Requiem Mass

by Mark Posey

  She nodded. “Quite so.” She downed the shot in one gulp. “And a refill, please.”

  His eyes bulged. He took the glass and put another shot in it. Then he punched the drink into the computer behind the bar, snatched the tab from the printer and brought both down to her. “Pope’s visit got you down?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Don’t like the spit and polish routine?”

  “I am not in need of conversation at the moment, thank you, barman. I’ll just sit here, if you have no objections.”

  He looked deflated and shrugged. “Up to you, Sister. Just trying to be friendly.”

  “I have had my fill of friendly for the moment, thank you.”

  “You let me know when you want another.” He retreated to the other end of the bar.

  Alice looked down at the whiskey in her glass and then up at the sporting event on the large flat screen television above the back bar.

  She checked the time on her watch. Twelve-forty. This promised to be a longer evening than she had originally anticipated. Perhaps, with any luck at all, she might spot Buscaglia or his other two henchmen while she sat here. That, at least, would make the time worthwhile.

  She wondered briefly where they were and why they were not in their rooms. Surely, this late in the evening, they could not have had more pressing matters than sleep.

  Just before one a.m., the bartender wandered down to her end of the bar. “Last call, Sister. Want one more?”

  Alice nodded.

  The bartender poured one more. When he brought it back, he said, “I’ll need to settle up.”

  “Very good.” Alice put two twenties on the bar. “The rest is for you, barman. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  Her phone rang. She fished it out of her bag, nudging the Tanfoglio aside as she did, and thumbed the screen. “Constable, it is rather late to be calling.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Constable?”

  “I’m at Mike’s. Get over here. Now.” Rafferty’s tone was short. He hung up before she could answer.

  No doubt, she was going to get a talking-to when she arrived at Michael’s house. Rafferty would be as upset about the room service woman as Michael was.

  Alice sighed and shot back her last drink. Time to take her medicine.

  * * * * *

  As Alice pulled to the curb outside Mike’s house, she noticed Rafferty’s police cruiser parked askew out the front. He must really have been angry when he pulled up.

  Alice stepped out of the car and hung her handbag from her elbow. She crossed the street and headed up the familiar walkway to the front steps.

  Rafferty met her at the door. “Hurry up. I need you to do that healing thing that you do.” He grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her inside.

  Mike lay peacefully on his back on the living room floor. His arms lay across his stomach, his hands together, one atop the other.

  As Alice approached, she saw the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead and the bloody cross over the top of it. Just like she left all her targets.

  “Mary, mother of God,” she muttered as she rushed over to his body.

  She knelt beside him and lay a hand on top of his hands. As she spoke, her eyes filled with tears. “Lord Jesus Christ, Saviour of the world, we pray for your servant, Michael Fredericks,” her voice hitched when she said his name.

  She moved her other hand to his forehead.

  Rafferty snatched up her wrist and shook it. “Don’t say any of that shit,” he snarled. “I need you to heal him!”

  Alice’s gaze flickered to Rafferty’s eyes before she looked back to Michael’s face and continued. “Commend him to your mercy. For his sake you came down from heaven; receive him now into the joy of your kingdom. For though he has sinned, he has not denied the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, but has believed in God and has worshipped his Creator. Amen.”

  “Okay, good,” he said and ripped his folding knife out of his pocket. He flicked it open and held it out to her. “Now, cut your finger open and heal him.”

  Tears ran down Alice’s face. She met Rafferty’s gaze steadily. Sadly. She took a deep, shaky breath. “Much as I would like to, Martin, I cannot raise the dead.”

  Rafferty fell to his knees, his lips pressed together so hard, they turned white. “Fuck!” he roared, dragging it out. He slammed the knife onto the floor.

  Her cellphone buzzed in her bag. Slowly, her eyes never leaving Michael’s face, she lifted the phone out of her bag and thumbed the screen. A text from an unknown number, a burner phone, no doubt. The message made her blood run cold.

  This is only the beginning.

  Rafferty read it over her shoulder.

  “Where are Geraldine and the girls?” Alice asked.

  Rafferty’s eyes grew wide. “At home. Alone.”

  They sprinted for the door, frantic.

  * * * * *

  Both their cars skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, in front of Rafferty’s house. They both left the engine running and the driver’s door open as they sprinted up the walkway to the front door.

  They burst through the door, guns drawn. They panned left and right, Alice low, Rafferty high.

  Silence.

  Alice stalked across the living room so she could look into the kitchen.

  “Clear,” she muttered.

  Rafferty pointed upstairs.

  They rushed up the stairs, not caring if they made noise or not. At the end of the hall, the glow from the television in the master bedroom flickered behind the half-open door. They sprinted toward it and burst into the room, guns ready.

  Geri and the girls were on the bed, all snuggled together. Both girls were fast asleep. Geri’s eyes went wide when she saw them.

  Rafferty and Alice both sagged in relief.

