“I see that now,” Bram said gently. “I see I did the wrong thing. I see that this is all my fault—”
“Oh my beautiful golden boy!” She cried out, grabbing his hands, the gun resting between their digits. “My chaste, wonderful, precious son. He was so cruel to you.”
“Give me the gun, Mom. Just let go—”
“If he hadn’t sent you away, this never would have happened. You would have become a minister—a real servant of God—instead of a priest. You would never have left the true faith to worship idols and statues. You would have stayed with me, protected me from his evilness. Protected me as you’ve always done. Oh Abram, I should have seen so long ago what kind of man he was. He sent you away as surely as the Jews closed the door on the baby Jesus—”
“Mom, I left on my own accord—”
“No!” Dolly shook her head. “No, you didn’t. He sent you away! Drove you away with his harsh words and unforgiving disposition. And all the while he carried the gravest sin in his despicable heart.” Out loud she orated: “‘Let he who is innocent cast the first stone.’”
“Give me the gun, Mom.”
“Men are beasts,” she said fiercely. “They come to you with soft words and sweet promises, then snare you into their evil traps of lust and carnage, use you until you’re old and tired—”
“Mom—”
“He was evil, Abram. How could you give him your blessing?”
Slowly, Decker inched forward.
“I was wrong, Mom,” Bram purred. “Give me the gun.”
“Mom, please give Bram the gun,” Michael pleaded, stepping into the room. But Oliver grabbed his arm, pulled him back into the doorway. Decker took another step forward, his hand still tightly wrapped around the grip of his holstered gun.
Dolly liberated her left hand, stroked Bram’s face. She ran her hands through Bram’s long hair. The leonine mother grooming her cub.
“Ah, but how beautiful you are to me. So chaste and pure with the face and body of an angel.” Her smile turned into a sneer. “So unlike Lucas who wasted his attributes, wasted his life on whores and vices. Two faces, both the same, but so different. Jacob and Esau. You, devoting yourself to the service of God even if it’s in the wrong way.”
Tears streamed down Dolly’s cheeks. “How could you give him your blessing, Bram? How could you do that to me?”
“I was wrong.”
“Especially knowing what was in his heart. Seeing the filth and perversion in his lusts. Why? Why? How could you condone him?”
“I never condoned him, Mom. But forgiveness is another matter. Our Lord forgives us all of our grievous sins. Should we do any less to each other?” His voice was a hush. “Give me the gun, Mom. I’ll take care of you.”
“William said he’d take care of me,” Dolly snapped angrily. “Look what he did, the stupid, stupid fool. Look what happened! Men are beasts!”
“Let’s not think about him now, Mom.”
“William knew of your father’s filth. Your father told him one day…blurted it out with pride. Then William told me, planted evil in my heart—”
“I know, Mom. It was his fault. Give me the gun.”
To Decker, she said, “That’s the monster you should be arresting. Not us, him!”
Decker nodded. William Waterson—the man who had been hanging around the house, painting himself as a family friend, and mysteriously visiting bikers with big checks drawn from Dolly’s account. A quick call to Farrell and his computer had verified that plus a few other interesting things.
Just how much was Waterson involved in this mess? Did he orchestrate the whole thing?
Decker regarded Dolly intensely. Her eyes were rolling and unfocused, her mouth slightly agape, tiny rills of drool amassing at the corners. Her body held a slight twitch. Unnatural. As if on strong, strong medication. Too zonked out to plan something like murder on her own.
She must have had help. Once she had been a user. Maybe Waterson had known about the addiction. Prodding her along, keeping her dazed and confused, because the lawyer had had a vested interest in keeping Dolly’s checkbook open for consumption.
The woman wept. “Oh my cursed life. And all I ever wanted to be was a good wife.”
She squeezed Bram’s hands with both of hers, the hard gun between them pressing deep into her fleshy palms. Decker took a step toward them.
