Reprisal

Queens, New York

Things started going wrong toward the end of winter that year. It began in March, with spring only a couple of weeks away.

People hadn't called him Will then. His friends and folks called him Bill. The rest of the world called him Father.

Father Ryan. The Reverend William Ryan, S. J.

"I've got you now," Nicky said from the other side of the chessboard.

Bill stretched inside his navy blue sweatsuit and reminded himself for the thousandth time to stop thinking of him as Nicky. He wasn't a little boy anymore. He was a grown man now—a Ph.D., no less. And he had a last name, too. Justin and Florence Quinn had adopted him in 1970 and he carried their name proudly. People called him Dr. Quinn, or Nicholas, or Dr. Nick. No one called him Nicky.

Nicky… Bill was proud of him, as proud as he'd have been if Nick were his own son. His SATs had earned him a free ride through Columbia where he earned a B.S. in physics in three years. Then he'd breezed through the graduate program, blowing the faculty away with his doctoral thesis on particle theory. Nick was brilliant and he knew it. He'd always known it. But along the way to gaining maturity he'd lost his old smugness about it. His skin had cleared up—mostly—and his long unruly hair now covered the misshapen areas of his skull. And he was wearing contacts.

That had proved the hardest to adjust to: Nicky without glasses.

"Checkmate?" Bill said. "So soon? Really?"

"Really, Bill. Really."

Another sign of Nick's adult status: He no longer felt he had to call him Father Bill.

Bill studied the board. Nick had spotted Bill both his bishops and both his rooks, and still Bill was losing. In fact he could see no way to get his king free of the web Nick had woven around the piece. He'd lost.

Bill knocked over his king.

"I don't know why you continue to play me. I can't be any sort of challenge for you."

"It's not the challenge," Nick said. "It's the company. It's the conversation. Believe me, it's not the chess."

Nick was still a bit of a social misfit, Bill knew. Especially with women. And until he found himself a woman—or one found him—their traditional Saturday night chess games here in Bill's office at St. F.'s would probably go on indefinitely.

"But I seem to become worse at the game instead of better," Bill said.

Nick shook his head. "Not worse. Just predictable. You fall into the same kind of trap every time."

Bill didn't like the idea of being predictable. He knew his main flaw in chess was lack of patience. He tended toward impulsive, seat-of-the-pants gambits. But that was his nature.

"I'm going to start reading up on chess, Nick. Better yet, I'm going to invest in a chess program for the computer. That old Apple II you gave me will be your undoing. It'll teach me to wipe up the board with you."

Nick did not appear terribly shaken by the threat.

"Speaking of computers, have you been tapping into those data bases and bulletin boards like I showed you?"

Bill nodded. "I think I'm becoming addicted to them."

"You wouldn't be the first. By the way, I recently downloaded this new article about cloning. It reminded me of that brouhaha back in the sixties over that friend of yours—"

"Jim," Bill said with a sudden ache in his chest. "Jim Stevens."

"Right. James Stevens. Supposedly the clone of Roderick Hanley. The Stevens case, as they called it, was mentioned in the article. Current wisdom, as stated in the article, says that it was technically impossible to clone a human being back in the forties. But I don't know. From what I've picked up over the years, Roderick Hanley was a real wild card. If anybody could pull off something like that, it was him. What do you think?"

"I don't think about it," Bill said.

And that was almost the truth. Bill rarely allowed himself to think about Jim, because that brought on thoughts of Jim's wife, Carol. Bill knew where Jim was—under a plaque at Tall Oaks—but where was Carol? The last time he'd seen her was at LaGuardia in 1968. She'd called him once after flying off with Jonah, to tell him she was all right, but that had been it. She might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

During the nearly two decades since she'd disappeared he'd learned how to avoid thinking about her. And he'd become pretty damn good at it.

But now Nick had gone and stirred up those old memories again… especially of the time when she had taken her clothes off and tried to—

"It's too bad—" Nick began, but was cut off by the arrival of a pajama-clad whirlwind.

