When he saw a meter, Verillio pulled over to the curb and carefully parked his car. He put 10 cents in the meter, then walked back to the church. It was cool inside, a blessed change from the heat that pummelled the city, even this early in the morning. Don Dominic Verillio slid into a pew at the very back of the church and kneeled down and stared at the altar which he had purchased for St. Alexander's Church in memory of his mother.
Old Pietro's half-witted daughter had warned him. And was she not often right? Did she not say he would marry and had she not said his wife would die. Had she not known about the daughter no one else knew about? And now, she had said he was going against a god. Had he? Was there such a thing as Shiva the destroyer?
He thought of Gasso, white haired and pulp, lying on the floor of the warehouse and his lips began to move in the unthinking words of childhood.
"Our father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be. . . ." He stared at the altar, his altar, and he hoped that the real God would remember it. He tried to concentrate on the image of Christ there, but his eyes went blank and all he could see was Gasso; then the faces of those other three men who had disappeared yesterday.
"... Thy will be done, on earth. . . ." Thy will? Whose will? Verillio thought of another face, the face of that writer, Remo Barry, smiling and hard-faced. Even if he is a god, he isn't my God, and it isn't right for him to be here. What kind of god can he be anyway? Old ladies' superstition.
But there was Gasso.
"... Our daily bread and lead us not. . . ."
Verillio fixed his eyes on the crucifix behind his altar. Jesus, you hear me now. I may not be the best, but what have you got that's better? The altar. The summer camp. The carpeting in the convent. There's more, Jesus, where that came from. More. That's if things keep going. But there won't be anything, Lord, if this new guy takes over. If he gets everybody believing that god stuff. There wont be anything then for you, Lord.
". . .But deliver us from evil. ..."
Don Dominic Verillio looked at the crucifix, waiting for a sign that his bargain had been accepted, but he saw none.
In the rear of the church, the Rev. F. H. Maguire stood, looking over his new church. He had been a curate in four churches now, each more impressive than the next and this one was magnificent. It was strange. The outside world had a view of Hudson as if it were peopled by Mafia thugs, crooks and gamblers. It was unfair, Father Maguire thought.
The people of Hudson built beautiful churches and they filled them on Sundays and holy days. Until anything was proven differently, Father Maguire was willing to take them as they came. Like that man in the last row over there. Obviously, a man of some standing in the community. And probably an everyday church goer. Father Maguire tried to read the man by looking at him. Solid, stable, deeply religious -but worried. Yes, there was worry in the crinkle of the eyes. And his lips were moving, but not in ritualistic prayers. He was talking directly to God, and worried men did that most often.
We got a deal, Jesus, or not? You just going to give up and let somebody else move in, masquerading as you? It matters, you know. If you aren't the man, then a lot of money goes somewhere else. A lot of widows and orphans and poor people are going to be hurt. Because of you. Make up your mind, Jesus. I don't have all day.
Father Maguire shook his head as he watched the man in the rear pew. His lips were moving now and despite the coolness of the church, sweat was running down his face. He was agitated. Obviously arguing with God. It could be dangerous to the man's faith and the man's soul if he were allowed to go on.
The Rev. F. H. Maguire was one of God's activists. He believed in newspapers, bowling leagues and theatre parties-but only as a means to an end, not an end in themselves. The end was the tortured souls of tortured people, like this fine looking man in the last pew.
Father Maguire walked over, and slid into the pew next to Verillio, folded his hands and put them on the back of the seat in front of him. When Verillio looked at him, he smiled, leaned toward him and whispered, "Do not despair, sir. Though he moves in strange ways, through strange instruments, God accomplishes God's work. It is not for us to know how. It is not for us to understand all the means. It is enough for us to know that whoever does God's work stands with Christ, in triumph through eternity, no matter what forces are arrayed against him.
"The good man will crush the evil," Father Maguire said, and he smiled.
Verillio stared at him. Father Maguire kept smiling, so Verillio rose to his feet, then pushed past the priest and out into the aisle. He walked rapidly. It turned into a run, out across the back and down the broad front steps of the church.
Don Dominic Verillio prided himself on never having been stupid. And as he drove to his office now, he told himself that again. When times changed, Don Dominic changed with them. When it was time to strike, he had struck. But now it was time to flee. He would flee.
He tapped his foot impatiently as he rode up in the un-crowded elevator to his suite of offices in the Chamber of Commerce building, and he tried to seem unconcerned and pleasant as he said good morning to his secretary.
"I'll take no calls for awhile," he told her. Inside his inner office, he pulled back a painting on the wall.
It was one of Eve Flynn's. That was one of the reasons to flee and not to die because Eve Flynn gave a vision of life that was worth living for, so he dialled three numbers on a combination sale and opened the safe. But inside there was just another combination safe. Before touching that dial he went to his desk and pressed a switch which cut the electrical power to the safe, then went back to dial the numbers that opened it.
He opened his empty attaché case and began carefully, neatly taking the contents of the safe out and putting them in the attaché case. There were papers and money. The papers were more important because they told whom Verillio took his orders from, and that person must be protected at any cost. At all costs. Even if it came to running up against this Shiva.
The money. Well, handy money was handy money, even though he could get his hands on millions. It was always a good idea to have some walking-around money, Verillio thought, as he pulled out the $10,000 stacks and dropped them into his attaché case.
Then he closed the safe and began to look through his top desk drawer when his secretary opened the door, smiling.
"Mister Verillio. It's the Shiva fellow again. Destroyer of Worlds. Heh, heh. He says it's important."
Verillio sank back into his leather seat. "Ask him to wait a minute, please. I'll be right with him."
She closed the door and Verillio pulled the papers from his attache case and dropped them into a shredder basket under the desk. He would not find out from Verillio. Don Dominic would protect the brains. The papers he had taken from the safe were all shredded now, whirred up under the desk. Verillio felt relief.
From his top right hand desk drawer, he took a .38 caliber pistol and spun the cylinder, checking. It was loaded. He felt its cold weight in his hand and smiled to himself. How long had it been since he had handled a gun? How long that he had been on top of the heap and others used the guns? Somehow, it felt like an old friend, sitting there in his hand, heavy and lethal.
It had done his work many times before. It would do it now. He tried to remember how many he had killed before, but the number escaped him since it was no longer part of his past. He was like the hooker movie star who forgot the whorehouse. Just forget it. He forgot the violence. But it had always been there. He cocked the pistol now, his old friend, and he waited.
Before long, there was another knock on the door. Verillio sat up straight, then the door opened and there was Remo Barry standing there, saying, "Verillio, I don't have an eternity."