  Fifteen minutes later, with Alice watching the front of the house and despite strenuous protests, Geri and the girls were dressed.

  Both Rafferty and Alice brandished their weapons as they led their three sleepy charges to Rafferty’s cruiser.

  “Take them wherever you’re going and stay with them. I will take care of Buscaglia and his cohorts,” Alice told Rafferty as he bundled Geri and the girls into the car.

  Rafferty slammed the car door and dashed around to the driver’s door. “Won’t God be upset with you? Killing for revenge?”

  In the distance, lightning flashed. Moments later, thunder rolled across Philadelphia. The darkness intensified as thick black clouds roiled toward the city, obscuring the moon and the stars.

  “You let me worry about God.” She waved toward Geri and the girls in the car. “Just keep them safe.”

  Before he could respond, she turned and rushed to her rental car.

  * * * * *

  The twenty-ninth floor of the Ritz-Carlton was deathly silent when she stepped off the elevator. Just like last time, she’d had His Holiness’ guards look after the security cameras. There would be no record of her entering Buscaglia’s suite, and no record of what happened in the suite but her memories.

  The image of Michael laid out on his living room rug flashed through her mind as she stalked down the hallway, the suppressed Tanfoglio clenched in her hand, merely an extension of her arm.

  As she closed on the double doors, she planted one foot and savagely thrust the other against the center, right below the knob. The twin doors burst apart, splinters flying in all directions.

  Buscaglia’s two henchmen were reclined on the couch in the loungeroom of the suite.

  She knew it was one of these two jackals who had pulled the trigger on Michael. Buscaglia would not have the nerve to do anything more than order it done.

  They jumped to their feet.

  Alice leveled the Tanfoglio at the closest and squeezed off three quick shots, while tracking where the second man moved. The first went down in a heap, the bullets ripping into his chest.

 
; She whirled to her left, stalking toward the second, now concealed behind the entrance to the dining room. She marched openly toward him. It didn’t matter to her if he shot her or not. In her present state, that would barely slow her down.

  The man’s eyes were wide with fear as he lunged into the dining room entrance, braced himself in a combat stance and fired his gun at her.

  She cried out as the bullet punched into her left shoulder just below the clavicle and slammed her to the floor. Blood spurted briefly from the wound. Even as she lay there, she could feel the healing begin.

  Buscaglia’s henchman straightened from his combat stance and stood in the doorway, watching her with a smirk. He moved to stand over her, covering her with his automatic. “All of the talk I’ve heard, all of the stories, they were all bullshit, weren’t they? You can be hurt just like anyone else.” Despite his bravado, the quaver in his heavy Italian accent gave him away.

  Alice clenched her teeth and locked her gaze with his. “You profess to know God, but by your deeds you deny Him, being detestable and disobedient and worthless for any good deed.”

  Alice snatched his wrist with her left hand and twisted it back, moving his gun away from her. She rose to her feet and straightened up, the Tanfoglio still at her side. The healing tissue in her shoulder pushed the slug to the surface. She saw his gaze drop to the wound, watched him follow the bullet as it tumbled to the carpeted floor.

  His jaw went slack and he paled. He swallowed thickly as he looked down at her.

  “You cannot hurt me, boy. I am the Light of the world; he who follows Me will not walk in the darkness but will have the Light of life.”

  She rammed the end of the suppressor into his chest and jerked the Tanfoglio’s trigger three times. The slugs ripped through him, burst out his back and slammed into the ceiling.

  As the man sagged to the floor dead, Alice looked across the room. Buscaglia stood in the bedroom doorway, one hand on the door, one on the frame. He was pale and slack-jawed.

  Alice lowered the Tanfoglio and stalked toward him.

  “I should remind you, Sister Jacobine, His Holiness will be most displeased should you harm His Cardinal Secretary of State.”

  “I shall have to learn to live with his displeasure, then, shan’t I?” Alice clenched her hand around the butt of the Tanfoglio as she closed the distance between them.

  Buscaglia, to his credit, did not cower and did not start to babble. He merely stood in place, seemingly confident that his position in the Pope’s hierarchy would protect him. Or so it seemed.

  As she stopped in front of him, she gestured with the Tanfoglio. “I bring you greetings from His Holiness.”

  She watched the drawn, pale expression on his face turn to utter fear. He knew.

  What would he have done differently if he had known today was his last day on earth?

  He backed away, hands held out before him. “Sister, let us be reasonable. You cannot kill me. Not here. Not now. His Holiness would not permit it.”

  He snatched up a vase from the side table next to the door and flung it at her.

  She batted it away and it shattered against the door frame. She heard the crunch when she stepped on the jumble of broken pieces as she crossed the threshold into the bedroom. Her gaze locked with his.

  “It would raise too many questions, require too many explanations,” Buscaglia said, grabbing for any excuse he could think of.

  She stalked toward him, her eyes full of fury.

  He scrambled back, grabbed his briefcase and swung it at her.