Little seven-year-old Danny Gordon ran in from the hall at full tilt, then tried to skid to a halt in front of the table where Bill and Nick had set up their board. Only he didn't time his skid quite right. He slammed against the table and nearly knocked it over.

"Danny!" Bill cried as the chessboard and all the pieces went flying.

"Sorry, Father," the boy said with a dazzling smile.

He was small for his age, with a sinewy little body, pale blond hair, and a perfect, rosy-cheeked complexion. A regular Campbell's soup kid. He still had his milk teeth, so when he smiled the effect of those tiny, perfectly aligned white squares was completely disarming. At least to most people. Bill was used to it, almost totally inured to it. Almost.

"What are you doing up?" he said. "You're supposed to be in the dorm. It's"—he glanced at his watch—"almost midnight! Now get back to bed this instant."

"But there's monsters back there, Father!"

"There are no monsters in St. Francis."

"But there are! In the closets!"

This was old territory. They'd been over it a hundred times at least. He motioned Danny toward his lap. The child hopped up and snuggled against him. His body seemed to be all bone and no flesh, and weighed next to nothing. He was quiet for the moment. Bill knew that wouldn't last too long.

"Hi, Nick," Danny said, smiling and waving across the carnage of the chessboard.

"How y'doing, Danny boy?"

"Fine. Were there monsters here when you were a kid, Nick?"

Bill answered for him. No telling what Nick might say.

"Come on now, Danny. You know there's no such thing as monsters. We've been through all the closets again and again. There's nothing in them but clothes and dust bunnies."

"But the monsters come after you close the doors!"

"No they don't. And especially not tonight. Father Cullen is staying here tonight." Bill knew most of the kids at St. F.'s were in awe of the old priest's stern visage and no-nonsense manner. "Do you know of any monster—and there aren't any such things as monsters, but if there were, do you know of any monster that would dare show its face around here with Father Cullen patrolling the halls?"

Danny's already huge blue eyes grew larger. "No way! He'd scare them right back to where they came from!"

"Right. So you get back to the dorm and into your bed. Now!"

"'Kay." Danny hopped off his lap. "But you have to take me back."

"You got here all by yourself."

"Yeah, but it's dark and…" Danny cocked his head and looked up at him with those big blue eyes. "You know…"

Bill had to smile. What a manipulator. He knew that only a small part of Danny's fears were real. The rest seemed to be a product of his hyperactivity. He needed much less sleep than the other kids, so the fantasy of monsters in the closets not only brought him the extra attention he craved, but got him extra time out of the sack as well.

"Okay. Stay put for a minute or two while I talk to Nick here and I'll walk you back."

"'Kay."

Bill watched as Danny picked up two of the fallen chess pieces and pretended they were dogfighting jets, with all the appropriate sound effects.

"I can't imagine why no one has adopted him yet," Nick said. "If I were married I'd think of taking him in myself."

"You wouldn't get him," Bill said. When he saw Nick's shocked face he realized he'd been more abrupt than he'd intended. "I mean, Danny's adoptive parents will have to have special qualities."

"Oh, really?"

He could tell Nick was a little miffed, maybe even hurt. He hurried to explain.

"Yes. I'm holding out for an older couple who've already raised a couple of kids. A young childless couple is definitely out."

"I don't get it."

"How many times have you seen Danny before?"

Bill was keeping a close eye on Danny as he zoomed around the office with his makeshift airplanes. He knew from experience that the boy could dismantle a room in under ten minutes if he wasn't watched.

"At least a dozen, I'd say."

"And how long were you with him each time?"

Mimicking the sound of an explosion, Danny rammed the two chess pieces together in a midair crash, then let them fall. Before they hit the floor he was on his way toward Bill's desk.

"I don't know. A few minutes I guess."

"Most of which time he was either on his way in and out, or sitting on my knee, right?"

Nick nodded slowly. "I guess so."

Bill leaned back in his chair and pointed to Danny.

"Watch."

