Reprisal

* * *

Bill waited patiently through the change of shift, until the incoming nurses had been briefed on each patient by the outgoing crew. The reports were completed more quickly than usual, and with wishes of a happy New Year to one and all the three-to-eleven shift was on its way out of the building in record time. It was party time for them.

Bill made some small talk with Beverly, the head nurse on eleven-to-seven, as she checked Danny's useless IVs during her initial rounds. Then he waited a while longer.

At 11:45 he scouted the hall. No one in sight. Even the nurses station was deserted. Finally he found them. The entire shift was clustered in the room of one of the older children, a twelve-year-old boy recovering from an appendectomy, all watching as Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve show geared up for the traditional countdown to the drop of the illuminated apple above Times Square.

Bill slipped back to the charge desk and hit the OFF switch on Danny's heart monitor, then hurried back to his room. Working feverishly, he peeled the two monitor leads from the boy's chest wall, then removed the IV lines from both arms and let the solutions drip onto the floor. He untied the restraints from Danny's wrists and slid his painfully thin chest out of the posey. Then he wrapped him in the bed blanket and in an extra blanket from the closet.

He checked the hall again. Still empty. Now was the time. Now or never. He turned back to the bed, reached to lift Danny, then paused.

This was it, wasn't it? The point of no return. If he carried through his plan tonight there would be no turning back, no saying I'm sorry, I made a mistake, give me another chance. He would be accused of a hideous crime, branded a monster, and hunted for the rest of his life. Everything he had worked for since joining the Society would be stripped from him, every friend he had ever made would turn against him, every good thing he had done in his life would be forever tainted. Was what he was about to do worth all that?

Bury me… in holy ground. The words seared his brain. It won't stop… till you bury me…

There was no other way.

He lifted Danny's writhing, blanket-shrouded form.

Good Lord, he weighs almost nothing!

He carried him along the empty hall to the rear stairway, then down the steps, flight after flight, praying he'd meet no one. He'd chosen this moment because it was probably the only quarter hour out of the entire year when, unless they were in the middle of a crisis situation, almost everyone's mind was more or less distracted from his or her job.

When he reached ground level Bill placed Danny on the landing and checked his watch: almost midnight. He peeked out into the hall. Empty. At its end, the exit door. And just as he'd hoped—unwatched. The guard's seat was empty. And why not? Georgie, the usual door guard on this shift, had always seemed fairly conscientious, but even he'd have to figure that since his job was to screen the people entering the hospital instead of those leaving it, and since no one could get in unless he opened the door for them, what was wrong with leaving his station for a few minutes to watch the apple drop?

Bill lifted Danny and started for the exit. Up ahead he heard voices through the open door of one of the little offices. He paused. He had to pass that door to get out. No way around it. But could he risk it? If he got caught now, with Danny wrapped up in his arms like this, he'd never get another chance.

Then he heard it: the countdown. A mix of voices, male and female, began shouting.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!…"

Bill began to walk, gliding his feet, gathering speed until he was moving as fast as he could without actually running.

"Seven! Six! Five!…"

He whisked past the office door, then began to run.

"Four! Three! Two!…"

As he reached the door he slowed for half a second, just long enough to allow him to hit the lever bar at the same instant the voices shouted, "One!"

The noise of the opening door was lost in the ensuing cheers as he rushed headlong into the parking lot. He had parked St. F.'s station wagon illegally, hoping his clergy sticker would buy him some leniency. The last thing he needed now was to find that the wagon had been towed away.

He sighed with relief when he saw it where he'd left it. She was a rusting old junker but at that moment she looked like a stretch limo. Gently, he laid Danny on the back seat and arranged the blankets loosely over him.

"We're on our way, kid," he whispered through the folds of fabric.

Then he heard a slurred voice behind him.

"That him? 'S he the one?"

Bill whirled and saw the two ragmen from earlier this evening, one big, the other shorter and slight. How had they got into the lot?

"No, that's not him," said the smaller of the two. "Hush up about that."

The big one stepped closer to Bill and peered into his face. His beard stank of wine and old food.

"You the one?" Another moment of too-close scrutiny, then, "No. He's not the one."

He turned and lurched away.

The little one scampered after him for a few steps.

"Walter! Walter, wait!" Then he hurried back to Bill. "Don't do it!" he said in a harsh whisper. "No matter what you've been told, don't do it!"

"I'm sorry," Bill said, shaken by the man's intensity. "I'm in a hurry."

The little man grabbed his arm.

"I know you! You're that Jesuit. Remember me? Martin Spano? We met long ago… at the Hanley mansion."

Bill jolted as if he'd touched a live wire.

"God, yes! What—?"