  She slapped it aside and thrust her straightened fingers into the bundle of nerves at his shoulder.

  The briefcase thumped to the floor, his fingers unable to hold it any longer. His arm hung useless at his side.

  Panic flitted across his face. With his good arm, he flung a pillow at her.

  She dodged.

  “Please, I beg you! There is no need for violence!” He backed past the chair beside the open sliding glass door onto the private balcony, grabbed his shirt from the chair and flung it at her.

  She watched it flutter to the floor.

  “No need for violence?” She spit the words through her clenched teeth and stepped closer.

  He backed out onto the balcony.

  “You are quite correct, Cardinal Secretary,” she said. “Perhaps we merely need a resumption of the fear of the Lord.”

  He rushed forward and tried to slide the door closed.

  She gripped the edge of the door, stopping it cold and slammed the butt of the Tanfoglio into his face.

  “The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer;” Alice recited.

  Blood burst from his broken nose. He staggered back against the balcony railing.

  “My God, my rock,”

  She stepped close to him. Her hand clutched his throat.

  “...in whom I take refuge,”

  He leaned back. Close to tipping over.

  “...my shield and the horn of my salvation,”

  She let the Tanfoglio clatter to the floor of the balcony. Gripped his belt. Shoved.

  “...my stronghold and my refuge;”

  He teetered on the top of the rail.

  “...my savior.”

  Their eyes met one final time.

  “You save me from violence.”

  She dropped her hand from his throat, gripping his shirt to hold him in place.

  “I call upon the Lord,”

  She saw relief wash over his face. “Thank God. Sister, for a moment, I thought...”

  “...who is worthy to be praised,”

  With a snarl, she shoved with both hands against the middle of his chest.

  “And I am saved from my enemies.”

  His eyes went wide with horror, as he tumbled out into the twenty-nine-story abyss.

  Then he was gone, with nothing left but his scream. Ten seconds later, that was gone, too.

  “And may God have mercy on your soul.”

  Then the rain hit. Not a summer shower, but a deluge. With no covering or awning on the private balcony, Alice was soaked to the skin in seconds. Lightning lit up the night air around the hotel like it was midday and the inevitable clap of thunder shook the building to its foundation.

  Alice looked up at the black, roiling thunderheads and saw Michael in the middle of his living room floor, the bloody cross over the bullet hole in his forehead.

  Rage and sorrow boiled up from inside her. She tipped her head back. The scream tore from the back of her throat as she vented her fury and regret upon the storm. Tears mixed with raindrops as they cascaded down her face.

  * * * * *

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  Alice couldn’t take her eyes off the casket.

  She stood on a hill at the far end of the cemetery. Family and friends and virtually every policeman and policewoman in the city surrounded the grave. She felt like a complete outsider. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere.

  She had made the same mistake she always made. In her arrogance, she had presumed she could comfortably coexist with so-called “normal” people. She was anything but normal.

  She had told Michael more than once that she would look no different at his funeral than she looked right at the moment. Had she only known his funeral was so close at hand and that she would be left behind yet again.

  She looked up at the grey, overcast sky and wanted to shake her fist up at it. At Him. And yet, she knew that would d
o no good.

  There is your plan and God’s plan. And yours does not count.

  How many times had she heard that in Amesbury?

  Too many to count.

  Everyone around the casket jumped as the twenty-one-gun salute fired once. Twice. Thrice.

  When the bagpipes played Amazing Grace, she roused herself and watched the officers fold the flag and present it to Michael’s mother.

  Michael’s mother had no idea about Alice’s relationship with her son. No knowledge of the bond they had built. No hint that Alice’s time in Philadelphia had been a tonic she sorely needed. No clue as to the size of the scar her son had left on Alice’s heart.

  Then, the funeral was over.

  The crowd dispersed from around the graveside. Mingled. Wiped away tears and made their way back to their cars.

  Alice didn’t know where to go. Instead, she stood on the hill and watched the coffin be lowered into the grave. Michael’s grave.

  She hated that she had to see it, just as she hated every other grave she’d gazed upon. She always wondered why God’s plan would include this cruel facet. Wondered why she warranted such heartbreak, such loneliness.

  She almost yanked her hand away when she felt the touch. Almost. When she looked down, there was Christine Rafferty.

  It wasn’t long ago that Alice had saved her life. No one else would have been capable of that. A few drops of her blood was all it had taken.

  “Alice?”

  “Yes, Christine?”

  “Is Uncle Mike in heaven?”

  Alice watched the casket descend past the edge of the grave. “Most assuredly, Christine.”

  “When I die, will I go to heaven?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Will I see him when I get there?”

  Alice felt the tears flow down her cheeks. “I’m sure he’ll be waiting for you.”

  Christine squinted up at her. “Will he bring donuts?”

  Alice laughed through the tears, despite herself. “I believe he will.”

  “Jelly donuts?”

  “They are your favorites.”

  Christine seemed to consider that for a moment and then said, “Daddy said for you to come to our house.”