Crisscross. Part 66

"Jack! Would you be having a moment to spare."

Jack turned and saw Father Edward Halloran, an aging leprechaun in a ca.s.sock and Roman collar, hustling toward him across the gra.s.s. Father Ed had said the funeral ma.s.s, which Jack had skipped, and recited the graveside prayers. Jack had been touched by the hundreds of tearful, mourning parishioners who had made the trip from the Lower East Side to pay their respects to a beloved teacher.

"What happened, Jack?" the priest said in a low voice. Tears rimmed his eyes. "May the Lord strike me dead if a finer, sweeter, more G.o.d-loving woman ever walked the earth."

Jack looked at the bare trees r.i.m.m.i.n.g the fading green of the lawn, the ornate, old-fashioned gravestones filling this Queens graveyard.

"Yeah, she was something."

"But who-?"

"Doesn't matter anymore."

"Of course it does! He must be-" And then his words cut off. He looked up at Jack. "Ah, would you be telling me that he's pa.s.sed beyond human justice?"

"I'll let you draw your own conclusion."

"Sure and I'll be knowing what happened to a certain fellow I asked you to keep an eye on a while back. Hasn't been seen or heard from since, has he?"

"Not by me, at least."

Father Ed sighed. "I don't want to be after condoning such things, don't you know, but, well, if justice was done, then, I guess justice was done. Still that poor woman... what was done to her. We had to keep her coffin closed." jack tried not to remember the sight of Maggie inside that body bag.

He took a breath. He'd planned to catch Father Ed later today or tomorrow at the rectory. Wanted to discuss something with him. Might as well do it now.

"On the subject of Sister Maggie, how do I set up an education fund in her name?"

Father Ed's eyes widened. "Why would you be doing that?"

"Something she told me... about some girl named Fina who'd have to leave St. Joe's because of money problems."

"Serafina! Yes, Sister Maggie was looking for a way to keep the Martinez children in school. Did you meet them?"

"No..."

"Then why would you be wanting to help?"

The leftovers from the twenty-five large Herta had given him plus the cash he'd boosted from Cordova came to a tidy sum. He couldn't very well return it to Herta.

"Let's just say I don't want to see her forgotten. Maybe you can set something up where some money can be invested, use it for the Martinez kids till they move on to high school, then use what's left for other kids who need that kind of help."

"Why, that's wonderful, Jack. The Sister Mary Margaret O'Hara Education Fund... it has a nice ring to it, don't you think? I'll get on it right away. When would you be sending the check?"

"Check?"

"Well, I a.s.sume you'll be wanting the tax deduction."

"Already have plenty of those. Cash won't be a problem, will it?"

Father Ed's eyes twinkled. "No problem at all."

4.

Luther Brady moved in a daze.

A chain ran between his feet. His wrists were chained to his waist. A cop led him down a hallway of the detention center. Another followed, and one on either side guided him by the elbows. They were moving him quickly toward a rectangle of light-a doorway to the outside. And beyond that, a van to take him to Riker's.

Visions of being gang-raped by a parade of huge laughing black men weakened his knees. There had to be Dormentalists in prison. All he needed were a few... for protection...

And then he was squinting in the sudden glare of sunlight. After a second or two he realized that it wasn't the sun alone, but camera lights as well. And reporters flanking his path to a police wagon, machine-gunning questions as they shoved microphones at his face.

He blinked, then straightened as he realized that this was his chance to present his case, create sound and video bites that would air again and again.

"I'm innocent!" he shouted, slowing the pace of his walk. "Innocent, I swear it!"

He scanned their faces. Some he knew, some he didn't. Through hundreds of public appearances he'd honed his natural ability to project sincerity and dignity. He called on that ability now, looking them directly in the eyes and showing no fear.

"But what of the evidence, those photos?" someone said.

"Lies and forgeries. This is all a colossal frame-up to discredit me and Dormentalism! You'll see! The truth will out! The truth-!"

The words died in his throat as he recognized a face in the crowd, toward the rear. Not a reporter. No, he'd seen this face in the temple. He was the one who'd pretended to be Jason Amurri, the one Jensen had wanted so badly to find.

As their eyes locked, Luther Brady saw something there, and it ignited an epiphany: This man was behind it all.

No. He couldn't be. That would be saying that one man had exposed Opus Omega, killed Jensen, and framed Luther for murder.

Impossible!

But then the man lifted his right hand, folded it into a gun shape, and pointed it at Luther. He smiled, c.o.c.ked his head, and snapped down the thumb trigger.

"There!" Luther shouted. "Over there!" He struggled against his chains. If only he could point! "There's the man responsible for all this! There's the real killer! Grab him and ask him! He'll..."

People turned to look, but the man was gone.

And all the cameras were still running.

Luther Brady put his head back and screamed out his anger, his frustration, his helplessness, and most of all, his horror.