Now Dan recognized him. “The man from the Shin...” He fumbled for the word.
“Shin Bet. The name is Kesev. But I’m here unofficially now.”
“I wish we’d never gone to Israel,” he said, feeling a sob growing in his chest.
Carrie...dead. Dan still couldn’t believe it. This had to be a dream, the worst nightmare imaginable. A dream. That was the only logical explanation for all these fantastic, unexplainable events, the most unbelievable of which was Carrie’s death. Life without Carrie...a Carrie-less world...unthinkable.
But it had seemed so real when he’d held her limp, cold, blood-drenched body in his arms back there in St. Joe’s.
So real!
“I wish you’d arrested us and jailed us. At least then Carrie would still be alive.”
“So do I,” Kesev said. “For more than her sake alone. There are other matters to consider.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
Dan heard the belligerence creeping into his tone, into his mood. What right did this Israeli bastard have to come up to him here in the depths of his grief and start bothering him about Carrie? What did anything matter now that Carrie was dead?
“We must find the Mother.”
“You find her! She’s brought me nothing but grief.”
He started rise but Kesev restrained him with a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder.
“If we find the Mother, we find the killers.”
Dan leaned back into the chair. Find the killers...wouldn’t that be nice? To wrap his fingers around that big bearded bastard’s throat and squeeze and squeeze, and keep on squeezing until—
“Father Fitzpatrick?”
Dan looked up. One of the homicide detectives who’d questioned him before was approaching—Sergeant Gardner. He carried a black plastic bag in his hand. What did he want now? He’d told him everything, given descriptions of the killers, the sound of their voices, anything he could think of. He was tapped out.
He noticed Kesev slipping away as the detective neared.
“They’re shipping her remains uptown,” Gardner said.
Dan lurched to his feet. “Why? Where?”
“S-O-P. To the morgue. They’re going to autopsy her right away.”
“So soon?” Hadn’t Carrie been through enough? “I’d’ve thought—”
“The pressure’s on, Father. We’ve got a big, mean, unruly crowd outside your church, and from what I hear, the commish has already heard from the cardinal, the mayor, Albany, even the Israeli embassy. Everybody but everybody wants these guys caught and that relic returned. The commish wants a full forensic report on his desk by six a.m., so they’re going to do her right away.”
“Can I see her before—?”
Gardner shook his head. “Sorry. She’s gone. Saw her off myself.” He held out the black plastic bag. “But here’s her personal effects. You want to return them to the convent? If not...”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll take them.”
Detective Gardner handed the bag over and stood before him, awkward, silent. Finally he said, “We’ll get them, Father.”
Dan could only nod.
As the detective hurried away, Dan sat and opened the bag. Not much there: a wallet, a rosary, and Carrie’s Zip-loc bags of the Virgin’s clippings and nail filings.
For an insane moment Dan thought of cabbing up to the morgue—it was up in the Bellevue complex, wasn’t it?...First Avenue and 30th...he could be there in a couple of minutes. He’d sneak into the autopsy room. He’d sprinkle the entire contents of both bags over Carrie’s body and...
And what? Bring her back to life?
Who am I kidding? he thought. That’s Stephen King stuff. Carrie’s gone...forever.
Without warning, he broke into deep, wracking sobs. He hadn’t even felt them coming. Suddenly they were there, convulsing his chest as they ripped free.
A hand touched his shoulder. He fought for control and looked up. The man called Kesev had returned.
“Come, Father Fitzpatrick. I’ll take you home. There are things we must discuss.”
Dan nodded absently. Home...where was that? The rectory? That wasn’t home. Where was home now that Carrie was dead? He didn’t care where he went now, he just knew he didn’t want to stay in this hospital.
He bunched up the neck of the plastic bag and followed Kesev toward the exit.
‡
Manhattan
Dr. Darryl Chin, Second Assistant Medical Examiner for New York City yawned as he pulled on a pair of examination gloves. This is what you get, he supposed, when you’re downline in the pecking order and you live in the East Village: They need somebody quick, they call you.
“Could be a lot worse,” he muttered.
He looked down at the naked female cadaver supine before him on the stainless steel autopsy table, dead-pale skin, breasts caked with blood, dark hair tangled in disarray, jaw slack, dull blue eyes staring lifelessly at the overhead fluorescents. The murdered nun he’d heard about on the news tonight. Young, pretty, and fresh. The fresh part was important. Only a few hours cold. He might get some useful information out of her. Better than some stinking, macerated, crab-nibbled corpse they’d dragged out of the Hudson. And this was a neat chest wound, not some messy gut shot. He’d be through with this one in no time.
If he ever got started.
Where the hell was Lou Ann? She was supposed to assist him tonight. She lived in Queens and had a longer ride, but she should have been here by now. Probably had to put on her face before she came in. Darryl had never seen her without two tons of eye liner and mascara.
Vanity, woman be thy name.
No use in wasting time. He could get started without her. Open and drain the thorax at least. These chest wounds always left the cavity filled with blood.
He probed the entry wound with his little finger. Looked like the work of a 9mm slug. Good shot. Right into the heart. Poor girl probably never knew what hit her.
He reached up and adjusted the voice-activated mike that hung over the table. He gave the date and read off the name of the subject and presumed cause of death from the ID card, then reached for his scalpel.
Time to open her up. Get the major incisions out of the way, drain and measure the volume of blood in the thoracic cavity, and by then Lou Ann would be here and they could start in on the individual organs.
He poked his index finger into the suprasternal notch atop the breast bone, laid the point of the blade against the skin just below the notch, and leaned over the table to make the first long incision down the center of the sternum.
“Please don’t do that.”
A woman’s voice. He looked around. Who—?
Then he looked down. The cadaver’s blue eyes were no longer dull and unfocused. They were bright and moving, looking at him. They blinked.
The scalpel clattered on the metal table as he jumped back.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Please don’t take His name in vain,” the nun said, staring at him as she levered up to a sitting position on the table.
Darryl felt his heart hammering in his chest, heard a roaring in his ears as he backed away.
She’s dead! She’s dead but she’s talking, moving!
She swung her legs over the side of the table and slipped to the floor. Still backing away, Darryl dumbly watched her naked form cross the room like a sleepwalker and pull a white lab coat from a hook on the wall.
Darryl’s heel caught against something on the floor and he fell backward, his arms pinwheeling for balance. He grabbed the edge of a table but his fingers slipped off the shiny surface and he landed on his buttocks. His head snapped back and struck the painted concrete block of the wall.
Darryl tried to call out but found he had no voice. He tried to hold onto consciousness but found it a losing battle.
The last thing he saw before darkness closed in was the dead woman slipping into the lab coat and walking out the door, leaving it open behind her.
‡
Mecca, Saudi Arabia
The sun rises over the Arabian sea and strikes the minarets and domes of Masjid al Haram. The mosque and every open spot around it as well as its central courtyard, home to the Kaaba, are packed with the faithful who have rushed here from all directions. More are on the way, careening from all over the world to protect the holiest place in all of Islam. They have brought their prayer rugs and are on their knees, their foreheads pressed to the ground as they face the Kaaba and pray to Allah to save the Masjid al Haram.