past that one, still accelerating.
Mort and Tommy pushed themselves back onto the seat, groaning. Both
were battered. Mort had a bloody nose, and Tommy was bleeding from a
small cut over his right eye, but neither of them was seriously hurt.
"Why does every job go sour?" Mort asked morosely, his voice more nasal
than usual because of his injured nose.
"It hasn't gone sour," Jack said, switching on the windshield wipers to
clear away the glimmering beads of sleet. "It's just turned out to be a
little more exciting than we expected."
"I hate excitement," Mort said, putting a handkerchief to his nose.
Jack glanced in the side mirror, back toward the fratellanza's
warehouse, and he saw the Ford van turning around to follow him. He had
put the Dodge and the Buick out of commission, and he only had the Ford
to worry about. He had no hope of outrunning it. the roads were
treacherously icy, and he had too little experience behind the wheel of
a rig like this to risk pushing it to its limits in bad weather.
He was also worried about an unnerving chorus of small noises that had
sprung up from the engine compartment following the ramming of the van
and the Buick. Something rattled tinnily. Something else hissed. If
the Mack broke down and left them stranded, they would very likely be
killed in the ensuing shoot-out with the Morlocks.
They were in a vast industrial area of warehouses, packing plants, and
factories, and the nearest major city street was more than a mile ahead
of them. Though some of the factories had night shifts and were
currently operating, the industrial park's main service road, along
which they were speeding, was deserted.
Glancing at the mirror, Jack saw the Ford on their tail and gaining
fast. He abruptly wheeled the rig to the right, into a branch road past
a factory where a sign proclaimed HARKWRIGHT CUSTOM FOAM PACKAGING.
"Where the hell are you going?" Tommy asked.
"We can't outrun them," Jack said.
"We can't face them down, either," Mort said through his bloody
handkerchief. "Not handguns against Uzis."
"Trust me," Jack said.
Harkwright Custom Foam Packaging did not operate a late shift. The
building itself was dark, but the road around it and the big truck lot
behind were lit by sodium-vapor lamps that colored the night yellow.
At the rear of the building, Jack turned left, into the truck lot,
through drilling sleet that looked like molten gold under the big lamps.
Two score of trailers, without cabs attached, stood in orderly ranks,
like beheaded prehistoric beasts, all painted mustard by the fall of
sodium light. He swung the rig in a wide circle, brought it in close to
the back wall of the factory, doused the headlights, and drove parallel
to the building, heading back toward the road that entered the lot and
along which he had just come. He braked to a stop at the corner, close
up against the factory wall, at a right angle to the branch road.
"Brace yourselves," he said.
Mort and Tommy already knew what was coming. Their feet were pressed
flat up against the dashboard and their backs were jammed against the
back of the seat, as protection against the impact.
No sooner had Jack braked at the corner of the buildingthe Mack poised
like a crouching cat anticipating a mousethan a glow appeared on the
passing road. The light approached from the right, from the front of
the factory: the most out-reaching headlamp beams of the unseen but
oncoming Ford van. The glow grew brighter, brighter still, and Jack
tensed, trying to wait until the last best moment before pulling into
the lane. Now the glow became two distinct parallel beams, lancing past
the snout of the Mack, and the beams grew very bright. Finally Jack
tramped hard on the accelerator, and the Mack lurched forward, but it
was a big truck, not quick off the dime. The Ford, going faster than
Jack had expected, shot past the corner, directly across the Mack's bow,
and Jack surged forward in time to catch only the rear of it. But that
was enough to send the small van into a spin. It whipped around 360
degrees, then again, on the icy surface of the parking lot, before
crashing nose-first into one of the mustard-colored cargo trailers.
Jack was sure that none of the men in the Ford was in any condition to
come out of the wreck shooting, but he did not dawdle. He swung the
Mack around and headed back past the side of Harkwright Custom Foam
Packaging. When he reached the main service road, he turned right, away
from the distant fratellanza warehouse, toward the entrance to the
industrial park and the network of city streets beyond.
They were not followed.
He drove three miles by a direct route to an abandoned Texaco service
station that they had scouted days ago. He pulled past the useless
pumps and parked alongside the dilapidated little building.
The moment Jack halted the rig, Tommy Sung threw open the door on his
side, jumped out, and walked away into the darkness. He was heading for
a lower-middle-class residential neighborhood three blocks away, where,
on Monday, they had parked a dirty, rusted, battered Volkswagen Rabbit.
The car was newer under the hood than it was outside-and fast. It would
get them back to Manhattan, where they would dump it.
