Reprisal

SEVENTEEN

The reference checks went smoothly. Both Herb and Sara had excellent academic records at U. of Texas, he in accounting, she in early education. Their credit record was excellent. The home inspection was perfect—a two-story center-hall colonial in a quiet residential neighborhood in Astoria where the Loms were active in the local parish. Bill went so far as to call Sara's old pastor in Houston. Father Geary knew Sara Bainbridge—her maiden name—and remembered her as a sweet, wonderful young woman; Herb came from a wealthy family and wasn't quite the churchgoer Sara was, but the parish priest considered him a good man.

The whole process went swimmingly. The weekend visits came off without incident, and Danny's stays were stretched to a week at a time. He loved it. And he loved Sara. He seemed totally taken by her, completely infatuated. He'd still visit Bill's office on a daily basis, still sit on his lap, still disrupt the Saturday night chess games. But-all he talked about was Sara, Sara, Sara. Bill thought she was a fine woman, exceptional even, but God he was getting sick of hearing about her.

By late fall Danny was no longer the same Danny who'd torn around St. F.'s all summer. It wasn't apparent at first, but slowly, in fits and spurts, Bill could see a definite change taking place. Over the course of the investigative and processing procedures Bill had noticed a gradual deceleration in Danny. Not a slamming on of the brakes; more like a racing truck whose driver was slowly, systematically downshifting as he progressed from the freeway toward a school traffic zone. The motor was still revving high, but the speed was falling off. The nuns who taught him in second grade said he was much less of a discipline problem these days, and that his lengthened attention span was resulting in improved schoolwork.

It was almost miraculous. Almost too good to be true.

And that bothered Bill a little. In his two decades with St. F.'s he'd rarely seen an adoption go so smoothly. And so when he lay in bed at night, alone with the dark, the lack of glitches would wake that nagging little voice and spur it to whisper its nebulous doubts in his ear.

That was why he was almost relieved when the first little glitch reared its head during the week before Christmas.

Herb had been pushing to finalize the adoption by Christmas, his reasoning being that he wanted to usher in the new year with the three of them together as a family. Bill didn't doubt that, but he had an inkling that with Herb's background in accounting he was well aware that Danny was good for a full year's deduction as a dependent if the adoption became official anytime before midnight December 31.

Which was okay with Bill. Raising a child in New York City was hellishly expensive and parents deserved any financial break they could get. That wasn't the glitch.

The glitch was Danny. The boy was having second thoughts.

"But I don't want to go," he told Bill one evening during the week before Christmas.

Bill patted his lap. "Why don't you hop up here and tell me why not?"

"Because I'm scared," Danny said as he settled into his usual spot.

"Are you scared of Sara?"

"No. She's nüice."

"How about Herb? Are you scared of him?"

"No. I'm just scared about leaving here."

Bill smiled to himself and gave Danny a reassuring hug. He was almost relieved to hear of the boy's misgivings. They were common, perfectly normal, and expected in Danny's case. After all, St. F.'s had been his home longer than any other place in his lifetime. The residents and staff were the only family he'd known for two and a half years now. It would be cause for concern if he weren't suffering a few pangs of separation anxiety.

"Everybody's a little scared when they leave, Danny. Just like they're scared when they come here. Remember when Tommy left last week to go live with Mr. and Mrs. Davis? He was scared."

Danny twisted around to look at him.

"Tommy Lurie? No way! He's not scared of nothing!"

"Well, he was. But he's doing fine. Wasn't he back just yesterday telling everybody how great it was?"

Danny nodded slowly, saying, "Tommy Lurie was afraid?"

"And don't forget, you're not moving far away. You can call me whenever you want."

"Can I come back and visit like Tommy did?"

"Sure can. You're welcome here anytime you want to come and the Loms can bring you. But pretty soon you'll be so happy and busy with Herb and Sara you'll forget all about us here at St. F.'s."

"I'll never do that."

"Good. Because we love you too. The Loms love you. Everybody loves you. Because you're a good kid, Danny."

That was Bill's message to all the boys at St. F.'s, most of whom were basket cases in the self-esteem department when they arrived. Bill began pounding it home from the moment they stepped through the front door: You are loved here. You have value. You are important. You're a good kid. After a while a fair number of them came to believe they were worth something.

The message was more than mere rote in Danny's case. Bill was going to miss him terribly. He felt as if he were giving away his own son.

So he sat there with his heart breaking as he held Danny on his lap and told him of all the wonderful times he was going to have with the Loms, of how Bill was going to send a message to Santa Claus to let him know Danny's new address and make sure he brought Danny lots of extra good stuff for Christmas.

And Danny sat, smiling as he listened.

Danny was quiet the rest of the week. But on Christmas Eve, as the final documents were being signed, he began to cry.

"I don't want to go with her!" he sobbed, tears spilling from his eyes onto his cheeks.

Sara was seated by Bill's desk; the battered valise holding all of Danny's worldly possessions rested by her feet. Bill glanced up and saw her stricken expression. He turned and squatted next to Danny.

"It's okay to be a little scared," he said. "Remember that talk we had? Remember what I told you about Tommy?"

"I don't care!" he said, his voice rising in the suddenly silent office. "She's bad! She's mean!"

"Come now, Danny. There's no call for that kind of—"

The boy threw his arms around Bill's neck and clung to him, trembling.

"She's going to hurt me!" he screamed. "Don't make me go! Please don't make me go! She's going to hurt me!"

Bill was shocked at the outburst. But there was no denying Danny's genuine terror. He was literally quaking with fear.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sara rise to her feet and step toward them. Her eyes were full of hurt.

"I—I don't understand," she said.

"Just some last-minute jitters," Bill told her, trying to assuage the pain he saw in her eyes. "Coupled with an overactive imagination."

"This seems to be more than just a case of simple jitters," Sara said.

Gently, Bill pushed Danny to arm's length and held him there.

"Danny, listen to me. You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to. But you must tell me about these terrible things you're saying. Where did they come from? Who told you these things?"

"No one," he said, blubbering and sniffling.