In a matter of a minute, certainly no more than two, Danny had tipped over and explored the contents of the wastebasket, climbed to a standing position on the chair and inspected everything on the desktop, pounded on the typewriter, tried to work the adding machine, drawn on the blotter, opened every drawer and pulled out whatever was in his way, picked up and inspected anything that piqued his interest, then dropped it on the floor as soon as something else caught his eye, then crawled into the knee hole and began playing with the plugs on the electric cords under the desk.

"Stay away from the electricity, Danny," Bill warned. "You know it's dangerous."

Without a word Danny rolled out from under the desk and looked around for something else. His eyes lit on Nick's overstuffed briefcase and he zeroed in on it.

Nick reached it first and snatched it off the floor and onto his lap.

"Sorry, Danny," he said with a smile and a quick glance at Bill. "This may took like a wastepaper basket, but it's highly organized. Really."

Danny veered off in another direction.

"See what I mean?" Bill said.

"You mean he's like this all day?"

"And most of the night. Nonstop. From the crack of dawn till he collapses from sheer exhaustion."

"No nap?"

"Never."

"Oy vey. Was I ever like that?"

"You had your own unique set of problems, but your hyperac-tivity was exclusively mental."

"I get pooped just watching him."

"Right. So you see why I need a pair of experienced parents for Danny. They have to have the patience of Job and they have to go into this with their eyes completely open."

"No takers?"

Bill shrugged and put a finger to his lips. He didn't like to discuss the children's adoption prospects in front of them—no matter how preoccupied they seemed, their ears were usually wide open.

He clapped his hands once and got to his feet.

"Come on, Danny me-boy. Let's get you under the covers one last time tonight."

Nick rose with him, yawning. "I think I'll be getting on my way too. I've still got to drive out to the Island."

They shook hands.

"Next Saturday?" Bill said.

Nick waved. "Same time, same station."

"Bye, Nick!" Danny said.

"Bye, kid," he said to Danny, then winked at Bill. "And good luck!"

"Thanks," Bill said. "See you next week."

Bill held out "üs hand to Danny who took it and allowed himself to be led down the long hall to the dorm section. But only for a moment. Soon he was skipping ahead and then scampering back to run circles around Bill.

Bill shook his head in wonder. All that energy. He never ceased to be amazed at Danny's endless store of it. Where did it come from? And what could Bill do to govern it? Because until it was brought under control, he doubted Danny would find an adoptive home.

Yes, he was a lovable kid. Prospective^ parents came in, took one look at him—the blond hair, those eyes, that smile—and said that's the boy we've been looking for, that's the child we've always wanted. His hyperactivity would be explained to them but the parents were sure they could handle it—Look at him… it's worth anything to raise that boy. No problem.

But after Danny's first weekend visit they all tended to sing a different tune. Suddenly it was "We have to give this some more thought," or "Maybe we're not ready for this just yet."

Bill didn't hold it against them. Euphemistically speaking, Danny was a trial. That one little boy required as much attention as ten average children. He'd been examined by a panel of pediatric neurologists, put through batteries of tests, all resulting in no hard findings. He had a nonspecific hyperactivity syndrome. Medications were tried but without significant improvement.

So day after day the almost-incessant activity went on. And one after another, Danny simply wore people out.

Which somehow made Bill grow more deeply attached to him. Maybe it was the fact that of all the kids now residing in St. Francis, Danny had been here the longest. Two years. He'd grown from a shy, introverted hyperactive five-year-old survivor of a drug-addict mother who'd accidentally immolated herself while free-basing, into a bright, personable, hyperactive seven-year-old. And it wasn't so hard taking care of him here at St. F.'s. After many hundreds of residents over its century-plus of existence, the building was as childproof as any place could be. Proof even against Danny Gordon.

But the days of the St. Francis Home for Boys were numbered. The Society of Jesus was cutting back—like all the religious orders, the Jesuits were gradually dwindling in membership—and St. F.'s was slated as one of the casualties. The city and other Catholic agencies would fill the void when it finally closed its doors in another two or three years. There were fewer boys in residence now than at any time in the old orphanage's history.

