The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,66
head. ‘Where you’ve been I cannot go.’
The man looks at her quizzically. Before he can respond, she continues.
‘Is one of them your grandchild?’
The hesitation says so much. It says the truth.
‘No. I just come here to watch them. It makes me feel young again.’
‘You do more than watch though, don’t you?’
The man slowly closes his eyes. A moment later, when he opens them, he looks at her, and knows.
They are silent for a long time, the joyous singing of the children a backdrop to their transaction, one this man has awaited with dread for years.
‘I knew this day would come,’ the man says. ‘He is real after all.’
‘Oh, he is real,’ she echoes. ‘Did you doubt him?’
‘One lives in hope. Ever since I was a child, not much older than these children, I have believed in him, have known he walks with me.’
She points out the window, to the old church across the street. ‘He is waiting for you.’
‘In the church?’
‘Yes. And now is the time.’
The man glances back at the stage, knowing that this will be the last time. ‘I’m not ready.’
‘There will be no more negotiations.’
He turns to face her fully. ‘Is this the only way?’
The pedophile knows the answer to this. There is no need to respond. She does not.
A few minutes later they leave the auditorium. They cross the street, walk down the alley next to the church. The door is already open for them. They enter, descend the stairs into the basement.
‘I feel him,’ the man says.
She gestures to a small room, directly beneath the sacristy. ‘Remove your clothing.’
The man looks up, his eyes no longer those of the predator, but rather that of cornered prey. ‘This is something I must do?’
‘Is it not how you came into the world?’
Slowly, piece by piece, he removes his clothes. He folds them neatly, lays them on the floor, next to the pile of white stones.
She gestures for the man to sit. Naked, he eases himself to the frigid stone floor. He makes the sign of the cross. Soon, a single tear runs down his cheek. ‘I grew up in a very religious house,’ he says. ‘If we didn’t say our prayers we would be beaten.’
She says nothing. This is all known to her. They all have a devout background. It is why they know, in the end, there is only one penance.
‘May I make an Act of Contrition?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
The old man clasps his hands. ‘O my God, I am heartily sorry …’
She waits for him to finish. When he does she asks the question. ‘Do you remember what you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to tell me. Word for word.’
The man closes his eyes for a moment, perhaps remembering, perhaps taking a moment for a second silent Act of Contrition. ‘I said, “If you keep me out of prison, I will do anything. I will even make a pact with the devil.”’
‘The devil.’
‘Yes.’
‘When you made this deal, did you think it would never come due?’
The man remains silent. For him, and all his sins of the flesh, the story is told.
A moment later, without another word, he opens his mouth and swallows the first stone.
TWENTY-TWO
Byrne was hungry, but he did not feel like eating. He wanted a drink, but he did not feel like drinking. When he felt this way, he always drove down to the river. This time he parked in the lot of an old warehouse in Port Richmond.
What was the connection between Danny Palumbo and Cecilia Rollins? Byrne thought. Was Danny the baby’s father? Byrne and Jessica had discussed this and dismissed it. Danny Palumbo could not have killed the little girl. When the baby was placed in that tub in the basement of St Damian’s, Danny Palumbo was strapped to that chair.
Or was he? They didn’t have a precise time of death on the baby. They might never have this data.
Byrne had called Loretta Palumbo, and she said she’d never heard Danny mention a girl named Adria.
The two victims were from different parts of the city, different worlds. Were they both selected at random?
No. These killings were not random.
Byrne looked down the street. Sometimes it seemed like the blight didn’t end. He had seen good neighborhoods go bad, burn to the ground, then rebuild, only to go bad again. Block after block; mile after mile. And, if that were the case, what was he doing with his life if he knew it would never end?
They were all gone, all the old school cops. Jimmy