Just after the sun slipped below the western mountains and the sky's smears of red and orange faded to gray, he noticed a pair of altar boys approaching with long sticks that were lit at the end; these they used to ignite, one by one, each of the standing candles. Then the conductor appeared--a short bald man in a badly fitting suit--so the choir snapped to angelic attention. The man raised his stubby arms, and at once Arthur heard the most beautiful note of song--it was as pure and as steady as the ringing of a silver bell. That sound, along with the candlelight and the descending darkness and the immense face of Cristo overhead, made him shudder.
Suddenly the crowd turned away from the altar, and everyone ceased their zuzhhing and bouncy muttering, so the only sounds audible were the singing choir, an occasional cough and the soft clicking of rosary beads between dry, desperate fingers.
It was starting.
He looked down toward the end of the crowd and saw embroidered silk standards bobbing and weaving toward them, as well as even more candles held aloft by a dozen or so pairs of altar boys in tandem. Bringing up the rear towered Dom Fabiano, his gold-trimmed monsignor's hat poking above the destitute crowd like the spire of a cathedral over a slum.
Arthur stood on tiptoe looking for Jeremy but couldn't make out anything yet, as the procession was still too far away.
The choir finished their first song, then launched into another quieter, more funereal hymn. The holy parade was drawing closer now, perhaps only a few meters or so away, as the candles and torches flickered about them in the hilltop breeze, and the choir's dirge built into a disconcerting crescendo of minor chords layered atop major.
"Can you see him?" Carlo whispered.
Suddenly Arthur gasped.
That can't be him!
Carlo's fake nails dug into his arm.
For inside the rolling glass reliquary, with its fanciful gilded corners and thick glass sides, lay the statue of a saint--a saint garbed in a luxurious white silk cassock festooned with swirly gold braid; a saint with hands and face as white as the silk covering him...a saint with lips painted cherry red and cheeks gauntly hollowed, who lay staring at heaven from unblinking eyes rimmed in black.
"That can't be him," Carlo protested. "There's got to be a real statue!"
And Arthur hoped it was. But then he recognized the cleft in his chin and the flair of his nostrils. "No, baby. That's him," he mumbled, the wads of fabric stuffed into his cheeks distorting his words, but not disguising his despair.
After the procession stopped, six of the suited, wealthy men lifted the reliquary up onto the altar. It was then that Arthur noticed the rows of what looked like empty perfume bottles sitting on a table below.
All watched as Fabiano stepped up to the microphone and held his hands in the air.
" Lætámini in Dómino et exsultáte, justi," he announced.
" Et gloriámini, omnes recti corde," the crowd responded.
"Istórum est enim, regnum cælórum, qui contempsérunt vitam mundi, et pervenérunt ad præmia regni, et lavérunt stolas suas in sánguine Agni. Deus, qui nos annua sanctórum Mártyrum tuórum Januárii et Sociórum ejus solemnitate lætificas: concéde propítius; ut, quorum gaudémus meritis, accendámur exemplis.
Per Dóminum."
"When do we do it?" Carlo asked, shifting from foot to foot.
"We'll know," Arthur whispered. "Just follow my lead--we'll wait until the line starts to form, then we'll push our way to the front. We also need to find Rosa, but I don't see her."
"Oh, she's there," Babalu told them. "Right there." He pointed to a bald priest standing to the right of Fabiano.
"That's Rosa? " Carlo asked.
"I'd know that evil whore anywhere. Very soon he will start preparing the rite."
" Lætámini in Dómino et exsultáte, justi," Fabiano recited again.
" Et gloriámini, omnes recti corde," the crowd answered.
They watched as some old metal lanterns were waved about, spewing wafts of noxious incense; then a bell was rung and the priests behind the altar started lining up behind the reliquary.
"They're getting ready," Babalu whispered. Sure enough, the three men looked around and saw the crowd starting to amble, as a herd, toward the altar. "Follow me," he said.
