For an instant, for the interval that falls between a pair of heartbeats, Danny's pain-writhe paused, his breathy screams stilled, and Bill felt the boy's head nod up and down. Once.
"Danny!" he shouted. "Danny, can you hear me? Do you know what I'm saying?"
But Danny's athetoid movements and hissing cries began again. Bill could no longer hold back the sobs. They burst from him and he clutched Danny close for a moment, then he pushed the sobs back down and laid the boy flat again. He covered Danny's face with the blanket—he couldn't throw dirt on his face—then pulled himself out of the hole.
He looked around. No one about. He had to work quickly now. Get to it and get it over with before he lost his nerve. He lifted the shovel from where he had left it beside the hole. He shoved it deep into the pile of loose dirt he had pulled from the ground only hours ago. But as he lifted a shovelful free, he paused, knees weak, arms trembling.
I can't do this!
He looked up at the starless, cloud-shrouded night sky.
Please, God. If You're there, if You care, if You have any intention of taking a hand in reversing the evil that's being done to this boy, do it now. Under different circumstances I'd consider this an utterly childish request. But You know what I've seen, You know what this child has suffered, is still suffering. We've witnessed the presence of naked Evil here, Lord. I don't think I'm out of line in asking You to step in and take over now. Give me a sign, Lord. How about it?
It began to snow.
"Snow?" Bill said aloud. "Snow?"
What was that supposed to tell him? A snowstorm in July would be a sign. In January it meant nothing.
Except that the ground he had disturbed tonight would go undetected for a long time. Maybe forever.
He threw the shovelful of earth into the hole where it landed atop Danny's writhing blanket.
There, Lord. I've started it. I've played Abraham. I've raised the knife over the closest thing to a son I'll ever have. It's time for You to stop me and say I've passed the test.
He threw in another shovelful, then another.
Come on, Lord. Stop me! Tell me I've done enough. I'm begging You!
He began shoveling the loose dirt into the hole as fast as he could, tumbling in clumps of frozen earth, kicking little avalanches with his feet, working like mad, whimpering, screaming deep in his throat like some crazed animal, blanking his mind to what he was doing, knowing it was the best and only thing for this little boy he loved, throwing off the clutching, restraining bonds of a lifetime of conditioning, two millennia of beliefs, keeping his eyes averted from the hole even though there was nothing to see within its black, hungry maw.
And then the hole was full.
"Are you satisfied?" Bill shouted at the flake-filled sky. "Can I dig him up now?"
There was still dirt left over, so he had to force himself to step onto the fill, to stomp it with his feet, to pack it down over Danny, and then throw some more on top. And still there was more loose dirt left over, so he mounded some of it up and scattered the rest.
And then it was done. He stood there sweating and steaming in the cold as the tiny flakes swirled around him with heartless beauty. He fought a mad urge to start digging again and threw the shovel over the wall so he couldn't change his mind.
Done. It was done.
With a moan that tore loose from the deepest place within him he dropped to his knees atop the grave and leaned forward until his ear was against the silent earth. Fifteen minutes now. Fifteen at least since he'd smothered that wasted little body. No reprieve for Bill now. He had done the unthinkable. But Danny's pain was over. That was all that really mattered.
Was this the only way? God help me, I hope so!
"Good-bye, pal," he said when he could speak. "Rest easy, okay? I'm going away for a while, but I'll be back to visit you when I can."
Feeling utterly lost and empty, he rose to his feet, took one last look, then climbed the leaning oak and jumped down outside the wall. He picked up the shovel, threw it in the back of the station wagon, and began to drive. And as he drove, he began to curse. He screamed out his disgust for a God who'd allow such a thing to happen, he cursed the medical profession for being helpless against it, he swore vengeance on Sara, or rather the woman who had usurped the real Sara's identity. But rising through it all was a tide of loathing, for himself, for everything he had been, for everything he had done in his life, especially what he had done tonight. Self-loathing—it poured from him, it swirled and eddied around him until the inside of the car was awash with it, until he thought he would drown in it.
Somehow he managed to keep driving. Earlier in the evening he'd gone to the bank and emptied out his savings account. He had a few hundred in cash and that was it. There would have been more if he'd settled his folks' estate, but he hadn't pushed on that so it was still pending.
A few hundred wouldn't take him far, but he didn't care. He really didn't have the heart to run. Would have preferred to turn himself in at the nearest precinct house and have done with it. But they'd want to know where Danny was. And they'd keep on him until he told them. And when he finally broke down and told them they'd be out digging up Danny's body so a different crew of doctors could take it apart.
Bill couldn't allow that. The purpose of tonight's horrors had been to lay Danny to rest, to give him peace.
Bill didn't want to face a murder trial either. Too many other people, innocent people, would suffer—the priesthood in general, the Society in particular. That wouldn't be fair. He'd done this on his own. Better to disappear. If they couldn't catch him, they wouldn't know Danny was dead. If he wasn't in court and in the papers every day, the furor would die down. People would forget about him and what he'd done.
But Bill would never forget.
He thought of heading for the East River, of locking the wagon's doors, opening the windows a couple of inches, and driving off one of the embankments. Who knew when they'd find him?
But someone might find him too soon. They might save him. And then he'd have to go through the court scenario.
No. Better for everyone if he kept on the move.
So he drove for hours. The snow accumulated steadily as he wound through the residential streets of Queens, avoiding the area where the Loins had lived, and avoiding the St. Francis area as well. The police would be looking for him now and they'd certainly be watching those two places.
It was near dawn and he was somewhere on the western rim of Nassau County when he saw that his fuel was getting low. He found an open 7-Eleven and filled up at the self-serve. In the store he made himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a buttered bagel. As he was paying the Middle Eastern clerk for everything, he glanced at the little portable TV behind the counter and almost dropped his coffee. His face was on the screen. The clerk saw his expression and glanced at the set.
"Terrible, is it not, when you cannot trust your children to a priest?" he singsonged in his high-pitched voice. "It is getting so you cannot trust anyone."
Bill tensed, ready to run, sure the clerk would see the resemblance. But perhaps because the screen was so small, and Bill had been clean-shaven, well rested, and years younger when that photo had been taken, the man made no connection. He shrugged and turned to the cash register to ring up the gas and food.
Then the phone began to ring. A long ring that wouldn't stop. The clerk dropped the change into Bill's trembling hand and stared at the phone.