Dad?
Nathan loved coming to the games. Now that he was in town, he should call him. Make some amends for all the trouble lately.
He opened his eyes. Paulson took another bite of his hot dog, staring intently at the game. He’d already taken quite a few bites, but there was still a lot left to it. Maybe he’d bought two. Art looked at the cardboard tray on his friend’s lap. Nope, nothing else.
That was weird.
For a moment, Fenway Park was lost in a haze. Art rubbed his eyes. Nathan was standing a few aisles down, looking back at him. This wasn’t the ballpark. He was in church. Everything was dark. For some reason, he wasn’t startled at finding himself first in Boston then Hillcrest. A slow understanding unraveled inside him.
“Nate?” He tried to smile and lift his hand to wave, hoping he could explain what was going on. Fenway Park returned for a moment, then the church. The only constant was Nate standing in front of him.
“Nathan is not here. Be quiet now; the batter’s about to get a double. Just watch the game.” Nathan blinked from existence. The park was back in its full green splendor. Art felt the excitement of the moment filling him. Wild foul ball by Baker. He was staying with it. Something stilled nagged at him, though. Had he just seen Nate? No, of course not. He needed to get some more sleep, daydreaming like this. He was in Fenway Park. His son was in Florida. Working with a parish there—
Nate had come home.
Just his imagination. Baker swung at a low, inside pitch (at least, Art thought that was what was pitched, it was hard to tell from these far-angle bleacher seats). Crack! A line drive up the middle between second and third base. Everyone screamed. The Orioles’ shortstop dove, missed. The crowd went crazy. Art just smiled.
Hadn’t they been playing the Yankees?
Why couldn’t he just enjoy the game? Beside him, Paulson took another bite of his never-ending hot dog.
The Yankees must have been a different game. Beverly was right. They needed a vacation. He looked down at his seat. Instead of the small plastic chairs, it was wood, like a pew. No, no, these were Fenway seats.
Beverly. He did tell her about the game, didn’t he?
Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong....
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Manny Paulson would gladly have run naked down Main Street rather than grab this dead man’s shoulder. Tarretti’s windbreaker was wet in places, stiff in others with blood in various stages of drying. He used both hands to turn the man over.
“Nate?”
The voice startled him and he turned back toward the pews to see who’d spoken. Apparently everyone else had been surprised by Art Dinneck’s voice, because they were also looking back. Manny felt Tarretti’s body slump away from his grip. Quinn was aiming the flashlight at Dinneck. The man was leaning forward in his seat, eyes still glazed, but he’d spoken his son’s name.
“Mister Dinneck,” came that creepy voice Quinn used too often for Manny’s comfort, “Nathan is not here. Be quiet now; the batter’s going to get a double. Just watch the game.”
Art sat back against the seat, his suddenly troubled expression softening into its earlier, moronic complacency. Manny wondered, not for the first time, how often Quinn pulled that trick on Manny, himself. He assumed he’d remember it, but seeing how Art and the others had been so well-controlled all these months, maybe he wouldn’t.
Quinn shined the light back toward the podium and said, “Let’s hurry this—” and said nothing else.
Manny looked down. One hand still held loosely to Tarretti’s shoulder even though the man’s body lay against the front of the podium.
Tarretti’s eyes were open in narrow slits. He was holding a pistol in his hands.
“God forgive me,” the dead man croaked. The muzzle of the gun flashed and Manny felt a hundred pounds of fist slam into his left hip. The church spun. He forgot where he was, what he’d been doing. He hit a low railing, turned and rolled over it, tried to get out of the way of the car that had hit him.
Heshotme, heshotme.
The room was a strobe of light. Quinn jumped to the floor, the flashlight making a narrow line on the carpet. Enough for Manny to see he’d landed away from the others, resting against the front of the first row of seats.
His hand had gone instinctively to where he’d been punched—shot, I’ve been shot. It came away covered in blood, quickly followed by a river of the stuff pouring from a hole burned into him, just above his thigh. He felt a bigger hole on the side of one buttock.
Back at the podium, Tarretti was not standing up and aiming the final death shot. Instead, the man’s eyes closed, slowly, and the gun fell from his limp hand.
“Help me, Peter,” Manny whispered. “Please.”
* * *
Vincent Tarretti felt the gun slip out of his fingers, then could feel nothing.
Lord Jesus, forgive me for my sins. I’ve tried to protect it. Please, let it have been enough. Forgive me for shooting that man. I didn’t know what else to do. Please take me now. I can’t go any further.
For a moment, the outlines of the others in the church came into full view, cast in the afterglow of the flashlight. He saw Nathan Dinneck, focused on him for an eternal moment, then his eyes closed. He did not face the darkness of earlier in the crypt, only light. The longer he stared, the brighter it shone. He watched with eyes no longer physical. No more pain. A cotton-blanket warmth enfolded him. There were others in the light. Three figures, coming toward him. He knew them. Knew them all. He wanted to shout with joy.
And in that moment, Vincent Tarretti’s mission came to an end.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
This isn’t happening. How could that man have lived?!?
Peter Quinn looked up from his prostrate position before the sanctuary. It was a gesture not of supplication but self-preservation. Tarretti had been packing a weapon! He cursed himself. The fact that the caretaker might have been armed was the reason he’d originally sent Everson into the crypt first, the reason he’d told the boy to shoot the man as soon as he identified him from Peter’s description. He’d been right to do so. The man had not only cheated death long enough to crawl to this place, but he still had his damned weapon.
Manny Paulson moaned against the pew, beside him. Peter ignored him. He’d served his purpose and was dead to him now. Tarretti had done him a favor, actually.
Nathan Dinneck and Elizabeth were crouched awkwardly on the floor, their bound hands keeping them off balance. Josh Everson stood beside them, oblivious to what had happened. Peter was grateful he’d thought to bring the boy this far. Aside from being the only one who could be tied to any murders, he would prove useful now that Paulson was down.
Any leeway he might have had, time-wise, was gone. There weren’t many neighbors close enough to hear the gunshot, but he couldn’t play the odds any longer. Not when his final act of devotion to Molech was so close.
Nathan Dinneck rose up suddenly and Peter had to make a decision. Tarretti dropping his gun could only mean he was finally dead. Had to mean that. And now young Dinneck was going to do something stupid.
Peter stood just as quickly and said, “Mister Everson still answers to me, Pastor. I can have him kill your girlfriend or your father with one command. Do not try anything that will test my patience.”
The minister said nothing. The girl still knelt beside him, unable or unwilling to lift herself up.
Peter shone the light over the caretaker’s body, then looked back at Josh Everson. The gun in the boy’s hand was the only thing keeping Dinneck at bay. He couldn’t risk leaving Tarretti’s weapon too close to his hands. Just in case.