"Not much time. I've got to catch up to Walter. I'm helping him search for someone. Walter was a medic once. He sometimes can cure people but he can't cure that kid. He can't cure anybody when he's drunk and he's drunk almost all the time these days. But remember what I said. Don't do it. An Evil power is at work here. It's using you! I was used once—I know how it is. Stop now, before it's too late!"

And then he was off, running after his fellow derelict.

Thoroughly shaken, Bill got in the front seat and sat for a moment. Martin Spano—hadn't he been one of those crazy people who'd called themselves the Chosen when they'd invaded the Hanley mansion back in 1968? Spano had been crazy then and was obviously crazier now. But what had he meant—?

Never mind. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted now. He shook off the confusion and drove out of the lot, forcing a smile and waving as he passed the guard in the booth. He drove north, toward the Bayside section of Queens, toward a place he'd spent much of the early evening preparing for Danny.

Renny slammed the phone down and threw off the covers. "Damn!"

"What's the matter?" Joanne asked from the other side of the bed. They'd spent New Year's Eve at home, catching up on their lovemaking.

"The kid's gone!"

"The one in the hospital?"

"Yeah," he said as he pulled on slacks and a sweater. "Danny Gordon. The nurse went in to wish Father Bill a happy New Year and found the room empty."

"The priest? You don't think—"

"They were both in the room before twelve, they were both gone after. What else can I think?" He gave her a quick kiss in the dark. "Gotta go. Sorry, babe."

"It's okay. I understand."

Did she? Renny sure hoped so.

The priest! he thought as he raced toward Downstate. Could he have been the one who cut up on that kid?

Nah! Not possible. No way.

And yet…

Renny thought again about how everyone he'd interviewed at St. F.'s had mentioned good old Father Bill's attachment to little Danny, like father and son. How Danny would always sit on his lap. What if that attachment hadn't been entirely on the straight and narrow? You heard about fag priests, about priests molesting kids. It hit the papers every so often. What if the thought of giving the kid up for adoption had scared him? What if he'd been afraid Danny would talk to his new parents about things he'd had to let Father Bill do to him?

Renny increased his speed. He squeezed the steering wheel as he felt his insides tense up.

What if Danny had told the Loms something on Christmas Eve? And what if in their shock and disbelief, in a misguided attempt to give this wonderful and gracious man an opportunity to defend himself, they'd called Father Bill first instead of the police? And what if he cracked when they told him? What if he said he'd come right over and talk this thing out? What if he went completely berserk in the Lorn house? -J

"Jesus!" he said aloud in his car.

It didn't explain everything. Nobody—nobody—was ever going to give Renny a satisfactory explanation of what had happened to Herb Lorn, so he stuffed that incident into a mental limbo. But the bogus Sara—what was her angle? Was she a red herring? Or was she somehow in league with the priest in some plot to get Danny away from St. Francis to a place where the wonderful Father Bill could have freer and more discreet access to the kid?

And suddenly all the pieces started falling into place.

The priest had spent every waking hour by the kid's side, even slept in a chair in the boy's room. Renny had been taken by this show of such deep devotion. But what if it hadn't been anything like devotion? What if the priest had just wanted to be there when Danny started coming out of it? What if he'd wanted to be the first to know if Danny was going to talk again?

And there was more! The priest had been fighting the endless round of tests and procedures all the docs wanted to perform on the kid. Renny had assumed it was for the kid's sake… until now. What if he was really afraid they'd find a way to bring him out of it, or at least get him to the point where he could name his attacker? And now, with the legal machinery moving toward making Danny a ward of the court, the priest was facing certain shutout from having any say in Danny's care. That might have been the last straw. He must have gone into a panic tonight and took off with the kid.

Maybe to finish him off.

Shit!

Renny swerved into the entrance of one of the Downstate parking lots and jumped out of his car. A couple of winos were there. They fairly leapt on him.

"He took the boy!" the shorter one said.

"Who?"

"The Jesuit! He took the boy!"

"You saw him?"

Before the little guy could answer, the bigger wino pushed forward.

"Are you the one?" he said, staring into Renny's eyes.

Renny turned away. He'd heard enough. He flashed his badge at the guy in the guard booth and grabbed the phone. It took a while—he had to go through the hospital switchboard—but he got a line to4he desk at his precinct.

"I want an APB on a Father William Ryan. He's a Jesuit priest but he probably won't be dressed like one. He's wanted for kidnapping and for attempted murder. He'll have a sick seven-year-old kid with him. Get his picture out of the file now and get it to all the papers and all the local news shows. Do the usual bridges and tunnels thing. Have anybody and everybody looking out for a guy in his forties traveling with a sick kid. Do it now. Not ten minutes from now—now!"

Renny stepped out of the booth and slammed his fist against the hood of his car.

