daniel’s left and casually inserted about a quarter inch of the blade into the skin of his forearm. Daniel watched with horror as his flesh was violated. His mind sparked, more from the audacity of the act and the shock than the pain.
Calmly the man held the blade in place. Surprisingly little blood escaped the wound.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” he said. “If I don’t like the answer, I’m going to filet your arm as if it were a fish.”
“Please…what do you want from me?”
“Answers. Only answers. Now, tell me: do you know why your friend went to Rome?”
“No.”
The blade moved half an inch up his arm. Blood spurted, and the torturer reached for an open box of baking soda. He shook some into the wound. “Next time I’ll try some salt, eh?”
“I don’t know why!” screamed Daniel. His arm felt wrapped in a cocoon of tingling fire.
“You mean Peter Carenza told you nothing of his recent…experiences? His troubles?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The man smiled. “Do you know what my colleagues call me?”
“Huh?” The question made no sense.
“Il Chirurgo. It means ‘the surgeon.’”
He guided the blade another inch closer to Daniel’s elbow, running the tip along the edge of the ulna, careful to avoid any major blood vessels. Unable to look away, Daniel watched his skin being parted as casually as if the man were slicing into a juicy steak. The “surgeon” shook a box of salt over Dan’s arm. This time the pain threatened to white out his senses. Fireworks seemed to sputter before his eyes.
“That’s shit, my friend,” said the man in his terribly soft voice, like a hammer wrapped in velvet. “You’re lying.”
“No!” Daniel screamed, wondering if anyone else in the building could hear him. “He told me about the mugger! The lightning! That’s all I know!”
The phony policeman nodded. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“Oh God, it’s true! Please believe me!”
“Do you know why Peter Carenza was taken to Rome?”
“No, but…”
The knife’s tip touched bone and a new shellburst of agony shocked through Dan. Sweat ran fro
m his pores like blood.
“But you have suspicions, don’t you? Tell me about them.”
Through clenched teeth, fighting back bitter tears, Daniel briefly outlined his supposition that Peter had been summoned by a miracle investigation committee.
“Now isn’t that a nice, convenient answer?” The man scraped the blade along the bone, flensing back the flesh. Dan was bleeding slowly, probably due to his body’s gradual lapse into shock. The pain was so all-consuming, so beyond all thresholds, that Dan had begun to look at his ruined arm as though it belonged to someone else.
He could hear himself screaming weakly, almost whimpering. “I’m telling you the truth. What’s the matter with you?”
“No, I don’t think so. What you’re telling is the party line, my friend.”
“No…” Dan moaned. “No, I’m not.”
The man bent to stare directly into Daniel’s eyes. “Now you listen to me. What you’re telling me is exactly what those goons in the Vatican want everybody to think! How could you know what to tell me unless you’ve talked to Carenza?”
“I haven’t talked to him! I swear to God!”
“Do you?” The questioner picked up the Black and Decker, squeezed the trigger lightly. The tool whined into life, drill bit turning slowly. The slow keen of its electric motor sounded horribly obscene.
“Oh God, I’m telling you the truth…”
“We’ll see.”
“Ortiz” held open Daniel’s palm and pressed the sluggishly-turning drill bit into his flesh. With inexorable slowness the steel churned through the center of his hand. Bursts of pure torment blanketed his brain like the static between radio stations. Dan screamed hoarsely, pain searing his vocal cords.
Once the drill had passed all the way through, the man reamed it up and down several times before beginning again in the center of Dan’s other hand. Just as the bit curled off the first layers of skin, he paused, looked at his captive’s face.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
“I swear to you! I haven’t talked to him. I haven’t seen him!”
The Blood of the Lamb Page 14
