The Man Who Murdered God (21 page)

“He'll kill you,” McGuire said without emotion. “He has nothing to lose. All he cares about, all he's living for, is to kill priests.”

Deeley let out a long, slow sigh. “I can't write off a human being that easily.”

“He's already been written off. Society has written him off, the Church has written him off. There's nothing left to save. Body and soul, forget 'em both.”

“Not his soul, McGuire. You never write off a soul.”

McGuire shrugged. “Okay, if one person dies tonight, who will the Church choose? Bobby Griffin? Or you? And if it's you,” McGuire continued before Deeley could reply, “do you really think Bobby has a chance of getting out of there alive, with SWAT teams all over the place? They'll shoot him instinctively. No second thoughts. If you go in, you have to be prepared to kill him.”

Deeley stiffened at the remark. “That's . . . I couldn't do that. My God, McGuire! Do you think I could enter that building,
any
building, with the conscious thought of
killing
someone?”

“That's the only way you
can
go in,” McGuire replied.

The priest studied him for a moment. “If you go in, will you kill him?”

“Only if I have to.”

“Promise me that,” Deeley said sadly. “Promise me you'll shoot him only if you have to.”

McGuire reached out and touched the priest's shoulder. “I've shot one person in twenty years on the force,” he said. “And it was a young guy. Younger than Bobby Griffin. I don't ever want to do it again.”

McGuire could hear Caddy behind them breathing noisily, watching with fascination.

“How will you get in?” Deeley asked.

“We'll switch clothing. And identities.” He turned to the deputy, who was beginning to grin. “Tell him Father Kevin Deeley from the diocese office will be at the front door in fifteen minutes,” he ordered. “Tell him to send a sister out to meet the father and escort him to wherever he and the other sisters are. Father Deeley will serve as a hostage if he agrees to free the nuns. You got it?”

“I got it,” the deputy said. He watched McGuire withdraw the .38 police special from its holster. “But if that young buck's got a sawed-off, you better get yourself more stopping power than that little bitty thing.”

In the corner Sister Arlene and Father Parella crossed themselves in unison, each unaware of the actions of the other.

The collar chafed his neck, the bulletproof vest was binding, and the trousers were too tight. Otherwise Kevin Deeley's clothes fit McGuire well enough to fool an Irish cop who arrived with a support team and apologized to McGuire for swearing in his presence.

McGuire placed Deeley's black topcoat with the silver crosses in its lapels over his shoulders, using one hand to hold the coat against his body while the other gripped his revolver inside the garment.

Deeley, looking foolish and uncomfortable in McGuire's clothes, nodded approvingly. He reached out and gave the detective an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Keep your promise, okay?”

“I don't want him dead any more than you do,” McGuire answered. “Bernie?”

Bernie Lipson and Ralph Innes, Innes holding a two-way radio against his ear and speaking quietly into the mouthpiece, walked quickly over to him. “Yeah, Joe?” Lipson said as he arrived.

“Do we have a medical emergency unit out there?”

“Supposed to be one at the end of the road,” Lipson replied. “I'll confirm it. I'll tell them to have the motor running and trauma equipment ready. You'll have a few minutes before the helicopter lands the assault team on the roof. After that it's anybody's guess.” He looked quickly around before deciding that Deeley, Caddy and the others were out of earshot. “Joe?”

McGuire was busy adjusting the straps of the bulletproof vest. “What, Bernie?” he replied without looking up.

Lipson stepped closer to McGuire as Ralph moved away to speak softly into the radio. “Kavander, he's on his way,” he muttered. “He says you're in deep shit, Joe. Says he'll handle the situation when he gets here.”

McGuire snapped his head up to look at his partner. “What the hell does that mean?”

Lipson let his shoulders sag. “He's been talking to the toothbrush, Fat Eddie.” When McGuire didn't respond, he added, “He knows, Joe. The picture. He knows how it got to the papers and who sent it.”

“So what'd you tell him?” McGuire's voice had lost its edge and aggressiveness.

“I told him you had suited up and were about to leave to enter the building.”

“And he told you to stop me.”

Lipson nodded.

“And did you?” McGuire demanded.

“You tell me,” Lipson answered. “Did I or didn't I?”

McGuire turned his attention back to the vest straps under his clerical bib. “No, you didn't, Bernie. You broke your ass trying, but I took off before you could get me. I'll say it, you say it, and Ralph says it, right?”

“Ralph says he'll go along with whatever you want,” Lipson replied. “Ralph says you're the best he's ever worked with.”