As he tucked Danny into bed and helped him say his prayers, Bill wondered if he might be getting too attached to the child. Hell, why not admit it: He was already too attached. That was a luxury someone in his position couldn't afford. He had to put the child's interests first—always. He couldn't allow any sort of emotional attachment to influence his decisions. He knew it would hurt when Danny left. And although it might take some time to arrange, his adoption was inevitable—yet he could not forestall that pain at Danny's expense.

But he was certainly determined to enjoy Danny while he was here. He had grown attached to some of the other boys in years past—Nicky had been the first—but most of them had started out at St. F.'s a few years older. Bill had been watching Danny grow and develop. It was almost like having a son.

"Good night, Danny," he said from the bedroom door. "And don't give Father Cullen any trouble, okay?"

"'Kay. Where you goin', Father?"

"Going to visit some old folks."

"Those same old folks you see all the time?"

"The same ones."

Bill didn't want to tell him he was making one of his regular trips out to visit his own parents. That would inevitably lead to questions about Danny's parents.

"When you comin' back?"

"Tomorrow night, same as ever."

"'Kay."

With that he rolled over and went to sleep.

Bill returned alone to his own room where a half-packed overnight bag waited. If he stepped on it he could probably make it to his folks' place before one A.M.

As usual, Mom had waited up for him. Bill had told her over and over not to do that but she never listened. Tonight she was swathed in a long flannel robe and had her usual motherly kiss and hug for him.

"David!" she called. "Bill's here!"

"Let him sleep, Ma."

"Don't be silly. We have plenty of time for sleep. Your father would never let me hear the end of it if I didn't wake him when you arrived."

Dad shuffled into the kitchen, tying his robe around him. They shook hands, Bill noting that his father's grip was not what it used to be. He seemed slightly more stooped every time he saw him.

The regular ritual followed.

Mom made him and Dad sit down at the kitchen table while she plugged in the Mr. Coffee—all set up, loaded with decaf and water, ready to go. She served them each a piece of pie—it was cherry this time—and when the coffee was ready, they all sat and talked about "what's new."

Which was never much. Bill's routine at St. F.'s was set so that one day was usually pretty much like every other. Occasionally he could report a successful placement or two", but as a rule it was business as usual. As for Mom and Dad, they were both hovering around seventy. They'd never been the types for golf or much socializing, so their existence was sedentary. They went out to dinner twice a week, Tuesdays at the Lighthouse Cafe and Fridays at Memison's. The only break in their routine was the death of an acquaintance. They always seemed to have a new death or major illness to report. Discussion of the details formed the bulk of their conversation.

Not much of a life as far as Bill was concerned, but they loved and were comfortable with each other, laughed together, and seemed happy enough. And that, after all, was what really counted.

But the house was getting to be too much for them. Mom did all right keeping the indoors clean and neat, but slowly, steadily, the outside had got away from Dad. Bill had tried to convince them to sell, get an apartment closer to downtown where they'd have a fraction of their present maintenance and could walk to the harborfront. Uh-uh. They weren't having any of that. They'd always lived here and so they would continue to live here and let's not discuss it anymore.

He loved them dearly but they could be royal pains when it came to this house. Though in a way he couldn't blame them. The idea of selling the old place and letting someone else live in it didn't sit too well with him either. This house seemed like an island of stability in a world of flux and flow.

So, since last summer, a couple of times a month, Bill would devote his Sunday off to the upkeep of the three-bedroom ranch that was the Ryan family homestead. Nearly two decades at St. F.'s had turned him into a skilled handyman. And he was almost caught up. By summer he figured he could reduce his maintenance schedule to once a month.

"I think I'll hit the sack," he said, pushing himself away from the table.

"But you haven't finished your pie."

"Full, Ma," he said, patting his thickening waist. He was carrying more weight than he liked. Mom didn't seem to realize that a man approaching his mid-forties did not need cherry pie at one in the morning.

After good nights, he headed for the bedroom at the far end of the house—his since childhood. He was beat. Without bothering to change out of his sweats, he slipped into the creaky old bed like a tired foot into a well-worn slipper.

