They say he's not as bad as he looked, but..." He shrugged and headed for the door, leaving them to the same, dismal shared thought: the boy had looked dead. "Better" could still mean pretty awful.
They sat in silence, staring at the double doors, until a sudden moan from Father Stebbins made them all jump. "My fault," he said distinctly, before lapsing back into prayer. Fran patted his arm.
The others were not reassured. Auntie Lil met Herbert's gaze, their look interrupted by a quiet hiss from Adelle. The elderly actress rolled her eyes with exaggerated drama and motioned for them to join her in a far corner, where they were forced to evict a nearly incoherent homeless man in order to preserve their privacy. The odor he left behind mingled with the strong smell of hospital ammonia. Auntie Lil felt faint and wavered.
"You okay?" Herbert asked solicitously as he gripped her elbow tightly, ready to steady her in case of a fall.
She shook him off with a dignity and strength that she did not, in truth, feel. "Of course. It's just that… things seem to have gotten out of hand."
Adelle and her followers put their heads together closely, exchanging a private look. "One of my girls saw Father Stebbins with Timmy this morning," Adelle whispered ominously. "And look at him now, blubbering into his rosary."
They turned as one and stared at the distraught priest. Fran stared back at them without emotion.
"Discreet, discreet," Herbert muttered with a sigh. "Please, ladies. We must be more discreet."
"I saw him with Timmy the other morning, too," Auntie Lil admitted. "But he is a priest. Perhaps he was hearing his confession or offering guidance."
Auntie Lil and Adelle exchanged an even glance. Both had noticed that Father Stebbins had disappeared for long stretches of time. "Not enough time to run up Tenth Avenue and beat up a small boy and get back in time to pass the lemon sauce," Adelle finally admitted aloud, somewhat dejectedly.
"But enough time to tell someone else to do it," Auntie Lil pointed out. Despite Herbert's warning, they turned again as one and stared at the priest.
"Ladies, please." Herbert was clearly annoyed at their lack of self-control. "You cannot be good at this unless you can control your curiosity." He steered Auntie Lil firmly back to her seat.
"How much longer do we have to wait?" Auntie Lil complained, settling back into the uncomfortable hard plastic. It was just like the chairs at St. Barnabas.
A few minutes later, the swinging doors opened and Annie O'Day appeared. Blood had dried all over the front of her gray sweat suit, but her face and hands had been scrubbed clean. Even exhausted, her pink cheeks glowed with health.
"How is he?" they asked in near unison.
"His condition has stabilized. They're admitting him now. We're in luck. One of their better doctors took an interest." She pushed her short hair off her face with a weary gesture.
"I must see the boy," Father Stebbins insisted in an abruptly commanding voice. He stood and rushed for the door.
"You can't." Annie blocked him with one quick movement, her shoulder bouncing him into a nearby wall.
The priest stared at her, dazed, and rubbed his shoulder almost petulantly. "I have to talk to him alone," he contended. "Please. I'm his priest."
Auntie Lil popped up from her chair in a sudden burst of panic and stared between Father Stebbins and Annie. "No one sees him alone," she blurted out.
Annie nodded her agreement, crossing her arms firmly as she barricaded the swinging doors. Their eyes met and both Auntie Lil and Annie O'Day nodded: they understood exactly what the other was thinking.
St. Barnabas was dark and barren, the basement darkest of all. It looked as if no one had set foot inside for years. Both safety gates were firmly padlocked. Clearly, Auntie Lil was not inside.
T.S. stood on the sidewalk, his light coat wrapped tightly against the early autumn chill. He was wondering what he should do next. It was nearly nine o'clock. He would be secure with Herbert backing him up, but—on the off chance that Worthington was somehow involved with Emily's death—if something happened to both him and Herbert, no one would ever know who was responsible. He ought to get word to Auntie Lil. Or he'd end up like Emily.
He tried Auntie Lil again at home without success, dialed again out of pure stubbornness and listened to fifteen empty shrill rings before finally relinquishing the phone to an impatient teenager. The gaunt