Reprisal

by Wilson, F. Paul

  3

  Bill sobbed as he held Danny’s reeking, squirming remains in his arms. How could this be? Had he been alive—alive but slowly rotting—and in agony all this time? Who or what was responsible for this? Why was something like this allowed?

  He heard a sound and stretched to raise his line of sight above ground level. Detective Augustino was returning, carrying something, stumbling toward him on legs that looked 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 clutched 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.” The response was instinctive, the thought 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 butane lighter and a sheet from his notebook 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, flicked the lighter, and lit the paper. As it caught, he dropped it into the hole.

  The gas exploded with a wooomp! The heat staggered him back.

  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 … 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.

  4

  Renny stood over the hole until the fire died 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 and sensed something scary moving behind those blue eyes.

  “Is it over?”

  “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 had crisped and fallen away. Renny could see his naked skull, but no eyes. He was gone.

  “Peace, kid. Peace at last.” He picked up the shovel. “You want to say a few words, Padre?”

  “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.”

  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, in the face of what he had just seen, he no longer had the vaguest idea of what would constitute justice. Father William Ryan was not the monster Renny had thought him. But he had nurtured his hatred for the man so long he found it 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.

  5

  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’s-side door and saw by the light of the courtesy lamp that he was much older.

  “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 this afternoon.”

  “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? 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 have a vague idea as to why,” the old man said. “But I can certainly help with 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

  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 arou
nd, 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 pulled out her cell phone and, with a shaky finger, punched in 4-1-1. The operator connected her and she listened to the rings.

  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 Ev didn’t answer. She looked up and noticed that she was passing a bar called Raftery’s. She’d been in there earlier looking for Ev. So close to his apartment … maybe she should give it another try.

  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. It had been packed a few hours ago, but the crowd had thinned considerably now.

  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 slid 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.”

  “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, 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 but no way could she 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 about how much to tell him. 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 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 interest.

  “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 Lom, the woman 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.

  “I’d rather not say. Call him the Adversary.”

  “Is the other anagram their family name?” Bill said.

  “Who?” The old man looked confused.

  “Rafe and his sister.”

  “There is no sister. Only one—the Adversary. Within certain limits, he can change himself. The one you called Sa
ra and the one you call Rafe are the same person.”

  “No.” Bill closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “That can’t be.”

  But why not? 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.”

  “What are we up against?”

  “The Adversary.”

  “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. The Adversary used to be just a man, now he’s something more. He was born 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.”

  “Power?” Bill said. “Just what does that mean?”

  “The power to change things. To alter the world, make it into a place more to the liking of the force he serves.”

  Beside him, Bill heard Augustino snort in disgust.

  “Gimme a break, will you? I mean, this sounds like fairy-tale stuff.”

  “I’m sure you said the same thing when your priest friend here told you that a boy who’d been buried all that time was still alive.”

  “Yeah,” Augustino said, nodding slowly and shrugging. “You got a point there. But it still sounds like a Nintendo game. You know, stop the Evil Wizard before he finds the Ring of Power and rules the world. That sort of thing.”

  “Except it’s no game,” Veilleur said. “And did you ever consider why that sort of story is so powerful, why it recurs again and again, fascinating one generation after another?”