I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) (40 page)

Not Mark.

He didn’t trust his fellow priest one
bit.

Canyon of Heroes my ass, he thought, and he
didn’t even have any wine in him.

“You’re going to take some of the boys down
to the parade, Tad, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Monsignor.”

“That’s nice. I remember my first ticker tape
parade, for Lindbergh back in ’27. I was nine.” The monsignor’s
voice quieted. “I’ll never forget what happened to his son.” He
smiled, “I was there for the Giants in ’54 too. They swept the
Indians that year like New York just did to San Diego. The last
year they played in the World Series,” the Monsignor and his ’54
Giants. “Moved to San Francisco in ’57.

“Decade later I was in Africa. I got out in
December of ’69. A month before the ceasefire.” The Monsignor
looked down into his glass as he swished the remainder of his wine.
“A million dead by then,” he finished his wine. “Couple months
before, they’d had another parade, here, for the Mets. Oh well.
Gentlemen,” the old man rose, “I believe it’s time for me to excuse
myself.”

Tad got up also, dabbing at the corners of
his mouth with his linen napkin.

“Hey Tad,” Mark spoke, his voice level. “Hang
around a minute, want to talk to you about something.”

Tad sat back down, placing his napkin on the
table.

“Yes, Mark?”

“Good night boys.” The Monsignor wished them
well and headed off to his quarters.

“He gets like this, you know,” Mark said of
the Monsignor. “More so as he ages.” Tad made a noise in agreement,
mmmm
, encouraging Mark to continue. “He’s a good man,”
opined Mark, “sees the best in people.”
Mmmm
. “To a fault.
Sometimes he’s blinded by his optimism.”
Mmmm
. “Sometimes he
doesn’t see clearly what’s in front of him.”

Tad didn’t offer an
mmmm
.

“Myself, on the other hand. I’m not so
optimistic. I don’t know if I actually buy that whole story about
Eve tempting Adam with the apple and we as a species being damned
forever after, but something I know for a fact, there’s evil lurks
in the hearts of some men. And I know we can’t ignore it.”

Tad listened to what Mark had to say,
seeimgly patient.

“I’m hearing some things about you, Tad. And
it’d better not be true. If it is, it has to stop.”

“What is it that you think you’re accusing me
of, Mark?”

“Not accusing. Just saying.”

“You’re just saying
what
then?
That…”

“What I’m saying is the reputation of this
place,” Mark gestured expansively to the building around them,
“rests squarely on the shoulders of men like him,” pointing towards
the door the Monsignor had exited, “me,” pointing at himself, “and
you
.” Punctuating his next words with jabs of his finger.
“Anything, any one of us does, that threatens to—”

“Enough, Mark. Who said anything to you,
anyway? JoAnn—” Mrs. Daly’s “—what does she know? Did you ask them?
Did you ask the boys?”

“That’s funny, Tad. I didn’t say anything
about boys.” Mark thought of a million bad jokes Boone had made
with him over the years about priests and young boys, a million bad
jokes he had laughed at and encouraged. He felt sickened now. He
wanted to leap across the table and pummel this—

“I see the way you’re looking at me, Mark.”
Tad’s attitude was wrong. He sounded unconcerned, arrogant even.
“Just remember who won, Mark.”

Mark forced himself to stay seated:
who
won
?

“David and Goliath, Mark. David and Goliath.”
Tad spoke and Mark felt his blood pressure rising. “See, I know
people, Mark.” Tad got up, crossing to the refrigerator and the
small magnetic mirror there. “
People
. If you don’t want to
be reassigned to some backwater parish,” Tad inspected his teeth in
the mirror, “mind your own business. You hear something that
bothers you? Don’t listen. You see something that concerns you—look
the other way.” Tad wasn’t even trying to deny anything. “I mean,
well, think how hard it’ll be hard to finish your degree in Peoria,
no?”

Tad turned his head from the fridge to look
over his shoulder at Mark, smiled at him.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go
coach.” CYO basketball. More kids. “That is, if you don’t object.
The boys
are
waiting.”