They had also stashed an untraceable Pontiac in the industrial park on
Monday, within a two-minute walk of the mob warehouse. They intended to
hump the bags of money to the Pontiac, then drive the Pontiac here for
the switch to the Rabbit. But alternate transportation had become
essential, and the Pontiac had been left to rot where they stashed it.
Jack and Mort heaved the sacks of money out of the Mack and stood them
against the side wall of the shuttered service station, where the
slanting sleet began to crust on the canvas. Mort climbed back in the
cab and wiped down all the surfaces they might have touched.
Jack stood by the bags, looking at the street beyond the end of the rig,
where an occasional car crept past on the glistening pavement. None of
the motorists would be interested in a truck parked at a long-abandoned
service station. But if a police car cruised by on patrol . . .
At last Tommy pulled in from the side street and parked between the rows
of pumps. Mort grabbed two sacks, hustled them toward the car, slipped,
fell, got right up, made for the Rabbit again. Dragging the other pair
of bags, Jack followed with greater care. By the time Jack reached the
Rabbit, Mort was already in the back seat. Jack threw the last bags in
with Mort, slammed the door, and got in front with Tommy.
He said, "For God's sake, drive slow and careful."
"You can count on it," Tommy said.
The tires spun on the sleet-skinned blacktop as they pulled out from
between the pumps, and when they left the lot and moved into the street,
they slid sideways before the tread gripped.
"Why does every job turn sour?" Mort asked mournfully.
"It hasn't turned sour," Jack said.
The Rabbit hit a pothole and began to slide toward a par
ked car, but
Tommy turned the wheel into the slide and got control. They continued
at an even slower pace, found the expressway, and climbed a ramp under a
sign that said NEW YORK CITY.
At the upper end of the ramp, as the tires slithered one last time
before gripping and carrying them onto the expressway, Mort said, "Why'd
it have to sleet?"
"They've got a lot of salt and cinders on these lanes," Tommy said.
"It's going to be all right now, all the way into the city."
"We'll see," Mort said glumly. "What a bad night. Jesus."
"Bad?" Jack said. "Bad? Mort, they would never in a thousand years let
you in the Optimist's Club. For God's sake, we're all of us
millionaires. You're sitting on a fortune back there!"
Under his pork-pie hat, which still dripped melting sleet, Mort blinked
in surprise. "Well, uh, I guess that does take some of the sting out of
it."
Tommy Sung laughed.
Jack laughed, and Mort, too, and Jack said, "The biggest score any of us
ever made. And no taxes payable on it, either."
Suddenly, everything seemed uproariously funny. They settled in a
hundred yards behind a highway maintenance truck with flashing yellow
beacons, cruising at a safe and leisurely speed, while they gleefully
recalled the highlights of their escape from the warehouse.
Later, when the tension was somewhat relieved, when their giddy laughter
had subsided to pleased smiles, Tommy said, "Jack, I gotta tell you that
was a first-rate piece of work. The way you used the computer to create
paperwork for the crate . . . and that little electronic gizmo you
used to open the safe so we didn't need to blow it . . . well, you
are one hell of an organizer."
"Better than that," Mort said, "in a crisis you're just about the best
knockover artist I've ever seen. You think fast. I tell you, Jack, if
you ever decided to put your talents to work in the straight world, for
a good cause, there's no telling what you could do."
"Good cause?" Jack said. "Isn't getting rich a good cause?"
"You know what I mean," Mort said.
"I'm no hero," Jack said. "I don't want any part of the straight world.
They're all hypocrites out there. They talk about honesty, truth,
justice, social conscience . . . but most of them are just looking
out for number one. They won't admit it, and that's why I can't stand
them. I admit it. I'm looking out for number one, and to hell with
them." He heard the tone of his own voice changing from amusement to
sullen resentment, but he could not help that. He scowled through the
wet windshield, past the thumping wipers. "Good cause, huh? If you
spend your life fighting for good causes, the so called good people will
sure as hell break your heart in the end. Fuck 'em."
"Didn't mean to touch a nerve," Mort said, clearly surprised.
Jack said nothing. He was lost in bitter memories. Two or three miles
later, he said quietly, "I'm no damn hero."
In days to come, when he recalled those words, he would have occasion to
wonder how he could have been so wrong about himself.
It was one-twelve a m., Wednesday, December 4.
3.
Chicago, Illinois
By eight-twenty, Thursday morning, December 5, Father Stefan Wycazik had
celebrated the early Mass, had eaten breakfast, and had retreated to his
rectory office for a final cup of coffee. Turning away from his desk,
he faced the big French window that presented a view of the bare,
snow-crusted trees in the courtyard, and he tried not to think about any
parish problems. This was his time, and he valued it highly.
