Reprisal

by Wilson, F. Paul

  A no-name pay phone, bolted to the wall, like a zillion others around the city. But Renny had never heard a phone ring like that before. It just rang, steadily, on and on. Something about it made his hackles rise. Against the priest’s warnings, he’d answered it. What he’d heard over that wire still echoed in his brain on those too-frequent nights when sleep wouldn’t come. He’d been horrified, mystified, sickened. But when the priest—his new friend, Danny’s supposed guardian—had hiked off with the kid, he realized it had all been a scam, a sleazy attempt to direct suspicion elsewhere.

  And it might have worked too.

  You were good, you bastard, Renny thought. The Marlon fucking Brando of the priesthood.

  “Low specificity,” Nick said.

  Renny yanked himself back to the present. “Say what?”

  Nick smiled. “Scientist talk. It means that the incident under review resembles the sought-after phenomenon in only the most general sense. What about that bizarre ring of the bell you’ve told me about?”

  “Like I said: I couldn’t talk to the folks who picked it up, so I don’t know. Wish I could. If they confirmed that long drawn-out ring, I’d be on a plane heading south right now.”

  Nick glanced at him, then looked away. “You still think he killed the boy?”

  As Renny replied, he watched Nick closely. He’d had a feeling all along that Nick knew more about the whereabouts of the priest than he let on. That was why Renny kept in touch. One day Nick might slip, and then Renny would have the break he’d been waiting for.

  “I’m sure of it. It’s the only way he could get away clean. If there’s one good thing about working in Manhattan, it’s that it’s an island. There’s only so many ways you can get off. We screened every bridge and tunnel for a man and a boy. Pulled over every man-and-boy combo we found. Danny and the priest weren’t among them. Yet we know he slipped past us; through Staten Island is my guess. And as far as I’m concerned, that means he offed the kid and dumped his body—maybe in a construction site, maybe in the East River. Wherever it was, it was a good spot. We haven’t found him yet. But Danny Gordon is dead. That’s the only way that bastard could have gotten away.”

  “How about a boat?”

  Renny shook his head. He’d already shuffled through this deck. Many times.

  “Uh-uh. Not in that weather. And anyway, there were no boats reported missing or stolen. No, Nick. Ryan eliminated the only witness that could finger him.”

  “And then disappeared himself,” Nick said. “The point of eliminating a witness is to obviate flight. You’re saying he did both. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nothing about this whole case has made sense from the start,” Renny said, finishing his scotch. “And whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “It’s not a matter of sides. I’m pulling for Danny Gordon, that’s for sure. But as for the rest…”

  “You mean you’re keeping a soft spot for that pervo priest?”

  Nick’s eyes blazed. “Don’t say that. Nobody’s ever even hinted—”

  “I’m sure that was behind it. When we finally turn over all the rocks, that’s what we’ll find. And it won’t be the first time, believe me.”

  “He was good to me,” Nick said, his throat working as he looked away. “Damn good.”

  “Yeah,” Renny said, sensing the turmoil in the younger man, and feeling for him. “I know what you mean. He fooled us all.”

  After a while, Nick cleared his throat. “So what are your plans?”

  “Not sure. That’s why I called you. What do you think?”

  Renny trusted his own instincts, but he’d learned over the years that you could get too close to a case—you could get so fixed on the leaves that you lost sight of the tree. That was where a “third eye” came in handy. And since no one at Midtown North really gave a damn about the Danny Gordon case—after all, it was ancient history and really belonged to the 112th—Renny used Nick as a sounding board. Besides being brilliant, he was interested.

  “I’d wait.” Nick tapped the letter. “There’s not enough to go on here. Odds are extremely low it was him. And even if it was, he might have been just passing through. Wait and see.”

  Renny nodded, pleased because Nick’s assessment jibed with his own.

  “I think you’re right. But if I get another notice like this from North Carolina, I’m out of here. I’m southbound.”