How could he have been such a jerk? The cardinal rule in this sort of crime was to put the first heat on the people closest to the victim. The esteemed Father Ryan had been the closest but Renny had allowed himself to be lulled by the Roman collar, by the fact that he'd come out of St. Francis himself. He'd let that bastard priest sucker him in and squeeze him for all he was worth.

I'm so fucking stupid!

Well, no more. Ryan wasn't getting out of this city tonight. It was New Year's Eve and the shift was spread a little thin, plus the usual bunch of cops was tied up doing crowd control at Times Square, but Ryan wasn't getting away. Not if Renny had a damn thing to say about it. The priest had made him look like a jerk, but Renny realized that wasn't what really mattered, what really burned him. It was how he'd started thinking of the priest as a friend, someone he wanted to hang around with. And Renny didn't offer his friendship easily.

He was hurt, dammit.

Something cold and wet landed on his cheek. He looked around. It was beginning to snow. He smiled. The weatherman had predicted a snowstorm tonight. That was good. It would slow traffic, make it easier to spot a guy and a sick kid trying to leave the city.

We're gonna meet again real soon, Father fucking Ryan. And when we do you'll wish you'd never been born.

St. Ann's Cemetery was small and old and crowded, some of the headstones dating back to the early years of the last century. Bill had chosen St. Ann's because it was out of the way and it was consecrated ground.

… bury me… in holy ground…

Now as he drove the deserted street running along the cemetery's north wall he wondered if it mattered.

Consecrated ground, he thought. What does that mean?

A week ago he'd have had no trouble answering the question. Now the whole concept struck him as senseless.

But then, nothing made sense anymore. His whole world had been turned upside down and ripped inside out during the past week. He could smell the rot in the very foundations of his faith, could feel them crumbling beneath him.

Where are you, Lord? There's evil afoot here, pure distilled evil that can't be explained away by happenstance or coincidence or

natural causes. This isn't fair. Lord. Give me a hand, will you?

Only one other time in his life had he come across anything even remotely resembling what had happened to Danny. That derelict… Spano… had reminded him. Almost twenty years ago, in a Victorian mansion on Long Island Sound, he'd seen Emma Stevens die not ten feet in front of him with an ax in her brain. He'd watched her lie in front of him, as lifeless as the rug that soaked up her blood. And then he'd seen her rise and walk and kill two people before slumping into death once again.

He'd explained that away by telling himself that if doctors had had a chance to examine Emma while she was lying on the rug with the ax protruding from her skull, they would have found that she only appeared dead, and that whatever spark of life was left in her had flared long enough to allow her to finish what she'd started just before she was killed.

But an entire medical center staff had had a week with Danny. They all said he should be dead, but somehow he wouldn't die.

Just like Emma Stevens. Except that Emma had hung on for only a few minutes. Danny had been going for a week and showed no signs of weakening. He might possibly go on forever… it won't stop… till you bury me…

Bill wondered if there could be a link between what had happened to Emma and what was happening to Danny. Spano the wino seemed to have hinted at that in the parking lot.

He shook himself. No. How could there be? He was grasping at straws here.

He pulled to a stop in the deep shadows under a dead street lamp. Dead because he'd killed it. He'd bought a CO2 pellet gun yesterday, come out here last night, and shot the bulb out. Took him a whole cartridge before he finally scored a bull's-eye.

And earlier tonight, shortly after dark, he'd returned to this spot with a pick and a shovel.

Bill leaned forward and rested his head against the steering wheel. Tired. So tired. When was the last time he'd had two consecutive hours of sleep? Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a little while here he could—

No! He jerked his head up. He couldn't hide from this. It had to be done and he was the only one to do it, the only one to realize that this was the only thing anyone could do for Danny. There were no other options. This was it.

He'd heard it from Danny's own lips.

With that thought to bolster him, Bill put the wagon in gear and drove up the curb and across the sidewalk until the passenger side of the wagon was hugging the eight-foot wall under an oak that leaned over from the far side. He got out, opened the rear door, and lifted Danny out of the back seat. With the boy's swaddled form in his arms, he stepped up on the bumper, then the hood, then up to the roof. From there it was a short hop to the top of the wall. He swiveled around on his buttocks until his legs were dangling over the inside edge, then dropped to the ground on the other side.

Okay. He was inside. It was dark. The glow from the streetlights didn't reach in here, but he knew where he was going. Just a few paces to the left, against the wall. That was where he had spent a couple of hours tonight after darkfall… hours… with a pick and shovel…

Oh, God, he didn't want to do this, would have given anything to pass this cup. But there was no one in the wings to take it from him.

Bill paused an instant at the edge of the oblong hole in the ground, then jumped in. When he straightened, the frozen grass on ground level was even with his lower ribs. He would have liked the hole to have been deeper, six feet at least, but he'd exhausted himself here earlier getting it this deep, and there was no time left now. This would have to do.