“William sowed evil in my soul, Abram,” she continued. “He used the anger in my heart for his own wretched purposes. He enticed me to do evil…like Eve did unto Adam. He swore sweet words of God and everlasting love. William is a vile, vile man. Abram, I swear I never meant for anyone to die—”
“Mom,” Bram said quietly, “if you love me…if you want me to help you, please, please, give me the gun.”
“Don’t leave me, Abram.”
“Never.”
“Don’t ever go back to Rome.”
“It’s not even a consideration,” Bram spoke soothingly. “I’ll stay here and be with you. We’ll work things out. But first you have to give me the gun.”
Decker crept closer, looked over his shoulder. Oliver gave him the thumbs-up sign. Backup had arrived.
Dolly said, “You won’t go back to Rome? You’ll be here with me?”
Bram said, “For as long as you need me.”
“Forever?”
“Yes, forever and ever,” Bram whispered. “Let go of the gun, Mom. Just loosen your grip…”
Decker saw the priest’s slender fingers working their way into his mother’s hold on the gun, prying her hand from the grip.
“That’s a good girl,” Bram encouraged. “Just relax your hand.”
Slowly, he managed to wriggle his fingers around the weapon, extracting the gun from her with much deliberation. As soon as he freed it from her grasp, he placed it on the floor, gently pushing it toward Decker’s direction. Kneeling, Decker retrieved the semi and took out the magazine clip. For the first time, he realized how wet his hands were, face and body drenched with sweat.
Bram held his mother’s hands. As he stood, he brought her up from the chair.
“I love you, son,” she said, crying.
“I love you, too.”
“You’ll never leave me?”
“Never.”
“You’ll stay with me forever?”
“Yes, Mom, I’ll stay with you forever.”
“But what will happen when they come for you, Abram? When those idol-worshiping bishops call you to Rome?”
“I won’t go, Mom. I won’t leave you.”
No one spoke.
Bram inched his mother forward. “We have to go to the police now, Mom. We’ll get you a very good lawyer. Then you and he can talk about Mr. Waterson…what he told you, what he did.”
Dolly stopped walking. “He’s an evil, evil man.”
“Yes, he is. And we’ll tell the police that.” Bram glanced at Decker. Decker nodded back. The priest continued. “Once your lawyer arrives, you can tell them all about Mr. Waterson. The lieutenant here? He’ll want to hear what you have to say. Right, Lieutenant?”
“Right,” Decker answered.
Bram said, “And I’ll be with you when you talk to the lieutenant. I’ll be with you, your lawyer will be with you…isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”
“Absolutely,” Decker replied.
“You love me?” Dolly asked her son.
“Yes, Mom, I love you very much.”
“Hug me, Abram. Hold me, please.”
The priest embraced his mother.
“Big bear hug, gorgeous.”
Bram squeezed his mother tightly.
“I love you, Abram,” Dolly said. “I want to be with you. I want to be with you, forever!”
The way she spoke sent chills through Decker’s spine, sent his reactions into overdrive. As soon as he saw her hand dip into her caftan, he charged her.
But a fraction too late.
Fire exploded from Dolly’s hand, Bram slipping from her gr
ip, hitting the floor. Decker flew into her, knocking her down as the gun went skittering across the floor, firing as it hit the wall.
“Shit!” Decker screamed as he raced toward Bram. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Oliver wrestled Dolly to the floor. “I got her, Pete.”
“Oh my baby!” she moaned. “I’m supposed to die, too!”
“Get her out of here!”
“Oh my God!” Michael shrieked. “Oh my God, oh my God!”
A pair of uniforms ran into the room.
“Call Emergency now!” Decker yelled, turning Bram onto his back. He tore open the priest’s shirt while blood spurted from inch-round bullet holes in his chest and stomach, dousing Decker’s face and clothes. Decker placed pressure on the priest’s chest with one hand, fished for his keys with the other. Attached to the ring was a Swiss army knife. He unlatched the blade, sliced into Abram’s flesh and inner fascia. His fingers dove into a blind hole of viscera, searching desperately for the ruptured arteries. He shrieked out, “Somebody call it in?”
“It’s been called in, Pete,” Marge answered.
