I Am God (27 page)

‘You and I have to talk business, priest.’

‘We don’t have any business with each other, Jonas.’

‘Get off your high horse. I know things aren’t going too well in that place of yours. I’d like to give you a hand. I thought twenty grand might come in useful.’

Father McKean wondered how this delinquent had found out about Joy’s financial difficulties. Certainly not from his brother, who was terrified of him and avoided him like the plague. It was clear that right now, given how empty the community’s coffers were, twenty thousand dollars would be like manna from heaven. But they couldn’t take it from a man like that, with the kind of things he was involved in.

‘You can keep your money. We’ll manage.’

Jonas put his index finger on the priest’s chest and started to prod him as if trying to perforate his sternum. ‘Are you refusing my money? Do you think it’s dirty?’

He paused, as if reflecting on the implications of what he had just heard. He again looked at Father McKean.

‘So my money is no good …’

Then he pointed to the people around him and his anger exploded.

‘But these assholes’ money is all right, is that it? These men in their jackets and ties who look so respectable and buy the whores and the other shit that I sell. And all these women who act like little plaster saints but go around grabbing as much black dick as they can get hold of.’

A rustle and a moan behind him. Without turning, Father McKean realized that one of the women present had fainted. The rapper continued spreading his venom.

‘I only wanted to do some good. Help my brother and that fucking place where you live.’

Jonas Manson put his hand in his pocket and when he took it out he was clutching a knife. Father McKean heard it open with a dry snap and saw the blade glitter in the light. The noise around them increased, becoming the shuffle of feet on the wooden terrace. A couple of women screamed hysterically.

With the knife in his hand, Jonas turned towards Jubilee, who was watching him in terror.

‘Did you hear that, little brother? Did you hear how high and mighty this priest thinks he is?’

Jubilee took another step back, while Jonas approached the paintings. Father McKean moved to try to intercept him, but Dude moved with an agility that was impressive for someone of his size. He put his arms around the priest’s chest to immobilize him, and squeezed, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending a sharp pain shooting through his muscles.

‘Hold still, priest,’ Jonas said, ‘this is a family affair.’ He turned to Jubilee, who seemed to be about to faint. ‘And you don’t even say a word. You just let this piece of shit insult your brother.’

He made a quick movement, there was a tearing sound, and a long diagonal cut appeared on the painting in front of him. He was about to do the same thing to the next painting when from somewhere on their right came a voice.

‘All right, guys, you’ve had your fun. Now put the knife down and lie on the ground.’

Father McKean turned his head and saw a uniformed officer, standing on the lawn holding a gun aimed at Jonas. The rapper looked at him nonchalantly, as if having a gun pointed at him was a normal occurrence.

The officer made an impatient gesture with his weapon. ‘Did you hear what I said? Lie down on the ground with your hands behind your head. And you, gorilla, drop that man.’

Father McKean felt the pressure lessen, and air started returning to his lungs. Dude let go of him and joined his boss. Slowly, as if it was their own thoughtful concession rather than something imposed by a third party, they lay down on the floor and put their hands over their heads.

While the officer kept his eye on them and radioed for backup, Father McKean, free at last, turned towards the lake. He peered anxiously around the shore and the cycle track, searching for someone he couldn’t find.

His nightmare, the man in the green jacket, had vanished.

Vivien listened anxiously to the variations in the noise of the engine as the helicopter descended.

She didn’t like flying. She didn’t like being at the mercy of a vehicle she couldn’t control, in which every patch of
turbulence
made her jump and every change in the turning of the blades got her nervous. She looked out the window at the ground coming closer. Hanging in a black mass of darkness that seemed to have invaded the earth, the lights of the world lay beneath them. The triumphal light of a great city and the more isolated lights of the smaller towns
surrounding
it like satellites. The helicopter tilted and made an agile turn to the right. Below, directly in line with the front of the vehicle, signal lights marked the runway of a small airport.

The voice of the pilot over her headphones took her by surprise. Not a word had been spoken since the start of the flight.

‘We’ll be landing shortly.’

Vivien was glad to hear it. She hoped that by the time she started on the return journey she’d have a result that would allow her to face that interlude of emptiness and darkness in a different mood.

Darkness had overtaken them halfway through the journey, and Vivien had understood why it had been necessary to use
a helicopter equipped with blind flight, even though she couldn’t figure out how the pilot could possibly make anything of that mass of screens he had in front of him.

Beside her, leaning towards the window on his side, his head tilted slightly back, Russell had taken off his
headphones
and was sleeping, even snoring a little. Vivien sat looking at him for a few moments in the reflected light from the control panel and remembered his head resting on the pillow, his regular breathing in the semi-darkness, on the night she had got out of bed and gone to the window.

The night when the world had exploded, in every meaning of the word.

As if that image had been thrust forcefully into his sleep, Russell opened his eyes. ‘I must have dozed off.’

‘Unless you snore while you’re awake, I’d say you’re right.’

