Faustus Resurrectus (44 page)

He’s gone, right? I beat him, right?

Although he knew he had, adrenaline still energized him, driving him down to the walkway. The pentagram remained where he’d painted it, a beacon guiding him to safety. He pulled himself along the walkway, braced his feet against its rail and put his back to the door, fighting the hydraulics. The exertion drained his air, and the edge of things got fuzzy.

Maybe I
am
supposed to be with her…

Something brushed his leg. He jumped, and the extra push forced the hydraulics to give an inch. When they did there was no stopping the weight of the water and the door groaned open, spewing out a ton of holy water and Donovan. He crawled out of the way as the water inundated the corridor, not stopping until it had leveled off at the base of the door.

He stuck his head around the corner.

The runoff chamber remained half-flooded. There was no sign of Mephistopheles, but something else caught his eye.

The body of a young boy floated, face down.

Donovan plunged back into the room, dragging him from the chamber and out to solid ground. He pumped his hands on the boy’s chest, giving him mouth-to-mouth until the boy gagged, turned onto his side, and threw up.

Donovan gasped and sat back.
Coletun Ruscht, I presume?

The boy mumbled something, closed his eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness.

EPILOGUE

PYRRHIC ASHES

S
ilver Mount Cemetery is a small, discreet burial ground that lies opposite Silver Lake Park and Silver Lake Golf Course in the northern section of Staten Island. Not as elaborate a cemetery as others of the borough or as historical as those in Manhattan, it’s a peaceful tract where polished headstones extend a hundred and fifty yards or so back from the street to a hill topped by thick trees. A single serpentine path winds through the well-maintained grounds, past crypts, wooded plots and memorials dating to the early 1900s, before circling back on itself and returning to Victory Boulevard.

The morning was cold and lonely as Donovan stood above the freshly covered grave. He’d been in the hospital for the funeral, so now was the first opportunity he’d had to pay his respects. Physically, it would be some time before he fully recovered. Most of the crisp gauze strapping his body was hidden by his black suit and black leather trenchcoat, and the parts of his face not covered by his sunglasses had already begun to turn a variety of colors. He wore the sunglasses on this cloudy day to hide the black eyes from his broken nose. When he limped even a casual observer could tell he’d been badly beaten.

Emotionally, no bandage could staunch the bleeding.

“I killed her.”

Father Carroll stood next to him, dressed in his simple priest’s black suit, looking none the worse for his battle at the Cancer Hospital. “Yes.”

“I had to.”

“Yes, you did.” He laid a hand on Donovan’s shoulder.

Donovan didn’t seem to notice. “There was no other way. And then I found out it didn’t even matter. Lucifer knew all along what was going on. He answered Valdes’ invocation for some fun. I killed her for…” His whole body began to tighten. He forced himself to breathe. “Is that the best we can do? Provide amusement to the forces of the universe?”

Father Carroll said nothing.

“You told me I was on the right path, but…” He paused to take a deep breath, flinching when his broken ribs shifted. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“You can, my son. You can.” The priest’s warmth chased the misty chill. “I believe you know that. In time you’ll
accept
it as well. Reluctance and fear aren’t sins to be punished, they’re conditions of humanity. It’s when we overcome them that we honor God, for that’s when we are able to best serve His purposes.”

Donovan read the headstone again. He couldn’t even muster tears; he knew those would come later, when the numbness had finally gone and the world began to spin again. It was a moment he dreaded.

Father Carroll seemed to read his mind. Behind his spectacles he radiated encouragement. “You
will
move on, you know. It’s what the living do. Only the dead face no change.”

“Yeah,” Donovan said in a whisper. He glanced over and his voice grew thick. “You think you could give God a message for me?”

The priest shook his head, a good-natured chuckle lighting his smile. “That sort of language is frowned upon up there.”

“Donovan?” Fullam called as he trudged up the path to the grave. He stepped carefully, keeping his shoes clean. “Who are you talking to?”

Father Carroll dissolved like a dandelion in the breeze.

Donovan turned from the priest’s grave. “A ghost.”

The sergeant frowned, unsure whether he was serious. “Joann just called. She’s on the Verrazano; she’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Donovan nodded silently. He began to slowly, painfully, make his way down to the cemetery entrance.

