Killing Critics

by Carol O'Connell

  “You don’t know? But the payoff money in the—”

  “Oh, it’s an open secret that Blakely is a dirty cop. Naw, she made her deal with him and she stuck by it. She won’t share the details. Coffey thinks it’s a mob connection, but only Mallory knows for sure. I’d bet even money she could get the dirt on any poor bastard that gets in her way. I feel sorry for Quinn if he’s holding out on her.”

  “She won’t get any dirt on Quinn.”

  “She can get anybody, Charles.”

  “Quinn is an honorable man. His wealth comes from inheritance and a clever way with stock manipulation. He doesn’t steal, cheat or lie. I know this man.”

  “Look, if you won’t bet that Mallory can stick him with a sword, I’ll bet you that Quinn is more like Mallory than you know.”

  “No bet. I believe there is a sense of honor in Mallory. It’s a bit twisted but—”

  “Charles, that’s not exactly what I meant, but never mind.”

  “No, please go on.”

  “Twelve years ago, Quinn pulled political strings to keep the police away from the family during the murder investigation.”

  “But those people were falling apart, they couldn’t take any more.”

  “Everybody gets ripped up in a murder investigation. There’s a lot of breakage, but it’s necessary. We couldn’t do the job with Quinn’s interference. People in high places owed him favors and he called them in. He obstructed a homicide investigation—that’s a major crime, and you’ve gotta have a lot of dirt on the right people to pull it off. That’s why Markowitz brought Quinn into the case and made him part of it. You see how it works?”

  Charles shook his head. “The correct—”

  “The correct procedure would have been for Markowitz to lose his job slapping Quinn with a charge of obstruction—Quinn and every politician he knew. So instead, the old man made use of Quinn and his connections. Clever? Well, Mallory learned a lot from her old man. The kid turned out to be a natural. You know, she works the weasels better than Markowitz ever did. It cost her one house to learn how far she could go, but she’s the new master.”

  Riker said his good night as he stood up. He ambled off toward the roof door. Then he stopped and turned to face Charles. “The kid’s all grown up now. I feel like I’m out of a job.”

  Charles smiled. Riker did not.

  For another hour, Charles continued to sit on the roof with a blanket around his shoulders, staring at the lunatic on the roof of Bloomingdale’s. He looked at his watch. The minute hand was coming up on the hour when Mallory would relieve him, and she was never late.

  “Hello, Mallory.” He said this to the night air, for he had not heard her open the door, nor any footsteps. He had absolutely no sense of her presence.

  “So, how’s it going, Charles?” She settled a grocery bag on the ground beside him.

  Did she seem disappointed that he hadn’t given her a chance to sneak up and frighten him? Yes, she did, and he was delighted. Mallory had a strange and unsettling sense of gamesmanship, but he was definitely getting the hang of it.

  He lowered his binoculars. “I think Andrew might be dying.”

  She took the binoculars from his hand and stared at the thin figure of Andrew Bliss lying on the down quilts, barely moving anymore. “No, he’s okay. I just saw him twitch. Good night, Charles. Thanks for the help.”

  And now he pressed his luck. “You know this man is obviously not in his right mind.”

  “He’s hiding out from a killer. That sounds like a pretty sane game plan to me.”

  “Hiding out on the roof of Bloomingdale’s with full media coverage from dawn to dusk? This is hiding? This is sane?”

  Oh, right.

  It was, now that he thought about it, and smart too. And after dark, Andrew could be assured of a hundred voyeurs among the thousand windows that looked down on the roof. If they could count on a sane killer, and Mallory certainly did, then who would be fool enough to harm the man without cover? Yet Charles could not shake the idea that this poor lunatic was Mallory’s idea of a good piece of lean meat, a bit of bait for a serial killer.