Carlo sashayed convincingly in front of Arthur, with his head bent reverently and his rosary beads clicking expertly in his hand. Then with Babalu in the lead, they took their places in line about a dozen or so people back. From their position they watched in tense anticipation as Rosa leaned down to kiss Jeremy's hands, and then pushed up the sleeve of his right arm, while two altar boys carefully lifted up and then removed the glass panel from the right side of the coffin--the side facing the crowd. The choir's voices swelled again and Rosa placed a golden sluice under the bared white arm, then picked up a golden scalpel from a plate on the altar and slashed Jeremy's veins.
" Deus, qui nos annua sanctorum," Fabiano roared. " Mártyrum tuórum Januárii et Sociórum ejus solemnitate lætificas: concéde propítius; ut, quorum gaudémus meritis, accendámur exemplis! Per Dóminum!"
The crowd gasped delightedly and the trio watched in horror as Jeremy's ruby-colored blood began streaming down the sluice into the first crystal decanter; Arthur's heart was nearly beating out of his chest, but he grabbed Carlo's arm and reminded him, through his teeth, " Not yet. Not yet. Not yet."
"Only Ogum can save him now," Babalu muttered.
And up on that altar Jeremy was crying but not crying because he couldn't, and his eyes were seared with pain from not blinking and he just wanted this to end so he could die and not have to think about Arthur and Carlo having been shot in the head, and he felt bad about leaving Aunt Katharine but maybe there was a heaven and he'd see his mom and dad again, and he could tell his dad that he'd fallen in love with Arthur just like he had, and he'd tell him what a great guy he still was, and...he was getting sleepy now, he thought...he was...tired. Just tired. And it wouldn't...be so long now...his dad... Arthur...
The first decanter had been filled, so now a second empty one replaced it. Then the hot, scarlet contents of the first was gently, delicately, reverently tipped by Rosa into a golden funnel, which emptied into one of the perfume bottles, and then the second bottle after that, and then another, and another.
They were creeping their way toward the front of the line, where Fabiano, looking as stoic as he was arrogant, handed each of the faithful their tiny glass vial--after, that is, they dropped their donation into the receptacle by his side. Arthur checked himself to make certain that, although his body was a tightly wound spring, his posture was bent and his stomach pillows were in place, as were the rags stuck into his cheeks; the closer they drew the greater the risk became of discovery.
Now Babalu was third in line to receive his vial, with Arthur and Carlo shoulder to shoulder behind him. Arthur had to make sure both of Fabiano's hands were occupied before making his move; he was pretty certain he was carrying a gun somewhere under that billowing, holy robe.
Babalu, money in hand, stepped up to receive his gift.
He dropped his donation in with the others.
He opened his hand and the vial of Jeremy's blood was placed into it.
" Gracias, Padre," he announced, using the signal they had agreed upon.
A switch in Arthur's brain clicked.
He let loose a war cry and flew in swinging.
Chapter 44
He landed a strong right uppercut on Fabiano's chin, and the man stumbled backward. There was a great wail of confusion from the crowd, and Arthur knew he had to work quickly; otherwise, some of the men in attendance would launch a counterattack and obliterate him--throw him over the edge, maybe. He jabbed with his left and crossed with his right, and the big man went down on his knees. He performed a quick left roundhouse kick and felt his foot make contact with the side of the man's head.
Something cracked and Fabiano fell backward in a heap.
" Jesu Cristo! " someone screamed.
> Then Arthur was on him, then straddling him, then pummeling his face.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
In the flickering of the torchlight, he saw blood gushing from the man's nose.
Jab.
Cross.
Jab.
Cross.
Arthur's knuckles opened an angry red slice in the man's cheek.
Then his hands went around Fabiano's neck, and all of the fear and grief and frustration and misery he'd been storing inside zoomed down his arms and into his hands, where it made his fingers clench into vicelike pincers.
Fabiano's face turned purple, blood stopped running from his cheek and his eyes bulged.
"Arthur!" he heard Carlo yell. "She's got a gun!"