"Then how can you say them?"

"Because!"

"Because isn't good enough, Danny. Where did you get these ideas?"

"Nowhere. I just… know!"

Sara stepped forward. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and placed her hand on Danny's head, gently smoothing his perpetually unruly blond cowlick.

"Oh, Danny. I would never hurt you. How can you possibly think such a thing?"

Bill felt Danny stiffen at Sara's touch, then relax; saw his eyes roll upward for a heartbeat, then focus again. He stopped sobbing.

"You're going to be my little boy," Sara was saying in a soothing, almost-mesmerizing voice as she stroked his head. "And I'm going to be your mother. And together with Herb the three of us will make a wonderful family."

Danny smiled.

In that instant Bill was nearly overcome by an almost-uncontrollable urge to call the whole thing off, to wrap Danny protectively in his arms, chase the Loms from his office, and never allow them to cross the threshold of St. Francis again.

He buried the impulse. It was the father-son thing rearing its selfish, possessive head. He had to let go of this boy.

"You're not really afraid of me, are you, Danny?" Sara cooed.

He turned and looked up at her.

"No. I'm just scared of leaving here."

"Don't be afraid, Danny, my dear. It's supposed to snow tonight, which means tomorrow will be a white Christmas. Come with us and I promise you this Christmas will be utterly unforgettable."

Something in her words sent a chill across Bill's shoulders but he forced himself to let go of Danny and guide him toward Sara. As Danny's arms went around her hips and Sara's arms enfolded the boy, Bill felt his throat constrict. He turned away to hide the tears in his eyes.

I have to let go!

"I'd better take a rain check, Nick," Bill said into the phone. "It's snowing like crazy."

Nick's voice was tinny over the wire, and genuinely annoyed.

"Since when did a little white stuff ever bother you? Either you get yourself over here now or, snow or no snow, I'm coming over there and dragging you back."

"Really, Nick. I'm good where I am."

"The Quinns will be hurt if you don't show up. And besides, I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be alone on Christmas Eve—especially this Christmas Eve."

He understood and appreciated Nick's concern. He'd always spent part of Christmas with Mom and Dad. But this year…

"I'm not alone. I'm going to spend it with the boys. Which reminds me that I've got to check on them right now. I'll see you Saturday night. A Merry Christmas to you, and to the Quinns."

"All right," he said resignedly. "You win. Merry Christmas, Father Bill."

Bill hung up and walked down the hall to check on the kids. The dormitory was quiet. Excitement had filled these halls all week, rising ever higher with the decorating of the tree, reaching a fever pitch here a couple of hours ago as he'd overseen the hanging of the stockings by the old never-used fireplace in the dining hall downstairs. But all the boys were in bed now and those who weren't already asleep were trying their best to doze off. Because everybody knew that Santa didn't come until the whole house was sleeping.

Christmas. Bill's favorite time of year. And it was being around the boys that made it for him. They were so excited this time of year, especially the little ones. The bright eyes, the eager faces, the innocence of their euphoric anticipation. He wished he could bottle it like wine and decant off a little at a time during the year to get him through the times when things got low and slow.

God knew there were periods since the fire last March when he could have used a couple of bottles of the stuff. Tomorrow was a milestone of sorts, a dread marker along his personal road: the first December 25th in his life when he wouldn't be able to call his folks and wish them a Merry Christmas.

An aching emptiness expanded in his chest. He missed them. More than he'd ever thought he could or would. But he'd weather tomorrow. The boys would carry him through it.

Satisfied that everyone was asleep or very nearly so, Bill padded downstairs and began unloading the gifts from a locked pantry closet. Most of them had been donated by the local parishioners and wrapped by the sisters who taught the orphans at Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school next door. Good people one and all, pitching in to see that none of the boys went without a couple of presents on Christmas Day.

When the gifts were arranged under the tree Bill stepped back and surveyed the scene: A scraggly limbed balsam laden with a motley assortment of hand-me-down ornaments and garish blinking lights stood guard over piles of brightly wrapped boxes, each tagged with a boy's name. He smiled. Bargain-basement decor, to be sure, but the real giving spirit of Christmas was there. It looked as if Santa had risked a hernia on his trip to St. F.'s this year. Bill was beginning to feel a bit of the old Christmas excitement himself, looking forward to tomorrow morning when he'd be standing in this same spot and overseeing the frenzy of paper-tearing as the overexcited boys unwrapped their gifts with trembling hands. He could hardly wait.

He unplugged the tree lights and climbed the stairs. Halfway up he heard his office phone ringing. He ran for it. If this was Nick again—

But it wasn't. It was Danny. And he was hysterical.

"Father Bill! Father Bill!" he screeched in a high-pitched voice bursting with terror. "You gotta come get me! You gotta get me outta here!"

"Calm down, Danny," he said, keeping himself calm with an effort. Even though he knew it was just another adjustment terror, the real fear in the boy's voice was sending his adrenals into high gear. "Just calm down and talk to me."

"I can't talk! He's gonna kill me!"

"Who? Herb?"

"You gotta come get me, Father! You just gotta!"

"Where's Sara? Put her on and let me speak to her."

"No! They don't know I'm on the phone!"

"Just get Sara—"

"No! Sara's gone! There ain't no Sara! He's gonna kill me!"

"Danny, stop it!"

"Father, please come and get me! Pleeeeease.1" He broke down into sobs but his words were still intelligible. "Father, Father, Father, I don't want to die. Please come and get me. Don't let him kill me. I don't want to die!"

The fear and abject misery in Danny's voice tore at Bill's heart. He was going to have to abort the adoption, cancel the whole thing. The boy simply was not ready to leave St. F.'s.

"Put Sara on, Danny… Danny?"

The line was dead.

Bill yanked open his file drawer and looked up the Loms' number. His hand was shaking as he punched it into the phone. A busy signal buzzed in his ear. He hung up and went to dial again, then stopped. If the line was busy, maybe Sara or Herb was trying to call him. If they both kept dialing, neither of them would get through. He sat back and made himself wait. And wait.

