Reprisal

TWENTY-FIVE

Queens, New York

He thinks I'm crazy, Bill thought, glancing over at Detective Augustino in the passenger seat. He guided the rental car out of its stall in the Avis garage at LaGuardia and onto the eastbound ramp of the Grand Central Parkway. Maybe I am.

He'd explained it all to Augustino on the way up. He'd told him about what he had done on New Year's Eve, and why he had done it. He also told him about Rafe's resemblance to Sara, about the anagram of the names. But as he listened to himself speak he realized how utterly deranged his story sounded. Even he began to have his own doubts, and he'd lived through it.

Danny alive? Why did he even consider it? Even for a second? Of all his ravings, that had to be the most lunatic.

Yet Rafe had told him. Rafe! How could Rafe know anything about it if he weren't directly involved?

Augustino's explanation for the whole convoluted mess? "You imagined it all—because you're nuts."

Nuts. This wasn't the first time Bill had considered the possibility, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. But tonight he sensed he was approaching some sort of watershed that would either confirm or confute his sanity.

As he drove through the dark first hours of Saturday morning, he wasn't sure which he was hoping for.

They found an all-night Shoprite Superstore and bought a pick and shovel in its garden department; they added a flashlight to the bill, then drove the final leg to St. Ann's Cemetery. Bill cruised slowly along the north wall. They'd long since replaced the bulb he'd shot out five years ago, but he recognized the old leaning oak. The detective had been quiet most of the way, but when Bill drove over the curb and onto the grass, he began shouting.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"This is it," Bill said, braking and turning the engine off.

"This is nothing! What are you talking about?"

He opened his mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come. He couldn't believe he was back here, actually talking about it with a stranger. A cop, no less. He tried again.

"This is where I buried him."

Had he? Had he actually done that? It seemed ages ago, a bad dream.

"I thought you said in the cemetery."

He looked at the detective. "We can't exactly cruise through the front gate at two in the morning, can we?"

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Augustino said. "I can get an exhumation order—"

Bill shoved the flashlight into his coat pocket, opened the door, and stepped out. He opened the rear door and grabbed the pick and shovel.

"Go ahead. Meanwhile, I'll be on the other side of that wall, digging."

In his heart, in his mind, he was sure that Rafe had been lying. He had convinced himself of that during the trip north. But long-suppressed doubts had been set free and were worming through his gut, welling up in the back of his throat. Bill needed to be sure. Waiting for an exhumation order was out of the question. He wanted to put this horror behind him once and for all. Tonight. Now.

He stepped up onto the hood of the car, threw the pick and shovel over the wall, then climbed after them.

Renny hesitated as he watched Ryan haul himself up to the top of the wall. This was getting crazier by the minute. He was letting a madman, a defrocked priest who was a child molester and child killer to boot, lead him up and down the East Coast. And now he was supposed to follow Ryan into a deserted cemetery?

I must be crazy!

But it was too late to turn back.

"Shit!" he said.

He slammed a fist against the dashboard. Then, muttering a stream of curses, he followed the priest over the wall.

It was dark on the other side, and for an instant he was mortally afraid. Somewhere nearby was a mad killer with a brand-new pick. He dropped into a crouch and pulled his pistol.

Then he saw the beam of the flashlight a dozen feet away. Ryan stood there like a statue, shining the light on a patch of ground before him. Renny approached warily.

"This is the spot," Ryan said. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

"There's no marker. How can you be sure without a marker?"

"I know where I dug it. You don't forget something like that. And look—no grass."

Renny stared down at the bare patch of ground. Thick, winter-browned grass surrounded the area, but not here.

"Has this been dug up?" Renny said, scuffing his feet on the bare earth. "Somebody beat you to it?"

The priest bounced the business end of the shovel off the hard, cold earth.

"Not recently."

"So there's no grass there. So what?"

The priest's voice was barely audible.

"This isn't the first time I've seen something like this."

Renny couldn't see Ryan's face, but he sensed real fear in the man. Suddenly he became aware of how cold it was here in New York in February. He very much wished he were back in N.C. right now.

"Let's get this over with."

He held the flashlight while the priest did the digging. It was tough work breaking through the granite-hard top soil and at times Renny was tempted to help out, but he couldn't risk it. He couldn't turn his back on this man and let him turn this spot into a double grave—if indeed it was a grave at all.

