“Every hour of every day for the past week.”
“I’m sorry I caused so much trouble,” Bobby said, like a young child apologizing for his misbehaviour. “I never wanted to cause anybody any trouble.”
McGuire’s eyes narrowed. “Bobby,” he said, shaking his head, “how can you say that? You’ve killed five people.”
“Yes, I know,” Bobby replied. “Three fathers and. . . .” He blinked and shuddered. “And that man in the subway. And a woman. I killed a woman last night.” His voice was tired but unemotional. “Her name was Mattie.”
“Did you shoot her? Like the others?”
Bobby shook his head. “I strangled her. I lost control of myself and strangled her.”
“Why?” McGuire leaned forward, then quickly backward as Bobby raised the gun towards him. “Bobby, we know why you hated the priests and the man who approached you in the subway. But why the woman?”
“She tried to do something the others did to me.”
“The others? In the monastery?”
Bobby nodded. “I told myself no one would ever do that to me again. I would die before I would let anyone do that to me again.”
“Why did you crucify the woman on the wall?”
Bobby swallowed. His eyes began to fill with tears.
“Why?” McGuire repeated.
“It was a warning,” Bobby replied. “To let everyone know I wouldn’t let them do things like that to me.” The tears flowed freely, rolling down his cheeks and onto the gun. “Nobody. Ever again.”
Captain Jack Kavander strode briskly across the grassy area to where Lipson and Innes stood among a knot of police sharpshooters.
“Goddamn it, Bernie,” he said, casting a quick glance at the riflemen and their infra-red-equipped weapons. “I wanted to talk to you in the building.”
Bernie’s eyes continued sweeping the darkened windows. “Joe’s in there,” he said without looking at Kavander.
“I know he’s in there!” Kavander spat at him. “Why the hell didn’t you stop him?”
“He was already gone. Right, Ralph?”
“He’s right, Captain,” Ralph Innes replied. “Just shot out the door and up the steps. We didn’t have a chance.”
“Bullshit!” Kavander looked up at the building in front of them. “What’d he go in with?” he asked, his voice softening.
“His thirty-eight,” Bernie said.
“That’s all? Against a twelve-gauge?”
“And a vest,” Bernie added. “And Deeley’s priest outfit.”
Kavander stared at Lipson, his mouth hanging open in wonder. “Who the hell’s crazier?” he asked. “The kid with the gun? Or McGuire?”
“Let the sisters go,” McGuire pleaded. “They haven’t hurt you. Why not just let them leave now that you’ve got me for a hostage?”
“There’s no one stopping them,” Bobby answered.
“You are.”
“No, I’m not. They’ve been free to go from the beginning. I explained to them who I was, and that I only wanted to see a priest.”
“You scared the hell out of them,” McGuire pointed out. “You were running around yelling. That’s what one of the sisters said who escaped.”
Bobby shrugged. “I was angry. I thought this was a seminary or a church. I wanted a priest. I demanded a priest. Then, when I realized where I was, I apologized.” He tilted his head towards the chapel. “They offered to stay in the chapel and pray for me. They said they would remain there as long as I was in the building. And I thanked them for that.”
As if in reply the nuns’ voices rose in unison from the chapel. Bobby reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “How much do you know about me, Mr. McGuire?” he asked.
“Almost everything,” McGuire replied. “We know about Larkin and the others. What they did to you. We know how intent you were about becoming a priest, and why you reacted the way you did. . . .”
“Did you speak to my mother?”
McGuire nodded. “Your mother doesn’t believe you did these things. She refuses to accept it.”
“Did you see the pictures of my father?” Bobby asked suddenly.
“Only one or two—” McGuire began.
“He bombed babies,” Bobby interrupted. “Did you know that? He was supposed to be a great hero, and he bombed babies.”
“A lot of terrible things happen in wars,” McGuire tried to explain.
“He dropped napalm on babies in villages!” Bobby shouted. His eyes grew wide, and his hands shook, moving the gun in spastic motions. He sat back, breathed deeply twice and spoke in a lower voice. “My father sent me a picture just before he was shot down. He was under the wing of his plane, pointing to a bomb. He had written ‘This one’s from Bobby’ on the bomb. I asked somebody what kind of bomb it was, and they told me it was napalm. He was burning people alive with bombs that had my name on them!”
“We got ’em on radio,” Caddy said around his wad of gum. He was standing next to Bernie Lipson, Ralph Innes and Jack Kavander. “They’re through the roof and on the top floor. Nothing but a whole bunch of beds in there. Just twelve tough and horny sons of bitches moving around where a whole bunch of virgin pussy sleeps. Ain’t that a hoot?”
Kavander turned slowly and stared at the deputy. “Lipson?” he said.
“Yes sir?” Bernie lifted his eyes from the building.
“I’m giving this man thirty seconds to return inside the school,” Kavander ordered. “If he’s not there in that time, you disarm him and arrest him for obstruction. If he resists, shoot him.”
Bobby’s head jerked quickly up, and he stared at the ceiling. McGuire had heard it, too. The sound of motion somewhere above them. He wondered what Bobby’s reaction would be when the men burst through the door, screaming and waving their assault guns. Would it divert Bobby’s attention? Or would his reflex be to squeeze the trigger with the gun in the same position, the muzzle aimed at McGuire’s face?