Decker screamed, “Michael, get over here!”
Immediately, the med student leaped into action.
“Hold this spot,” Decker said, guiding his hand into the priest’s insides.
Bram whispered, “Your father was a good man, Michael. Don’t let anyone tell you diff—” He was suddenly seized with uncontrollable cramps. “Oh God have mercy!”
In Oliver’s hands Dolly wailed, “I want to die. I’m supposed to die! Please let me die!”
“Get her out of here!” Decker barked.
Again, Bram attempted speech. “A…tortured man…even so, he remained faithful to Mom to the end…He swore to me…” His body writhed in agony. “Oh sweet Jesus!”
“Just hang in there, Abram,” Decker whispered. “You’re going to be—”
“A good man, Michael…and Mom’s a good wo—” He cried out as searing pain swept through his body.
“Shhhh,” Decker purred. The priest’s body was still spewing blood. Decker frantically tried to staunch the flow. “Press down right here,” he ordered Michael. Out loud, he said, “I need more hands. Marge, get over here!”
Marge froze with indecision, regarding her ungloved hands.
“Move it, Dunn!” Decker ordered.
She ran to him. Decker grabbed her hand. “Press here.”
Bram looked at Marge. “My blood’s clean. I haven’t…” His body broke into spastic convulsions.
“Hold his legs with your knees, Michael.”
“I hurt, Peter.”
“Shhhh,” Decker cooed. “You’re gonna be all right—”
“No, I’m not—” More spasms. His face sweating profusely, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. “Rina had faith in me.”
Decker’s fingers found another ruptured vessel. He tightened his grip as best he could around the slippery, wet cord. “She had unshakable faith in you. Don’t talk, Abram.”
His voice was barely audible. “Tell her—” He began shaking uncontrollably.
“Shhhh.”
“Do you know…Psalms, Peter?”
“Not by heart, Abram. I’m sorry.”
“Rina knows Psalms…Tehillim.” He broke into a series of spasmodic coughs, hacking up gobs of blood and sputum. “Tell her…”
“I’ll tell her, Abram.” Decker gently wiped his mouth. “I’ll tell her to say Tehillim for you.”
The priest nodded. “I’m cold…”
Michael’s face was wet with tears and blood. He stuttered out, “He’s going into shock.”
Decker yelled out, “Someone get a fucking blanket! Elevate his feet.” His hands remained deep inside Bram’s chest. Everything was flooded with body fluids, seeping and oozing from the open cavity. At least at present, arterial blood wasn’t actively squirting.
The priest’s face had turned gray, his legs and arms a series of random twitches and tics.
Decker whispered, “Hang in there, Bram. We all need you to hang in there, buddy. I need you to do it, Rina needs you to do it. Everyone needs you, guy. Just hang in there.”
Marge’s hands began to tremble. She willed them to be steady. Her eyes welled up with wetness.
Words forming on the priest’s cyanotic lips.
Our Father who art in heaven.
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.
“Ambulance is here,” Oliver yelled out.
“Thank God!” Marge whispered.
“Nobody move until they get here!” Decker said to Marge and Michael. A group of paramedics raced over to the scene, meticulously relieving the cops of their tenuous positions as medics. Immediately, Marge walked away. But Decker and Michael remained kneeling at the priest’s side. Michael took one hand, Decker took the other.
Bram’s complexion had turned pasty, his skin temperature cold and clammy. He managed to squeeze his brother’s hand. “Finish…”
Michael’s voice trembled, his eyes clogged with tears. There was panic in his voice. “Finish?”
An oxygen mask was placed over Bram’s face, a needle scanning the priest’s arm for a vein. His breathing remained choppy and shallow.
He whispered, “Give us this day…”
“Oh, the Lord’s Prayer…” Michael said, “Yeah…uh, give us this day our daily bread…uh…uh…”
Decker said, softly, “And forgive us our trespasses…”
Michael cleared his throat. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…” He paused as the IV was hooked into Bram’s deflated vessels, an instrument buried into his collapsed lungs.
