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  "You're being mysterious, Father."

  "Marcus. I'm retired. And incognito. When Mike called I almost laughed. I told him I was long out of the business. But if you know Mike Dugan, you know he's a convincing son of a gun, so here I am. I haven't been in the city for years."

  "Mike said you were at a monastery." A waitress came by and they ordered Cokes.

  "Not as such. The Benedictines give me hospitality and I ride a little circuit up there, saying mass for the nuns and other duties. Last rights more than anything else, I'm afraid. The monastery's St. Hilda's. It's up by Lake George. A pretty piece of country."

  "So I've heard. And you knew Mike in Latin America?"

  "Yes, I worked for the Jesuit Refugee Service in Guat City, and of course you know he was very active up-country there. Quezaltenango."

  "I don't know. He never talks about it."

  "Well, I can understand that. Parts of it were very bad. He was a diocesan chancellor and his bishop was murdered. And he was jailed there for a time."

  "What did he do?"

  "Oh, I imagine the usual things a chancellor does." The old priest looked away as he said this and fiddled with the straw in his Coke.

  "No, I mean what did he do wrong? He was a bright star, on staff at the Gesъ, a chancellor, and then the next thing he's assigned as an assistant in a pokey little parish that hardly needs an assistant."

  Skelly looked up. His eyes were gray, red-rimmed, but still alight with intelligence. He had a small, round head with a shock of white hair sticking up above his forehead, Tintin style, and a very short white beard. A deep scar marked his lower lip and made his mouth cock peculiarly when he smiled. "I think you need to ask Mike that. I'm not at liberty to say."

  "But you know."

  "Yes."

  "Was it bad? I mean, dishonorable?"

  "You know Michael. What do you think?"

  "I think not."

  "You'd be right, then. I'll say this: the Society was cross-wise with the Vatican at that time about what was happening in Latin America. Mike was a casualty of the era."

  "And what about you?"

  He smiled faintly. "Oh, I'm not the man Mike Dugan is. I'm more of a shadowy figure altogether. In any case, after Guatemala blew up, they pulled me out and let me wander around Rome for a while, a little recuperation, a little research, and then I drifted into an obscure little office that deals with problems like the one you brought to Mike."

  "Exorcism."

  He laughed. "That word! No one can say it anymore without thinking of that ridiculous movie. The poor old Church wants so much to be modern and hasn't the first idea of how to go about it. Well, they say, we were wrong about Galileo so let's not also be wrong about Freud, or whoever, even though Galileo was right and Freud, as far as we can tell, wasn't any more right than a gypsy fortune-teller. So they're real careful with the E word nowadays. Demons? We don't believe in demons, not really. We believe in pathology and repressed psychosexual la-de-da and temporal lobe tumors, and let's put the man in the MRI machine first, before we call for the bell, book, and candle artist."

  "You regret the passing of the Inquisitions?"

  He laughed, a short bark. "To a point, miss, to a point. But back to your man. What are we to do about your man? I had a nice conversation with him, about you, as a matter of fact. He feels hurt, feels you don't trust him, the poor fella."

  "What did you make of him?"

  "An interesting case. Do you know anything about him? His background?"

  "Not a thing. He's a con, he admits that, armed robbery. He never talks about his past. He's well-spoken, knows the city pretty well, I get the feeling he was from here, maybe born and raised here before he went upstate. Middle class or above maybe."

  Skelly was nodding. "Yes, yes, and you know, he reminds me of a boy I was brought in to help some years ago. This kid, he was around nine, had been taken away from his parents and placed with a foster family, and he'd started to do bad stuff: torturing cats, writing obscenities. He had violent rages, too. The foster family- they were Catholics as it happened- looked into the background and found that the family had been part of a Satanist cult. You read a lot about these cults, but they're actually fairly rare. That's not the devil's style nowadays. Anyhow, the kid had seen a lot of bad stuff, he'd been sexually used, the usual. Apparently the Satanists had told him they had prepared him as a home for a demon, cooked up a fancy name for the thing, as if a real demon would let a human know its name, and the kid came to believe it. That's when they brought me in." He took a long sip of his Coke, and sloshed the ice around with the straw, as if searching for even richer veins of soft drink.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "Oh, there was something there, all right. Nothing fancy, like the prince of darkness, although you know, that's what confuses people, it's not dark at all, it's light and glorious, and gorgeous to behold. No, this was just an ordinary one, but it was socked in there in an unusual way. You call on demons and they come. Why should they look a gift horse in the mouth? But the feel of it is different. Most people who pick up an unclean spirit can't wait to get them out, at some level, although it's sometimes hard to tell. That's why you need a cooperating patient if you're running an exorcism team."