The phone didn't ring.

He forced himself to wait a full five minutes. It seemed like forever. Finally he'd had it. He snatched up the receiver and dialed their number again.

Still busy. Shit!

Bill slammed the phone down and wandered around his office, walked the halls. Over the course of the next half hour, he called the Loms' number a couple of dozen times, and each time the line was busy. Over and over he told himself there was nothing to worry about. Danny was in no danger. It was just the boy's imagination, his damned overactive imagination. Sara and Herb would never harm him, never allow anything bad to happen to him. Danny had just worked himself up into a panic and Sara had probably calmed him just as she had this afternoon.

But why couldn't he get through on the damn phone? An idea struck him and he called the operator. He told her it was an emergency and asked her to break in on the line; she came back and told him there was no one on the line. Nothing but dead air.

Had Danny left it off the hook? That had to be the answer.

But Bill could take no comfort in the explanation. He pulled on his coat, grabbed the car keys, and headed for the street. He knew he'd never sleep until he'd actually spoken to Danny and made sure he was all right. Imagined fears were just as frightening as real ones. So no matter how certain he was that Danny was in no danger, he had to be sure that Danny knew it. Then maybe he could rest tonight.

It was a beautiful night, snow falling on a gentle slant, the flakes flaring as they passed through the cones of illumination under the street lamps. The sounds of the borough, already subdued because it was Christmas Eve, were further muffled by the inch or so of white insulation that had already fallen. A white Christmas.

Bill wished he had time to appreciate the scenery but the inner urgency to get to the Loms' house overrode the esthetics of the night.

He guided the old station wagon down the Loms' street, past snowcapped houses trimmed with strings of varicolored lights, then pulled into the curb before number 735. The house was dark. No Christmas trim, no lighted windows. As he hurried up the walk to the front door, he noticed how perfect the layer of snow was, unmarred by a single footprint.

He pressed the doorbell button but didn't hear any chime within so he used the brass knocker. Its sound echoed through the silent night. He rapped it again. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

He stepped back off the front porch and looked up at the second story. The house remained silent and unlit.

Bill was worried now. Really worried. They had to be home. Their car was in the driveway. His were the only footprints on the snow.

What the hell was going on?

He tried the front doorknob and it turned. The door swung inward. He called out a few hellos but no one answered, so he stepped inside, still calling out.

Standing in the dark foyer, lit only by the glow from the street lamp outside, Bill realized it was as cold inside as it was out. And the house felt… empty.

A terrible, inescapable sense of dread crept over hirrk

My God, where are they? What's happened here?

And then he realized he was not alone. He almost cried out when he glanced to his right and spotted the faintly limned figure sitting in a chair by the living-room window.

"Hello?" Bill said, his hand searching for the light switch. "Herb?"

He found it and flipped it. It was Herb, sitting square in a straight-backed chair, staring into the air.

"Herb? Are you all right? Where's Danny? Where's Sara?"

At the mention of her name, Herb's head turned to look at Bill but his eyes never seemed to settle on him, never seemed to focus. After a few seconds, he returned to staring into the air.

Bill approached him cautiously. A part of him deep inside knew that something awful had happened here—or possibly was happening still—and screamed for him to turn and run. But he couldn't run. He couldn't—wouldn't—leave this place without Danny.

"Herb, tell me where Danny is. Tell me now, Herb. And tell me you haven't done anything to him. Tell me, Herb."

But Herb Lom only stared upward and outward at a corner of the ceiling.

Upstairs… he was staring upstairs. Did that mean anything?

Turning on lights as he moved, flipping every switch he passed, Bill found the staircase and headed for the second floor. Dread clawed at his throat as he called out the only names he could think of.

"Danny? Sara? Danny? Anyone here?"

The only reply was the creaking of the stair treads under his feet and the faint howl from the uncradled telephone receiver on the table in the upper hall.

He stopped and called out again, and this time he heard a reply—a hoarse whisper from the doorway at the top of the stairs. Unintelligible, but definitely a voice. He ran toward the dark rectangle, lunged through it, fumbled along the wall with his hand, found the switch…

… light… a big bedroom… the master bedroom… red… all red… the rug, the walls, the ceiling, the bedspread… didn't remember it being so red… Danny there… by the wall… naked… his head lolling… so white, so white … on the wall… arms spread… nails… in his palms… in his feet… face so white… and his insides… hanging out…

Bill felt the room lurch as his legs went flaccid under him. His knees slammed on the floor but he barely noticed the pain as he fell forward onto his hands and gripped the sticky red rug, retching.

No! This can't be!

"Father Bill?"

Bill's head snapped up. That voice… barely audible…

Danny's eyes were open, staring at him; his lips were moving, his voice was raw skin dragging through broken glass.

"Father, it hurts."

Bill forced his legs to work, to propel him across the red room. So much blood. How could one little boy hold so much blood? How could he lose it all and still be alive?

Bill averted his eyes. How could he be so cut up? Who would—?

Herb. It must have been Herb. Sitting downstairs in some sort of post-epileptic funk while up here… up here…

And where was Sara?

The nails. He couldn't think about Sara now. He had to get the nails out of Danny's hands and feet. He looked around for some way to remove them but all he saw was a bloody hammer. Bill fixed his eyes on the boy's bloodless face, his tortured, pleading eyes.

"I'll get you free, Danny. You just wait here and—" God, what am I saying? "I—I'll be right back."

"Father, it hurts so bad!"

Danny began screaming, hoarse, raw-throated wails that chased after Bill, tugging at the very underpinnings of his sanity as he raced downstairs. He pounded into the living room and hauled Herb from his chair. He wanted to tear him in half and he wanted to do it slowly, but that would take time, and he didn't think Danny had much of that left.

"Tools, fucker! Where are your tools?"

Herb's unfocused eyes stared past Bill's shoulder. Bill shoved him back into the chair that flipped backward with Herb in it. He landed in a twisted sprawl on the floor and stayed there.

