“Right.” As a result of all his years of contract killing, Roman had lost the capacity for surprise, but this was a first—hired by a priest to be a hit man for the Lord.
He had a dozen questions, but in private contract work you didn’t ask why someone had to be whacked. The hit was strictly business. But he was intrigued. He was also cautious. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of setup, you have a recorder in there taking it all in?”
“It’s not a setup, and nobody is recording this exchange. Besides, you have confessed to no specific killing—so there’s nothing that has incriminated you.”
Roman hadn’t confessed to any killing. He looked at the packs of bills. “Let’s say I decide to do this, I’ll need information and stuff.”
A second, thinner envelope appeared atop the packet of money. Then that was topped by a cell phone. “Full instructions as well as a cell phone to call with your report.”
Jesus, this was a fucking sting. But unlike anything he could have possibly dreamed up.
“Whether or not you believe in the devil, you have been called to the highest service of the Lord to defeat him. You have been chosen to soldier for the Lord, and in so doing earning your way back to Him. Do you accept this mission?”
Roman looked at the fat wad of hundreds and the cell phone waiting for him. He could not determine if the guy was serious or nuts. “You haven’t told me who you are. I don’t know what the hell I’m dealing with here.”
“You’re dealing with a servant of the Lord who will remain anonymous.”
A second chance at life eternal.
“And this guy is really bad?”
“In the eyes of God, the worst.”
Roman picked up the envelope of bills, and in his head he heard the words of the psalm in his mother’s voice: Because he hath set his love upon Me, therefore will I deliver him: / I will set him on high, because he had known My name.
“Fine,” Roman said, and pocketed the envelopes and phone.
“May the Lord bless you in this mission. May He show you the lighted path back home and grant you eternal life.”
“Thank you, Father,” Roman said, and left the confession booth and walked out of the church and into the warm glow of the morning sun.
Even if the mission stuff was all bullshit and Father X was wired, there was $15,000 in the envelope, and Roman had said nothing to take to the cops.
10
It was Good Friday, and Maggie had sat with Zack throughout much of the night. There were no changes, and he had not repeated his mutterings. She was exhausted, and on the nurse’s suggestions, she went down to the café on the ground floor. She had coffee and a muffin, feeling numb, as if the core of her body had been infused with Novocain. While in the cafeteria, she tried to get lost in a copy of The Boston Globe that someone had left on the table.
The news of the wars and the economy filled most of the front pages, so she turned to Section B and the local news. A strange headline caught her eye: SUICIDE BY FRIEND: VICTIM HAD RARE PUFFER FISH TOXIN IN HIS BLOOD.
The story went on to explain that a homeless man was found dead with the toxin in his system. He had been killed with a baseball bat while sitting on the rail of Harvard Bridge. Because of surveillance cameras, the batman had been apprehended, claiming that his friend had asked to be killed because he had been plagued by “demons” in his head, the result, according to the assailant, of scientists doing experiments on his brain. How he had acquired “tetrodotoxin” was unknown, but authorities assured the public that it was not a new street drug, nor was puffer fish legal in American cuisines. “The perpetrator could not give any explanation of who the scientists were or what experiments were performed on the victim, only that they paid well.”
Maggie folded the paper, thinking how she, too, had a demon in her head—the sick certainty that she would never have her son back.
After half an hour, she finished her coffee and walked to the elevators. Ahead of her were a middle-aged couple and their teenage daughter in a wheelchair. The girl appeared to be a victim of some neurological disorder. Her mouth hung open and her head moved loosely on her neck, and she made inarticulate sounds. Clutched in her fingers was a string of rosary beads.
Maggie went to push the button to the seventh floor, but it was already lit.
“Are you here to see Zachary?” the father asked.
The question caught Maggie off guard. “Pardon me?” Zachary? No one called him that. And how did they know about her son?
“Zachary Kashian. Are you going to him?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering about his strange wording. He was about fifty and was dressed in brown pants, blue blazer, and plaid shirt buttoned to the top. She did not recognize him. “Do you know him?”
The elevator door closed as they started to ascend. “We’re friends with Zachary in Jesus. We’re here to pray for him.”
Before Maggie could respond, the woman looked at Maggie. “We’re bringing Agnes to him.”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Burt Wickham, and this is my wife, Judy, and my daughter, Agnes. Are you here to be healed?”
“I’m his mother, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man made a sheepish smile. “Oh well, we’ll pray for you too in your suffering. The Word of God penetrates where nothing else can go.”
“Look, I don’t know your intention, but my son is in a coma in a private room and no visitors are allowed.”
“But this is very important,” he said. “We’ve been praying for a sign like this for years.”
“What sign?”
The man looked at her in surprise. “How can you not know? God is speaking through your son, announcing to the world that he’s been chosen to do God’s healing.”
“What are you talking about? My son’s in a coma.”
“We know. We saw him.”
“What do you mean you saw him?”
Then the daughter muttered, “On YouTube.”
The elevator door opened and they stepped into an empty foyer. “YouTube?”
“He’s a chosen,” the wife said. “He’s got the power.”
The mother produced a BlackBerry and held it up to Maggie. On the small screen was a brief and shaky video of Zack in bed muttering nonsense syllables. The moving banner beneath the image read: “God Speaks Through Coma Patient.”
“He’s speaking the tongue of the Lord.”
Maggie looked at the image, dumbfounded. Her first thought was Damian. He had shot the footage of Zack muttering nonsense syllables with his cell phone. How could he do that to Zack? Violate his privacy in his most vulnerable state?
“God chose Zachary to work His miracles, which is why we’re here,” the wife said, and she looked toward her daughter in the wheelchair.
“I’m sorry for your daughter, but you cannot visit my son. He’s in a private room, and no one but family are allowed. Is that clear?” She ran down the hall to the nurses’ station to ask for security, but the station was empty. Then she heard a commotion down the cross-corridor. Her heart nearly stopped. Outside of Zack’s room was a small crowd of people arguing with Nurse Beth Howard, two other nurses, and a resident physician, all trying to keep people from pushing inside.
“What is going on?” Maggie said to Beth. “Call security.”
“We did.”
Maggie pushed her way inside the room, where maybe a dozen people were pressed around Zack’s bed—elderly, young, old, white, brown. A small woman with Down syndrome was pawing at Zack’s arm as a camera flash went off. Through the bodies, she could see with relief that Zack was still breathing and that the monitors still registered his vital signs. But his blanket was covered with rosary beads, prayer cards, religious trinkets, statues, and photographs. And around him were people muttering prayers and crossing themselves, touching his hands and face.