“I know you’ve been drugged up lately,” Fullam followed, eying him, “but as a trained detective, I can see things aren’t straight between the two of you.”

Donovan kept walking. He said nothing.

I wasn’t able to protect Joann when it mattered, but ultimately I’m the only one who could have saved her. And I did. At what cost?

What am I going to do?

Fullam paced quicker, frustration casting a shadow across his face. “What the hell happened on the Great Lawn? Why won’t you talk to anybody?” He kept a respectful distance from him, but his desire to help bridged the chasm. “She doesn’t remember anything. Some guy dressed in a monk’s robe tells her you were arrested, and the next thing she knows she’s lying in the dirt with a diamond-shaped scar on her chest. A scar which I happened to note has the exact dimensions of one of those spires we were using against the…apocalyptic cultists.”

Donovan held his poker face. “Is that a fact?”

The metal scraped bone as her dead body slid down it…

“Yeah.” Fullam waited for more. When nothing came he sighed. “Anyway,” he took an airline voucher from inside his brand-new Burberry raincoat, “your flight leaves at eight tonight. You can leave your motorcycle at the precinct; I’ve got a ride for you whenever you want to leave. Hugh and Clark both wanted you out of town sooner, but fuck
’
em. Take your time.” Without looking, Donovan stuffed it into his pocket. “It’s open-return, so stay over there as long as you want. The Feds are picking up the tab.” Fullam grunted. “Hawaii; must be nice to travel on the government’s dime.”

Donovan thought about the tsunami of media coverage Valdes’s conquest of Central Park had engendered. It turned out one of the hostages the heliophobic devils had put in the pen was Chessie Cummings, a local television reporter. Overnight she’d become an international celebrity, and the NYPD and the FBI were only too happy to confirm certain elements of her story so that everything looked as “normal” as was possible. It was a version easier to push with Donovan out of the picture, so he’d been “cordially invited” to take an extended vacation in paradise.

“Don’t make your silence cheap for them,” Fullam went on. “You earned it. When they’re finished taking all the credit, maybe they’ll acknowledge that.”

I wouldn’t count on it.
“They can have the spotlight. I don’t care.”

“Uh
hunh
.” The sergeant shot his cuffs, brushed some condensation from his sleeves and tried another tack. “You heard the Cancer Hospital is gone, right? All the red tape that was holding up demolition and construction of new housing has mysteriously been cut.”

“Really?”

“They start blowing it up next week.”

Father Carroll’s memorial.
He squashed a spurt of anger.
Blow it all to hell.
“What about Coletun?”

“The kid? I thought you heard—well, I guess you’ve been out of the loop while you were in the hospital. The Church has him. Apparently he has no relatives in Blue Moon Bay or anywhere else, and an official contingent from the Vatican came in. Somehow they managed to obtain custody.”

“The Vatican?”

“All that way for a poor little orphan from Michigan. They’ve, ah,
graciously
agreed to see to his care, and to raise him.” The sergeant tapped the side of his nose. “
If
he ever comes out of that coma.”

“Nice and neat.” Seeing the loose ends gathered made Donovan feel empty, used up. He stopped and checked the street for Joann’s car. “At least you got to keep your job. Are you getting anything else out of this?”

Fullam snorted. “My name in the papers, several paragraphs below Hugh and Clark. A bonus that’s going towards a wardrobe upgrade.” He held his raincoat open to display his new Armani suit. “There’s been some talk jumping me up the promotion ladder, too, but we’ll see. ‘Lieutenant Frank Fullam.’” He chuckled. “We’ll see.”

“Good to hear.” Donovan looked at him, then back at Father Carroll’s grave. “So…how are
you
doing?”

The sergeant gave this some consideration. “Better than a lot of other people,” he said finally. “But I wasn’t in the thick of it for very long. I told you—I don’t have to believe in it. You do.” He shrugged. “I believe in you.”