Bill ransacked the kitchen, found the door to the cellar, and ran down the steps, fearing all the while that somewhere along the way he'd trip over Sara's remains. He was sure she was dead. He found a toolbox sitting on a dusty workbench. He grabbed it and raced back up to the second floor.

Danny was still screaming. Bill took the biggest set of pliers he could find and began working on the nails, removing the ones from his feet first, then moving up to the hands. As his ghastly white little body slumped to the floor, Danny's eyes closed and he stopped his hoarse, breathy, barely audible screams. Bill thought he was dead but he couldn't stop now. He pulled the spread from the double bed and wrapped the boy in it. Then he headed for the street, carrying Danny in his arms, racking his brain for the whereabouts of the nearest hospital.

Halfway to the car Danny opened his eyes and looked up at him and asked a question that shredded Bill's heart.

"Why didn't you come, Father Bill?" he said in a voice that was almost gone. "You said you'd come if I called. Why didn't you come?"

* * *

The next few hours were a blur, a montage of white streets seen through a fogged windshield, of battling skidding tires and locking wheels, of bouncing off curbs and near misses with other cars, all to the accompaniment of Danny's nearly voiceless screaming… arriving at the hospital, one of the emergency room nurses fainting when Bill unfolded the bedspread to reveal Danny's mutilated body, the ER doctor's blanching face as he said there was no way his little hospital could give this boy the care he needed… the wild ride in the rear of the ambulance, racing into Brooklyn with lights flashing and sirens howling, skidding to a stop before Down-state Medical Center, the police waiting for them there, all their grim-faced questions as soon as they wheeled Danny away to surgery.

And then came the thin, chain-smoking detective with yellow stains between his right index and middle fingers, mid-fortyish, thinning brown hair, intense blue eyes, intense expression, intense posture, everything about him aggressively intense.

Renny had got a look at the kid in the ER.

Twenty-plus years on the force and he'd never seen anything even remotely like what had been done to that kid. Turned his stomach upside down and inside out.

And now his chief was on the phone telling him he could pack it in until the day after tomorrow.

"I'm gonna stick with this one, Lieu."

"Hey, Renny, it's Christmas Eve," Lieutenant McCauley said. "Unlax a little. Goldberg's taking eleven-to-seven and what the hell is Christmas to Goldberg? Leave it to him."

No way.

"Tell Goldberg to cover everything else on eleven-to-seven. This one's mine."

"Something special about this one, Renny? Something I should know?"

Renny tightened inside. Couldn't let McCauley know there was anything personal here. Just play the cool, calm professional.

"Uh-uh. Just a child abuse case. A bad one. I think I got all the loose ends within reach. Just want to tie them up good before I call it a night."

"That could take a while. How's Joanne gonna handle that?"

"She'll understand." Joanne always understood.

"All right, Renny. You change your mind and want to pack it in early, let Goldberg know."

"Right, Lieu. Thanks. And Merry Christmas."

"Same to you, Renny."

Detective Sergeant Augustino hung up and headed for the doctors' lounge he had commandeered. That was where they were holding the guy who'd brought the kid in. He said his name was Ryan, claimed he was a priest but he had no ID and the sweatsuit he was wearing didn't have a Roman collar.

Renny thought about the kid. Hard to think about much else. They didn't know anything about him except what the so-called priest had told him: His name was Danny Gordon, he was seven years old, and until this afternoon he'd been a resident of St. Francis Home for Boys.

St. Francis… that was what had grabbed Renny. The kid was an orphan from St. F.'s and someone had cut him up bad.

That was all Renny had to hear to make this case real personal.

He'd left a uniform named Kolarcik on guard outside the lounge. Kolarcik was on the walkie-talkie as Renny approached in the hallway.

"They picked up the guy in the house," Kolarcik said, thrusting the handset toward Renny. "Everything there's pretty much like Father Ryan described it."

We don't know for sure he's a priest yet, Renny wanted to say but skipped it.

"You mean the guy was just sitting there waiting to be picked up?"

"They say he looks like he's in some sort of trance or something. They're gonna take him down to the precinct house and—"

"Bring him here," Renny said. 'Tell those guys to bring him here and nowhere else as soon as he's booked. I want to get a full medical on this guy while he's fresh…just to make sure he's not suffering from any unapparent injuries."

Kolarcik smiled. "Right."

Renny was glad to see that this particular uniform was on his wavelength. No way that fucker in Queens was going to take a walk on a psycho plea,- not if Renny had anything to say about it.

He opened the door to the lounge and took a look at the guy who said he was a priest. Big, clean-cut, square jaw, thick brown hair graying at the temples, good build. Good-looking guy, but at the moment he looked crushed by fatigue and pretty well frayed on all his edges. He sat hunched forward on the sagging sofa, a cup of Downstate's bitter, overheated coffee clasped in his hands.

His fingers trembled as he rubbed his palms against the cup, as if trying to draw warmth from the steaming liquid on the other side of the Styrofoam. Fat chance.

"You connected with St. Francis?" Renny said.

The guy jumped, like his thoughts had been a thousand miles away. He glanced at Renny, then away.

"For the tenth time, yes."

Renny took a chair opposite him and lit up a cigarette.

"What order you from?"

"The Society of Jesus."

"I thought the Jesuits ran St. Francis."

"Same thing."

Renny smiled. "I knew that."

The guy didn't smile back. "Any word on Danny?"

"Still in surgery. Ever hear of Father Ed? Used to be at St. Francis."

"Ed Dougherty? I met him once. Back in seventy-five at St. F.'s Centennial. He's gone now."

The guy had said the magic words: St. F.'s. Only someone who'd lived there called it St. F.'s.

Okay. So he probably really was Father William Ryan, S.J., but that didn't absolutely mean that he had nothing to do with what had happened to that kid. Even priests got bent. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Look, Detective Angostino," Father Ryan said. "Can we make small talk later?"

"It's Awgustino, and there's no small talk and no later in something like this."

"I've told you, it was Herb. The husband. Herbert Lorn. He's the one. You should be out—"

"We've got him," Renny said. "We're bringing him down here for a checkup."