  It was with some reservation that he made his way across the roof and left a helpless fellow human in the hands of Mallory. And now another thought occurred to him as he descended the stairs: She would always view civilians as a class of defenseless, witless sheep, and she would lay down her own life for any one of them, without hesitation. She was a cop.

  If God was not listening to Andrew’s prayers, Mallory was, and she had grown tired of the slow drone of intonations. She lowered her directional microphone, picked up her cellular phone and dialed the number of the priest. Before she could speak, she heard the old man’s voice saying, “Yes, Kathy?”

  “I want to make confession, but I don’t remember the words.”

  “There’s a good reason for that, Kathy. You never made a confession in your entire life, not in or out of the church.”

  “Tell me what to say.”

  “Do you remember the last time we discussed confession in my office? I remember your very words. ‘That’s not the way it works,’ you said. ‘If you can’t catch me doing it, then I didn’t do it. I’ve got rights, and you can call Markowitz, he’ll tell you. I don’t ever have to confess to anything.’ ”

  “And did you call Markowitz?”

  “Yes, Kathy, I did.”

  “And?”

  “He said, ‘The kid is absolutely right.’ Then he hung up on me.”

  “So tell me the words. I want to take communion. I can’t do that until I confess my sins, and I need the damn words.”

  “Actually, the church has loosened up a bit since you were with us. You can take communion if you “No, I want to do this right.”

  “Why don’t we just talk about it first?”

  “Is this under the seal of the confessional? You can’t tell anyone, right?”

  “That’s right. You were so young when your mother died. There is no fault attached to your actions. You were frightened, you ran away. That’s what children do. I only wish you had told me about this when you were still a child. You shouldn’t have had to carry that—”

  “You would have told the others.”

  “Still the same trusting little soul you always were.”

  “Sarcasm is unbecoming in a priest. I think you spend too much time hanging out with Rabbi Kaplan.”

  “An occasional poker game.”

  “I knew it. If you’d known, you would’ve talked. You would have told them all.”

  “No, that would never have happened. But what if they had known? Helen wanted to adopt you. If your mother was dead, that would’ve been possible. Was your father still living?”

  “This is not about my father.”

  “You witnessed your mother’s murder?”

  “I saw her after the bastard left her for dead. She was crawling toward me, covered with blood. Any one of those wounds should have killed her. You know what kept her going? She had to crawl a long ways with mortal wounds. But she thought I would get to her in time to save her. That’s why she was holding on.”

  “No, Kathy. She wanted to touch you before she died, to say goodbye. That’s what kept her going. It was for you that she kept going. She must have loved you more than her own life.”

  “No. She believed I was going to save her. But I ran away.”

  “And you survived. So she did not go through that ghastly ordeal for nothing. Do you know who killed her?”

  “No. I never saw him.”

  “You never spoke of this to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “That would explain a lot.”

  “The bruises on Sister Ursula’s shins? She had that coming.”

  “I won’t argue that. But you know, there’s a kind of innocence in insanity. Ursula still wonders what you’re up to. If she knew this about your birth mother, she would send up the flames of a thousand candles each night for the rest of her life. You tend to linge
r in her memory. You have that effect on people.”

  “You can’t tell her or anyone.”

  “Of course not. Why are you telling me now?”

  “I’m confessing. Now what do I do with the guilt? I’ve confessed. What now?”

  “You were a blameless child.”

  “I don’t want to hear that crap, Father. So let’s say I’m guilty, and I’ve confessed. What now?”

  “God forgives you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Yeah, right.” She hung up on him.

  He walked around the roof, occasionally pausing to anchor himself by touching the corner of the table or some object, fearing he might float away if he did not hold on to something solid, something real. He picked up an empty wine bottle and set it down again. At each turn of the roof, he kept his eyes to the design of the plush rugs which carpeted the tarpaper. He avoided looking at the decorative mirror in a small art deco frame, skirting it with a tremor of terror. The last time he had looked at his reflection, it had been like viewing the remains of a familiar corpse.

