tape.
“Hey you, you can’t go in there!”
Another cop recognized him. “Let him through. He’s a priest.”
“A priest?” The first cop looked astonished. He was a nat. All the cops were. Sergeant Mole was the only joker cop in the Jokertown Precinct, and they kept him down in the basement filed away out of sight, much like the records that he maintained. “Well, all right.” He turned to his partner as Father Squid, who had not slowed his inexorable pace, marched past with an unreadable expression on his face. “They’re sure making them weird-looking these days.” He shrugged. “Nobody in there needs a priest, anyway.”
If Father Squid heard, he gave no sign. His first prayer denied, he prayed again, Let it not be Lizzie.
He could smell the blood and death as he came through the front door. It was like ’Nam again. Or as if he were running with the Black Dog once more. The stink of death, like the blood, was everywhere. Crime scene techs and uniformed cops were swarming the tiny little diner with their cameras and their notebooks and their normal, brisk, unaffected faces. There were bodies. There was blood. There was, draped on the floor, Lizzie, still glowing faintly. Her skin was a pale, washed-out green.
“Hey, you!” someone shouted. “You can’t come in here.”
“He’s a priest.” The young cop who’d first vouched for him was standing by his shoulder.
A man came up to him. He was a few inches shorter than Father Squid and of moderate build, dark-haired, and young. “I’m Detective Storgman,” he said. “You are?”
“Father Squid.” He didn’t look at the man. He couldn’t take his eyes off Lizzie. He’d seen many bodies in his day, and he knew a corpse when he saw one. He was hardly aware that he spoke again. “What happened?”
“Looks like a robbery gone bad,” the young nat detective said. “Did you know anyone here?”
Father Squid still couldn’t take his eyes off Lizzie’s body. He wanted to, but he was afraid that he’d collapse if he moved so much as a single muscle. When he spoke again his voice was without inflection.
“Not for long enough,” he said. “Not nearly long enough.”
SEPTEMBER, 2010
That was how, Father Squid thought, it ended.
Partly, anyway. Because it really wasn’t over, not even now, over thirty years later.
The horror he’d found at the Rathole that night still haunted his dreams, and at times would even catch him unaware during his waking hours. He’d never stop paying for his role in the events that culminated in the killings.
He leaned like a sick man against the wall behind which Lizzie was entombed, then pushed himself erect and shambled back down the corridor and up the stairs, the tears drying on his cheeks before he gained the sunlight again.
♣ ♦ ♠ ♥
The Rat Race
Part 3.
WANDA ARRIVED PROMPTLY AT Leo’s desk, just as he was swiping up his keys, adjusting his hat, and reaching for his jacket. “Your timing’s great,” he told her.
“I never miss a date.”
“Is that what this is?”
She shrugged. “It’s a lunch date, anyway. And then a trip to the morgue— very romantic.”
“The newspaper morgue. And it was your idea.” He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. It wasn’t every day a pretty woman showed up at his desk, inviting herself into his lunch hour.
“And I appreciate you humoring me. Should we walk it or ride?” he asked.
With a glance down at her very high heels, Wanda said, “Let’s ride.”
“Works for me,” he said.
Just then his partner—a tall, pleasant-looking black man about half Leo’s age—dropped a stack of folders onto his own adjoining desk. “A ride to where?” he asked curiously, lifting an eyebrow at the sight of Wanda.
Before Leo could answer, Wanda said, “Oh, we’re just getting lunch and thinking about a cab. And you are.…?”
“Michael Stevens.” He nearly tripped over himself to make the introduction. “I’m Leo’s
“Hey you, you can’t go in there!”
Another cop recognized him. “Let him through. He’s a priest.”
“A priest?” The first cop looked astonished. He was a nat. All the cops were. Sergeant Mole was the only joker cop in the Jokertown Precinct, and they kept him down in the basement filed away out of sight, much like the records that he maintained. “Well, all right.” He turned to his partner as Father Squid, who had not slowed his inexorable pace, marched past with an unreadable expression on his face. “They’re sure making them weird-looking these days.” He shrugged. “Nobody in there needs a priest, anyway.”
If Father Squid heard, he gave no sign. His first prayer denied, he prayed again, Let it not be Lizzie.
He could smell the blood and death as he came through the front door. It was like ’Nam again. Or as if he were running with the Black Dog once more. The stink of death, like the blood, was everywhere. Crime scene techs and uniformed cops were swarming the tiny little diner with their cameras and their notebooks and their normal, brisk, unaffected faces. There were bodies. There was blood. There was, draped on the floor, Lizzie, still glowing faintly. Her skin was a pale, washed-out green.
“Hey, you!” someone shouted. “You can’t come in here.”
“He’s a priest.” The young cop who’d first vouched for him was standing by his shoulder.
A man came up to him. He was a few inches shorter than Father Squid and of moderate build, dark-haired, and young. “I’m Detective Storgman,” he said. “You are?”
“Father Squid.” He didn’t look at the man. He couldn’t take his eyes off Lizzie. He’d seen many bodies in his day, and he knew a corpse when he saw one. He was hardly aware that he spoke again. “What happened?”
“Looks like a robbery gone bad,” the young nat detective said. “Did you know anyone here?”
Father Squid still couldn’t take his eyes off Lizzie’s body. He wanted to, but he was afraid that he’d collapse if he moved so much as a single muscle. When he spoke again his voice was without inflection.
“Not for long enough,” he said. “Not nearly long enough.”
SEPTEMBER, 2010
That was how, Father Squid thought, it ended.
Partly, anyway. Because it really wasn’t over, not even now, over thirty years later.
The horror he’d found at the Rathole that night still haunted his dreams, and at times would even catch him unaware during his waking hours. He’d never stop paying for his role in the events that culminated in the killings.
He leaned like a sick man against the wall behind which Lizzie was entombed, then pushed himself erect and shambled back down the corridor and up the stairs, the tears drying on his cheeks before he gained the sunlight again.
♣ ♦ ♠ ♥
The Rat Race
Part 3.
WANDA ARRIVED PROMPTLY AT Leo’s desk, just as he was swiping up his keys, adjusting his hat, and reaching for his jacket. “Your timing’s great,” he told her.
“I never miss a date.”
“Is that what this is?”
She shrugged. “It’s a lunch date, anyway. And then a trip to the morgue— very romantic.”
“The newspaper morgue. And it was your idea.” He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. It wasn’t every day a pretty woman showed up at his desk, inviting herself into his lunch hour.
“And I appreciate you humoring me. Should we walk it or ride?” he asked.
With a glance down at her very high heels, Wanda said, “Let’s ride.”
“Works for me,” he said.
Just then his partner—a tall, pleasant-looking black man about half Leo’s age—dropped a stack of folders onto his own adjoining desk. “A ride to where?” he asked curiously, lifting an eyebrow at the sight of Wanda.
Before Leo could answer, Wanda said, “Oh, we’re just getting lunch and thinking about a cab. And you are.…?”
“Michael Stevens.” He nearly tripped over himself to make the introduction. “I’m Leo’s
Similar Books