A black limousine drove up Victory Boulevard and pulled over in front of the cemetery. Joann emerged from the back seat, looking more attractive than Donovan could ever remember. Although—as Fullam had noted—she remembered nothing after a certain point, her captivity and the role Valdes had forced her into had given her a deeper, stronger belief in herself. Donovan saw that confidence translate into a serenity that polished and matured her beauty. Even coming straight from work she looked stunning, with her blonde hair pulled into a loose bun and her business suit tailored to perfection under a pearl gray trenchcoat.

Conrad got out behind her, in a beige raincoat, and leaned back in to talk to the driver.

“Frank.” She embraced him, lips brushing his cheek.

“Hey, Joann,” he said.

She carefully put her arms around Donovan. He rested his hands on her waist. “Mmmm. That’s the first time I’ve done that in a while.” She felt his back stiffen and she immediately released him. “It’s not the same, hugging you while you’re lying down.”

He pulled her to him, ignoring his injuries. She squeezed him once and stepped back. Her eyes were shining. “Let me go pay my respects.”

Donovan stepped aside and watched her stride up the hill.

“You, uh, want me to stick around?” Fullam asked. “Give you a lift back to the city?”

Donovan shook his head. “I’ll find my way.”

“All right. Don’t forget—ride’s waiting whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks.”

He watched Fullam drive away.

“Hey.” Joann had come back down without his being aware. “How are you doing?”

“Okay.” Donovan managed a half-smile. He gestured towards Silver Lake Park. “Take a walk?”

They crossed the street and were soon on the path surrounding Silver Lake. Fog whispered in the air around them, coating benches and grass with just enough moisture to soften the edges of the scene. The lake was actually another city reservoir surrounded by a fence, but landscaping inside the fence and the park created enough atmosphere to support the description.

The sight of the black wrought-iron spires in one section of the fence made him cringe.

“I’m glad you’re back to work,” he said. “What’s happening on the prosecution side?”

She took his hand, mindful of how tender the pentagram scar remained. “Since the official version of events is the whole apocalyptic cult thing, we’re looking for ‘the leaders of the movement.’ You said Valdes was killed but there hasn’t been any trace of his body found. Of course, in all that, that…” She shuddered at the memory of the carnage. “We may never have confirmation, so he remains officially missing. Mainly, we’re looking to build a case against the leaders of the mob.”

“Not Faustus?”

“No.” Mention of his name in connection with the crimes agitated her, as though prosecuting him would be an affront to justice. She didn’t seem to be aware of this, Donovan noted. “Not Faustus. Not…Faustus.”

He wondered if her experiences were buried too deep to ever return. “Good luck on the homeless angle. Think you’ll be able to show any of them has the brains to put this all together?”

“Valdes will remain the titular head of the cult, so we won’t really have to. Things should be fine as long as we get convictions among those we captured, which won’t be hard considering how many witnesses we have, and most of them are police officers and FBI agents.”

“‘Those we captured’; did a lot get away?”

“Best estimates are we got about eighty percent—” She stopped short. Donovan followed her gaze to a homeless man digging through a steel mesh garbage can. “Hold on a second.”

She strode purposefully over to the man and slipped him some folded money. The man looked at it and, with much effusive arm waving, began to thank her. She smiled, said something, and came back to where Donovan waited. The man called more thanks.

“Feeling generous?”

“Let’s just say I have a new appreciation for some people’s situations.” She tightened her coat around her. “And, until she has to testify, Josie Ludescowicz is safe and sound back in Iowa.”

Donovan remembered the chubby blonde girl. “I’m glad.”

“I remember some of it,” she said abruptly.

He paused. “How much?”

“The monk. He smelled like sandalwood. Faustus, of course. And I was supposed to be…The Vessel.”

He waited.

“What did that mean?” Her hand rose to her breast, where Donovan knew she had the diamond-shaped scar. “Was I?”

He studied her, keeping his face expressionless.
Who am I keeping it from, her or me?
“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Does it?” She leaned close to him. “Are we safe?”

“Yes.” He put all the reassurance he could summon into his voice. “As far as…the monk—he’d almost said “Mephistopheles”—was concerned you could have been any beautiful woman.”
The only reason he’d come after you now is to get at me
. The realization stung him. “The Universe has rules. Checks and balances,” he assured her, not adding that few of them were absolute. “…People can’t just come and go as they please.”