But his thoughts drifted inexorably to Father Brendan Cronin. The rogue
curate. The chalice-hurler. Brendan Cronin, the talk of the parish.
The Berserk Priest of St. Bernadette's. Brendan Cronin of all people.
It just did not make sense. No sense at all.
Father Stefan Wycazik had been a priest for thirty-two years, the rector
of the Church of St. Bernadette for nearly eighteen years, and
throughout his life of service, he had never been tortured by doubt. The
very concept baffled him.
Following ordination, he was assigned as a curate to St. Thomas's, a
small parish in the Illinois farm country, where seventy-year-old Father
Dan Tuleen was shepherd. Father Tuleen was the sweetest-tempered,
kindest, most sentimental, and most lovable man Stefan Wycazik had ever
known. Dan had also been troubled by arthritis and failing vision, too
old for the job of running a parish. Any other priest would have been
removed, gently forced into retirement. But Dan Tuleen had been
permitted to remain at his post because he had been at St. Thomas's for
forty years and was an integral part of the life of his flock. The
Cardinal, a great admirer of Father Tuleen, had looked around for a
curate who could handle a good deal more responsibility than would
usually be expected of a rookie, and he had finally settled on Stefan
Wycazik. After only a day at St. Thomas's, Stefan had realized what
was expected of him and had not been intimidated. He'd shouldered
virtually all the work of the parish. Few young priests would have been
equal to such a task. Father Wycazik never doubted he could handle it.
Three years later, when Father Tuleen died quietly in his sleep, a new
priest was assigned to St. Thomas's, and the Cardinal sent Father
Wycazik to another parish in suburban Chicago, where the rector, Father
Orgill, was having troubles with alcohol. Father Orgill had not been a
totally disgraced whiskey priest. He had been a man with the power to
salvage himself, and he had been well worth salvaging. Father Wycazik's
job had been to give Francis Orgill a shoulder to lean on and to guide
him, subtly but firmly, toward an exit from his dilemma. Unhampered by
doubt, he had provided what Francis Orgill had needed.
During the next three years, Stefan served at two more problem-plagued
churches, and those who moved in the hierarchy of the archdiocese began
to refer to him as "His Eminence's troubleshooter."
His most exotic assignment was to Our Lady of Mercy Orphanage and School
in Saigon, Vietnam, where he was second in charge under Father Bill
Nader for six nightmarish years. Our Lady of Mercy was funded by the
Chicago Archdiocese and was one of the Cardinal's pet projects. Bill
Nader had carried the scars of two bullet wounds, one in his left
shoulder and one in his right calf, and had lost two Vietnamese priests
and one previous American to Vietcong terrorists.
From the moment of Stefan's arrival, during his entire tour of duty in
the war zone, he never doubted that he would survive or that his work in
that hell-on-earth was worthwhile. When Saigon fell, Bill Nader, Stefan
Wycazik, and thirteen nuns escaped the country with 126 children.
Hundreds of thousands died in the subsequent bloodbath, but even in the
face of mass slaughter, Stefan Wycazik never doubted that 126 lives were
a very significant number, never allowed despair to grip him.
Back in the States, as a reward for his willingness to be the Cardinal's
troubleshooter for a decade and a half, Stefan was offered a promotion
to monsignor, which he modestly declined. Instead, he humbly
requested-and was rewarded with-his own parish. At long last.
That was St. Bernadette's. It had not been a prosperous parish when it
was put into Stefan Wycazik's able hands. St. Bernadette's was $125,000
in debt. The church was in desperate need of major repairs, including a
new slate roof. The rectory was worse than decrepit; it threatened to
come tumbling down in the next high wind. There was no parish school.
Attendance at Sunday Masses had been on a steady decline for almost ten
years. St. Bette's, as some of the altar boys referred to it, was
precisely the kind of challenge that excited Father Wycazik.
He never doubted that he could rescue St. Bette's. In four years he
raised the attendance at Mass by forty percent, retired the debt, and
repaired the church. In five years he rebuilt the parish house. In
seven years he doubled attendance and broke ground for a school. In
recognition of Father Wycazik's unflagging service to Mother Church, the
Cardinal, in his last week of life, had conferred the coveted honor of
P. R. permanent rector-on Stefan, guaranteeing him life tenure at the
parish that he had single-handedly brought back from the edge of both
spiritual and financial ruin.
The granite solidity of Father Wycazik's faith made it difficult for him
to understand why, at the early Mass on the Sunday just past, Father
Brendan Cronin's belief had dissolved so completely as to cause him to
Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers Page 12