Bill awoke coughing, with stinging eyes and nose. Either he was having an allergy attack or—

Smoke! Something was burning!

Then he heard the approaching sirens.

Fire!

He jumped out of bed and turned on the lamp but it didn't work. He pulled the flashlight he'd kept in the nightstand since he was a kid and that did work, but feebly. He stumbled through the white smoke that layered the air of his room and swirled in his wake. His bedroom door was closed. He spotted the smoke eddying in around the edges.

The house was on fire. Mom! Dad!

Bill grabbed the doorknob. It was hot—blistering hot—but he ignored the pain and pulled it open. The blast of heat from the hallway threw him back as a torrent of smoke and flame roared into the bedroom. He lurched for the window, yanked it open, and dove through the screen.

Cold fresh air. He gulped it. He rolled onto his back and stared at the house. Flame was jetting from his bedroom window with a deafening roar, as if someone had opened the door to a blast furnace.

And then an awful thought tore through his gut and propelled him to his feet. What about the rest of the house? What about the other end where his parents had their bedroom?

Jesus God oh please let them be all right!

He ran to his right toward the front of the house but froze when he rounded the corner.

The rest of the house was a mass of flame. It gushed from the windows and licked up the walls and climbed toward heaven through holes in the roof.

Dear God no!

Bill dashed forward to where the firemen were setting up their hoses.

"My parents! The Ryans! Did you get them out?"

The fireman turned to him. His expression was grim in the flickering golden light.

"We just got here. You really think there might be someone in there?"

"If you haven't seen a man and a woman in their seventies out here, then yes, they're definitely in there!"

The fireman glanced at the blaze1, then back at Bill. His eyes said everything.

With a hoarse cry, Bill ran toward the front door. The fireman grabbed his arm but he shook him off. He had to get them out of there! As he neared the house, the heat buffeted him in waves. He'd seen blazing houses on the TV news over the years but film and videotape had never conveyed the true ferocity of a fire once it had the upper hand. He felt as if his skin was going to-blister, as if his eyes were going to boil in their sockets. He crossed his arms in front of his face and pushed forward, hoping his hair didn't burst into flame.

On the front porch he grabbed the brass door handle but winced and let go. Hot. Hotter even than his bedroom doorknob had been. Too hot to grip. And then he cursed as he realized it didn't matter how hot it was—the door was locked.

He ran around the shrubs toward his parents' bedroom. The flames were roaring unchallenged from the windows. And yet from within, above the roar, he thought he heard… a scream.

He turned to the firemen and let out his own scream.

"In here!" He pointed to the pair of windows that opened into their bedroom. "They're in here!"

Bill ducked as the fire fighters got the hose going and directed the fat stream directly through the window and into the bedroom.

He heard the scream again. Screams. It was two voices now—wailing in agony. His father and mother were in there burning alive!

The fire fighter he had met before ran up to him and began pulling him back.

"Get away from here! You'll get yourself killed!"

Bill fought him off. "You got to help me get them out of there!"

The fire fighter grabbed Bill's shoulders and turned him toward the blaze.

"Take a look at that fire! Take a real good look! Nobody can be alive in there!"

"My God, don't you hear them?"

The fireman stood still a moment, listening. Bill watched his craggy face as he took off his fire hat and cocked an ear toward the house.

He had to hear them! How could he miss those terrified, agonized cries? Each wail tore through Bill like barbed wire across an open wound.

The fireman shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, pal. There's no one alive in there. Now come on—"

As Bill pulled free of his grasp again, the roof over the bedroom collapsed in an explosion of sparks and flaming embers. The blast of heat knocked Bill off his feet.

And that was when he knew they were gone. He felt his chest constrict around the pain. Mom… Dad… dead. They had to be. The bedroom was a crematorium now. Had been for some time. Nothing could have survived an instant in there.

He didn't—couldn't—resist as the fireman dragged him back to safety. He could only shout out his grief and anguished helplessness at the flames, at the night.