  Nick nodded slowly and sipped his beer, a faraway look in his eyes. Yeah, this rocket scientist knew more than he let on. Definitely.

  3

  Nick Quinn’s mind raced ahead of him as he left Leon’s and hurried back to Morningside Heights. He didn’t know if he should be worried or not. If that telephone incident in North Carolina was connected to Father Ryan, it could mean real trouble for the priest. If only he had some idea where Father Bill was. But he didn’t even know if he was still in the country. He could be in Mexico or Staten Island, or anywhere between.

  It made no difference, really. Nick knew how to get in touch with him. And he also knew that Father Bill was no killer, no matter what Detective Augustino or the NYPD or the FBI thought. The man had practically raised him. He couldn’t be a killer.

  As soon as he got back to his office, he locked the door and sat at his desk. He turned on his PC and logged on to the Web.

  Father Bill had called him on that long-ago New Year’s Day to tell him he’d be disappearing and to have faith. Nick sensed what had happened. And not only had he had faith, he’d kept it.

  Time passed and he’d given up hope of ever hearing from him again when a strange message from ignatiusSt.F@gmail.com arrived in his Columbia email inbox.

  Saint Ignatius, founder of the Jesuits … Saint F, the nickname for the St. Francis Orphanage …

  Nick immediately had set up a new email account on an anonymous server as elcomedo—a private joke—and they’d been in sporadic contact ever since. He sent a message now, making it as oblique as possible.

  Your August opponent got word of an aberrant ring-a-ding in Duke country. That you, Iggy? He’s staying put for now but you be extra careful. Hope you’re well. Please stay so.

  El Comedo

  Nick leaned back and sighed. Even after all these years he still felt the loss of a dear friend.

  Please be careful, Father Bill—wherever you are.

  THE BOY

  at one year

  He’d stopped sleeping.

  It had frightened Carol at first, but she was getting used to it now. Somewhere in his tenth month he’d begun to stay up all night reading. He’d been reading books and newspapers ever since he could manipulate the pages. He would give her lists of titles to buy or take from the library in Dardanelle. An omnivore of information, the child read voraciously, almost continuously. And when he didn’t have his nose in a book, he’d settle himself in front of the TV.

  Carol stood in the doorway now and watched Jimmy, clad in his Bullwinkle pajamas, as he sat before the screen. Legs folded beneath him, he rested on his heels, his feet pigeon-toed inward, crossing under his buttocks. His dark eyes were alive with interest, a small smile played along his lips. But he never watched kid shows like Banana Splits or H.R. Pufnstuf or cartoons. He read during the day and watched TV at night. At the moment he was watching a story about Vietnam on the ten o’clock network news.

  “All that fear and destruction and death over there,” he said with shocking clarity in his toddler’s voice. “And all the rage and strife here. All over a worthless, tiny clump of dirt on the other side of the world.” He turned his head and smiled at Carol. “Isn’t it wonderful!”

  “No,” Carol said, stepping forward. “It’s awful. And I don’t want you watching it.”

  She turned the set off and lifted him under the arms.

  “How dare you!” he cried. “Put that TV on! Put me down!”

  She held his tiny body away from her, out of reach of his flailing arms and kicking legs.

  “Sorry, Jimmy! You may n
ot be like any other baby in the world, but I’m still your mother. And I say it’s past your bedtime.”

  She placed him in his crib, closed the door to the nursery, and tried to block out his screams of rage as she walked back to her bedroom. He was still too small, his arms too weak to pull himself over the crib railing. Thank God for small favors.

  She sat on the bed and tried for the thousandth time to sort out her feelings for her son. Despite everything, there was love—at least on her part. He was Jim’s child, and carrying him within her for nine months had forged a bond that would not break, no matter how bizarre his mental abilities and his behavior. And yet she felt fear too. Not fear for herself, but fear of the unknown. Who was Jimmy? Carol wanted desperately to be a parent to him, but that had proven impossible. He seemed like a fully developed adult in a toddler’s body. He’d been born with an encyclopedic knowledge of world history and he was ravenous for more.