He yawned and turned to look out the window. ‘Where are we?’

‘Almost there. We’re descending.’

‘Good.’

Vivien went back to studying the terrain beneath them which, after that brief absence, was preparing to receive them again, although many miles away from the place they had started. She felt the urgency of the situation sucking her down like a vortex, and the responsibility weigh on her more than the pressure of the air above her.

After her conversation with Jeremy Cortese, it had taken most of the rest of the day to get a result. Bellew had contacted Commissioner Willard, who had immediately arranged the backup needed for that kind of research. An unspecified number of officers had dispersed to the hospitals, large and small, of Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn.

Code RFL.

They had extended the search to hospitals in New Jersey, calling on the support of the local police. Bellew, Vivien and Russell had waited in the second-floor office.

Vivien divided her time between longing for the captain’s telephone to ring and fear that her own cellphone would ring, bringing bad news from the clinic where Greta was being treated. Russell sat down in an armchair, and had put his legs up on the little table in front of him and stared into space, demonstrating a power of abstraction she wouldn’t have thought him capable of. The captain continued reading reports, but Vivien was prepared to bet that he had not absorbed a single word on those pages. The silence became like a spider’s web none of them wanted to escape. Words would only have led to other conjectures and other hopes, whereas what they needed now was something concrete, a message from reality.

By the time the phone on the desk rang, the light beyond the windows was stamping the approach of dusk on the walls. The captain lifted the receiver to his ear.

‘Bellew.’

The captain’s impassive expression didn’t give anything away to Russell and Vivien.

‘Wait.’

He had taken a pen and paper and Vivien saw him quickly write something.

‘Terrific work, boys. Congratulations.’

The receiver was not yet back in its place when the captain raised his head and held out what he had just written. Vivien took it gingerly, like an object that had just been pulled out of a fire.

‘We have a name. From Samaritan Faith Hospital in
Brooklyn. A couple of nurses remember the guy well. They say he really was a monster, disfigured all over his body. He died just over six months ago.’

Vivien lowered her eyes to the piece of paper. On it were the words

in the captain’s rapid, sloping handwriting.

Vivien found it incredible that a shadow they had been chasing in vain had suddenly become a human being with a name and address and date of birth. But what was equally incredible was the number of victims linked to that name and how many others would eventually have to be added to the list.

As she read, Bellew was already going into action. He was already talking to the switchboard.

‘Get me the police in Hornell, New York State.’

As he waited to be put through, he put the call on speakerphone, so that they could all listen. A professional voice came out of the small speaker.

‘Hornell police headquarters. How can I help you?’

‘This is Captain Alan Bellew of the 13th Precinct in Manhattan. Who am I speaking to?’

‘Officer Drew, sir.’

‘I need to speak with your chief. As soon as possible.’

‘One moment, sir.’

Bellew was put on hold. A jingle played briefly, followed after a few moments by a deep voice sounding much more mature than the previous one.

‘Captain Caldwell.’

‘I’m Captain Alan Bellew of the NYPD.’

At the other end there was a brief silence.

‘Good evening, captain. What can I do for you?’

‘I need information on a man named Wendell Johnson. All I know is that he was born in Hornell on 7 June 1948. Do have anything on him in your files?’

‘Just a moment.’

Only the noise of fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard. Then Captain Caldwell’s voice returned.

‘Here he is. Wendell Bruce Johnson. The only prior I have is an arrest for driving while intoxicated, in May 1968. There’s nothing else on him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Give me another moment, please.’

Again the noise of fingers on keys and then again the voice. Vivien imagined a corpulent man trying to come to terms with a technology he didn’t quite understand, a man whose main objective in life was to hand out as many fines as possible to justify his salary to the city council.

‘There was someone taken in with him, for resisting arrest. A man named Lester Johnson.’

‘His father or his brother?’

‘From the date of birth, it has to be the brother. There’s only a year between them.’

‘Do you know if this Lester is still living in Hornell?’

‘Unfortunately, I’m not from around here. In fact I’ve only just started in the job. I don’t yet know many people. If you give me another few seconds I’ll check.’

‘That would be very helpful.’

Vivien saw on Bellew’s face the temptation to explain that all those seconds added up to days and months. And they were having difficulty finding hours in a situation like this.

In spite of everything, Captain Caldwell replied calmly and politely, ‘There’s no Wendell Johnson in the phone book. But there is a Lester Johnson, at 88 Fulton Street.’

‘Good. I’m sending you a couple of people in a helicopter. Can you provide a place where they can land?’

‘There’s Hornell Municipal Airport.’

‘Perfect. They’ll be arriving as soon as possible. After that, I’m going to need your help.’

‘Whatever you need.’

‘If you could go to meet them personally that would be great. In addition it’s vital that this conversation remain confidential. Very confidential – have I made myself clear?’

‘Loud and clear.’

‘I’ll speak to you soon then.’

The captain hung up and looked at Vivien and Russell.