The priest made quicker progress in the deeper layers below the frost line. When he got the hole hip-deep, he tossed the shovel aside and sank out of sight.

Renny moved closer. Ryan was on his knees, scooping up the dirt with his bare hands.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't want to hit him with the shovel."

He's not going to feel it, you jerk!

But Renny was struck by the reverence in Ryan's tone. That little boy seemed to matter an awful lot to him—even dead.

And after five years at the bottom of that hole, he couldn't be anything but dead. But his body could still tell stories. Recovering it would put a whole bunch of nails in Father William Ryan's legal coffin.

"Almost there," the priest said, panting. "Just a little bit fur—"

He jerked back.

"What's wrong?" Renny said.

"Something moved."

"Come on, Ryan!"

"No… under the dirt there. Something moved. I felt it."

Renny stepped up to the edge and shone the light into the bottom of the hole. He didn't see anything moving.

"Probably just a mole or something," he said, trying to sound calm.

"No," said the priest, his voice so hushed Renny could barely hear him. "It's Danny. He's still alive. Oh, God, he's still alive!"

He began to paw at the earth, frantically.

"Easy, fella. Just take it easy."

Christ Almighty, don't go to pieces on me now.

"I feel him!" The priest was shouting as he tossed huge handfuls of dirt into the air, showering Renny and himself with cold, damp earth. "I feel him moving!"

And damned if the dirt in front of the priest didn't seem to be heaving and rippling, as if something was squirming and struggling beneath it. Renny swallowed what little saliva remained in his mouth. A trick of the light. It couldn't be anything but—

But then something broke through the surface and writhed in the light. At first Renny thought it was some sort of giant white worm, then realized it was an arm, a thin little arm, twisting and flailing in the air. But not a whole arm. It looked tattered and moth-eaten, the skin stiff and dry, the flesh rotted away in areas to expose the underlying bone.

Renny gagged and almost dropped the flashlight, but the priest kept on digging, sobbing as he clawed at the earth. Finally he uncoveredthe remnants of what looked like a blanket. He grabbed two fistfuls of the fabric and yanked upward. The material ripped with a soggy sound, the overlying layer of earth parted, and what was left of Danny Gordon sat up in his grave.

Or maybe it wasn't Danny Gordon. Who could tell? It was child-sized, but whatever it was, it had no business moving and acting alive. It belonged in a grave. It belonged dead.

Renny felt the strength rush out of him as he watched the thing in the jittering beam of the flashlight. Where its head and upper torso were exposed the flesh was as tattered and rotted as the arm that still wnthed in the air like a snake. It reached for the priest and Father Bill didn't hesitate. He took the worm-eaten thing in his arms and clutched it against his chest. Then he raised his head and cried out to heaven in a voice so full of anguish and despair that it damn near broke Renny's heart.

"My God, my God! How could you allow this? How could you allow this?"

Renny probably would have been able to handle it if he hadn't seen the eyes. He'd managed okay through the smell, through the sight of a dead thing moving like it was alive, but then came that moment when it turned its face toward the light and he saw the perfect blue eyes, moist, bright, shining, untouched by rot. Little Danny Gordon's eyes, fully alive and aware in that decaying skull.

Renny's nerve snapped then. He dropped the flashlight and ran. A part of him hated himself for bolting like a panicked deer, but a larger, more primitive element had taken hold, shrieking in fear, overruling any action but flight. He reached the cemetery wall and leapt but couldn't get a grip on the top. He caromed off and ran to the leaning tree nearby, scrabbled up its rough bark, swung to the top of the wall and leapt down, landing next to the rental car. He slumped against the fender and heaved, but nothing would come up. So he stood there panting and sweating, his eyes closed.

He'd been right! The priest had been right! The kid was still alive—buried for five years and still alive! Five years in the ground! This couldn't be happening.

Yet it was, dammit! He'd seen it with his own eyes. No question about it—something hellish going on here.

From the far side of the wall he could still hear Father Bill's voice, ranting at the empty winter sky.

And then he heard something else. Footsteps approaching.

Renny straightened and looked around, stiffening at the sight of a bundled-up figure limping toward him across the frozen ground. A big guy, but not too steady on his feet. He supported himself with a cane in one hand; something boxlike dangled from the other and bounced against his leg as he walked.