The way he said it like that, flaunting it.
Coach
youth
basketball
my
ass
.
Mark glared at the man.

“Oh, if you wouldn’t mind,” Tad added before
he left the kitchen, “could you put my dishes in the sink? JoAnn
will be around to do them in the morning and, gosh, I’m in such a
rush.”

Mark balled his fist on the table and
squeezed, exhaling, his arm and fist shaking.

The phone on the wall rang and he couldn’t
answer it. It rang again and then again and he had to answer it. If
he didn’t it would disturb the monsignor and Mark didn’t want for
that to happen.

“St. Ann’s.” He fought to control the anger
he felt, to keep it from his voice. “Hello.”

“Peace be with you.” Mark recognized the
voice immediately, felt funny saying it back to the caller but he
did: “Peace be with you.”

“Mark, can you talk?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Mark, I am going to ask you a question. But
before I ask it, know this: your answer stands to change the course
of your life.”

Yeah
,
great
. Mark waited.

“Can I ask you a question, Mark?”

“Go ahead.”

There’d been some talk about locking the
convicts down in their cells while the arson was dealt with, but
for some reason it wasn’t done. And so it was that when the prison
authorities carted the charred body out they carted in out in front
of everyone, the cons sitting around in their small groups. Dickie,
Bianchi with his bandaged elbow, Nicky and Jimmy Scal, trying to
play cards. The Scal in his shades and a robe, looking bruised but
rested.

“Hey, boss.” Nicky lifted his chin.

A group of prison guards in riot gear,
bearing a stretcher, entered the rec area. Whatever was on the
stretcher was covered by a sheet. As they passed through, everyone
got a whiff. The stretcher bearers were passing Dickie and his crew
when their litter jostled and a blackened arm flopped out from
under the sheet to hang limply over the side.

“Would you look at that,” the Scal remarked
of the limb. But it was what was melted onto the hand that drew
Dickie’s eye. A Styrofoam cup, what was left of it cohering to the
charred fingers and palm. Like the one Renfeld had carried
around.

Looking around the room, Dickie didn’t see
the nut job.

Shortly after the turtles left with their
body, the convicts were given a talking to. The Warden himself
stopped by and stood there, trying to look and sound tough in front
of hundreds of tough men, telling them whoever was responsible for
this was going to pay big-time, that if anyone had any information
they’d better pipe up because if they didn’t they’d be charged as
accessories to the murder. He said this to a bunch of men, many of
them already there for one or more murders.

Afterwards, their day continued as it
normally would. That night, they were fed and sent to their
cells.

“We got anybody we got to worry about?”
Dickie asked Bianchi, the two of them walking down their tier.

“No.”

Cupping his elbow, Bianchi turned into his
cell, Dickie continuing down to his own, passing a few cons who
looked away. They were afraid of him and his guys, word already
spreading throughout the prison.

Werner waited outside his cell.

“How you doin’?” A big shit-eatin grin on the
screw’s face. Dickie thinking he’d like to wipe it off for the guy,
thought maybe one day he’d get the chance.

“I’m good.” Dickie stepped past the screw and
into his cell, the cell strangely dark, the light out. “Hey what’s
with the lights?”

“We’ll call Con Edison in the morning.”
Werner stood there grinning at him as the bars slid shut, locking
Dickie in. “You have yourself a good night.” The screw laughed a
little laugh, walking away, his steps echoing down the block.

Dickie sat on the edge of his mattress and
took off his slippers. He was thinking Werner’s being here tonight
was the screw’s way of letting Dickie know he suspected something.
Question was, what would Werner want to keep his mouth shut?

He lay back on his mattress and stretched out
his legs. He was thinking about Maryann and their kids, mulling
over the fact that he was never going to see them outside this
place, thinking how the only way he’d get to touch his wife, hold
her, love her, was if they let her visit him and spend the night
out in one of the trailers.

Dickie thinking
no
, not his Maryann,
that was beneath her, beneath his image of her.

No way he’d subject the mother of his
children to that.

It was hard
not
to get bitter about
the fact that a fuck-wad like Werner got to go home every night to
whoever that asshole had at home. And Dickie was
here
.

