Yet it was, dammit! He'd seen it with his own eyes. No question about it—something hellish going on here.
From the far side of the wall he could still hear Father Bill's voice, ranting at the empty winter sky.
And then he heard something else. Footsteps approaching.
Renny straightened and looked around, stiffening at the sight of a bundled-up figure limping toward him across the frozen ground. A big guy, but not too steady on his feet. He supported himself with a cane in one hand; something boxlike dangled from the other and bounced against his leg as he walked.
"Get out of here," Renny said, his voice tight and raspy. For want of something better to say, he added, "Police business."
The old man didn't even slow his pace; unperturbed, he continued forward. When he stepped into the glare from the streetlight, he stopped and stared at Renny. He wore a heavy topcoat. The brim of his hat kept much of his face in shadow, but from what Renny saw of his white beard and lined cheeks, he could tell he was old.
"You've opened the grave, I gather," the old man said.
Christ, who else knows about this?
"Look," Renny managed to say, "this is none of your business. If you're smart, you'll go back to wherever you came from and stay the hell out of this."
"You're quite right about that, but…" He paused and almost seemed to be considering taking Renny's advice. Then he sighed and held up the object he was carrying. "Here. You'll need this."
Renny saw now that it wasn't a box but a can—a two-gallon gasoline can. Its contents sloshed within.
"I don't understand."
The old man jerked his head toward the cemetery.
"For whoever was buried in that unmarked grave. It's the only way to end it."
Instantly Renny knew he was right. He didn't know where this old guy had come from, but he realized this was the solution.
But it meant going back over the wall, seeing that thing that was all that remained of Danny Gordon. He didn't want to do that, didn't know if he could.
It was quiet on the other side of the wall now. Father Bill was alone in there with that tiling that had been—and in a way still was—Danny Gordon. Alone. Because Renny had run out on him. And Renaldo Augustino had never run out on anyone in his life. He wasn't about to start now.
He grabbed the gasoline can and hopped up on the car hood. As he straddled the top of the wall, he looked back at the old man.
"Don't go anywhere. I want to talk to you."
"I'll wait in your car, if you don't mind. I came by cab."
Renny didn't say anything. He looked down at the dark side of the wall. There was the last place he wanted to be. But he'd come this far already; had to see it through to the end. He slid over the edge and down. As soon as he hit the ground he spotted the flashlight, pointing toward him from where he had dropped it. Setting his jaw, he took a deep breath and hurried toward it on rubbery legs.
Bill sobbed as he held Danny's reeking, squirming remains in his arms. How could this be? Five years in the earth! Had he been alive—alive but slowly rotting—and in agony all that time? Who or what was responsible for this? Why was something like this allowed?
He heard a sound and stretched to raise his eyes above ground level. Detective Augustino was returning, carrying something, stumbling toward him on legs that looked like they were ready to give out any second. For an instant he reminded Bill of Ray Bolger's Scarecrow.
Augustino picked up the flashlight and pointed it into the grave. Bill winced in the brightness.
"Let him go and come out of there, Father," said Augustino's voice from behind the light.
Bill was startled by the "Father"—it was the first time the detective had called him that since their reunion a few hours ago. But he wasn't going to abandon Danny.
"No!" Bill said, clutching the animate remains of the boy more tightly against him. "We can't just cover him up again!"
"We won't just cover him up." The detective's voice sounded flat, almost dead. "We're going to put an end to this once and for all."
Bill looked down at Danny's ravaged face and into the tortured blue eyes. If only he could end his pain…
He laid him back and crawled out of the hole. He saw the gasoline can at Augustino's feet.
"Oh, no," Bill said. The response was instinctive. The thought was appalling. "We can't."
"Look what's already been done to him. Can you think of anything worse?"
No. He couldn't. He could barely think at all. Yet somewhere deep inside he knew fire would work. The cleansing flame…
"It's got to be done," the detective said. "Want me to do it?"
Bill could hear very plainly in his voice that it was the last thing in the world Augustino wanted to do.
"No. It's my job. I put him into her clutches; I'll get him out."
He grabbed the can and unscrewed the cap. The odor of the fumes set something off within him and he began to cry as he poured the gasoline into the hole.
"Forgive me, Danny. It's the only way."
When the can was empty, he turned to the detective. Augustino already had a matchbook out. Bill took it from him and paused.
"I can't do this to him."
"Then do it for him."
Bill nodded—to Augustino, to the night, to himself. Then he emptied his mind, struck one match, used it to light the rest of the pack. As it flared, he dropped the whole thing into the hole.
The gas exploded with a wooomp! and the heat staggered him back. There was no cry from the hole and he could see no movement within the flames—he was grateful for that. But he couldn't watch. He had to turn his back, walk away, lean against the tree. Part of him wanted to cry, part of him wanted to be sick, but he was tapped out, dry, empty. He was little more than skin wrapped around a void.
Only anger remained.
What had happened to Danny wasn't some sort of cosmic accident. It had been done to him. And the ones who had done it were still out there. Bill resisted the urge to scream out his rage at the night; he held it in, nurturing it, saving it for those who were responsible. He swore he'd find them.
And make them pay.
Renny stood over the hole until the fire died down to a few sputtering flames. Father Bill came up and stood beside him as he played the flashlight beam over the glowing ashes. He glanced at the priest's face. Something scary was moving behind those blue eyes.
"Is it over?" the priest said.
"Yeah," Renny said. "Has to be."
Nothing moved down there. Danny Gordon was quiet at last. Little more than his bones left now. The rotted flesh that had clung to him before had crisped and fallen away. Renny could see his naked skull, but no eyes. He was gone.
"Peace, kid," he said. "Peace at last."
He picked up the shovel.
"You want to say a few words?"
"I'm sorry, Danny," the priest said. "I'm so sorry." And then he was silent.
"No prayers?"
Father Bill shook his head. "I'm through with prayers. Let's cover him 'up."
They filled in the hole quickly, then started back toward the wall.
"I suppose you'll be taking me in now," Father Bill said.
Renny had been thinking about that. His whole world had been turned upside down in the past hour. He'd put his career on the line to bring this man to justice, and now he no longer had the vaguest idea of what would constitute justice in the face of what he had just seen. Father William Ryan was not the monster Renny had thought him to be for the past five years. But he had nurtured his hatred for the man so long that it was difficult to let go of it now. Yet he had to. Because everything was different now. And what did a career mean—what did the law mean—after what had happened to Danny Gordon?