Fires Rising (4 page)

"The actual demolition won't start until next week," Miller said. "At this point in time the crews are disassembling the pews and some of the other items on the donation list. As discussed, we'll need you to approve the new applications before we can move them all out."

Pilazzo nodded. He looked at the tree and noticed the sparrows had indeed taken flight.
The tree looks empty without them. Like the Church of St. Peter does now, minus its parishioners.

"And the statues, and the crucifix behind the altar…" Henry added.

"What about them?" Pilazzo diverted his attention back to the foreman. His heart began to pound. He massaged his chest with a closed fist, thinking,
I can't take much more of this. I feel as if my insides are being ripped out.
 
"They haven't been damaged, have they?"

Miller hesitated. His face paled, drawn of its color, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "No, they have not," he answered weakly,
guiltily
.

Pilazzo said, "I've performed thousands of masses under the watchful eyes of those statues. I hope nothing bad has happened to them."

"As you know, our…our crews are not insured for moving such valuables. Again, I strongly suggest you hire a moving company to handle them. We won't be able to move them out unless you sign a damage waiver…but I advise against that. Our men aren't quite trained to be delicate, ya know what I mean?"

If it weren't considered an act defiant of the graces of God, Pilazzo would have cursed the man out, and lord, it probably would have felt darn good using those words he'd only heard others say during confession, or in the movies.

"I'll see to it, then," he uttered, eyeing Miller suspiciously. Something about the foreman was really bothering Pilazzo.
It's his eyes
, he thought. They're cold and dark, embroiled in guilt. Then he wondered if he and his men had damaged the statues after all. Had they desecrated the last remaining vestiges of the Church of St. Peter in some vile, immoral, time-wasting horseplay?

Dear God, no…

Again Pilazzo stared into the darkness beyond the open door of the church.

The breeze emerged once more, as if attempting to send a message to the priest. This time it created a spiral of dust at the jamb that for a moment resembled a tiny tornado. Pilazzo felt himself being drawn toward the windswept debris, toward the door and the waiting darkness beyond, his mind suddenly released of its anger and frustration, brimming with a want to enter the church one last time and bless its walls before they came tumbling down.

It's calling to me, as though it is alive, begging me to grant upon it salvation from its looming demise.

Something is calling me, and I must follow…

"Father?"

Pilazzo turned and looked at Henry Miller. The foreman had removed his yellow hardhat, exposing a hairless, sweaty, sun-burned head. There was a patchwork of dark lumpy freckles toward the rear of his dome, suggesting too much time in the sun and not enough concern for skin cancer. "Yes…Mr. Miller, what is it?"

"It's lunch time now." A near-cocky grin cut into his stone face. "The guys are on break for the next hour. If they ask you for ID when they get back, just show them this." He handed Pilazzo a plastic card with the word
VISITOR
in big bold letters on the front. Along the top in smaller letters was the name of the construction company:
Pale Horse Industrial
.

Pilazzo grinned, despite the upsetting state of affairs. He pinned the foreman's eyes, which appeared peculiarly black under the sun's glare. "Thank you Mr. Miller."

Henry Miller nodded. "You're welcome, Father."

"If I've sounded crass, please know it's because I've been living in this rectory for seventeen years. After getting evicted…well, let's just say that the last two months of my life have been less than comfortable."

"I understand," Henry Miller said unconvincingly, seemingly impatient with the priest.

Pilazzo shook his head back and forth, suddenly and quite inexplicably assaulted with feelings of anger and resentment. "No, I don't think you do, Mr. Miller. Imagine this: one day you wake up and there are city employees knocking on your door telling you that one of their paid-for-hire attorneys has just found a loophole in your sixty year-old contract, and that now they own your property, and "thank you for your business sir", but you now have exactly one week to gather up your things and get out. Think about it Mr. Miller. How would that make you feel?"

Henry Miller nodded, dark eyes again aimed toward the ground. He looked like a scolded child—one with a hidden weapon up his sleeve. "Not too good, I suppose…" He hesitated, adding as Pilazzo gazed at the open door, "If you don't mind, Father—" He pointed up the street, signaling his exit. "I'm on union hours."

Pilazzo brushed him away with one hand. "Go, then. I'll be fine."

"There's some protective gear on the table to the right, as soon as you walk in. There's also a yellow envelope in there. Inside are the documents for you to sign. The ones on top are for the donations, the others are damage waivers. But again, I must tell you we'd rather not have to move—"

"I'll hire a mover," the priest retorted, keeping his gaze pinned to the door and the black space beyond. "But I won't sign anything until I have to.. I have to sit in the confessional this afternoon, and really can't afford any distractions."

Let the foreman wait.

Henry Miller grinned smugly. "Tomorrow, then. But I'd prefer if you came at noon, so there won't be any work going on while you're inside. For your safety." He tossed his hardhat into a tailgate cab, and bustled away, the sun beating down against his spotted baldness.

Father Anthony Pilazzo remained standing on the cordoned-off sidewalk for what seemed an eternity, staring into the stark blackness beyond the doors—the void of his church that seemed to plead for his cooling presence.

This time, no whirling dust…but still, it calls me. I can feel it…
He took a deep breath, then paced away from the place he'd called home for nearly twenty years.

A
gain Jyro dreamed of the fathers of the church who'd labored so hard to erect its walls and adorn its interior. Like a fly on the wall, he witnessed the men of the past digging a ditch at the bottom of a similar hole to the one he found in the rec room. He watched as they threw their shovels down and lowered the crate with the odd lettering into its hidden depths.