He adjusted his crucifix and crossed his arms
behind his head, on top of his thin pillow. Dickie had been in
enough tight spots in his life to know he couldn’t give in to
despair, couldn’t show it. Appearances were everything, especially
here in prison, in front of his men, in front of the other men, in
front of fucks like Werner. Couldn’t let them see how he felt
inside. Had to ignore that shit, soldier through it. This cold, on
the other hand, was another matter.

It was cold in Dickie’s cell, cold and very
dark.

The thing under his bunk reached up and
wrapped its arms around him, a slimy hand clasped over his mouth,
pulling his head down into the cot, trapping his arms under his
head. Its other arm crossed his torso, one unnaturally long clawed
finger drawing across his chest.

Dickie kicked his legs and tried to free his
arms but he couldn’t. The stench of the thing overpowered his
senses. It didn’t smell burnt. It stunk like the grave.

The elongated fingers wrapped around the
crucifix Dickie wore, wrenching it from his neck. He heard his
chain jingle somewhere on the cell floor. Even as he lost control
of his bladder, Dickie vowed to himself that he would not
scream.

The thing spoke to him, its voice reedy and
high.

“Hello, Godfather.”

It never ceased to amaze Barry, how quiet the
projects could get at night. He sat with his back to tower number
four, looking out onto a quad lost in darkness. He changed position
under his blanket, drawing his legs in closer.

Nights were getting cold now.

Time was the Ripple would help him chase away
the chill, but Barry knew from firsthand experience enough drinking
could leave a cat shivering and cold, worse off than when he’d
begun. The only vice he allowed himself these days was tobacco.
He’d smoked earlier, cleaning out his pipe and storing it away
among his things.

Barry took great pride in his pipe, his most
valued possession. There was a story behind how it’d come into his
possession, a story he liked to tell if to a willing listener. Not
too many of those out here no more. Most people these days ignored
him, acting like he wasn’t even there. Like he was a non-person,
just because he was homeless.

The whole time he’d been settled here
tonight, he’d seen no one. Enough streetlamps were burnt out or
broken that most of the quad was lost to him, and he from it. A
solitary strip of concrete coursed under a lone streetlamp in the
near distance. Barry could see the path and anyone on it, but he
was sure no one could see him in his position. Once or twice he’d
heard some movement out there, teens up in the middle of the night,
maybe up to no good, maybe just being teenagers.

Whatever they were up to, they hadn’t come
into view.

Life on the streets could be hard, real hard,
especially with the colder weather coming in. Barry shrugged his
blanket further up onto his shoulders, his shopping cart parked
against the building next to him. The shelter system, man, the
shelter system was no picnic. More dangerous in there than out here
it was. Out here, the main things you had to worry about were the
young kids came by, thinking it was fun to mess with a bum.

Or maybe Conyers’ men when the ugly got up in
them.

The fiends knew Barry, they knew he didn’t
have any money or nothing they could trade for their drugs. So they
left him alone, and he was glad. Talking to some of them cats was
too much like looking into a mirror at his old self. Barry felt
better off each night taking his chances out on the streets, right
here in the Quad. And if he kept close enough to the Moses, no
police were going to bother him either.

The last few nights had been festive enough,
non-stop partying when that singer came through. Even the Conyers’
boys had been on their best behavior. They’d been real busy the
last couple days around tower three. Barry figured something was
afoot, maybe another one of their big drug shipments. He didn’t
know. He didn’t want to know. Drugs were part of the tragedy that
had been Barry’s life. He’d been a bus driver for the city until
they caught him drinking one too many times while on the job, and
then he had no job. The union couldn’t do anything for him. And
Barry knew it wasn’t nobody’s fault but his own.

He’d kicked his habits—drinking was just one
of them—going on three years, didn’t even want to see the stuff no
more. Whatever the Conyers boys might or might not be bringing
through Moses in the next day or so, none of it concerned Barry.
Anyhow, curiosity could get a cat killed with these kinds of
people, so Barry minded his own business.