Bobby looked away from the ceiling and down at the floor. He seemed to be smiling at some private thought.
“Do you pray, Mr. McGuire?” he asked.
McGuire shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t pray.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t believe in God,” McGuire answered.
“I did,” Bobby said.
“You don’t anymore?”
“I believe He’s alive in most people,” Bobby answered. “But He’s dead in me.”
“The death of one god is the death of all,” McGuire recited. “That’s what you underlined in that book of poetry, isn’t it?”
Bobby nodded and smiled shyly. “Do you know what God is, Mr. McGuire?” he asked. Without waiting for McGuire’s reply, he said, “God is simply a life force. It’s the invisible part of us that cherishes life, the part that tells us to care for babies and helpless things. And especially the part that drives us towards spiritual fulfilment and eternal life by reproducing our genes through our children.”
McGuire frowned. “That’s your idea of God?” he asked. “God is a sex drive?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Bobby replied. He glanced up again as the sound of a closing door latch filtered through the ceiling. “But, yes. I guess you can say that.” He looked back at McGuire and smiled. “I have no sexual urges, Mr. McGuire. They were killed in me. They were murdered in me by Larkin and the others. Larkin didn’t just use me, you see. He murdered the God in me.”
“Why didn’t you kill him, Bobby?” McGuire asked. “Why murder the innocent priests? Why not go to the monastery and kill Larkin?”
“I was told they were dead.” Bobby shifted in his chair, the gun still pointing at McGuire. “The day I purchased the gun, I knocked on the door, and Brother Schur, the ugly little monk who handles the financial records of the monaste
ry, answered. He said Larkin and Halloran and the rest were dead. He kept the chain on the door and wouldn’t let me enter.” Bobby shrugged. “I suppose I could have killed Schur but . . . but I wasn’t angry at just monks and priests. I was angry at the Church!” He looked at McGuire with pleading eyes. “They wouldn’t believe me! I tried to tell my mother and our priest. But no one would believe me, that men of God could do such a thing!”
The convent was encircled by ambulances. Grim-faced armed men stood speaking to each other in hushed voices.
Ralph Innes walked away from one group to rejoin Kavander and Lipson. “They’re on the second floor,” he said. “It’s clean. They hear voices from the chapel, and they’re ready to storm it.”
“Jesus,” Kavander exclaimed. “I hope they know what they’re doing. And who they’re going after. There’s still over dozen nuns in there, for Christ’s sake.”
“These guys don’t have a knack for being subtle,” Innes said.
This time the noise was directly above their heads. Bobby glanced up, then back at McGuire. “I guess you don’t want to pray, Mr. McGuire,” he said sadly.
McGuire had edged forward on his chair, his weight on the balls of his feet. He was waiting for Bobby’s attention to waver. If he dived low, his hands ready to seize the barrel, he might be able to deflect the gun away.
As if in anticipation of McGuire’s move, Bobby stood up and edged himself against the far wall, near the closed door. He stood in the direct light still shining from the closet and looked at McGuire, who had settled back in his chair again. “You don’t make a very good priest, Mr. McGuire,” he said with a slight smile. “I mean, you just don’t look enough like one. That’s too bad. I wanted a priest.”
“I know what you wanted a priest for, Bobby.” McGuire said.
“What—” Bobby began. He was becoming agitated. The nun’s voices rose again in unison. Footsteps could be heard clearly in the halls above them. “What do you do when . . . when you have a crisis in your life. And you can’t pray? What do you do, Mr. McGuire?”
“I get through it. Somehow.”
“Tell me,” Bobby said nervously. “Tell me how.”
McGuire’s eyes shifted from the gun, still pointed at his head, to the closed door. There were people in the hallway. He could feel them.
“I keep busy,” McGuire answered blankly. “My wife died,” he added suddenly. “Yesterday. She was . . . we were divorced, but. . . .” He stuttered and looked away. “I . . . I tried to keep busy because. . . .” He felt his body relax and his eyes begin to flood. Embarrassed, surprised by his own emotions, he raised his hand and covered his eyes, suppressing the unexpected tears.
When he looked up, he saw Bobby slumped in the corner, watching him sadly.
“You must have loved her very much,” Bobby said.
McGuire didn’t reply.
“Do you know the only place I saw real love, Mr. McGuire?” Bobby asked. “At the aquarium. Between two otters. It was accepted, undemanding love. That’s the only kind that really matters, isn’t it? Do you know something about otters, Mr. McGuire? They mate for life. When one otter dies, its mate remains by itself and refuse to eat. Then it dies, too. That’s the measure of true love, Mr. McGuire. When one mate dies, the life of the other is over, too.”
Bobby had raised the gun again. McGuire sat watching him warily.
“If you can’t pray for me, maybe you can quote something from the Bible,” Bobby said. “Do you know anything from the Bible, Mr. McGuire?”
“The ten commandments,” McGuire replied. He was staring down, overcoming the repressed sobs that had shaken his body. “Thou shalt not kill.”