Dozens of others—men, women, and children—looked on from the upper perimeter of the hole. They were crying and praying with their eyes closed and their heads shaking back and forth, tears glistening in the flickering candlelight.

The men standing in the hole began to shovel dirt back on top of the crate. An odd wash of red light spilled out of the crate and spread across the entire hole. Now he could see dead, naked bodies lying in the hole, dozens of them, men women, and children, bleeding out onto the dark soil. They'd been quartered, their arms and legs positioned across their torsos like logs on a flatbed, drawn bowels exposed to the elements. Blood streamed from their eviscerated abdomens into the ditch where the crate was buried, seemingly flowing of its own accord.

Jyro tried to move closer to the action taking place—he wanted to confirm that what he was seeing was real, that they were in fact murdered…no
sacrificed
people being buried in the hole, that their blood was actually
flowing
across the bottom of the ditch. He felt himself floating down from his place of safety into the crowd of onlookers. When he reached the ground, he staggered through the people gathered around the hole until he broke through the front of the line. Here he was confronted by the waiting gazes of the men in the hole, each and every one of them staring up at him as if he were an intruding enemy. One of the men appeared beside him and grasped his arm, brandishing a knife, its twelve-inch blade coated in blood. Jyro tried to scream but like in any other nightmare, was unable to find his voice.

The man's eyes turned black, and with a single strong-armed thrust, he plunged the bloody knife into Jyro's gut…

J
yro startled awake, the horrific and utterly realistic nightmare giving way to the snores of the sleeping vagrants in the bedroom.

He rubbed his eyes, and then his stomach, feeling the ghostly ache of the knife from his dream. As the images of his dream faded and his conscious state grew more tangible, he wondered if the chalice he saw floating in the air had indeed been real.

And if so, was it still there now?

The rosary!

Heart pounding, he clawed into his right pocket, and for a moment panicked because all he felt was a torn hole giving way to the rough bare skin of his thigh. But then he realized he was fishing in the wrong pocket, and upon examining his left pocket was relieved to find the beads still there.

This means the chalice I saw
was
real…

He struggled to his knees and started looking around for a good place to hide because he wanted—
needed
—to remain alone with the rosary. After all, it had called to
him
and even perhaps had a message for him. He climbed to his feet and a number of tender places on his body reminded him of his fall into the hole: his back, hips, and legs all throbbing with sharp aches and pains. Grimacing, he bent over to massage his right thigh and saw the halogen flashlight he'd taken from Larry on the floor alongside the wall.

He retrieved the flashlight and plodded away from the carpeted landing, his laceless boots leaving a dusty trail on the hallway's hardwood floor. He passed the bedroom and peeked inside. It was still packed with sprawled bodies, many of them snoring loudly or mumbling in their sleep. Beams of dim light played in through the room's only window, illuminating the dust motes floating lazily over the sleeping men.

It's morning now…how many hours have I been sleeping for?

He looked down the hall toward the rectory's only bathroom, its door slightly ajar.

He limped to it, hesitated at the threshold…then went inside.

Something is calling me. And I must follow.

The bathroom stunk to high-heaven. He switched the flashlight on and shined it around. He glimpsed the toilet, now backed up and overflowing with thick, dark sewage. Gagging, he turned, thought about leaving but ended up closing the door behind him, fighting back the stink with a nausea-filled gulp. He took a step forward, placed the flashlight on the edge of the sink and aimed it toward himself, then cocked an ear against the door.

Certain that no one else was around, he dug a hand into his pocket, and took out the rosary.

It is beautiful…

Like an entomologist studying an insect, he contemplated it with heart-pounding fascination, with awe. He touched every marble-sized bead, the lone crucifix, its oddly-shaped charms carved in ancient wood.

It is mine. It called to me…

One thing was for certain: he wouldn't let anyone else see it. If they did they would most certainly fight him for it, because a charm like this would fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop on 8
^th
Avenue and 44
^th
Street—enough, at least, to buy a good bottle of liquor, or a meal at Tad's steakhouse.

He closed his eyes and let the rosary slip through his fingers. They seemed to press up against his skin, like a cat looking to be petted.
Must be my imagination
, he thought, feeling the weighty grain of the beads as they released a pinpoint of
warmth
into his palms.

The
center
of his palms…

Time seemed to slow. He felt rejuvenated, stronger perhaps. When he moved his arms he could feel his bicep muscles flexing. Truth be told, the aches and pains from his fall last night were no longer there.
It's as if it's…healing me.

His fingers weaved about the beads, more fervently now. Out of the blue, fond memories of his mother returned to him, she doting upon him when he was a smart young boy, watching over him every second of the day with her strict eye and God-fearing intent to protect her only son from the evils of the world. As a young boy, Jerry Roberts saw no choice but to gratefully accept his mother's vigilant security, and follow God's intended path for him.

He saw images of his father, and how the man had impinged upon him a harsh and drunken demand to 'ignore his nutjob of a mother', had told him to find some work other than his after-school duties as an altar boy at the Church of Holy Innocents. His father would shout out, time and time again:
We need you to help support the family. We earn barely enough money to pay the rent on this hell-forsaken rathole we call home. You've earned straight-A's in school—put some of those smarts to work and help us pay the goddamned bills!

Jyro realized that his father had been justified in his demands, but was unable to win the losing battle, and in dire frustration had chosen to drink away his sorrows. In the end, his father had surrendered his liver to the Devil, who as his mother once said, was more than willing to take it from him.