He knelt and stretched Danny's form out on the floor of the hole. He couldn't see the boy's face in the darkness, so he released his writhing body, and pulled back the folds of blanket. He administered the final sacrament, called Extreme Unction when he was in the seminary, now called the Anointing of the Sick. During the past week he had administered it on a daily basis to Danny, and each time it had lost an increment of its meaning. It was little more than a collection of empty words and gestures now.

Empty… like everything else in his life. All the rules he had lived by, all the beliefs on which he had based his life were falling away. The God he'd placed his trust in had not lifted a finger against the force that gripped Danny.

But he went through the motions. And when he was done, he placed a hand on each side of Danny's head, cupping his wasted cheeks.

"Danny?" he whispered. "Danny, will this work for you? I know you told me once that it would, but please tell me again. I'm going against everything I've ever believed in to do this for you. I need to hear it again."

Danny said nothing. He remained lost in agony, giving no sign that he had even heard him.

Bill pressed his forehead against Danny's.

"I hope you can hear me, hope you can understand me. I'm doing this for you, Danny, because it's the only way to end it all for you. All the pain, all the torture will be over in a few minutes. I don't know how much of you is left in there, Danny, but I know some of you still remains. I see it in your eyes sometimes. I don't want you to… to die without knowing that I'm doing this to release you from whatever monstrous evil is torturing you. I'm doing it to stop the pain, and to protect you from those doctors making you into some sort of sideshow freak. You know if there was any other way, I'd find it. You know that, don't you?" He leaned over and kissed Danny's forehead. "I love you, kid. You know that too, don't you?"

For an instant, for the interval that falls between a pair of heartbeats, Danny's pain-writhe paused, his breathy screams stilled, and Bill felt the boy's head nod up and down. Once.

"Danny!" he shouted. "Danny, can you hear me? Do you know what I'm saying?"

But Danny's athetoid movements and hissing cries began again. Bill could no longer hold back the sobs. They burst from him and he clutched Danny close for a moment, then he pushed the sobs back down and laid the boy flat again. He covered Danny's face with the blanket—he couldn't throw dirt on his face—then pulled himself out of the hole.

He looked around. No one about. He had to work quickly now. Get to it and get it over with before he lost his nerve. He lifted the shovel from where he had left it beside the hole. He shoved it deep into the pile of loose dirt he had pulled from the ground only hours ago. But as he lifted a shovelful free, he paused, knees weak, arms trembling.

I can't do this!

He looked up at the starless, cloud-shrouded night sky.

Please, God. If You're there, if You care, if You have any intention of taking a hand in reversing the evil that's being done to this boy, do it now. Under different circumstances I'd consider this an utterly childish request. But You know what I've seen, You know what this child has suffered, is still suffering. We've witnessed the presence of naked Evil here, Lord. I don't think I'm out of line in asking You to step in and take over now. Give me a sign, Lord. How about it?

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?"

There was still 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 there was more loose dirt left over, so he mounded some of it up and scattered the rest.

And then it 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 and threw the shovel over the wall so he couldn't change his mind.

Done. It was 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 for Bill 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 to his feet, took one last look, 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. There would have been 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 be out digging 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.

Bill didn't want to face a murder trial either. Too many other people, 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 he 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 for hours. The snow accumulated steadily as he wound through the residential streets of Queens, avoiding the area where the Loins 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.

It was near dawn and he was somewhere on the western rim of Nassau County when he saw that his fuel was getting low. He found an open 7-Eleven 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 singsonged 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?" the clerk said.

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 was 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?

One more stratum of proof that his life had fallen under thrall to something as evil as it was inhuman.

His heart pounding like an airhammer, 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.

They put the call through to Renny. It was a 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?"

"In the store where I work in Floral Park, not more than one hour ago."

"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?

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.

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 crazy. 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 front-wheel drive.

But things improved when he got on the lower level of the Verrazano. There was blessedly little snow on the protected stretch of bridge. Down the slope lay Staten Island; beyond that, New Jersey and freedom.

Freedom, he thought grimly. But no escape.

"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 Father 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 L.I.E. and be lying in a ditch freezing to death… and that poor kid freezing along with him. He could—

"They think they spotted him on Staten Island!"

It was Connally, rushing through the squad room waving a sheet of paper.

Staten Island? Renny thought. 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 half an hour ago, Staten side of the Verrazano. Driving an old Ford Country Squire."

"They holding him?"

"Well, no," Connally 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 leapt from his chair, spilling his coffee across the top of his drab green desk. He couldn't believe it. Even though it wasn't Connally'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'ye got the son of a bitch! We've got him!"

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 fo 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 gone; his family home was a vacant lot with a charred spot at its center; he was barred from St. Francis; and 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.