He looked up to see Rosa raising a revolver in his direction; in an instant he knew he had no cover and this was it--she had a clear shot at him.
In slow motion, he saw one of her eyes squeeze shut.
Then her head jerked back and her eyes startled open and her hands went to fight whatever it was that had her by the neck.
The crowd erupted into a roar.
Suddenly Rosa's face flushed purple and her mouth gaped and her tongue protruded.
She was screaming. But no sound came out.
Then she dropped the gun and slumped to the ground and Arthur saw that Babalu was standing behind him strangling him...with something that dug into his neck so deeply he could barely make it out.
The rosary beads!
He looked up for an instant to see that Jeremy's limp arm was streaming blood onto the pavement now as it dangled from the reliquary, and in that horrifying moment he was thrown to the side and Fabiano was on top of him, his hands around his neck, his face a ferocious, snarling mask. And as the demon shifted all of his body weight up and on top of him, Arthur realized, He's going to kill me. This is it.
His eyes rolled up into his head as darkness overtook his vision.
His lungs fought valiantly for air.
His body went limp.
POW! POW!
The bullets tore through Fabiano's right temple, and his hands fell away just as a scarlet geyser exploded out of the left side his head.
He collapsed halfway onto Arthur.
The shock of the man falling on him made him open his eyes one last time. He saw Carlo standing with his legs splayed and elbows locked, and the revolver gripped between steady hands.
Arthur's head slumped to the side.
He heard perfect silence.
Jeremy, are you here with me?
In a flash Carlo, still holding the gun in one hand, reached down and pulled the two soggy strips from inside Arthur's slack mouth; these he knotted together, then used as a tourniquet around Jeremy's bicep.
Then he yanked the tangled weave off his head, shoved El Gigante's body off Arthur, bent down and began performing emergency breathing on him.
Expertly.
While Babalu chattered into the microphone, in frenetic Portuguese, explaining to the terrified crowd exactly what had just happened.
Chapter 45
The first sensation he became aware of was the siren wailing--not like those in the United States, but in that singsong EEE-AAHEEE-AAH of European rescue vehicles. He looked around the van as it bumped along and saw there was no one riding in back with him. So he panicked, thinking maybe this was another of Fabiano's tricks.
A gunshot. Yes, there'd been a gunshot. Who was hit? Was I hit? He patted down his body, doing a quick inventory of limbs and trunk. Must've been someone else.
But who?
Was Carlo safe? What about Babalu? He couldn't even begin to think about Jeremy; last he remembered was he was bleeding...to death.
Did we do it? Is he safe? Where is everyone? Will anyone be there when I get to the hospital?
He closed his eyes and drifted off.
He was awakened by the slowing of the ambulance, and the flood of lights from the hospital through the back windows of the van.
They bumped to a stop. Then the back doors flew open, and his gurney was unloaded.
Carlo stood over him. "Are you OK?" he asked, his eyes moony with concern.
"My--" He tried to speak, but his throat was filled with razors. Instead he pointed at his neck and shook his head.
"He strangled you," Carlo told him. "Fabiano."
"Jeremy?" Arthur managed, ready to hear the worst.
Carlo's eyes shifted away, then back. "He's in the ER. They don't know yet."
Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. At least he was alive--and in a safe place.
"Fab--" he began.
"Dead." Carlo smiled slyly.
Arthur's eyes widened.
"I killed him," he announced proudly. "With that fucking Rosa's fucking gun."
Arthur grinned, and Carlo rubbed his chest affectionately. "Ya did it, big guy. You saved Jeremy's life."
Arthur shook his head. "You." He pointed at him. "Babalu?"
"He's OK, too. He's talking to the police right now, and with someone from the American consulate."
* * *
After he was admitted, he was shuttled to a draped cubicle, where he was finally allowed to stand on his own. He really wanted to check on Jeremy, but first he needed to be evaluated by a doctor.
The attending physician, after checking his vital signs and peering down his throat, determined that he was in satisfactory condition, so he pulled on his clothes and followed the arrows down to the ICU, where he found Carlo seated on the edge of a chair, and a doctor standing over Jeremy while scribbling notes into a folder.
