Prison was better than anything Renny could do to the guy. And it was slower. The priest would be a short-eyes to the other cons. As soon as he got to Rikers, he'd find out firsthand about the very special treatment reserved for child molesters by all those guys who practically grew up in prison.
Prison would be much slower. Hell would be a quick little picnic in the shade compared to life in prison for a short-eyes priest.
For the first time since he'd become a cop, Renny was glad New York State didn't have a death penalty.
As the clock crept toward six and the room darkened, Renny began to get antsy. It was a fifteen-minute drive at most from the campus to here. Wasn't he coming?
And then Renny's bladder began sending him increasingly urgent messages. Never failed when he had too much coffee. He went to the window and peered out at the road. No cars in sight. He chanced a quick trip to the bathroom. He was in the middle of relieving himself when he heard tires crunch to a halt on the driveway gravel. Cursing under his breath, he zipped up and rushed down the hall. As he entered the living room, he nearly collided with someone.
The other man cried out and leapt back.
"Who the hell are you?"
Renny reached for a lamp switch and turned it on.
And gaped. Maybe he had made a mistake. The bearded, silver-haired guy before him looked nothing like Father William Ryan. Had a pony tail, for crissake! Then Renny took a closer look and recognized him.
Their eyes locked.
"Remember me, Father Bill?"
The guy stared at him, obviously confused, and more than a little frightened by the gun in Renny's hand. Then the confusion cleared.
"Oh, Jesus."
"Jesus ain't gonna help you, you bastard. In fact, I think he'd be the last one who'd want to."
Renny had expected fear, terror, desperation, pleas for mercy, offers to buy him off. He'd been anticipating them with relish. He did see shock and fear in the priest's eyes, but it wasn't fear of Renny. He was afraid of something else. But overriding all of it was a look of exasperation.
"Now?" Ryan said. "Now you catch up to me?"
"I may be slow, but I get the job done."
"I haven't got time for this now, dammit!"
Renny was shaken for a second or two. Haven't got time? What kind of a reaction was that? He raised the pistol.
"You know how the saying goes: Go ahead—make my day."
"Listen, I've got to get back to New York!"
"Oh, don't worry. That's exactly where you're going. But by way of Raleigh, first."
"No. I've got to get to New York now."
"Uh-uh. You've got to be extradited first."
Renny was doing this by the book. He wasn't about to give some legal snake a chance to screw up this collar. He stared hard at the priest, waiting for the hate to surge up in him, to make him ache to pull the trigger. But it wouldn't come.
Where was all the rage he'd saved and nurtured these five years? Why wasn't it making him crazy now? How could he look at this sick bastard and not want to kill him on the spot?
"That will take too long," Ryan said. "I've got to go right now."
"Forget it. You're—"
The priest turned and headed down the hallway toward the bedroom. Renny hurried after him, aiming his pistol at the back of Ryan's head.
"Stop right where you are or I'll shoot!"
"Then shoot!" Ryan said. "I'm going to New York, and I'm going now. You can arrest me there. That way you won't have to worry about extradition or any of that."
Renny watched in a daze as Ryan pulled off his work shirt and slipped into a long-sleeved striped jersey. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. What was Ryan up to? A trick of some sort? He had to be extra cautious now. Ryan was a big guy, and crazy as a loon.
Suddenly he noticed him reaching into a slit in the fabric of his box spring. He cocked his pistol.
"Don't try it!"
Ryan pulled his hand out and flashed a wad of bills.
"My savings account."
He grabbed a rumpled sports coat from the closet and brushed by Renny, heading for the living room again.
"Stop, God dammit, or I swear to God I'll shoot!" He lowered the barrel. "You know what it's like to get shot in the knee?"
Ryan stopped and faced him. His eyes were tortured.
"Danny's still alive."
"Bullshit!"
"Just what I would have said. But the person who told me may know what he's talking about."
"Don't give me that! You snatched him and killed him!"
His eyes turned bleak. "I thought I did. I buried him in St. Ann's Cemetery in Queens."
He's admitting it! He's confessing to murder.'
Now the rage was coming, rising, filling Renny's mouth with a bitter, metallic taste.
"You bastard!"
"I did it to save him! If I hadn't, he'd still be in a hospital somewhere with tubes coming out of every orifice, still suffering the torments of the damned while a bunch of white coats clucked over him! You didn't really think I'd do anything to hurt that boy, did you? He was damaged beyond all hope of repair!"
"Damage you did to him! You were abusing him and you couldn't let him go, so you mutilated him!"
He watched the priest's shoulders slump.
"Is that the accepted theory?" He shook his head sadly. "I guess I kind of expected that."
"You got what you deserve, and you're going to get more—a lot more. And don't think any bullshit stories about the kid being alive will let you cop an insanity plea. No way."
Ryan didn't reply immediately. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he straightened and looked hard at Renny.
"There's only one way to find out, isn't there? We'll have to go back-and dig him up."
The idea staggered Renny. Was Ryan crazy enough to lead him to the spot where he'd buried the kid? That would clinch the case against him.
The priest picked up his car keys.
"You coming? I'll drive."
He headed out the front door. Renny ran after him.
TWENTY-FIVE
Queens, New York
He thinks I'm crazy, Bill thought, glancing over at Detective Augustino in the passenger seat. He guided the rental car out of its stall in the Avis garage at LaGuardia and onto the eastbound ramp of the Grand Central Parkway. Maybe I am.
He'd explained it all to Augustino on the way up. He'd told him about what he had done on New Year's Eve, and why he had done it. He also told him about Rafe's resemblance to Sara, about the anagram of the names. But as he listened to himself speak he realized how utterly deranged his story sounded. Even he began to have his own doubts, and he'd lived through it.
Danny alive? Why did he even consider it? Even for a second? Of all his ravings, that had to be the most lunatic.
Yet Rafe had told him. Rafe! How could Rafe know anything about it if he weren't directly involved?
Augustino's explanation for the whole convoluted mess? "You imagined it all—because you're nuts."
Nuts. This wasn't the first time Bill had considered the possibility, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. But tonight he sensed he was approaching some sort of watershed that would either confirm or confute his sanity.
As he drove through the dark first hours of Saturday morning, he wasn't sure which he was hoping for.
They found an all-night Shoprite Superstore and bought a pick and shovel in its garden department; they added a flashlight to the bill, then drove the final leg to St. Ann's Cemetery. Bill cruised slowly along the north wall. They'd long since replaced the bulb he'd shot out five years ago, but he recognized the old leaning oak. The detective had been quiet most of the way, but when Bill drove over the curb and onto the grass, he began shouting.