Maggie felt insane. “Get out of here!” she screamed. “This is my son. Get out of here!”
“I have a tumor,” one woman said. “All I want is to be healed.” Her mouth quivered as she pleaded.
Another beside her said, “Jesus is here to make me better. I don’t want to die.”
A man pressed against her insisted that a divine presence was in Zack. “We want Jesus to save my wife. She’s very sick.”
“Then get a doctor and leave my son alone.” As Maggie pushed her way deeper, she spotted a tall white woman looking out of place in a navy blue suit. She stood in the corner behind the others, staring at Maggie intently. There was a reddish birthmark on her cheek or maybe a melanoma.
The shouting of security guards filled the room. “Okay, everybody clear out.” Half a dozen guards were pulling people out of the room as protests rose up.
“You have no right,” one woman cried.
“The Lord Jesus Christ is speaking through Zachary,” cried another. “It’s in the video. I saw it with my own eyes.”
But the guards cleared the room in spite of the pleas and protests. As the people were led out, one woman grabbed Maggie’s arm. “She’s here! She’s here!” The woman’s eyes were huge.
“Who?” Maggie asked.
“The Blessed Virgin. I smell roses. They’re her flower.” The woman looked crazed.
Maggie pulled away toward the bed when a guard caught her arm. She turned. “I’m his mother!”
From the hall, Nurse Beth shouted confirmation to the guard. He let Maggie go and continued removing the others. She gasped when she reached Zack. He had not been disturbed by the melee, and the monitors blinked stable life functions. But the bedcover was strewn with religious objects and dozens of photographs of people, making it look like the shrine of a dead saint.
Beth took her arm. “I’m so sorry. We’ll clean it up. They must have come up through the back stairwell.”
“There’s a video of him on the Internet.”
“Shit.”
Less than twelve hours had passed, and a fifty-second YouTube video of his nonsense mutterings had summoned a small mob hungering for miracles. “I think it was Damian.”
“No. It was Stephanie, my aide.”
“What?”
“She had her cell phone, but I thought it was to call the desk. I’m sorry. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I can’t believe she did this.”
“Where is she?”
“It’s her day off, but we’ll report her to the chief administrator.”
“I want him moved to an undisclosed room with guards.”
“Of course.”
Beth took Maggie’s arm and led her outside while orderlies began to remove the stuff from the bed. The halls had been cleared, and several security guards patrolled the corridors. Maggie walked with Beth to the nurses’ station, where someone handed her a coffee.
As she made her way back down the hall, she spotted the tall, stylish woman with the birthmark at the elevators. The woman glared at her. A moment later, the elevator light went on and the door opened. Before stepping inside, the woman said something.
“Pardon me?”
“I pray that your son is a miracle child.”
Before Maggie could respond, the woman entered the elevator and was gone.
11
Satan’s doorman lived in a large Tudor home on Greendale Road in Falmouth on Cape Cod. Roman Pace sat in his car on a small parallel street beside a vacant lot that allowed a clear view of the rear of the house.
Roman never met those who hired him—just anonymous telephone calls and cash delivered to a drop spot. It was a good arrangement, since anonymity kept things discreet and simple without the chance of compromise. Roman had no idea if the guy on the other side of the confessional booth was a priest, a bishop, or Friar Tuck. But he wasn’t Father Timothy Callahan. And after a week it made no difference, because a part of Roman began to believe that he was, in fact, in service to God. The same part that began to believe that God Himself had directed Roman to that confessional booth in the first place.
Your chance to reinstate your soul with God.
It was a promise that he latched on to.
The rear end of a detached garage had a window that allowed a view of the interior, not that he cared about the contents. The garage door was open, and twenty minutes ago the headlights of a white Lexus had lit up the window as the owner pulled in and then entered the house through the rear door. The neighbors looked to be away, maybe because it was Easter weekend.
After fifteen minutes, Roman exited his rental and walked to the front of the house. Lights burned on the first floor and in one bedroom room on the second. The entrance was flanked with leaded windows through which he could see a foyer, but no movement. He rang the doorbell, and an outside light went on. A moment later, an old guy opened the door. “Sorry to disturb you, but are you Dr. Thomas Pomeroy?”
“Yes.”
He was listed as seventy-one and looked it. His face was lean and pale, with loose flesh under the chin. He had dark, baggy eyes and receding gray hair. He was dressed in chinos and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His expression projected annoyance. “My name is Roman Pace, and I’ve got a message from Thomas Infantino.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Infantino.” And with his left hand, Roman handed Pomeroy a stiff manila envelope with his name printed in bold letters. As Pomeroy took the envelope, Roman pulled a pistol from his jacket and pressed it against Pomeroy’s middle. “I think we best discuss this inside.”
“W-what are you doing?”
“Inside, and not a peep.” Pomeroy’s face froze in shock and horror, but he backed into the foyer, and Roman closed the door behind him.
“What do you want? Who are you?”
“I’ll ask the questions.”
A red Oriental carpet filled the foyer, which was lit by a glass chandelier. A set of dark stairs ran up to the second landing, where a light burned in the room at the top right. “Is anyone else in the house?”
“No.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife is dead.”
This was true, and his daughter lived in Arizona, and he had no other children according to the spec sheet. “Other relatives? Live-in housekeeper?”
“N-no. I’m alone. Who are you? You want money? I can give you some.” He made a move toward the staircase.
But Roman stopped him. “I don’t want your money.” He nudged the man into the living room—a space with dark-wood bookshelves, a black baby grand piano, and a maroon leather sofa and matching chairs—and directed Pomeroy to the sofa.
Pomeroy did as he was told, his face ashen with terror. Roman sat on the leather chair facing him. “I want you to tell me stuff,” he said. “And if I like your answer, I’ll make this easy for you.”
Pomeroy looked into the stolid eye of the Beretta. “Okay, but please don’t—”
Roman raised his finger. “Shhh. Cooperate, and nobody’ll get hurt. Okay?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Are you a religious man, Dr. Pomeroy?”
“What?”
“I asked, are you a religious man?”
Pomeroy hesitated. “No.”
“Have you had any dealings with St. Pius Church in Providence, Rhode Island?”
“No, I’ve never even heard of that.”
“What about the name Timothy Callahan?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“No.”
“Okay. Do you believe in Satan?”
Bafflement clouded Pomeroy’s face. “No.”
“Look, you’re a big-time physicist with awards up to here. So how come someone in the Catholic Church wants you dead?”