  "You have a team?"

  "Oh, gosh yes! Usually half a dozen people at a minimum. It's an around the clock thing, you know, for days sometimes. I used to be able to count on losing ten, twelve pounds."

  "I had no idea."

  He smiled at her. "Well, we don't advertise it, do we? In any case, with this kid, there was a funny feel to it. The integration was far along. I mean the thing had humanized itself and the boy had become demonized, if that makes sense. The point is, I had the same feeling talking to your man. I'd say there was ritual satanism in his background, the poor fella."

  "What do you recommend, Father? Marcus."

  "Well, you know, I don't think there's a thing to be done. I suppose that if we could lay our hands on a wonder-working saint, we could try that, or if Jesus came again, He might look in on the man. I honestly don't know. As you picked up yourself, he hasn't a clue. And of course, he's very dangerous. About as dangerous as a man can be, in fact. Although he may commit no crime at all. He might just quietly spread hell on earth to everyone he meets, perfectly legal, too. Or he might take an ax or a gun and break into a school. I might try to make him go away; sometimes that works."

  "He'll just go bother someone else, won't he?"

  "Yes, it wouldn't be particularly Christian of us, would it? We'd be almost as bad as the cardinal archbishop there, shuffling his nasty priests. On the other hand, he seems to have an intention toward you, a focus. Blocking that might set him back a little. I mean to say, we can only do what we can do."

  "What will you do?"

  A deprecatory chuckle. "Oh, you know, tricks of the trade, tricks of the trade." He suddenly looked doubtful. "You'll keep this mum, won't you? I don't believe it's exactly canonical anymore."

  Lucy made a lip-pinching gesture, then asked, "Will it take long?"

  "Oh, consider it already done, my dear," said Father Skelly, and he gave her a sly look.

  9

  Marlene had been buying her meat at Agnelli's for nearly twenty years, and she superstitiously attributed to her patronage the fact that it was the last Italian butcher surviving in the ruins of Little Italy. When she had first moved to Crosby Street, back in the days when living in lofts had been the illegal dodge of the penurious rather than the privilege of the wealthy, there had been half a dozen Italian butchers. All but Agnelli's had been replaced by Asians. Marlene had nothing against Asians, but she is not going to buy meat from one- fruit, yes, meat, no- racism, maybe, but there it is.

  She puts the dog into a stay and walks in to the dingle of the bell. Agnelli's is an old-fashioned place, which Marlene does not mind at all. The floor is hexagons of black-and-white tile, the ceiling is tan stamped tin, supporting lazy ceiling fans, each with a pigtail
of flypaper. The windows are nearly obscured with hand-painted signs announcing specials, but space has been left for a shelf of bright green excelsior, on which rests a tray of pork chops and a tripod of legs of lamb, decorated with lace paper doilies. Within, two sides of the room are fronted by gleaming white porcelain and glass display cases. Salamis and hams hang from chromed racks. The man behind the case looks up when the bell rings and, when he sees who it is, says, "Hey, look who's here! Long time, Marlene!"

  Joe Cotta the assistant butcher is dark and squat, with the big-eyed, friendly face of a little boy. He has been the assistant butcher at Agnelli's for nearly as long as Marlene has been a patron, but she does not recall ever seeing him alone in the shop before. Joe is terrific with a crown roast, but he sometimes forgets to collect the money, and it is painful to watch him make change. She says, "How's it going, Joe?" and looks around for the responsible adult, but there does not seem to be anyone out front. Maybe Paul Agnelli is cutting meat in the back.

  "Oh, not too bad," says Cotta. "Not too bad. We ain't seen you around much, Marlene. What, you're going to the supermarket?"

  "Never, Joe. How's the veal today?"