"Get out of here," Renny said, his voice tight and raspy. For want of something better to say, he added, "Police business."

The old man didn't even slow his pace; unperturbed, he continued forward. When he stepped into the glare from the streetlight, he stopped and stared at Renny. He wore a heavy topcoat. The brim of his hat kept much of his face in shadow, but from what Renny saw of his white beard and lined cheeks, he could tell he was old.

"You've opened the grave, I gather," the old man said.

Christ, who else knows about this?

"Look," Renny managed to say, "this is none of your business. If you're smart, you'll go back to wherever you came from and stay the hell out of this."

"You're quite right about that, but…" He paused and almost seemed to be considering taking Renny's advice. Then he sighed and held up the object he was carrying. "Here. You'll need this."

Renny saw now that it wasn't a box but a can—a two-gallon gasoline can. Its contents sloshed within.

"I don't understand."

The old man jerked his head toward the cemetery.

"For whoever was buried in that unmarked grave. It's the only way to end it."

Instantly Renny knew he was right. He didn't know where this old guy had come from, but he realized this was the solution.

But it meant going back over the wall, seeing that thing that was all that remained of Danny Gordon. He didn't want to do that, didn't know if he could.

It was quiet on the other side of the wall now. Father Bill was alone in there with that tiling that had been—and in a way still was—Danny Gordon. Alone. Because Renny had run out on him. And Renaldo Augustino had never run out on anyone in his life. He wasn't about to start now.

He grabbed the gasoline can and hopped up on the car hood. As he straddled the top of the wall, he looked back at the old man.

"Don't go anywhere. I want to talk to you."

"I'll wait in your car, if you don't mind. I came by cab."

Renny didn't say anything. He looked down at the dark side of the wall. There was the last place he wanted to be. But he'd come this far already; had to see it through to the end. He slid over the edge and down. As soon as he hit the ground he spotted the flashlight, pointing toward him from where he had dropped it. Setting his jaw, he took a deep breath and hurried toward it on rubbery legs.

Bill sobbed as he held Danny's reeking, squirming remains in his arms. How could this be? Five years in the earth! Had he been alive—alive but slowly rotting—and in agony all that time? Who or what was responsible for this? Why was something like this allowed?

He heard a sound and stretched to raise his eyes above ground level. Detective Augustino was returning, carrying something, stumbling toward him on legs that looked like they were ready to give out any second. For an instant he reminded Bill of Ray Bolger's Scarecrow.

Augustino picked up the flashlight and pointed it into the grave. Bill winced in the brightness.

"Let him go and come out of there, Father," said Augustino's voice from behind the light.

Bill was startled by the "Father"—it was the first time the detective had called him that since their reunion a few hours ago. But he wasn't going to abandon Danny.

"No!" Bill said, clutching the animate remains of the boy more tightly against him. "We can't just cover him up again!"

"We won't just cover him up." The detective's voice sounded flat, almost dead. "We're going to put an end to this once and for all."

Bill looked down at Danny's ravaged face and into the tortured blue eyes. If only he could end his pain…

He laid him back and crawled out of the hole. He saw the gasoline can at Augustino's feet.

"Oh, no," Bill said. The response was instinctive. The thought was appalling. "We can't."

"Look what's already been done to him. Can you think of anything worse?"

No. He couldn't. He could barely think at all. Yet somewhere deep inside he knew fire would work. The cleansing flame…

"It's got to be done," the detective said. "Want me to do it?"

Bill could hear very plainly in his voice that it was the last thing in the world Augustino wanted to do.

"No. It's my job. I put him into her clutches; I'll get him out."

He grabbed the can and unscrewed the cap. The odor of the fumes set something off within him and he began to cry as he poured the gasoline into the hole.

"Forgive me, Danny. It's the only way."

When the can was empty, he turned to the detective. Augustino already had a matchbook out. Bill took it from him and paused.

"I can't do this to him."

"Then do it for him."

Bill nodded—to Augustino, to the night, to himself. Then he emptied his mind, struck one match, used it to light the rest of the pack. As it flared, he dropped the whole thing into the hole.

The gas exploded with a wooomp! and the heat staggered him back. There was no cry from the hole and he could see no movement within the flames—he was grateful for that. But he couldn't watch. He had to turn his back, walk away, lean against the tree. Part of him wanted to cry, part of him wanted to be sick, but he was tapped out, dry, empty. He was little more than skin wrapped around a void.

