Reprisal ac-5

by F. Paul Wilson

  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 w
ith 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.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Manhattan

  Bill waited impatiently for the old man to return from his wife's bedroom. Apparently she was pretty sick. Sick enough to need a full-time nurse. And Veilleur appeared wealthy enough to afford one. Bill knew nothing about the current state of Manhattan real estate, but he knew a top-floor condo overlooking Central Park like this didn't come cheap.

  During the drive from Queens, Bill had told Augustino and Veilleur everything—from what he'd done New Year's Eve all the way to Rafe Losmara's revelation that Danny was still alive in his grave.

  The detective came over to where Bill was standing at the window, looking down at the empty, illuminated traverses snaking through the dark of Central Park.

  "You know, Father, I think I had you all wrong."

  "Don't call me Father," Bill said. "I'm not a priest anymore. The name's Bill."

  "All right, Bill. Call me Renny." He sighed. "I've spent a lot of years thinking some pretty awful thoughts about you."

  "Perfectly understandable."

  "Yeah. And now I'm thinking some pretty brutal thoughts about this Losmara guy and what I'd like to do to him and his sister—because I don't think the legal system's going to be much use here."

  Bill turned toward the bedroom as he heard some high-pitched

  English words mixed with some other language that sounded East European.

  Renny said, "Sounds like Mrs. Dracula—having a nightmare."

  Veilleur returned to the living room then. He eased himself into a chair and indicated the facing sofa for Bill and the detective.

  "Sorry for the delay," he said, "but I wanted to make sure the nurse was in her own room and my wife settled quietly for the rest of the night before we talked."

  "Is she a light sleeper?" Bill asked, more out of courtesy than any real int
erest.

  "Yes. She tends to get her nights and days mixed up."

  Bill started when he noticed the telephone by his elbow.

  "That won't be bothering you anymore," Veilleur said. "But let's get back to this young man in North Carolina. You say he calls himself Losmara?"

  "Yes. Which is an anagram of Sara Lorn, the woman from five years ago I told you about."

  "Both of which are anagrams of another name." He smiled tiredly and shook his head. "Still playing games."

  "What's the other name?" Augustino asked from Bill's right on the sofa.

  "Rasalom."

  "What kind of a name is that?"

  "A very old one."

  "Is that their family name?" Bill said.

  "Who?" The old man looked confused.

  "Rafe and his sister."

  "There is no sister. Only one—Rasalom. Within certain limits, he can change himself. The one you called Sara and the one you call Rafe are the same person."

  "No," Bill said, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. "That can't be."

  But why couldn't it be? After what had happened to that hollow thing called Herbert Lom, to Danny, why was he balking at this minor trick. >

  He opened his eyes and stared into Veilleur's.

  "We're out of our depth here, aren't we?"

  "This is out of everyone's depth," Veilleur said.

  "What are we up against?"

  "Rasalom."

  "And who the hell is that!" Augustino said.

  Veilleur sighed. "After what you two have seen tonight, I suppose you're ready to believe. It's a very long story and I'm very tired, so I'll capsulize it for you. Rasalom used to be a man. He was born ages ago. Rasalom isn't even his real name, but a name he took and has used in various permutations ever since. Ages ago, as a youth, he gave himself over to a power that is inimical to everything we consider good and decent and rational. He became a focus for the hostile forces outside this sphere, and for all that is dark and hateful within humanity. He gains strength from what is worst in us. Like a hydroelectric dam, he stands in the flow of human baseness, venality, corruption, viciousness, and depravity and draws power from it."