  "Veal what? We gotta roast, we got scallopine…"

  "I'm making it marsala. So… you're all alone here or what?"

  Cotta reaches in the case and lifts out a limp white slab of meat. "Look at this here, for marsala? It's like paper."

  "Looks terrific… give me two pounds." Cotta wraps the meat in white waxed paper. Marlene moves her position to see if there is anyone in the cutting room, but from what she can see of it, it looks empty.

  "Mrs. A stepped out?"

  "Oh, no, the two of them're down at the court. I'm here all by myself." He hands her a neatly wrapped package with a smile.

  "Court? What, a traffic thing?"

  "Oh, no, Marlene, it's real serious." He lowers his voice and leans forward confidentially. "They said Paulie did a- what do you call it, the kind where you go with a girl's too young and like that?"

  "Statutory rape?"

  "Yeah, that. Anyway, Paulie's in big trouble, because she says he did, even though he didn't. A colored girl. Mrs. A? Holy Jeez, I thought she was gonna have a heart attack. They got Biaggi for the lawyer, but Mrs. A says he's not doing much."

  "Nick Biaggi? Oh, marrone! He must be seventy-five. Why don't they get someone else."

  "I don't know. You know Paul. He thought it was all like a joke, and then it hit him he could go to jail."

  The bell dings and an elderly woman in black comes in. Joe Cotta starts to move away toward the new customer, but Marlene waves her package at him, and says, "Joe, that's two pounds at five ninety-five a pound, makes eleven ninety, and I'm giving you a ten and two ones." Cotta takes the bills and rings the sale up and places them in the cash drawer. Marlene hands him a business card. "Joe, listen, tell Paulie to give me a call at home. I'm a little worried about this, and I still know a lot of the players in the sex crimes bureau. Maybe I could help."

  "Uh-huh. Okay, I'll tell him, Marlene." He turns away. "Nice seeing you again. Mrs. Alloni, what can I get for you today?"

  Marlene forgets about getting her dime, places her veal in her net bag, and walks out into the heat. She snaps her fingers and, like a shadow, the dog falls into step. She makes a few more purchases and walks home. There is a dark blue Ford parked in front of her building. It is not the sort of vehicle one usually finds on Crosby Street in the middle of the day; her pace slows, her pulse rises.

  She feels a surge of relief when Jim Raney gets out of it.

  They hug, a little stiffly. "To what do I owe?" she asks.

  "I need to talk to someone," he says. "I think I'm going crazy."

  She steps back and looks him in the face, and sees someone who has not been getting all the sleep he should: pouchy eyes, little lines. No more Peter Pan.

  "You better come up, then," she says.

  She makes iced tea. The boys come out and say hello, and help unload the groceries, checking them out for anything interesting (yes! tortoni cups). Raney is an old pal, practically an uncle. Zak asks him if he's still hauling that old Browning around and Raney says that he is and they will have to drag it out of his cold dead hands, and Zak explains to him how much better off he would be with the Glock or the Beretta. Giancarlo tells the Irish joke about the old guy who calls the airlines and asks how long the flight was from New York to Dublin and the girl says, "Just a minute, sir," and he hangs up and says, "Jaysus, I'd no idea they'd got so fast." Then Marlene chases them out and sits down across from the detective at the kitchen table.

  "So. What's driving you crazy? And may I say that you came to the right place if you're into the blind leading the blind."

  "Yeah, well, I thought you'd be sympathetic being as how you got a history with this thing. This is about Felix Tighe."

  "The late Felix. What about him?"

  "You know his ex-wife was murdered."

  "I didn't know. Was it in the papers?"

  "Yeah, but she changed her name. Married a guy on the job, as a matter of fact. They had a little girl, nine. The perp got her, too."

  "Wait, this was that thing in Forest Hills? That was Mary Tighe?"

  "Yeah. And the way they got done, it was a Felix kind of scene. Mean. Sadistic."

  "But he's dead."

  "Right. So after that a skell named Steve Lutz, who was a chief prosecution witness at Felix's trial, gets killed by a bus bomb. And, of course, there's Pete Balducci, one of the arresting officers, who gets it with another bomb. And now, just the other day, who has a bomb placed in his car?"

  "Henry Klopper," says Marlene. "Who happened to be Felix's lawyer."