Only anger remained.

What had happened to Danny wasn't some sort of cosmic accident. It had been done to him. And the ones who had done it were still out there. Bill resisted the urge to scream out his rage at the night; he held it in, nurturing it, saving it for those who were responsible. He swore he'd find them.

And make them pay.

Renny stood over the hole until the fire died down to a few sputtering flames. Father Bill came up and stood beside him as he played the flashlight beam over the glowing ashes. He glanced at the priest's face. Something scary was moving behind those blue eyes.

"Is it over?" the priest said.

"Yeah," Renny said. "Has to be."

Nothing moved down there. Danny Gordon was quiet at last. Little more than his bones left now. The rotted flesh that had clung to him before had crisped and fallen away. Renny could see his naked skull, but no eyes. He was gone.

"Peace, kid," he said. "Peace at last."

He picked up the shovel.

"You want to say a few words?"

"I'm sorry, Danny," the priest said. "I'm so sorry." And then he was silent.

"No prayers?"

Father Bill shook his head. "I'm through with prayers. Let's cover him 'up."

They filled in the hole quickly, then started back toward the wall.

"I suppose you'll be taking me in now," Father Bill said.

Renny had been thinking about that. His whole world had been turned upside down in the past hour. He'd put his career on the line to bring this man to justice, and now he no longer had the vaguest idea of what would constitute justice in the face of what he had just seen. Father William Ryan was not the monster Renny had thought him to be for the past five years. But he had nurtured his hatred for the man so long that it was difficult to let go of it now. Yet he had to. Because everything was different now. And what did a career mean—what did the law mean—after what had happened to Danny Gordon?

"I don't know," Renny said. "You got a better idea?"

"Yeah. Go back to North Carolina and pick up Rafe Losmara and bring him back to my place and keep him there till he tells us what we want to know."

"And what do we want to know?"

"What the hell was done to that boy!"

"Maybe we won't have to go to North Carolina to find out. There's a guy in the car who might have some answers."

The priest stopped and stared at him.

"Who?"

"I don't know. But he's the guy who brought the gasoline."

Suddenly Father Bill was running for the tree. He monkeyed up the trunk and was over the wall before Renny had taken half a dozen steps.

Bill approached the car warily, almost afraid of who he might find there—maybe even Rafe Losmara himself. When he peered through the blurry glass, he was relieved to see that the man sitting in the back seat appeared to be a lot bigger and older than Rafe. He opened the driver door and saw by the light of the courtesy lamp that he was much older. Eighty at least. Maybe eighty-five.

"You brought the gasoline?"

The old man nodded. "I guessed you'd need it." His voice was dry, leathery.

"But who are you? And how did you know we'd be here? Even we didn't know we'd be here until tonight."

"The name is Veilleur. The rest is difficult to explain."

Bill slumped under the weight of what he had done tonight. The fatigue was catching up to him.

"It can't be as difficult as what we just went through in there."

"No. I imagine not. But you did the only thing you could. He is at peace now."

"I hope so," Bill said as the detective jumped in on the passenger side.

"He is. I can tell."

Bill studied the craggy face and found that he believed the old man.

"But why?" Bill said. "Why did this happen to that little boy? He never hurt anyone. Why was he put through that hell?"

"Never mind the whys for now," Augustino said, lighting a cigarette. "I want to know who."

"I don't know the why," the old man said. "But I may be able to help with the who."

Bill twisted around in his seat; he noticed that Augustino did the same. They spoke simultaneously.

"Who?"

"Drive me home first. And on the way, tell me what you know about the one in the cemetery, and what brought you back to him now."

TWENTY-SIX

Pendleton, North Carolina

It was almost closing time when she found him.

Lisl's feet were killing her. She'd spent the entire night trudging the length of Conway Street and down some side streets as well. Toward the end she'd become desperate and searched through places she had no business even walking by, let alone wandering through. She endured the catcalls, the lewd remarks, the cheap feels. As far as she was concerned, she deserved every one of them.

And where was Will? He'd said he'd be starting at the south end and they'd meet in the middle, but she hadn't seen him since he dropped her off. She'd gone back to her car and had cruised around, looking for him, but it was almost as if he'd disappeared. She hoped he was all right.

