Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers

by Strangers(Lit)

  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