“Of course,” Bobby replied. “Unless thou art at war. Or thou art practicing self-defense. Or thou art the state teaching others not to kill by killing. Or thou art an abortionist. . . .”
“Bobby—”
“How about something philosophical, Mr. McGuire? Don’t you know something besides a bunch of thou shalt nots?”
“How about, ‘The truth shall set you free’?” McGuire suggested, still staring at the floor.
Something was happening outside the room. The nuns’ prayers had ceased, and there was only silence from the chapel. The sisters’ voices had been replaced by something else, something intangible and threatening.
Bobby noticed it, too. He glanced quickly at the door, then back at McGuire. His voice was higher, his words slurred. “That’s wonderful, Mr. McGuire. That may be the single most profound statement in the Bible, don’t you think? The truth shall set you free. Any more?”
McGuire sat upright again, his weight balanced, his body ready to spring aside if necessary. “By their deeds ye shall know them,” he said. “I remember that one, too.”
They were outside the door. McGuire could feel them moving. He could sense their hand signals.
Bobby smiled back at McGuire. “That’s wonderful, Mr. McGuire. Wonderful.” He raised the shotgun.
McGuire saw the motion and knew the gun’s target. “No, Bobby, don’t!” he pleaded.
“Know me by this deed, Mr. McGuire,” Bobby said, the weapon in position.
McGuire screamed once before the room exploded in fire and flesh.
At the sound of the shot the assembled men outside the convent launched themselves against the doors, illuminating the interior with powerful lights. Kavander, Lipson and Innes trotted behind the squad through the front entrance. Within seconds the interior of the convent was ablaze with light.
The men rounded the corner, heading towards the chapel. At the end of the hall, wide marble stairs swept up to the second floor. In front of them, two groups of assault-squad members stood waiting, their faces blackened, and their guns hanging loosely on webbed straps.
Kavander paused at the first group standing in front of elaborately decorated leaded-glass doors. He opened one of the doors slowly and looked in.
The chapel was lit by dozens of flickering candles, sending moving shadows up the high walls. In front of a large crucifix suspended above the altar he could see the backs of the sisters bent in prayer.
“In there,” said an assault-squad member who had watched him. He pointed to a partially closed door across the hall from the chapel.
Kavander nodded and crossed the hall, Lipson and Innes behind him.
He touched the door gently with his fingertips. It swung aside only far enough for Kavander to edge himself through the opening.
The police captain gasped and recoiled at the sight of the blood, still washing slowly down the wall in crimson currents. Bernie Lipson entered next, followed by Ralph Innes, who swore and muttered to himself, shaking his head over and over.
Kavander walked carefully across the small room to the figure of McGuire, lying in the corner. He reached out and touched the detective on the shoulder. “You all right?” he asked softly.
McGuire opened his eyes. He stared dully at the floor and nodded.
“He put the Goddamn muzzle right under his chin, looks like,” Ralph Innes said. Bernie Lipson nodded and reached inside his jacket. He pulled out his notebook and began flipping through the pages.
McGuire stood up, avoiding the sight of the headless body slumped against the door. He walked steadily past Lipson, who looked up at him with concern.
“You gonna be okay, Joe?” Bernie asked, and McGuire nodded again.
As McGuire left the room, Ralph Innes patted him gently on the back.
In the corridor, two assault-team members were smoking cigarettes, their duties completed, expressions of boredom on their blackened faces. Ambulance attendants were wheeling a stretcher down the hall. McGuire looked with dulled eyes at the familiar retinue of death experts—the police photographer, the medical examiner and others—working their way towards what was left of Bobby Griffin.
Ignoring them, he walked trance-like towards th
e leaded-glass doors.
A hand descended on his shoulder, just as he was about to enter.
McGuire turned to look into Kevin Deeley’s face.
“I heard what happened,” Deeley said. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”
McGuire stared at him. “Except pray for him,” he said finally. “That’s all he wanted. He wanted a priest to pray for him. You could have prayed for him, Deeley. All I could have done was kill him. Or watch him do it himself.”
McGuire pulled the doors open and entered the chapel. He slumped in the back row, placing his arms on the pew in front of him and leaning to rest his head, silent and motionless, as the sisters knelt and raised their voices to heaven.
Acknowledgements
No author could expect more care, concern and professionalism for a first novel than this book received from everyone at Penguin Books Canada Limited. Thank you Cynthia, Lorraine, Bruce, Christeen and everyone else involved.
About the Author
John Lawrence Reynolds is the author of more than two dozen works of fiction and non-fiction. He has previously written six mystery novels—most recently, Beach Strip—and is a two-time winner of the Arthur Ellis Award (for The Man Who Murdered God and Gypsy Sins). His many non-fiction books include Leaving Home, Free Rider (winner of the National Business Book Award), The Naked Investor and Bubbles, Bankers & Bailouts. Shadow People, his bestselling book on secret societies, has been published in sixteen countries. A former president of the Crime Writers of Canada, he lives in Burlington, Ontario. Visit him online at johnlawrencereynolds.com.
Copyright
The Man Who Murdered God © 1989 John Lawrence Reynolds
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