Sometime after midnight, as she was passing near Ev's apartment house, she looked up at the third floor and saw a light in one of his windows.

He's home! Thank God, he's home!

Served her right. Here she was trooping all over town looking for him while he was sitting comfortably at home.

But was he sitting comfortably? Or was he dead drunk? An image of Ev lying on his bathroom floor in a pool of vomit flashed through her brain.

One way to find out was to call. She cruised a couple of blocks farther down the street, looking for a phone. She spotted a booth on a corner and pulled into the curb next to it. Her hand trembled as she fumbled a coin into the slot. What she wanted right now was to hear Ev pick up the phone and ask her in a perfectly sober voice what on earth she was doing calling him at this hour. Wouldn't that be wonderful? She wanted to learn that Ev was fine and that this entire night of anxiety and self-loathing had been for nothing.

Well, not for nothing. She'd learned an awful lesson tonight, and she'd looked inside herself and seen some things she was ashamed of, things she'd have to change.

But she had to talk to Ev first, make sure he was okay. That was top priority now.

But the pay phone was dead. It ate her quarter and wouldn't give her a dial tone. As she searched on foot for another, she passed a bar called Raftery's. She had been in there earlier looking for Ev. Maybe they had a phone.

Inside, Raftery's was dark and smoky and boozy-smelling, just like every other place she'd been in tonight. She remembered having high hopes for this place when she'd searched it earlier because it was the closest to Ev's apartment. It had been packed a few hours ago, but the crowd had thinned considerably now.

She spotted a pay phone on the back wall near the restrooms and headed for it. As she moved past the bar, still rimmed with drinkers, she spotted a solitary figure slumped in a corner booth. Thinning hair, a slight frame, glasses…

"Ev!"

She practically shouted his name. People stared at her as she pushed her way through the maze of intervening tables. She'd found him. But her initial elation was fading as she realized where she had found him, and her awareness of the shape he was in.

"Ev?" she said, sliding into the other side of the booth. "Are you all right, Ev?"

His bleary eyes focused on her through his glasses. For a moment he seemed confused, then his face broke into a smile.

"Lisl! Lisl, what a surprise!" His voice was loud, the words slurred. Her name came out Lee-shul. "It's so good to see you. Here, let me get you a drink!"

"No thanks, Ev. I really—"

"C'mon, Lisl! Loosen up a little! It's Friday night! It's party time!"

Lisl gave him a closer look to make sure this ebullient barfly was really Everett Sanders. He was.

Drunk as a skunk—and my fault.

She pushed back the self-recrimination. Plenty of time for that later. Right now she had to try to undo some of what she'd done.

"I've had enough for the night, Ev. And so have you. Let me take you home."

"Don't want to go home," he said.

"Sure you do. You can sleep it off there."

"Not home. Don't like it there."

"Then we'll go someplace else."

"Yeah. Someplace that swings! Not like this graveyard!"

"Right."

Someplace where we can get you some coffee.

She took his arm and helped him out of the booth. He swayed when he stood up, and for a moment she feared he might topple over. But he steadied himself on her. He could barely walk, but together they made it to the cooler, fresher air outside.

"Where're we going?" he said as she guided him into the passenger seat of her car.

She hurried around and got in the other side.

"To get some coffee."

"Don't want coffee."

"Ev, I want you to sober up. I've got to talk to you about some things and I can't do it while you're loaded."

He looked at her groggily. "You want to talk to me? You've never wanted to talk to me before."

The simple statement caught Lisl by surprise. The truth of it touched her as deeply as it cut her. She smiled at him.

"Well, that's changed as of tonight—along with a lot of other things."

"All right then. Let's get coffee."

She drove to the Pantry on Greensboro Street and ran inside while Ev waited in the car. She got two large coffees to go and hurried back outside. When she got back in the car, Ev was snoring. She tried to wake him but he was out.

Now what?

She could take him back to his apartment house but there was no way she could get him upstairs. Same with her place. She wished Will were here.

She opened her coffee and drank some. It felt good and warm going down. Getting chilly out and she wasn't dressed for it. Neither was Ev. The only thing to do was drive around with the heater on and keep him warm until he woke up.

She dreaded that moment. Because she was going to have to make a decision then about how much to tell Ev. But until then, she'd keep the car moving.

She put it in gear and headed for the highway.