  His eyes, oh his eyes.

  There were two dead flies lying on the table, sun-dried and so light, they were carried off on the next breeze. He turned away. His hand worked over his eyes and left them closed, the way that service was done for the deceased.

  He sat down on the tarmac and addressed the upholstery of the chair. “I couldn’t stop what happened.”

  There was no response from the upholstery.

  “There was nothing I could have done.”

  He took the chair’s quiet repose for agreement. He opened his eyes and leaned over to touch the brocade arm, as though to gain the chair’s confidence, and then he went on in a louder monotone. “What good would it have done to tell?”

  He stood up and walked twice around the chair in the way of a child who believes that the circle has a magical and protective charm. He came to rest beside the chair and put one arm around the back of it. “Oh, what would have been the good of it?” His voice was rising more. Hysteria came stealing up his throat, surprising him and scaring him with a shrillness in his voice. “Well, it’s crazy, that’s all—just crazy!”

  One hand clawed through his matted hair. “Am I screaming?” he screamed. “Do I sound a little frantic?” The chair withdrew into prolonged silence. He turned away, tears running freely.

  When he turned around again, a beautiful woman was sitting in the chair. He recognized the moon-gold hair, though in the better light of the standing lamp, it was closer to burnished copper, and her eyes were long slants of green. The tailoring of her blazer was superb. This was definitely his angel.

  “Good evening, Andrew,” said the angel, in a soft, silken voice. It was nearly music.

  “Good evening.” And now he wished he had paid more attention to the nuns’ instructions on the order of cherubim, seraphim, and assorted supernatural messengers.

  “I understand you’ve been praying for a sign.” She perused the labels of a small store of wine on the side table and found a bottle of red that she approved of. “Andrew, I really worry about you, up here all by yourself.” One long red fingernail split the skin of the seal around the cork. “Anyone can get at you.... Anyone.”

  She held a small silver device, which she now opened to expose a cruel screw of metal. She smiled. Andrew tucked in a breath and held it. She drove the point of the screw into the heart of the bottle cork and began to work it deeper and deeper.

  Her blazer opened as she leaned forward to pour the wine into a silver goblet which had suddenly appeared on the low table. He saw the gun in her shoulder holster. Well, that was intriguing.

  Now he was afraid.

  So this was not his guardian angel at all. She was an avenging angel. He supposed that was only fair. So be it. “I see you carry a gun.”

  A vertical line appeared between her eyebrows, only a faint line to show her annoyance. Andrew lowered his foolish eyes to look down at her feet, which were inexplicably encased in rather expensive running shoes. “It’s just surprising to see a gun. I suppose I expected a sword, a great shining sword.”

  “Well, the world changed, Andrew.” She replaced the bottle’s cork. “We use revolvers now.”

  “I suppose vengeance is vengeance, sword or gun.”

  “You got that right.” She brought a handful of communion wafers from her pocket.

  “How shall I address you?”

  “Mallory—just Mallory is fine.” She set the wafers on the low table near the wine goblet and her cellular telephone.

  “Mallory? Is that from the order of Malakim, the Virtues?”

  If so, that would be good news. The Virtues liked everybody, and never slew anyone as far as he knew.

  “Just Mallory.”

  “I don’t know that one. No disrespect intended, but what rank is that?”

  “Don’t piss me off, Andrew.”

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sure it’s a very high rank. I’ll just assume it’s right up there with the archangels.”

  “Right. I’m a damn angel.” She picked up one of the wafers and held it out to him. As he took it from her hand, she said, “This is the body. Take this body and eat.” And then she picked up the wine goblet and offered it to him, saying, “This is the blood. Take it and drink.”

  He looked down at the wafer and the wine goblet and then looked up at her with a mixture of fear and sadness. “But I can’t take communion. You see, I haven’t made confession for my sins. I can’t even remember the last time I made confession.”

  “Yeah, right. That is a problem.”

