"Mom, I'm not taking drugs. You gotta believe me." But then he did lie and told her he'd be staying with a friend for a few nights. Truth was, he hadn't asked Timmy yet. It didn't make her happy that he wasn't coming right home, but she didn't argue with him. She wanted the friend's name and phone number, and when he told her he didn't know the number she insisted he call as soon as he got there. If she was this worried and suspicious from some made-up story that he might be using drugs, what would she be like if she knew he had gotten a priest killed?
He brought the mangled phone book from the pay phone back to his table. If he couldn't find Timmy's phone number or Timmy's mom wouldn't let him spend the night, Gibson wasn't sure what he'd do. There wasn't anyone else he could call. No one he could trust. No one, except maybe Sister Kate. She had sort of saved him once before though he really didn't like thinking about that day. He couldn't remember if it was the fourth or fifth time Monsignor O'Sullivan had called him into his office. Everything was such a blur every time he left. But one time Gibson stumbled into the hallway and ran right into Sister Kate. He was so embarrassed because his fly was still down. Geez! He could still feel the burn up his neck.
But she was cool about the whole thing. Asked if he was okay and when Gibson only nodded, she told him to go upstairs to her classroom and hang out for a while. She even told him to get a Pepsi for himself from her minifridge, from her private stash. He barely got to the top of the stairs when he heard her below, stomping down the hall to the monsignor's office. Gibson waited there, half leaning over the rail, listening, but he didn't hear Sister Kate knock, just a slam of the door and then muffled voices. It sounded like they were arguing.
He didn't realize until weeks later that Monsignor O'Sullivan didn't call him into his office after that day. Gibson was so relieved it took him a while to realize that Sister Kate must have said something. And then, of course, he was embarrassed that Sister Kate might know. But she never said anything to him, never treated him differently after that. Gibson hadn't thought about that day for a long time. He didn't like thinking about it. Brother Sebastian made him feel afraid and weak just like Monsignor O' Sullivan always had. He didn't like that much either.
There was no Kate Rosetti listed in the phone book, so Gibson searched the H's for any Hamiltons within three or four blocks of his own address. There was a Christine Hamilton on Cass Street just a block north of Goldberg's. That had to be Timmy's mom. He memorized the number.
He had no idea what time it was. Goldberg's didn't have a clock anywhere. It had to be late. Was it too late to call Timmy? Would his mom be so pissed she wouldn't let him come to the phone?
Gibson pulled out his wad of bills and under the table peeled off enough to pay his bill with enough for a tip, too. He folded it with the ticket and anchored it down with the ketchup bottle like he remembered his dad used to do. Then he grabbed his backpack, sliding it on arm by arm so that it sat tight against his back, more securely. He left the safety of his booth and found the cubbyhole in the far corner where the pay phone was. He sat, took a deep breath then dialed the number, hoping and praying that Timmy would answer.
No such luck. "Hello?" a woman said.
"Um, is Timmy there?"
There was a long pause and the cheeseburger twisted a knot in his stomach.
"It's pretty late. Can I tell him who's calling?"
"Yeah, it's his friend Gibson… Gibson McCutty from the Explorers' Program."
"Hold on, Gibson." She repeated his name like she knew him. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He wondered what Timmy might have told her about him.
It didn't take long for Timmy to come to the phone. "Hey, Gibson. Where'd you go this afternoon?"
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. There was this Darth Vader guy at the school. I'll tell you all about it later. Right now I kinda need some help. Do you think it would be okay with your mom if I stayed overnight at your house?"
"Hold on." He could hear Timmy yell out, "Hey, Mom, can Gibson spend the night?"
Gibson couldn't hear Timmy's mom and he cringed, waiting.
"She said sure, but when you get here, she said she'll need to call your mom to tell her where you are. Sorry" Timmy said as if that ultimatum would be a letdown or a deal breaker.
"I'm at Goldberg's. Can you give me directions?"
"Hold on," Timmy said, and then to his mom who must have been asking him something, he said, "He's at Goldberg's." There was a long pause while Timmy listened to hen
Geez! Was she changing her mind? Was she telling Timmy to forget about it? Where would he go then?
"Hey, Gibson, my mom wants to know if you have any extra cash could you bring a couple orders of potato wedges and deep-fried mushrooms? She'll pay you back when you get here."
Gibson held back the sigh of relief and simply said, "Sure."
CHAPTER 67
Washington, D.C.
It was almost midnight by the time he made it back home. Thankfully his flight had been on time. Even the cab ride from the airport had gone smoothly. Yet the thumping in his chest had not subsided one little bit. His heart banged and crashed against his rib cage until he swore he could feel bruises. Every muscle ached and screamed. Exhaustion seeped into his pores.
He turned on the TV and powered up his computer while he flipped channels, watching for any news from Boston. He pulled off his sweat-drenched polo shirt and tossed it in the corner, still disappointed that he had to throw out his Boston Red Sox T-shirt and his old Nikes. It was a good thing he had brought a change of clothes. He hadn't been able to bring along enough plastic to contain the mess. And his frenzy was such this time that he hadn't even realized how much blood had splattered on him and the walls of the gardening shed while he hacked Father Paul's body to pieces. Pieces that fit quite nicely into three garbage bags. Sometimes the frenzy became almost a blackout, like he had no control over his mind or body. He could watch himself, looking down, suspended from a far corner of the ceiling, but only able to watch, not participate, not stop.
Later the calm returned, a calm after the storm instead of before. He had used the outside shower stall alongside the shed to wash himself, relishing the quiet of the afternoon and the secrecy that the six-foot wooden privacy fence, the huge oaks and flowering hedges provided. Despite the sticky, hot July air it reminded him of being in the Garden of Eden and finally he could wash away his guilt, his hatred, his sins. So why did the throbbing continue?
He stopped flipping channels, catching a glimpse of the old church on a Fox News Alert. He left the sound turned off, reading the crawl at the bottom of the screen. They showed Blessed Sacrament Church and the rectory while the crawl told that Father Paul Conley had been the victim of a brutal murder. They mentioned Mrs. Sanchez and the regret tugged at his innards. It still bothered him that he'd had to kill her. But the old woman had been in the way. He couldn't help that.
There was no mention of the display he had left on the altar, using Father Conley's key to enter the quiet locked church from the back. No mention that most of the priest was still missing. And he smiled. He had left the bags three blocks away in the back alley of Joe's Seafood Grill and Bar where the week's garbage had already piled up in smelly heaps falling out of the Dumpster. He'd tossed Father Paul Conley up on top of the heap, one bag at a time. It seemed an appropriate place for him.
Yes, despite the constant banging in his chest he felt quite good, satisfied.