"Here?" Ryan said. The fatigue seemed to drop away from him in an instant. His eyes came to blazing life. "Here? Give me a few minutes alone with him in this little room. Just five minutes. Two." The Styrofoam cup suddenly collapsed in his hand, spilling hot coffee all over him. He barely seemed to notice. "Just one lousy minute!"

Okay. So the priest most likely had nothing to do with hurting the kid.

"I want you to tell me the whole story," Renny said.

"I've done that twice already." The fatigue was back in Ryan's voice. "Three times."

"Yeah, but to other people, not to me. Not directly. I want to hear it myself, from you to me. Right from the moment these people stepped into St. F.'s until you arrived here in the ambulance. The whole thing. Don't leave anything out."

So Father Ryan began to talk and Renny listened, just listened, interrupting only for clarifications.

None of it made much sense.

"You mean to tell me," he said when the priest had finished, "that they had this kid in their home for weekends, whole weeks at a time, and never laid a finger on him?"

"Treated him like a king, according to Danny."

"And then as soon as the adoption is official the guy slices the kid up. What's the story there? What's it mean?"

"It means I screwed up, that's what it means."

Renny saw the tortured look in Father Ryan's eyes and felt for him. This guy was hurting.

"You did all the routine checks?"

The priest jumped up from the sofa and began pacing the length of the small room, rubbing his hands together as he moved back and forth.

"That and more. Sara and Herb Lorn came up as white as that snow falling outside. But it wasn't enough, was it?"

"Speaking of Sara—any idea where she is?"

"Probably dead, her body hidden somewhere back at that house. Damn! How could I let this happen?"

Renny noticed that he wasn't passing the buck, wasn't blaming anyone but himself. Here was one of the good guys. Weren't too many of those around.

"No system is perfect," Renny said in what he knew was a pretty lame attempt to console the poor guy.

The priest looked at him, sat back down on the sofa, and buried his face in his hands. But he didn't cry. They sat that way in silence for a while until a doctor in surgical scrubs barged in. He was graying, in his fifties, probably robust-looking when he hit the golf course, but he was pasty-faced and sweaty now. Looked like he'd been on a week-long bender.

"I'm looking for the man who brought Daniel Gordon in. Which one of you—?"

Father Ryan suddenly was on his feet again, in the doctor's face. "That's me! Is he all right? Did he pull through?"

The doctor sat down and ran a hand over his face. Renny noticed that it was shaking.

"I've never seen anything like that boy," he said.

"Neither has anyone!" the priest shouted. "But is he going to live?"

"I—I don't know," the doctor said. "I don't mean his injuries. I've seen people mangled in car wrecks worse than that. What I mean is, he should be dead. He should have been dead when he was wheeled in here."

"Yes, but he wasn't," Father Ryan said, "so what's the point of—?"

"The point is that he lost too much blood to have survived. You found him. Was there much blood there?"

"All over. I remember thinking that I never knew the human body could hold so much blood."

"That was a good thought. Was he bleeding when you found him?"

"Uh, no. I didn't think about it then, but now that I look back… no. He wasn't bleeding. I guess he'd just run out of blood."

"Bingo!" said the doctor. "Exactly what happened. He ran out of blood. Do you hear what I'm saying: There was no blood in that boy's body when he got here! He was dead!"

Renny felt the skin at the back of his neck tighten. This doc was sounding crazy. Maybe he'd been on that bender after all.

"But he was conscious!" Father Ryan said. "Screaming!"

The doctor nodded. "I know. And he remained conscious through the entire operation."

"Jesus!" Renny said, feeling like someone had just driven a fist into his gut.

Father Ryan dropped back onto the sofa.

"We couldn't find any veins," the doctor said, talking to the air. "They were all flat and empty. You see that in hypovolemic shock, but the child wasn't in shock. He was awake, screaming in pain. So I did a cut-down, found a vein, and canulated it. Tried to draw a blood sample for typing but it was dry. So we started running dextrose and saline in as fast as it would go and took him upstairs to start suturing him up. That was when the real craziness started."

The doc paused and Renny saw a look on his face that he'd occasionally seen on older cops, thirty-year men who thought they'd seen everything, thought they were beyond being shocked, and then learned the hard way that this city never revealed the full breadth of its underside; it always held something in reserve for the wiseguy who thought he'd seen it all. This doc probably had thought he'd seen it all. Now he knew he hadn't.

"He wouldn't go under," the doc said. "Hal Levinson's been my anesthesiologist for twenty years. He's one of the best. Maybe the best. He tried everything he had—from pentathol to Halothane to Ketamine and back and nothing would put that kid under. Even a high-level spinal block wouldn't dent him. Nothing worked." His voice began to rise. "Do you hear me? Nothing worked!"

"So—so you didn't… operate?"

The doc's expression became even bleaker.

"Oh, I 'operated.' I 'operated,' all right. I went into that kid and put everything in his belly back the way it was supposed to be, then I closed him up. And I closed up the holes in his hands and feet too. And he jerked and writhed with every suture and so we had to tie him down. Yeah, he's all back together. He's up in Recovery now but I don't know why. He doesn't need to recover from the anesthesia because none of it took. He's got no blood and I can't give him any because we can't get a sample to type. He should be dead but he's up there screaming with pain but making no sound because his vocal cords are all shot to hell from all the screaming he's already done."

Renny watched in shock as tears began to form in the doctor's eyes.

"I sewed him up but I know he's not going to heal. He's in pain and I can't stop it. The only thing that's going to help that child is dying and he's not doing it. Who is he? Where did he come from? What happened to him? Are there any medical records on him anywhere?"

Father Ryan snapped his fingers. "Here! He had a full neurological workup right here just last year—through the child study team."

The doc dragged himself wearily to his feet. His expression was even bleaker than before.

"You mean I'm going to find this kid in medical records? That means he really exists and this isn't just a nightmare." He sighed heavily. "Maybe they typed his blood."

As he turned to leave, Father Ryan grabbed his arm.

"Can I see him?"