Decker said, “And lead us not…”
“And lead us not into temptation,” Michael sputtered out, “but deliver us from evil.”
Bram nodded, whispered between labored breaths,
“Deus, qui inter apostolicos sacerdotes famulum tuum Abram Matthew Sparks et Sacerdotali fecisti dignitate vigere: Praesta, quaesumus, ut eorum quoque perpetuo aggregetur consortio. Per Dominum nostrum.
“Te amo, Jesu Cristo.”
The priest shut his eyes and went slack. Michael looked at Decker with frightened eyes.
“His chest is moving,” Decker said.
Michael bit his lip, continued to squeeze his brother’s limp hand.
A paramedic said, “You’re going to have to move so we can transfer him to the gurney.”
Decker nodded, helped Michael up onto shaky feet. Both of them were covered in blood. “Clean yourself off. Start calling your siblings.”
Tears were running down Michael’s face. “I don’t know if I…” He staggered on his feet.
Decker grabbed his shoulders, steadied him. “I’ll ride in the ambulance. But you have to call your brothers and sisters, Michael. No one else can do it except you. Understand?”
Michael stood unresponsive, paralyzed with shock.
“Understand?” Decker repeated.
Michael nodded vigorously.
“Tell them to meet us at…” Decker turned to one of the paramedics. A skinny kid with a big Adam’s apple. “Where are you taking him?”
“New Chris.”
Decker swallowed hard. “Tell them to meet me at New Chris.”
The paramedic looked at Decker. “You know you got a bullet wound in your right arm?”
Decker pulled back his sleeve, regarded the shredded fabric of his suit jacket. He quickly removed it. As expected, his shirt was torn as well. He rolled up his sleeve. Next to his bicep was a round patch of raw meat.
The kid said, “C’mon. I’ll patch it in the ambulance.”
The wound was leaking blood. Suddenly, it hurt like hell.
31
“We’ve been going at this for over an hour,” Martinez said. “You’re making life difficult on yourself, Mr. Waterson.” The detective leaned across the table in the interview room. �
�Dolores Sparks shot her son, hoping to make it murder/suicide. He’s been on the operating table for the last three hours, hanging on to life by a thread. The woman wants to die, Waterson.” He snapped his fingers. “She turned you in like that!”
“You’re gonna fry, sir,” Webster jumped in, “unless you do something to help yourself.”
“If you talk to us,” Martinez said, “tell us what happened…give us the triggerman…and then maybe Mr. Kent over here will deal.”
Mr. Kent was John Kent, a fifty-five-year-old Fundamentalist Christian who had put in over twenty years with the DA’s office. Fight religious with religious—Decker’s idea.
Kent smoothed his tie and said, “You talk to us honestly, Mr. Waterson. Then maybe I can save you from the chair.”
“How many times must I repeat myself. Dolores Sparks is a very sick woman.” Waterson’s eyes darted about the interview room, deep, wet circles under the arms of his suit jacket. He ran his hand through white, thin hair. “She’s been on medication for years. She’s not a credible person. No jury will believe anything she says.”
“So y’all willing to go to trial,” Webster said. “Good luck to you.”
Martinez said, “You know, Mr. Waterson, if you don’t start talking—”
“I didn’t do anything,” Waterson insisted. “I killed no one.”
Webster said, “But you know who pulled the trigger because you hired them.”
“All you have is Dolores’s word against mine. Is it my fault that some demented lady mistook my kindness for craziness?”
Kent said, “Sir, you don’t stand a chance.”
“I wish I had a nickel every time a lawyer said that to me.”
“Spare your life, sir. Then use it to repent to Jesus to spare your soul.”
“My soul…” Waterson looked away.
Farrell Gaynor folded his arms. “You make a good living, Mr. Waterson. You want to tell us how you got so far in the hole?”
Waterson gave Gaynor a steely glance. “I don’t believe I have to answer that. I don’t believe I have to answer any more of your questions.”
“You’re going to talk to us one way or the other. You want a mouthpiece…” Martinez handed him the phone. “I’ve always said, be my guest.”
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