  "Yeah. And as the other arresting officer, I'm starting to get a little nervous."

  She stares at him, and then a laugh bursts from her throat. After a second or so, he laughs along with her.

  "Yeah, it's really hilarious, Marlene. I knew I could count on you."

  She wipes her eyes. "God, I'm sorry. It's just- I don't know- it's so Friday the Thirteenth. Hey, evil man comes back from the grave and starts killing the people who put him in jail- happens all the time."

  "You can see why I haven't brought it to the attention of the higher authorities: 'Uh, Chief, I cracked the Manbomber case. I know who the guy is, and you won't even have to go for the death penalty, because the fucker's already dead.' "

  "Okay, coincidence," says Marlene, "always our first thought, but that's looking a little thin after four incidents. So maybe a surrogate, an agent. Felix met someone skilled with explosives in the joint and they fell in love. With his dying breath, Felix gives him a list of people to clip."

  Raney is nodding. "Uh-huh, yeah, that was actually my first thought. But what's wrong with it is Mary and her girl, Sharon. If they got it with a bomb, that story would look a lot better. Them being raped and tortured to death, you'd have to figure a really sick fuck, another Felix, practically, for the job. So that's a hard trifecta- devoted to Felix Tighe, who as I recall wasn't the kind of human being to generate a lot of devotion, plus the sophisticated bomb-making skills, plus the psycho angle. Not many guys around could rape a little girl in front of her mother and then slice the two of them up the way he did."

  "He paid to have it done that way."

  "Right, I thought of that, too. Except Felix didn't have any money that we know of. His mom had the fortune, but that all got eaten up with civil suits because of that chicken ranch day-care center she was running. He could've had some stashed, but if you were a fucking totally depraved, skilled bomber and a guy who's doing twenty-five to life gave you a shitload of money for doing a set of crimes that would have every single fucking cop in the universe on your ass forever… I mean, why wouldn't you just say, 'Sayonara sucker'? Come to that, Felix was no dummy himself. How could he believe in a deal like that? It's not like he was the Mob. He couldn't really get back at somebody who shafted him."

  "He could pay in installments," she says. "Th
e perp sends him clippings and he releases another wad of cash, but that assumes money, and it assumes another agent faithful to Felix on the outside, the guy who's writing the checks, and then you've got the same problem. So, where are we going with this?"

  She can see some color coming back into Raney's face now, and his swimming pool eyes are lit with more of the old fire.

  "Okay, just let me spin the whole thing out," he says, his hands gesturing in circles. "This's been rolling around in my brain all month. Maybe you'll call the guys with the butterfly net after you hear it, but I got to tell someone."

  "Be my guest. You want some more tea?"

  "No, I'm good." He takes a couple of deep breaths. "So, now I'm thinking, not friendship, not money- a cult. There was a cult, if you recall. Felix's dear old mom ran it."

  "Irma Dean, the day-care queen."

  "That was her. Worshiping the dark forces and all that shit. The thing was, she thought that Felix was the reincarnation of his late dad, who she thought was the next thing to Satan. And she raised Felix in all of that, just like we got raised in the Church."

  "But Felix wasn't into that," Marlene objects. "Or am I not remembering this right? It was the other brother who was the demonic assistant. Felix was in denial because she was bonking him. They had that whole sexual thingy together, Felix and Irma."

  "Yes, but what if there was another brother? Or, if not another brother, a- what d'you call it- an initiate. Felix dies in prison, and that unleashes the revenge killings. Now this bastard is the spawn of Satan, et cetera."

  "Stretching it."

  "Yeah? Shit, Marlene, I know I'm stretching it! Stretching is all I got, because what I really believe is beyond stretching. It's beyond fucking sane!"

  She watches him sit back in his chair and rub his face. "And what is that, Jim?"

  "I think he's alive," he says. "The minute I walked into that crime scene in Forest Hills and I found out who the vics were, I said to myself, Oh, shit, Tighe's escaped. He did this. It was a fucking signature, practically. And then I remembered he was dead. Supposedly. I actually called the fucking prison, Auburn, and confirmed it. The body went out to a cousin here in the city. But what if…" he floundered, "I don't know, some strange mix-up?"