The doc shook his head. "Not now. Maybe later. After I see if I can get some blood into him."

As he stepped out the door, Kolarcik stepped in.

"They just brought in the guy from the house."

"Lorn!" The priest leapt forward. "Let me—"

Renny put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. Gently.

"You stay put for now, Father. I'll want you to ID him, other-wise you stay here for the time being."

"If he looks like Teddy Roosevelt, you've got him. But tell me something. Am I under arrest?"

"No. But you're up to your neck in this, so for everybody's sake, stay put."

"Don't worry about that. As long as Danny's here, I'm here."

Renny had no trouble believing that.

The handcuffs spoiled the picture, but this guy Herbert Lorn really did look like Teddy Roosevelt. Only the glasses were missing. And he was either completely whacked out or was putting on the best damn show Renny had ever seen.

Renny seated himself opposite Lom. The guy's eyes were focused somewhere off in space, like on Mars maybe.

"Your name is Lom? Herbert Lom?" Renny said.

"Don't waste your breath, Sarge," said the uniform who had brought him in, a cocky brat named Havens. "No one could get a word out of him over at the station. His wallet says he's Lom, though."

"Were you at the house?"

"Nah. Wasn't my shift."

"Anybody tell you about the scene."

Havens shrugged. "Said the upstairs bedroom was practically painted with blood."

Just like Father Ryan had said. Renny gave Lom's clothes a careful visual going over.

"These the clothes he was wearing when they found him?"

"Yeah. You don't think we changed him, do you?"

Havens's mouth was going to buy him big trouble someday, but not from Renny. Not tonight. He was too concerned with why there was no blood on Lom's clothes or hands.

"Forensics go over him?"

"Yeah. Scraped his fingernails, vacuumed his clothes, the works." t

"He's beep Miranda'd?"

"About three times, in front of witnesses."

"And he hasn't asked for an attorney?"

"He hasn't even asked to take a pee. He don't speak and don't do a goddam thing you tell him to, but watch this."

The cop pulled Lom to his feet and he stood there without moving. He pushed him back into the chair and he stayed seated. He got Lom up on his feet again and pulled him forward. After a couple of stumbling steps he began to walk in a straight line. The cop let him go and he kept on walking, right into a wall. Then he stopped walking and stood with his face against the wall.

"Guy's a fucking robot."

Renny didn't argue. He had Kolarcik bring Father Ryan down from the doctors' lounge.

"This him?" he asked the priest when he arrived.

Father Ryan's gentle features twisted into a snarl.

"You filthy—!

He lunged for Lom's throat and it took everything Kolarcik and the other uniform had to hold him back. Lorn didn't even flinch.

The cop was right: Lorn was like a fucking robot.

"I'll put that down as a positive ID," Renny said. "In the meantime, Father, would you mind returning to the lounge?"

As the priest was led away, Renny turned to the uniform.

"Take our friend down to the emergency room and have them give him the once-over. I don't want anyone saying we didn't see to his medical needs while he was in custody."

He glanced at his watch. Two A.M. Christmas already. And he hadn't called Joanne yet. There'd be hell to pay for that.

He hurried to a phone.

The ER doc caught up to Renny in the hall about half an hour later.

"Hey, Lieutenant—"

"It's sergeant."

"Okay—Sergeant. Where the hell did you find that guy?"

This doc was young, in his thirties, had long dark hair, an earring on the right, and a neat beard. Looked like a rabbi. The name-tag on his white coat said A. STEIN, M.D.

"Lorn? We've got him for attempted murder. Maybe murder, too, if we ever find his wife, so… Why are you shaking your head?"

"There's no way your Mr. Lorn is going to stand trial for anything."

Renny's stomach gave a lurch at the note of finality in Stein's voice.

"He died?"

"Might as well have. He's as good as brain dead."

"Bullshit! He's faking it, acting like he's got that disease, cata—cata-something."

"Catatonia. But he's not catatonic. And he's not faking. You can't fake what he's got."

"So what's he got?"

Stein scratched his beard. "I'm not sure yet. But I'll tell you one thing: His neurological exam puts him on a level somewhere between an earthworm and a turnip."

"Thanks, Doc," Renny said acidly. "You've been a big help. Now find me a specialist, one who knows that a guy who walks around ain't brain dead. Maybe then I can get a real exam done."

Stein's reddening face told Renny he'd scored with that one. Stein grabbed him by the arm.

"Okay, wiseass. You come with me. I want to show you a few things."

Renny accompanied him to a curtained-off cubicle in a rear corner of the ER where Herbert Lom lay on a gurney. Alone.

"Where's Havens?"

"The cop? I sent him for coffee."

"You left a suspect here alone?" Renny said angrily.

"Mr. Lom's not going anywhere," Stein said. He pulled a penlight from his coat pocket and stepped around to the far side of the gurney. "Come on over here and take a look at this."

Renny stepped closer and looked down at Lom's impassive face.

"Look at his pupils. Look how wide they are." Stein flashed the beam of his penlight into each eye, back and forth, one and then the other. "See any change in them?"

The pupils didn't move a hair.

"Fixed and dilated," Stein said. "Now watch this."

He touched his finger to Lom's left eyeball. Renny flinched but Lom didn't. He didn't even blink.

"You don't need a medical degree to know that's not normal," Stein said. "Now check this out. Watch his eyes."

He grabbed Lom's head with both hands, one at the chin and one at the crown, and rotated it back and forth a few times, then moved it up and down like a nodding marionette. Lom's eyes never moved in his head; his gaze remained fixed straight ahead, staring whichever way he was turned.

"We call that 'doll's eyes.' It means his brain's in deep shit. He's got no higher brain function—nothing above the brain stem, if that much. He's a turnip."

"And he couldn't be faking it?" Renny said, although he already knew the answer.

"No way."

"How about drugs? What'd the blood tests show?"

Stein looked away. "We didn't do any."

"You mean to tell me you've got a guy you're calling brain dead and you haven't checked to see if he's full of H or blow or ice?"

"We couldn't get any blood out of him," Stein said, still looking away.

