He lay back, breathing deeply, exhausted, as if he had just completed a perilous mission, avoided a thousand pitfalls, escaped with his life. . and he fell into a deep sleep in which an army of men wearing slashed and ruined loafers trampled across his body all night long.
When the telephone rang, Carter answered it immediately, his hand shooting out to pick up the receiver. In the past few days he had become jumpy, nervous, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to check if he was being followed (which was paranoid, of course). Ordinarily Carter did not admit to nerves. He'd always been able to nap minutes before a big football game, always fell asleep instantly at night when his head hit the pillow. Not these days, however, not anymore. He walked around as if a great cloud of doom hung over him and would collapse upon his head at any moment. Thus, when the telephone rang, he acted as if it were a summons. To a trial by jury.
"Hello," he said, snapping the word, using the old gusto of the jock.
Silence on the line. But a sense of someone there. The hint of a person quietly breathing.
"Hello," he said again, trying to keep the wariness out of his voice. "Got the wrong number, chum?" Beautifuclass="underline" keeping it jaunty. But a bead of perspiration traced a cold path as it ran down Carter's leg from his crotch.
Still nothing.
Carter thought, The hell with it, summoning bravado. He decided to hang up.
The caller's timing was perfect, speaking just as Carter was about to remove the receiver from his ear.
"Why did you do it, Carter?"
"Do what?" he asked, responding automatically but groaning inside. Archie knew. Knew what he had done.
"You know. . "
"No, I don't know." Stall, admit nothing. And for crissake try to control your voice. His voice sounded funny to his ears.
"I don't want to have to spell it out," the voice said.
Was it Archie's voice? He couldn't be sure. Archie was an expert actor and mimic. Carter had observed his talents at a thousand Vigil meetings.
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about—"
"It will be much easier on you if you confess, Carter."
"Confess what?"
A pause on the line. Then the chuckle. The all-knowing, lewd chuckle, the kind of chuckle someone might utter during an obscene phone call.
"Actually, we don't need your confession. But it might ease your conscience a bit if you confessed. Make you feel better. Let you sleep better at night. . "
Carter recoiled, told himself to keep in control. He knew Archie's tactics. Knew how Archie prided himself on his insights, always taking shots in the dark and winning. Like now. Guessing that Carter had trouble sleeping nights. So, beware. Don't let him talk you into giving yourself away.
"Still there, Carter? Still thinking it over, Carter?"
"Thinking what over?" In command a bit now, calming down, feeling ready and able to handle the phone call. Like in the ring. Feinting and faking. Sizing up an opponent. The first thrusts and advances and retreats as you felt out the adversary.
"Oh, Carter, oh, Carter. ." The voice tender, full of understanding, suddenly.
"What's all this oh, Carter bullshit?" Strong, firm. Feeling good.
"Don't you see, you poor bastard? If you hadn't done it, you'd have hung up right away. Slammed the phone down. Christ, Carter, you've got guilt written all over you."
Carter knew he had somehow walked into a trap just by talking on the phone. He should have hung up right away. Should hang up right now. But couldn't.
"Look," Carter said. "I know who you are. And I know what you're trying to do. Intimidation. I've seen you do it a thousand times, Archie. But it won't work this time. I didn't write that letter. You don't have any proof, couldn't have any proof, because I didn't write it."
Big silence on the line.
Then the laughter.
Carter told himself: Hang up. Hang up now while, you're ahead.
But couldn't. Caught and held there by the laughter. Something in the laughter that wouldn't let him go, had him snared.
"You pathetic sucker, Carter. Nobody ever mentioned a letter. Nobody knows about any letter. . "
Carter's mind raced, his thoughts tumbling wildly, He knew the fatal mistake he had made. Had to backpedal somehow.
"At the Vigils meeting, when the Bishop's visit was called off. ." he began.
"The letter was never mentioned. Nobody knows about the letter, Carter. Except Brother Leon and Archie Costello and the guy who wrote it. You, Carter."
Carter tried to prevent the moan that escaped his lips.
"You're going to pay for it, Carter," the voice that Carter knew had to be Archie Costello threatened. "Pity on traitors. Pity on you, Carter."
Carter opened his mouth to call back the groan, to deny the accusation, to shout his innocence, to denounce Archie, to—
But the connection was broken.
And above the found of the dial tone, he heard the echo of that hideous, insinuating voice:
Pity on you, Carter. .
Brother Leon reached for the parcel that had been left on his desk — special delivery — a few moments before. Afternoon sunlight filled the office with radiance.
Curious, Brother Leon inspected the package, touching it gingerly. The size of a shoe box, wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with white string. His name and the address of Trinity were printed on the package. Blue, by a Flair pen. In the upper left-hand corner, the name of the sender: David Caroni.
It was important that Brother Leon should know David Caroni's identity; that was essential to the plan.
Frowning, puzzled but pleasantly mystified, identifying Caroni in his mind as the quiet, sensitive student who seldom met anyone's eyes, Brother Leon drew his trusty red Swiss knife from his pocket. He cut the taut string, and it collapsed like a fatally wounded snake. He gently unwrapped the package, careful not to tear the paper. Brother Leon was fastidious, precise in his movements, never a wasted motion.
He removed the cover.
The explosion was tremendous. The blast blew off Leon's head, shattered his body into a thousand pieces of flesh and blood and tissue that spattered the walls and floors of the office.
His head left a bloody trail as it bounced across the floor. .
Or:
Brother Leon stood on the stage of the auditorium, addressing the student body. Berating the students. Criticizing some kind of activity. He was never satisfied, never happy, never content with student behavior, always finding fault.
Suddenly a small angry red hole appeared in the center of his forehead. Blood spilled from the hole, spreading in two streams on either side of his nose, down his cheeks. Dark, ugly blood.
Brother Leon pitched forward as if trying to flee some unspeakable horror behind him. But striking an invisible stone wall. The echo of the sniper's rifle shot reverberated off the walls of the assembly hall, startlingly magnified in the stunned silence.
The sniper, smiling as he watched Leon's body plunging to the floor of the stage with an enormous thud, was, of course, David Caroni.
Or:
But David Caroni was tired of the game of killing Brother Leon. Tired of himself as well. Tired of this charade he was living. He longed for action, for the moment of decision, but had to wait. Wait for what? He would know what when the moment arrived, when the command was given. What command? Ah, but he knew what command. And knew that his duty was to wait. He was allowed to indulge in visions and fantasies — Brother Leon blown apart or mortally wounded with a rifle shot — but these were only small diversions to pass the time while he waited patiently for orders.