McGuire nodded as Ralph Innes walked towards them. “Okay,” McGuire said. “Let's get moving then.” He spoke to Lipson and Innes, but the gap-toothed deputy edged himself into the group and eavesdropped on the conversation. “I'll try to leave the door unlocked. If I can't do that, I'll send the nun out, and she'll give you some idea where Bobby is. Whatever you do, if you hear a shot, any shot at all, you come in. Got it?”

Bernie and Ralph nodded. Caddy snickered.

“Even through them walls we'll know the difference between a sawed-off and that little old snub-nosed you're carrying,” the deputy said. “That way we'll know whose guts we'll be washin' off the floor.” He snorted with derision. “Least you could do is pack a magnum or a full-clip forty-five.”

“How much time have we got?” McGuire asked, ignoring the deputy.

“It's up,” Ralph Innes replied. “It's been fifteen minutes exactly. Joe?”

“What?”

“His mother isn't coming. They visited her in Lexington, told her about her kid in the monastery. She says it's not her Bobby, so she's not coming.”

McGuire shook his head in amazement, then elbowed himself between the others, stopping in front of Caddy. “When I come out of there, I'm going to find some way to kick your ass,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Sure enough, hotshot,” the deputy replied, grinning broadly. “'Course, I ain't yet seen a headless corpse in any position to kick anybody.”

McGuire swept past him to the door while the others watched. Bernie and Ralph followed him out of the building and into the cold night air. Deeley and Caddy stood watching them from the open doorway.

The air felt good on McGuire's face, reminding him that he was perspiring heavily under his clothing. His hand was frozen on his revolver. His mouth was dry, his breathing short and shallow.

“Where you going to try and hit him?” Bernie asked as they walked towards the convent entrance. A police helicopter circled overhead, the sound of its rotor blades angry and threatening.

“In the stomach,” McGuire replied. “He should be able to survive a stomach wound if we get to him in time.”

They were approaching the concrete steps leading up to the exterior doors of the convent. No lights shone from inside the building.

“Nobody'll be upset if you make it a clean kill,” Ralph Innes added.

“I know,” McGuire responded. “I know.”

They were at the foot of the steps. “We'll wait here,” Bernie said. “Soon as you're inside, we'll have at least six guys here and at every door. We hear anything at all, we'll put tear-gas in through all levels.”

McGuire nodded.

“I don't know anybody else who would do this, Joe,” Bernie said, resting a hand on his arm.

McGuire looked at him and grinned in spite of himself. “Ollie Schantz wouldn't have done it, would he?” he asked. “And he wouldn't let me do it either.”

Lipson looked back at him blankly.

“It's true,” McGuire said before Lipson could reply. Then, turning and ascending the steps, he added, “Ollie would think I'm nuts.”

He counted nine steps from the end of the walk to the convent door, trying to keep himself alert. At the top step he looked back briefly to see Innes and Lipson watching him, Ralph with the radio still pressed to his ear, Bernie with his police special drawn and ready. The helicopter swooped low over the building once more.

Ollie wouldn't have done this, McGuire repeated to himself. So why the hell am I?

He knocked lightly on the door, and it opened almost at once.

A nun's head emerged, looked briefly into McGuire's eyes, then down at the two cops at the foot of the stairs, before withdrawing. The heavy door swung open wider as the nun placed her slim body against it from the inside.

McGuire stepped quickly through to avoid being silhouetted against the night sky, and the door slammed behind him with a sound that echoed through the dark interior. He leaned close to the sister, his eyes sweeping the area ahead of him as he spoke.

“You can go,” he whispered hoarsely. “There are police officers waiting at the foot of the stairs.”

“Father—” she began in her own whisper.

McGuire turned to look at her for the first time. She was taller than Sister Arlene, but the same severe habit framed her face, and the dark fabric fell in folds to the floor. Against the chill of the air she wore a cloak, which she held close to her body.

“I'm not a priest!” McGuire hissed at her. “I'm a detective, and I'm armed.”

The nun's eyes widened behind her steel-rimmed glasses, and she recoiled in shock.

“Just tell me which direction to go, and I'll find him. Then you go out the door and join Sister Arlene in the schoolrooms.”

She watched him as he spoke, her arms huddled about her. Her face was pale in the weak light from outside, and she glanced up as the helicopter made yet another low pass above them.

“I'll take you,” she whispered again. “Follow me.”

She turned abruptly and walked down the darkened hall ahead of him. Her robes made a swishing sound; her shoes on the uncarpeted floor were silent.