‘As I think you heard, you need to take a little trip. In the meantime I’ll send a team to search this Johnson guy’s address in Brooklyn. It’s a formality, because I don’t think we’ll find anything, but in a case like this you never know.’

Within fifteen minutes Bellew had requested and obtained the use of a helicopter equipped for night flights. Vivien and Russell were driven at high speed to a soccer field on 15th Street, on the banks of the East River. The helicopter arrived soon afterwards, a graceless, overgrown insect that moved agilely in the sky. No sooner did they get on than the earth spun away from them and the city became a sequence of houses and towers down below until it had disappeared behind them. The plunge into darkness happened in slow motion, with only an ever thinner blade of light on the horizon to recall that the sun still existed.

The pilot brought the helicopter down smoothly next to a long, narrow building lit by a string of lampposts. On an open space to their left, a number of small tourist aeroplanes were parked. Cessnas, Pipers, Socatas and other models that Vivien didn’t know. As she opened the door, a police car that had been waiting next to the building came towards them.

The car stopped and a uniformed officer climbed out. He was tall, in his forties, with salt and pepper hair and a moustache. He came towards them with the phlegmatic, shambling gait of a basketball player. As she shook his hand and looked into his eyes, Vivien realized that the judgement she had formed when she had heard his voice on the telephone had been a hasty one. He inspired confidence, the sense that he wasn’t a man who abused the position he occupied.

‘Captain Caldwell.’ His handshake was firm and resolute.

‘Detective Vivien Light. This is Russell Wade.’

The two men nodded to each other. The urgency that was driving them seemed to have also infected Hornell’s chief of police. He immediately pointed to the car.

‘Shall we go?’

They got in, and the vehicle pulled out while they were still putting on their seat belts. They drove out of the airport, leaving the lights of the runway behind them, and took Route 36 heading south.

‘Fulton Street isn’t far. It’s in the north part of Hornell. We’ll be there in a few minutes.’

There wasn’t much traffic at that hour but Captain Caldwell nevertheless put on the flashing light.

Vivien insisted on one thing. ‘I’ll need you to switch it off when we get closer. I’d prefer to arrive unannounced.’

‘Sure.’

If he, too, was dying of curiosity, he didn’t let it show. He
drove in silence, his face illuminated by the dim light of the dashboard. Vivien felt the presence of Russell in the back seat, silent, apparently absent. But judging by what she had read on his computer, that dreamy air of his concealed the ability to capture aspects and moods in a very involving way. After participating in something, he was able to make the reader feel as if he had actually been there with him. It was a completely different way of treating a subject, different from anything she had seen before in a newspaper article.

What they needed now was the truth. The press, once they’d had enough of reporting the attacks and their aftermath, and speculating on the possible perpetrators, would soon launch a virulent campaign against the police and the other investigating bodies, accusing them of not doing enough to guarantee the safety of the public. Criminal acts like those that were devastating the city would soon have political
repercussions
, offering a valid pretext to anyone who wanted to attack Willard or the mayor or whoever. Anyone with the slightest involvement in the investigation, her included, would be caught up in the storm, which, although starting at the top, would inevitably affect those at the bottom, too.

The cellphone in her pocket started ringing. On the display she saw Bellew’s number.

She replied, with the absurd hope that he would tell her it was all over.

‘Hello, Alan.’

‘Where are you?’

‘We just landed and now we’re on our way to the subject’s house.’

By now names were gone, as were all traces of identity, replaced by cold, impersonal words that referred to a human being only as ‘the subject’ or ‘a suspect’.

‘Great. We discovered something strange at this end, and I’m not sure what to make of it.’

‘What is it?’

‘We checked out Wendell Johnson’s apartment. Obviously, no one was there. But get this: the guy knew he was terminally ill, but just before he was admitted to hospital he paid a year’s rent.’

‘That is strange.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

Captain Caldwell switched off the light on the roof. Vivien realized that they were nearing their destination.

‘Alan, we’re there. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.’

‘OK.’

The car turned left onto a short street called Fulton Street, drove past a row of identical houses and stopped at the end, outside number 88. It was a small house that, from what they could see of it, could have done with a coat of paint and some repairs to the roof. There were lights on in the windows. Vivien was grateful she wouldn’t have to drag anyone from their bed. She knew that when that happened, it usually took a while before people were in a fit state to talk.

‘Here we are.’

They got out of the car in silence and walked in Indian file down the short drive. Vivien let Captain Caldwell lead the way, so that he could feel he was still in charge.

Caldwell rang the bell next to the door. A few moments later, light filtered through the frosted glass. There was the sound of bare feet approaching quickly and lightly. The door opened and a blond, freckled boy of about five peered out. He was surprised to see a man in uniform towering over him, but did not seem afraid.

Caldwell bent slightly. ‘Hello there, champ,’ he said in a calm, friendly voice. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy reacted suspiciously to this attempt at
communication
. ‘I’m Billy. What do you want?’