He'd been sitting there with Father Ryan, a man he had come to trust, even to admire. They were both on tenter hooks, alternately sitting and pacing, waiting for the docs to give them the latest news on Danny Gordon, when the phone rang.
A NYNEX pay phone, bolted to the wall, like a million others around the city. But Renny had never heard a phone ring like that before. It just rang, steadily, on and on. Something about it made his hackles rise. Against the priest's warnings, he'd answered it. What he'd heard over that wire still echoed in his brain on those too-frequent nights when sleep wouldn't come. He'd been horrified, mystified, sickened. But when the priest—his new friend, Danny's supposed guardian—had hiked off with the kid, he realized it had all been a scam, a sleazy attempt to direct suspicion elsewhere.
And it might have worked, too.
You were good, you bastard, Renny thought. The Marlon Fucking Brando of the priesthood.
"Low specificity," Nick said.
"Say what?" Renny said, yanking himself back to the present.
Nick smiled. "Scientist talk. It means that the incident under review resembles the sought-after phenomenon in only the most general sense. What about that bizarre ring of the bell you've told me about?"
"Like I said: I couldn't talk to the folks who picked it up, so I don't know. Wish I could. If they confirmed that long drawn-out ring, I'd be on a plane heading south right now."
Nick glanced at him, then looked away.
"You still think he killed the boy?"
As Renny replied, he watched Nick closely. He'd had a feeling all along that Nick knew more about the whereabouts of the priest than he let on. That was why Renny kept an eye on him. One day Nick might slip, and then Renny would have the break he'd been waiting for.
"I'm sure of it," Renny said. "It's the only way he could get away clean. If there's one good thing about working in Manhattan, it's that it's an island. There's only so many ways you can get off. We screened every bridge and tunnel for a man and a boy. Pulled over every man-and-boy combo we found. Danny and the priest weren't among them. Yet we know he slipped past us, through Staten Island is my guess. And as far as I'm concerned, that means he offed the kid and dumped his body—maybe in a construction site, maybe in the East River. Wherever it was, it was a good spot. We haven't found him yet. But Danny Gordon is dead. That's the only way that bastard could have gotten away."
"How about a boat?" Nick said.
Renny shook his head. He'd already shuffled through this deck. Many times.
"Uh-uh. Not in that weather. And anyway, there were no boats reported missing or stolen. No, Nick. Ryan eliminated the only witness who could finger him."
"And then disappeared himself," Nick said. 'The point of eliminating a witness is to obviate flight. You're saying he did both. That doesn't make sense."
"Nothing about this whole case has made sense from the start," Renny said, finishing his Scotch. "And whose side are you on, anyway?"
"It's not a matter of sides. I'm pulling for Danny Gordon, that's for sure. BuJ as for the rest…"
"You mean you're keeping a soft spot for that pervo priest?"
Nick's eyes blazed. "Don't say that. Nobody's ever even hinted—"
"I'm sure that was behind it. When we finally turn over all the rocks, that's what we'll find. And it won't be the first time, believe me."
"He was good to me," Nick said, his throat working as he looked away. "Damn good."
"Yeah," Renny said, sensing the turmoil in the younger man, and feeling for him. "I know what you mean. He fooled us all."
"So what are your plans?" Nick said after a while.
"Not sure. That's why I called you. What do you think?"
Renny trusted his own instincts, but he'd learned over the years that you could get too close to a case—you could get so fixed on the leaves that you lost sight of the tree. That was where a "third eye" came in handy. And since no one at Midtown North really gave a damn about the Danny Gordon case—after all, it was almost five years old and really belonged to the 112th in Queens—Renny used Nick as a sounding board. Besides being brilliant, he was interested.
"I'd wait," Nick said. He tapped the letter. "There's not enough to go on here. Odds are extremely low that it was him. And even if it was, he might have been just passing through. Wait and see."
Renny nodded, pleased because Nick's assessment jibed with his own.
"I think you're right. But if I get another notice like this from North Carolina, I'm out of here. I'm southbound."
Nick nodded slowly and sipped his beer, a faraway look in his eyes. Yeah, this rocket scientist knew more than he let on. Definitely.
Nick Quinn's mind raced ahead of him as he left Leon's and hurried back to Morningside Heights. He didn't know if he should be worried or not. If that telephone incident in North Carolina was connected to Father Ryan, it could mean real trouble for the priest. If only he had some idea where Father Bill was. But he didn't even know if he was still in the country. He could be in Mexico or Staten Island, or anywhere in between.
It made no difference, really. Nick knew how to get in touch with him. And he also knew that Father Bill was no killer, no matter what Detective Augustino or the NYPD or the FBI thought. The man had practically raised him. He couldn't be a killer.
As soon as he got back to his office, he locked the door and sat at his desk. He turned on his Macintosh and dialed into the DataNet network. When he'd accessed the bulletin board, he left a brief message for the priest.
TO IGNATIUS:
YOUR AUGUST OPPONENT GOT WORD OF AN ABERRANT RING-
A-DING IN DUKE COUNTRY. THAT YOU, IGGY? HE'S STAYING
put for now, but you be extra careful. hope you're well. please stay so.
el comedo
Nick leaned back and sighed. Even after five years he still felt the loss of a dear friend.
Please be careful, Father Bill—wherever you are.
THE BOY at one year
November 29, 1969
He'd stopped sleeping.
It had frightened Carol at first, but she was getting used to it now. Somewhere in his tenth month he'd begun to stay up all night reading. He'd been reading books and newspapers ever since he could manipulate the pages. He would give her lists of books to buy or take from the library in Dardanelle. An omnivore of information, the child read voraciously, almost continuously. And when he didn't have his nose in a book, he'd settle himself in front of the TV.
Carol stood in the doorway now and watched Jimmy, clad in his Bullwinkle pajamas, as he sat before the TV. Legs folded beneath him, he rested on his heels, his feet pigeon-toed inward, crossing under his buttocks. His dark eyes were alive with interest, a small smile played along his lips. But he wasn't watching Romper Room or cartoons. He was watching a story about Viet Nam on the ten o'clock network news.
"All that fear and destruction and death over there," he said with shocking clarity in his toddler's voice. "And all the rage and strife here at home. All over a worthless, tiny clump of dirt on the other side of the world." He turned his head and smiled at Carol. "Isn't it wonderful!"
"No," Carol said, stepping forward. "It's awful. And I don't want you watching it."
She turned the set off and lifted him under the arms.
"How dare you!" he cried. "Put that TV on! Put me down!"
She held his tiny body away from her, out of reach of his flailing arms and kicking legs.
"Sorry, Jimmy! You may not be like any other baby in the world, but I'm still your mother. And I say it's past your bedtime."
She placed him in his crib, closed the door to the nursery, and tried to block out his screams of rage as she walked back to her bedroom. He was still too small, his arms too weak to pull himself over the crib railing. Thank God for small favors.