  Suddenly the screams from the nursery stopped. Carol stepped out into the hallway in time to see the tall, lean figure of Jonah Stevens leading Jimmy toward the den.

  “Jonah!” she said. “I want him in bed. He needs his rest.”

  Here was another skirmish in what had become a constant battle between mother and grandfather: Whatever Carol denied Jimmy, Jonah would give him. He almost worshipped the child.

  Jonah smiled condescendingly. “No, Carol. The One needs to learn all he can about the world. After all, it’s going to be his someday.”

  “The One” … he kept calling Jimmy “the One.” He was an only child, yes, but Carol had a feeling Jonah attached far more meaning to it than that.

  Her son barely glanced up as he toddled past her to the den. Carol leaned against the wall and fought the tears as she heard the news begin to blare anew from the TV.

  OCTOBER

  FIVE

  North Carolina

  1

  “What a wonderful piece of filmmaking!” Rafe said as they left the auditorium.

  Lisl smiled at him. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen Metropolis before.

  “Never. Those sets! How much have I missed by ignoring silent films? I’ve always avoided them—all those histrionics. But that’s going to change. Next stop: The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.”

  Lisl laughed. She’d been seeing a lot of Rafe since Cal Rogers’s party. She felt comfortable with him. More than that, she felt confident with him. Never a dull moment, never a lag in the conversation. Always something to talk about—some new idea, some new theory about anything that struck his fancy. His mind was a voracious, restlessly foraging omnivore, always on the prowl for new game, new fields in which to graze. She’d come to see their pretzel conversation that night at Cal’s as a paradigm of so many of their conversations over the past few weeks. Rafe found significance in every little action of an individual. “The increments of personality,” he called them. He said he planned to devote his career as a psychologist to tallying, quantifying, grouping, and analyzing those increments. His doctoral thesis would be his first step along that path.

  As the weeks passed, they’d progressed from lunches to dinners to long walks in the parks to tonight’s special screening. Rafe hadn’t put a move on her yet and she wasn’t exactly pleased about that. Not that she wanted a physical relationship with him, and she was sure the thought had never crossed his mind. She was too frumpy to appeal to someone like him. But it would have done wonders for her ego to politely turn him down.

  But would she turn him down? Could she?

  Lisl caught herself. Sexual feelings for Rafe? Preposterous. Dreaming of a sexual relationship with him? Impossible.

  First off, he was a student. An older student, to be sure—almost her age. He told her he’d spent a lot of time traveling the world between high school and college. So, Rafael Losmara was not the typical graduate student, not someone who had passed through the college experience yet remained in a state of becoming. Rafe seemed to be complete. God, there were times when he seemed so much older than she, when she felt like a child learning at his feet. He seemed to see everything so clearly. He had this ability to cut through all the layers of pretense and get to the core of whatever matter was at hand.

  But even if she could forget the faculty-student problem—not an insurmountable problem since they were in different departments—Lisl still had to ask herself a very basic question: Why?

  Why should someone as wealthy, bright, talented, and good-looking as Rafe Losmara, who could cut a sexual swath through the female graduate students and the hordes of nubile undergraduates as well, want to get involved with a dumpy divorcée?

  Good question. One not easily answered, because Rafe wasn’t chasing other students, graduate or undergraduate. As far as Lisl knew, she was the only woman in his life at the moment. The thought had crossed her mind that he might be gay. But he didn’t seem interested in men.

  Recently she had noticed little touches, sidelong glances that seemed to hint at something bubbling beneath his cool exterior. Or was she reading too much into them, looking for something she hoped might be there?

  He was a lot like Will. Maybe they were both asexual. Why not? And what did it matter? They had a nice, platonic relationship, one that brightened many a day for her. Very much like the one she shared with Will. She decided to be satisfied with that, because it was unrealistic to the point of delusion to think it could be anything more.

  Rafe took her hand and squeezed it. A tingle ran up her arm.