An icy-fingered hand began a slow walk down Renny's spine.

"Oh, shit. Not another one."

"You know about the kid too?" Stein said, looking at him now. "I guess everybody in the hospital's heard. What the hell's going on, Sergeant? Somebody brings in a bloodless mutilated kid who can't be anesthetized, and you cops bring in this… this zombie with no pulse, no blood pressure, no heartbeat, yet he sits, stands, and walks. I couldn't find any blood anywhere in him—I even stuck his femoral artery, or at least where I thought his femoral artery should be. We cathed his bladder for urine but wound up with a dry tap. This is getting scary."

"Maybe he's brain damaged," Renny said, shaking off the chill. He'd heard enough Twilight Zone bullshit for one night. "Can't you X-ray his head or something?"

Stein brightened.

"We can do better than that. We can get an MR—and we can get it stat."

Renny stayed with the inanimate, staring Lorn while Stein rushed off to set up the MR or whatever it was.

"You're not fooling me, pal," he whispered as he leaned over him. "I'm going to break up your little game and see that you pay for what you did to that kid."

Renny almost jumped back when Lom's mouth twisted into a toothy grin.

Renny was still shaky as he sat outside the Magnetic Resonance Imaging room. Lom's grin had lasted only an instant before collapsing back into the slack expression he'd worn all night, but that had been long enough to convince Renny that he had a supreme con artist on his hands here.

Which was just great. As if this case weren't already twisted enough, he had to have some Houdini-type trance artist as a prime suspect.

Stein came down the hall and dropped into the seat next to him. He was carrying a pair of X rays. He didn't look so good but he managed a smile.

"Standing guard?" Stein said.

"Actually, I'm sitting."

Renny had stationed himself here when Lom was wheeled in and he'd sit here until he was wheeled out again. There was only one way in or out of Magnetic Imaging and this was it. He was here to see to it personally that Lom didn't pull anything cute—like a disappearing act. Renny would have been inside, right next to the MR machine, except that they'd wanted him to remove anything that contained any iron and leave it outside. Something about warping the magnetic field or something. That meant stripping off his pistol and his badge; they'd even told him he'd have to leave his wallet outside because the field around the MR machine would scramble the magnetic strips on his credit cards.

Sounded like Star Trek stuff to Renny, but he wasn't going anywhere around Lom unless he was fully armed. So he'd camped outside.

"I'm telling you, Sergeant, Mr. Lom is not going to take a walk. Anywhere."

"And I'm telling you he grinned at me. He's playing you for a sucker, Doc."

"Uh-uh. That was a random muscle twitch."

Renny was about to suggest another muscle Stein could twitch when the MRI technician stuck his head out the door.

"Yo! Dr. Stein. We got ourselves a little problem in here."

Renny was on his feet, reaching for his .38. I knew it!

"Where is he? What's he doing?"

The tech was a skinny black guy sporting short dreadlocks. He looked at Renny as if he was nuts.

"Who? The patient? He ain't doing nothin', man. Be cool. It's the computer. It's puttin' out some weird shit."

As Stein followed the tech into the control room he glanced back over his shoulder at Renny.

"Coming?"

Renny was about to tell him that he'd already seen enough weird shit for one night, then decided that a little more wouldn't make much difference.

"Yeah, sure. Why not?"

He followed them to the control console with its rows of monitors. He watched Stein lean forward and stare at one of the screens, saw his face go slack and fade to the color of the eggshell wallpaper behind him.

"You're kidding, right?" Stein said. "This is bullshit, Jordan. If you think this is funny—"

"What's wrong?" Renny said.

"Hey, man," the tech told Stein. "If I could make it show that kinda shit just for fun, you think I'd be workin' this shift?"

"What the hell's wrongT' Renny said.

Stein sagged into the chair before the console.

"That's Mr. Lom's head," he said, pointing to the screen before him. "A side view. A sagital cut through the center of his head and neck, top to bottom, right between his nostrils."

Renny could see that. The nose was toward the right side of the screen, the back of the head toward the left.

"Looks like one of those sinus medicine commercials," Renny said.

Stein laughed. The sound had a slightly hysterical edge to it.

"Yeah. His sinuses look fine. But something's missing."

"What?"

Stein tapped the screen with the eraser end of a pencil, indicating the big empty space behind the nose and sinuses.

"There's supposed to be a brain here."

That cold hand did an encore down Renny's spine; this time it was dancing.

"And there's not?"

"Not according to this. No sign of a spinal cord either."

"Then your machine's fucked up! He'd—he'd be dead!"

"Tell me about it," Stein said, and turned to the technician. "Slide him farther in and get the chest cavity."

The tech nodded and threw some switches. Before too long, an empty circle lit on the screen.

Jordan the technician said, "Shit, man! Where's his lungs? Where's his fucking heart?'

"That's what I said when I saw these," Stein said, handing Jordan the X rays he'd been carrying. "I was trying to tell myself they'd pushed the tube too high but I didn't really believe it."

"Shit!" Jordan said as he held the X rays up to the recessed fluorescents overhead.

"What's wrong?" Renny said, knowing he sounded like a broken record but unable to say anything else. He was completely in the dark here.

Jordan held the films up for him. Renny had no idea what he was supposed to see.

"What?"

"Empty, man," he said. "The guy's whole chest is fucking empty!"

"Aw, come on!" Renny said. He was starting to feel a little sick.

"He's not kidding," Stein said. "Just for the hell of it, Jordan, let's get a look at the abdomen."

Jordan did some more fiddling at the console and soon another image filled the screen. Stein stared at it, then rotated his chair to face Renny. He wore a crazy smile and his eyes looked as if they were receding toward the back of his head.

"He's hollow!" he said. "No brain, no heart, no lungs, no liver, no intestines! He's completely hollow! A walking shell!" He started to laugh.

Renny found Stein's laughter almost as frightening as what he was saying.

"Hey, easy, Doc."

"Easy my ass! We're talking about some sort of zombie here! It can't be! It's crazy! It can't fucking be!"

