"What on earth?" the clerk said.
Bill, too, stared at the phone. That ring! He spun and scanned the empty store, then peered through the windows into the snowy dawn. No one was about. He looked back at the phone as the clerk lifted the receiver.
How?
Faintly he heard that familiar, terrified little voice.
"What?" he heard the clerk say. "What are you saying? I am not your father, little boy. Listen to me…"
No one knew he was here, no one had followed him—-it couldn't be!
Unless… unless the caller wasn't hampered by human limitations.
But who? Who or what was tormenting him, mocking him with Danny's cries for help?
One more stratum of proof that his life had fallen under thrall to something as evil as it was inhuman.
His heart pounding like an airhammer, Bill hurried for the door. Out—into the snow, to the safe and sane interior of the station wagon, and back onto the streets.
He realized that if he was going to remain free he'd have to get out of the city, out of the state, out of the Northeast. But to do that he'd have to go through Manhattan.
No—he could go over the Verrazano Bridge, cut across Staten Island, and slip into New Jersey.
He headed south toward the Belt Parkway.
They put the call through to Renny. It was a foreign guy, his voice accented but easily understandable.
"Mr. Detective, sir, I believe I have seen this priest you are searching for."
Renny grabbed a pencil.
"When and where?"
"In the store where I work in Floral Park, not more than one hour ago."
"An hour! Jesus, why'd you wait so long?"
"I did not know it was him until I come home and see his picture on my TV screen. He did not look the same but I believe it was him."
Not exactly a positive ID, but it was all they'd had.
"Was he alone?"
"Yes, he was. There was no child with him, at least none that I saw."
"Did you see what kind of car he was driving?"
"I do not remember."
"Didn't you look?"
"Perhaps, but I was too upset by a telephone call that—"
Renny was suddenly on his feet.
"Telephone call? What kind of call?"
The man described a call exactly like the one Renny had picked up in the hospital, same ring, same frightened child's voice, everything.
What was Ryan up to? And what was the story with the phone calls? Was Ryan making them, using them as a distraction? Or was someone else behind them?
This whole thing was getting loonier by the hour.
Long Island… hadn't Ryan grown up on Long Island? Monroe Village or something like that? Maybe that was where he was headed. Headed home.
He reached for the phone.
The morning had lightened but the sun stayed locked behind the low-hanging clouds that sealed off the sky and continued to pump the blizzard at the city. The whole world, the very air, had turned gray-white. Bill had the roads pretty much to himself. After all, it was New Year's Day and snowing like crazy. Only crazies and those who had no choice were out. Still, the going was slow and difficult. The Belt Parkway wasn't plowed and the wagon handled like a barge in a typhoon, slewing this way and that on the curves. He wished he had front-wheel drive.
But things improved when he got on the lower level of the Verrazano. There was blessedly little snow on the protected stretch of bridge. Down the slope lay Staten Island; beyond that, New Jersey and freedom.
Freedom, he thought grimly. But no escape.
"So where the hell is he?" Renny said to anyone who would listen.
He was seated at his desk in the squad room trying to coordinate the search for Father Ryan. He waited for one of the other detectives seated around him to offer a brilliant answer but they only sipped their coffee and looked at the floor.
All Renny could do was wait. And waiting was pure hell.
They had the Monroe police force, what there was of it, keeping an eye out for their local boy. Other than that, the bastard could be anywhere on Long Island. Hell, he could have skidded off the L.I.E. and be lying in a ditch freezing to death… and that poor kid freezing along with him. He could—
"They think they spotted him on Staten Island!"
It was Connally, rushing through the squad room waving a sheet of paper.
Staten Island? Renny thought. Ryan had been spotted in Floral Park before, due east of the medical center. How could they spot him in Staten Island? That was west.
"When?"
"Less than half an hour ago, Staten side of the Verrazano. Driving an old Ford Country Squire."
"They holding him?"
"Well, no," Connally said. "Whoever it was slipped through. He was alone. No kid anywhere in sight. Might not have been him. The trooper was pulling him over but got drawn away by an accident."
"He got away?"
Renny leapt from his chair, spilling his coffee across the top of his drab green desk. He couldn't believe it. Even though it wasn't Connally's fault, he wanted to strangle him.
"Yeah, but they think they got the island sealed off in time."
"They think?"
"Hey, look, Renny. I'm only telling you what they told me, okay? I mean, they're not even sure it was him, but they took precautions, and as soon as they got the phone working, they—"
Renny felt a thrill go through him like an electric shock.
"The phone? What was wrong with the phone?"
"The one in the toll booth. They said there was a hysterical kid on it and they couldn't get him off it."
"That was him in the wagon!" Renny shouted. "Goddammit, that was him! We'ye got the son of a bitch! We've got him!"
Made it!
Bill snatched the ticket jutting from the slot in the machine and started up the southbound ramp of the New Jersey Turnpike. He must have reached the Goethals just in time. He'd been watching in his rearview mirror as much as he dared while the wagon fishtailed up the slippery span. Through the haze of falling snow, as he reached the crest of the bridge, he spotted a group of flashing blue lights converge behind him at its Staten Island base.
If they were confining their search to Staten Island, he was home free. But he couldn't count on that. So the best thing to do was to put another state between himself and New York. He noticed on his toll ticket that Exit 6 was the Penn Turnpike Extension. That was where he'd go. Take that about a hundred miles into Pennsylvania and leave the car in a shopping mall. Then he'd buy a bus ticket and double back to Philadelphia. From there he'd Amtrak south, all the way to Florida. And after that, who knew? Maybe hitch a ride on a fishing boat to the Bahamas. That would put him less than a hundred miles from Florida but he'd be in a British territory, essentially a foreign country.
He felt so tired. He tried to look to the future but could see nothing there. And he couldn't look back. God no—not back. He had to forget—forget Danny, forget America, forget the God he had trusted, forget Bill Ryan.
Yeah. Forget Bill Ryan. Bill Ryan was dead, along with everything he had'ever believed in.
He had fo get away to a place where no one would recognize him, a place where he could lose himself, lose his memories, lose his mind.
A place with no phones.
A heaviness grew in his chest. He was alone now. Truly alone. No one in the world he could turn to. Anything he had ever loved or cared about was either gone or closed to him. His folks were gone; his family home was a vacant lot with a charred spot at its center; he was barred from St. Francis; and the Church and the Society would turn him in and disown him if he went to them for help.
And Danny was gone… poor dear Danny was gone too.