  “Will you hear my confession, Mallory?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  His speech was slow and slurred as he began to describe his sins. Far into his confession, which she could make nothing of, he fell asleep, and the only sound on the roof was the steady rhythm of his snoring.

  The angel brought her fist down on the arm of the chair with enough force to make a loud crack in the wooden frame.

  The penitent slept on.

  CHAPTER 8

  HE AWOKE TO A PAIR OF STARING EYES, TINY AND RED. The angel was gone, the rat was not. The beast was only a foot away from his face. He waved his hand lethargically, but the rat did not move. Andrew felt weaker today than yesterday. Would he be able to fend off the rat when it came for him in earnest?

  A loaf of bread lay a few inches from his hand. The angel must have left it for him. He was reaching out for it when he heard a beeping noise. He looked up to see the cellular phone on the table by the chair. She must have left that for him, too. But why?

  He picked up the phone and extended the antenna. “Hello?”

  “Is Mallory there?” asked the brisk voice of a man in a hurry.

  “The Archangel Mallory?”

  “The what?”

  Now the man recited a telephone number, and Andrew confirmed that this was the same number printed on the phone. “But she’s not here now. Can I take a message?”

  “Yeah, my name is Coffey. Tell the little angel to get lost for a few days. Tell her our negotiations have hit a snag. The chief is sending uniforms to pick her up. He wants her now.”

  Father Brenner was not wearing his priest’s collar. He had spent the morning working in his garden, and he was still dressed for a day in the soil and the sunlight, wearing a flannel work shirt and a pair of old trousers. He passed through the cordon guard of nurses and receptionists without the protection of a priest’s vestments to elicit their best behavior. Today, he felt very much a man like any other, and perversely, he believed that he was getting away with something. For one guilty moment, he wondered if he hadn’t left his proper dress at home for the sheer pleasure of getting a rise out of Sister Ursula.

  The old woman was one of perhaps forty people seated in the lounge area, yet he picked her out of the crowd immediately. He fixed on her dark, angry eyes before there was time to register the white wimple which hi
d all but her face from the eyes of fellow earth people, most of whom she doomed to the low-rent echelons of hell. She was dressed all in white, as she was on the day she had been wedded in the church. She looked very much the elderly bride of Christ in her flowing robe and slippers.

  Robe and slippers?

  Perhaps he had gotten his days mixed up. He was getting to that age. But he could have sworn that today was the day they had agreed upon to pick her up at the hospital and drive her back to the rectory in Manhattan for a proper dinner and a long visit with her only tie to the world, himself.

  “You’re not dressed,” said the priest as he sat down beside her.

  “And neither are you.” Her appraising gaze wandered over his person and found him wanting. In most respects she was solidly entrenched in the old ways, but she had never kept to the custody of the eyes. She looked at him squarely, all disapproval.

  “You came early this time,” she said. “You’ve never done that before.” And there was an implication that he should not do that again. Ursula was death on punctuality. “We have to wait until the proper time before some young puppy will give me my clothes.”

  Only a few minutes into a polite conversation about weather, flower gardens and hell, said young puppy in nurse’s garb arrived by Ursula’s chair and led the old woman off to change her clothes. He supposed this was a reasonable precaution in such an institution. It wouldn’t do to have the inmates wandering out the door, unescorted and dressed for the unsuspecting world.

  A few minutes later, Ursula was back, striding down the hall, moving very fast for a nun in full regalia. She was no modern woman of the church, no short skirt and lipstick fashion sister, but a dress-code nun, a great black warship at full sail. Her heavy crucifix swayed from side to side as she closed in on him.

  Father Brenner tried to see her from the point of view of a small child. He closed his eyes against that vision.

  When they were in the car and heading toward the city skyline, Ursula broke her stoic silence. “Tell me more about Kathy’s extraordinary new habit of stealing candles from the church. What do you suppose she’s up to this time?”