The monitoring room was silent as the three of them sat and stared at each other.

"What we gonna do with this guy?" Jordan said.

"He's a murder-one suspect," Renny said.

Jordan smiled. "Try him and fry him."

"Not in this state. Besides, with all the bullshit that's going down here tonight, he might walk."

The thought of that twisted Renny's insides. Nobody should get off on a head case plea after what he did to that kid.

"He's not walking anywhere tonight," Stein said. He turned to Jordan. "Wheel him out of there. I'm taking him back to the ER and no one—" He glared at Renny. "No one is moving him anywhere else until I've got plenty of witnesses to what's going down here."

As long as Loin remained in custody, Renny didn't care where he was kept. And when all this was over, maybe a few questions would get answered.

Like, where was Mrs. Lorn?

The waiting jvas killing Bill. The waiting and the incredible story Danny's surgeon had told. No blood? No anesthesia? Awake during the surgery? Feeling everything? How could that be?

He shuddered. What was happening here? This kind of brutal crime wasn't supposed to make sense, but what had been done to Danny—what was still being done to him, apparently—went beyond madness into—what? The supernatural?

Poor Danny. God, he wanted to see him, be with him, find some way to comfort him. Only one thing restrained him from making a scene and demanding, as his legal guardian—Some guardian—to be taken to him. The last words Danny had spoken to him in that almost-gone voice still echoed in his mind. Each syllable drove a nail into a different corner of his skull.

Why didn't you come, Father Bill? You said you'd come if I called. Why didn't you come?

"I did come, Danny!" he said aloud around the sob crammed into his throat. "I did! I just came too late!"

And then the phone rang. One ring that wouldn't stop. He'd never heard a phone ring like that. Was that the way hospital phones worked? On and on it went. Bill looked around, wishing someone would answer it. But he was alone in the doctors' lounge, as he had been all night.

And then it occurred to him that maybe it was for him. Maybe Danny was out of Recovery and they wanted him upstairs. But wouldn't they tell the cop outside first?

No matter. He had to stop that ringing. He crossed the room and lifted the receiver.

"Doctors' lounge."

There was a child on the line, a small boy, his voice pitched somewhere between a scream and a sob. Bill recognized it immediately.

Danny's voice.

"Father, please come and get me! Pleeeeease! Father, Father, Father, I don't want to die. Please come and get me. Don't let him kill me. I don't want to die!"

"Danny?" Bill said into the phone, his voice rising to a shout. "Danny, where are you?"

The voice started again.

"Father, please come and get me! Pleeeeease! Father, Father, Father, I don't want to die. Please come and get me . . ."

Bill tore the receiver away from his ear. The horror of the call was submerged in an almost overwhelming sense of deja vu. And then he remembered that this wasn't the first time for this call. Danny had cried and screamed those same words last night when he'd called from the Loms' house. His last words just before the phone went dead. His last words…

…just before Herb had—

Bill couldn't finish the thought. He slammed the phone down and headed for the door to the hall. Some sick bastard had recorded the call and was playing it back. Someone in the hospital. That could be only one person.

The cop named Kolarcik was sitting outside. He jumped to his feet as Bill stepped out in the hall.

"Whoa, Father! You can't leave the lounge, not until the sarge says so."

"Then find him! I want to go see Danny! Now!"

As the cop fumbled for his walkie-talkie he glanced up the hall.

"Hey, here he comes now."

Bill saw Sergeant Augustino and two other men, one white, one black, wheeling a fourth down the hall on a gurney. Their expressions were grim and their eyes held a strange look. As he started toward them Bill wondered what could have happened to make all three men look so strained.

"Sergeant, I want to—"

And then he saw who was on the gurney. It was the filthy, perverted son of a bitch who'd mutilated Danny.

Herb Lom.

Rage like a cold black flame blasted through him, igniting him, consuming him. There was no control, not the slightest consideration given toward control. Bill just wanted to get his hands on Lom. He lunged forward.

"You bastardV

He heard shouts, cries of surprise and warning, but they might as well have been coming from the moon. Kolarcik, Augustino, the two men with him, they had disappeared as far as Bill was concerned. There was only Bill, the hallway, and Lom. And Bill knew just what he was going to do: yank Lom from the gurney, pull him to his feet, and slam him against the nearest wall; and when he'd bounced off that wall he'd fling him across the corridor against the opposite wall, and then he'd do it again and again until there was nothing left of either the walls or Herb Lom, whichever went first. Somehow, it was a beautiful thought.

With his fingers hooked into claws he brushed off the hands that tried to stop him and dove at Lom, reaching for the front of his mint-green hospital gown. His hands slammed down against Lom's chest—

—and kept on going.

With a sickening crunch Lom's chest cavity gave way like weak plaster and Bill's hands sank to their wrists in the man's chest cavity.

And good God, it was cold in there. Far colder than ice… and empty.

Bill yanked out his hands and backpedaled until he hit the wall where he stood and stared at Herb Lom's chest, at the concavity in his hospital gown that dipped deep into it. He glanced around at Sergeant Augustino and the two men with him. They too were staring at Lom's chest.

"My God!" Bill said. His hands were numb, still aching with the cold.

Kolarcik skidded to a halt beside him and gaped at the gurney, gasping.

"Father! What did you do?"

And then Lom's body started to shake. Little tremors at first, as if he had a chill. But instead of subsiding they became steadily more pronounced, growing until his whole body was spasming, shaking, convulsing so violently that the gurney began to rattle.

Then Lorn seemed to collapse.

Bill noticed it first in his chest wall. The depression in the hospital gown began to widen as more of the green material fell into his chest cavity like Florida real estate dropping into a giant sink hole. Then the rest of his body began to flatten under the gown—his pelvis, legs, arms. They all seemed to be melting away.

Good Lord, they were melting away. A thick brown fluid was beginning to run out from under the gown and drip off the edges of the gurney. It steamed in the air of the hospital corridor. The stench was awful.

As he turned away, gagging, Bill saw Lom's head collapse into a mahogany puddle on the pillow and begin to stream toward the floor.