But what met his eyes horrified him.
" You had to intubate him? " he asked, upon seeing the tube down Jeremy's throat and hearing the rhythmic fwick-pssh...fwick-pssh of the machine filling, then deflating his lungs.
The doctor nodded. "Scopolamine," he told him. "Or burundanga, some call it. It is a strong paralytic that without assistance can stop the breathing in an hour or so.
Without this machine, he could not breathe on his own."
"What about brain damage?"
"It is too soon to know. But his blood-oxygen level was not yet critical when he came in, so we believe he will recover."
"Completely?" Arthur smoothed the sheet over Jeremy's robotically inflating and deflating torso.
"We must hope so," he replied. "He is young and strong. I have seen worse." He pointed to a second chair in the room. "You should sit and pray, like your friend does. God does wonders, especially in hospitals."
"Thank you," Arthur told the physician. Then he bent over Jeremy's head, with the greasy white makeup still thick on his face, and kissed him on the forehead.
"You're gonna be just fine," he whispered, caressing his cheek. "We need you too much." He looked over at Carlo. "I do, Carlo does, Katharine does. We all need you." He kissed him again.
He made his way over to the chair, where he sat with a grunt. The exhaustion was starting to hit him, and he was on the verge of tears. And it was going to be a long night--waiting and dozing and waking and waiting and dozing until morning. But he was already starting to feel relieved. And even hopeful.
About what, he wasn't quite sure.
He felt a hand smooth his back. "Are you OK?" Carlo asked him gently.
"Yeah, but I'm sorry to tell you that I've gotten my voice back-- although I'm sounding a bit like Suzanne Pleshette."
"Who?"
"Never mind. How're you?"
Carlo blew the air out from trumpet-player cheeks. "I'm all right, I guess. I've never killed someone before, and I guess I should feel...different, but I don't--probably because there are lots of people I've wanted to kill but never had the chance to." He chuckled. "Have you ever?"
"Thank God, no." He shook his head.
"That's funny, you know? I mean, here Jeremy killed his uncle and now I killed Fabiano, and Babalu almost killed Rosa and would have if the beads hadn't snapped; but here you're this Ma
rine and FBI guy and you haven't ever killed anyone."
"I guess I'm a crappy soldier."
"No, you're not. None of us could've pulled this off without you, and you know it."
Arthur tried to smile. "I guess we all did what we had to do."
"And we're all OK now...at least I hope so," Carlo said, gazing at Jeremy. "I don't know what I'd do without him; I would've rather died up there myself than him.
You know?"
"I know exactly how you feel."
Carlo looked at him, opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut.
Their eyes locked, then Arthur looked away.
"You love him, too, don't you?"
Arthur smiled innocently at him. "Of course I do. Who doesn't?"
"How much?"
He didn't answer.
"Arthur, how much do you love him?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Do you really want to have this conversation now?"
"Hey, we're all here together. What could possibly be a better time?" Carlo asked sarcastically.
"I don't think it's the time, or the place."
"You wouldn't talk to me about this yesterday because it 'didn't have to do with Jeremy's safety,' so I let it go. But he's safe now. And when he wakes up I need to know how I'm gonna deal with things."
"Please don't insist on discussing this." Arthur slumped back in his chair, talking to the ceiling. "Tomorrow, OK? We can talk about this tomorrow."
"Jeremy told me that he's in love with you. Actually, he's been for a while."
Arthur's head snapped forward. " He what? "
"But you already knew that. He told me he was going to tell you, and see how you reacted." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Did he?"
Arthur waited for a moment, then nodded.
"So what did you tell him?"
He searched for the right words. "I told him if we slept together it would change everything."
"So didja fuck?" he asked.
"No."
"Didja... mess around? " Carlo asked, raising an eyebrow playfully.
Arthur was not feeling playful. "Yes, we messed around."
He smiled. "He's got a huge cock, huh?"
Nick Nolan Page 24