McGuire followed a few paces behind her, his hand flexing on the grip of the pistol. He was about ten feet from the door when he realized, too late, that he had heard the lock click shut as it closed.

Had he turned to release the lock, he would have seen another figure emerge from the shadows and follow him and the sister, several paces behind.

McGuire's hand felt leaden on the grip of his gun. A high-pitched noise rang in his ears, steady and unnerving. Down the small of his back, beneath the heavy jacket, which would be useless against a shotgun blast at eye level, a small river of perspiration ran.

At the end of the corridor the nun waited for him. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, McGuire saw a shape against the wall, dark and shadowy, its arm raised in anger. McGuire's hand flew from beneath his coat. He grasped his wrist with his other hand and sighted down the gun's short barrel . . . at a plaster madonna, blessing small lambs at its feet.

Ahead of him the sister stood patiently while he replaced the gun inside his coat and walked warily past the statue. When he was almost alongside her, she set off to the right.

The third figure, which had slipped into a doorway as McGuire turned around, stepped out cautiously, measuring its pace with the others.

As they proceeded down the hall, McGuire became aware of an echoing sound, light and airy, in the blackness surrounding them. It was the sound of women's voices, speaking in unison, low and urgently. It was the sound of praying, sifting through the darkness of the convent.

McGuire stopped, the beat of his own heart almost overwhelming the gentle voices of the nuns. Ahead of him, through double doors with leaded windows, he could see the soft waving light of candle flames from the chapel where the sisters prayed. Beyond the chapel, wide marble stairs led to the second floor.

The praying ceased, and a lone woman's voice began to speak. McGuire couldn't make out the words. A chorus of voices answered her, chanting a reply.

Across the hall from the chapel another light suddenly spilled from a door opened by the sister who had greeted him. He moved quickly against the wall, raising his revolver in readiness.

The light from the open door was soft and diffused. The nun gestured into the room. Then, bowing once and crossing herself, she glided silently into the chapel.

McGuire nodded briefly to the sister and edged around the corner, his revolver at eye level.

The room was empty except for a plain wooden table and two matching chairs in opposite corners. Above the table hung a painting of Christ with his heart glowing and his hand upraised in blessing.

Light shone from behind a closed door on the far wall; in the otherwise darkened room it reflected softly from the pale walls and ceiling.

McGuire's throat tightened. In the near darkness the door seemed to be moving outwards.

“Bobby,” he called aloud. “Come out and we'll talk.”

There was no response.

“Bobby, it's over.” The sound of his own voice seemed to comfort him. He spoke again, louder this time, the revolver still raised and aimed at the closed door. “Bobby, there are at least a hundred armed policemen outside. They don't want to harm you. But there is just no way you'll leave here on your own.”

He waited for a reply. Had the door moved? In the dim light of the room, the perspiration running down his forehead and into his eyes, McGuire thought he saw it begin to swing open.

The angry flapping of helicopter blades sounded above him.

“Bobby, we know what happened to you at the monastery. What you did was understandable. We can help you. You won't go to jail. You'll go to a place like Lynwood, where you can get treatment and do your paintings.”

He waited again, watching the door, willing it to move.

Act, he told himself. Make something happen.

“Bobby, I'm going to open the door now. When I do, I want you to lay down your gun and talk to me. You have no choice. I'm armed, and I can shoot faster than you.”

He reached for the doorknob, gripped it tightly and moved to one side. To shoot him, Bobby would have to come around the corner of the door, giving McGuire time to respond.

Turning the knob, he opened the door slowly, keeping his body behind it. Harsh light flooded the room. The sound of the sisters' voices from the chapel rose in unison, reciting a prayer.

McGuire waited. No shadow was cast in the light spilling onto the floor. He peered through the space between the door and the frame. Less than three feet away he saw empty shelving, painted an institutional pale-green colour.

He stepped around the door and looked inside, staring into an empty closet, his back to the room.

Something hard and metallic pushed against the nape of his neck. A calm male voice said “Please drop your gun now. Just release it and drop it to the floor.” McGuire froze in fright and surprise. “Do it now,” the voice behind him insisted. “Because you know what this is against your neck, don't you?”

McGuire released the pistol. It clattered to the floor and bounced inside the closet.

The shotgun was pulled away from his neck.

“Please turn around slowly and sit down on one of the chairs,” the voice ordered.

McGuire raised his hands to shoulder level and turned to look beyond the gun barrel at Bobby Griffin.