  “Thank you, Lisl. Thanks for suggesting this.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Will.”

  “Will?” Rafe’s brow furrowed. “Oh, yes. That intellectual groundskeeper you told me about. Thank him for me.”

  “If he’s here, you can thank him yourself.”

  “I’d love to meet him. He sounds interesting.”

  Lisl searched the small crowd of attendees and immediately spotted Everett Sanders’s reed-thin figure passing nearby. She waved him over and introduced him to Rafe.

  “An impressive film, don’t you think?” Rafe said.

  “Extraordinary.”

  Lisl said, “We’re going over to the Hidey-hole for a drink. Want to come along?”

  Ev shook his head. “No. I have some work to do. And speaking of work, I understand you intend to submit a paper for the Palo Alto conference.”

  “I thought I’d give it a shot,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable.

  Even though she had every right in the world to submit a paper, she felt as if she were crashing his party.

  “I’m sure it will be brilliant,” he said. “Good luck.”

  “Sure you won’t have that drink with us?” Rafe said.

  “Positive. I must be off. Good night.”

  As they watched Ev stride away, Rafe leaned close and said, “A bit stiff, don’t you think?”

  Lisl grinned. “Maybe that’s why I like him. When he’s around I feel like a swinger.”

  She resumed her search for Will but couldn’t find him.

  Strange. He’d seemed so enthusiastic about the university film society’s acquisition of a restored print of the Fritz Lang classic, telling her all about the long-lost footage that had been reinserted. This afternoon he’d said he was going to try to make it. But she’d sensed a hint of melancholy in his voice, as if he knew he wasn’t going to be there. Too bad. He’d have loved it. Lisl had once seen a shorter version on TV and hadn’t been too impressed. But tonight, in a theater, in the dark with a full-size screen, the scope of the images of the restored print had been mesmerizing.

  To Rafe it had been some sort of epiphany.

  “You know,” he said, raising his voice as they walked out into the night, “I wonder if adding sound to films really improved them.”

  “It forced the acting to improve, that’s for sure.”

  “True. All that mugging and those exaggerated gestures were no longer necessary. But not having sound forces the filmmaker to use the visual medium to the max. It’s all
he has. He can’t tell you things, so he’s got to show you. My new theory of film criticism: If you can close your eyes and still follow the story line, maybe they should have saved the celluloid for some other feature and performed the script on the radio. If you can plug your ears and follow the story with your eyes only, there’s a damn good chance you’ve got a good movie on your hands.”

  The couple walking ahead of them obviously had been listening, for the man turned around and challenged Rafe’s theory with the titles of a number of Academy Award winners. Lisl recognized him from the Sociology department. A few more of the filmgoers chimed in and within minutes Lisl found herself in the heart of a friendly but vigorous debate moving across the east campus. The whole group gravitated to the Hidey-hole where they commandeered one of the big tables and went through round after round of drinks while discussing Rafe’s theory and Metropolis itself.

  “Visually stunning, yes,” said Victor Pelham from the Sociology department. “But the class-war politics are positively archaic.”

  “And a rip-off of H. G. Wells,” said a doctoral candidate from English. “The idle rich frolicking above and the oppressed workers toiling below—it’s the Eloi and the Morlocks from The Time Machine.”

  Pelham said, “I don’t care who he ripped off—a socialist like Wells or Marx himself—that class-war bullshit has been passé for ages. A shame too. It hobbles the film.”

  “Maybe it’s not as passé as you think,” Rafe said.

  “Right!” Pelham laughed. “Will the real Overman please stand up.”

  “I’m not talking about anything so crass as Overmen and Undermen,” Rafe said softly. “I’m talking about Primes and non-Primes—or, for the sake of simplicity and clarity, Creators and Consumers.”

  The table fell silent.

  “That’s where the real division lies,” Rafe continued. “There are those who innovate, invent, modify, and elaborate. And there are others who contribute nothing, yet enjoy all the benefits of those innovations, inventions, modifications, and elaborations.”