"She's hurt bad, Father. That bleeding's gotta be con-trolled. EMS better get here damn soon."
"I'll get my kit." He raced into the sacristy and dragged his ancient first aid kit from the bottom of the old armoire. As he ran back he fumbled with the latch, only to open it and find the bandages rotted and covered with roach sacs, the medicines dried and useless, the tourniquet a brittle mound of rubber.
"Aren't you going to anoint her, Father?"
"Anoint?" The kid had assumed he was getting the chrism. "Oh, of course."
Another siren ground down outside. Two black paramed-ics sprinted past the rows of age-darkened pews carrying their stretcher and other equipment. When they reached the altar they set to work with lightning choreography, produc-ing bandages and plasma and intravenous needles and sy-ringes. In seconds her nakedness was obscured by gauze and tape. She lay as blue-bruised and destroyed as if on a slab in a morgue. Her eyes were waxen and staring now, her skin gray.
"She use drugs?"
"Certainly not. She's a very good Catholic."
"Then she's been been drugged. You better call the next of kin, Father." drugged. You better call the next of kin, Father."
"There are no next of kin. She was orphaned in her teens. She was raised at Our Lady of Victory. She rarely spoke of her past. She's not been in the parish more than six months."
More police were pouring into the church. Outside, siren after siren moaned to a stop. The whole precinct must be turning out. It occurred to Harry that he ought to make a big pot of coffee.
No, that was a silly idea. He realized when he looked down and found the holy oil in his hands that he was in shock, moving like a robot. Part of him was still performing priestly duties. The rest wanted at this moment to be, to do, anything else. Anything.
Patricia was already on the stretcher. Harry fumbled to her side and began administering the sacrament.
The para-medics wheeled her rapidly down the aisle. He muttered his prayer as one of the men spoke another sort of ritual into a walkie-talkie. "Multiple pelvic fractures, possible severed spine, copious vaginal bleeding with developed pallor. Ad-ministering plasma and anti-shock procedures with cold pack. Patient in shock, stage two, possible drug OD."
The ambulance began sounding its siren and flashing its lights as the stretcher was wheeled up to it. The doors slammed on the two solemn black faces and their white-draped patient.
Harry was left with chrism in hand, his sacrament incom-plete. Carefully he wiped the remaining oil from his thumb onto the edge of the container. Then he snapped it shut and started to go back to his church.
Mike Banion stood in the doorway, looking with the light behind him like a blocky tree stump. He was an important cop, Detective Inspector, eighteen years on the force, as good a friend as Harry Goodwin had ever had. Mike was both physically and politically powerful. You saw him at all the police funerals and the big, famous crimes, looking through the familiar bifocal glasses out of his hurt-child eyes.
Seeing him here confirmed the seriousness of the affair. So this was to be a famous crime.
As if to certify the awfulness of it all, a car from Channel Two News came roaring up Morris Street and screeched to a halt. The rain had gone soft and dawn was beginning to outline the jumble of flashing cars, and to touch the cross above the dome with a delicate gray glow. When Harry looked up at it he was almost in control, but when he looked down, his throat was tight and his eyes were once again tearing.
"Father Goodrich, I'm Charles Datridge, Channel Two News." A young man stuck out his hand as a plump girl patted at him with a powder puff. "Mind if we get started?"
"I-" There was a sudden bloom of iron-blue light. Harry squinted.
"Rolling," cried a voice beyond the glare. "Sound! Speed!"
"This is Charles Datridge here at Holy Ghost Parish in Queens. With me I have Father Michael Goodrich. Father Goodrich-"
"Cut it, Charlie."
"Right, Inspector. Kill the lights, Benny."
"Holy Spirit Spirit Church, Charlie. And the priest's name is Harry Goodwin, not Michael Goodrich. You guys stay in your car until we get the perpetrator pinned down. You'll get your pictures then, assuming you play my way now." Church, Charlie. And the priest's name is Harry Goodwin, not Michael Goodrich. You guys stay in your car until we get the perpetrator pinned down. You'll get your pictures then, assuming you play my way now."
"Playing your way, Inspector."
"Thank you, Charlie. Come on, Father, let's go where we can talk. You got any coffee in the kitchen?"
"Sure, Mike, we can make some."
Mike Banion moved toward the rectory. "Charlie's a news tiger. Channel Two's lightnin' reporter." He laughed, a deep, reassuring sound, the easy mirth of authority. "You're gonna get a horde of 'em in the next couple of hours. First there'll be the Post Post lookin' for pictures. 'Where'sa body?' they'll yell. Then the lookin' for pictures. 'Where'sa body?' they'll yell. Then the News, News, and they'll want a shot of the altar. Then TV and radio stations, all of 'em hollerin' like crazy." He laughed again. "Along about dawn a guy from the and they'll want a shot of the altar. Then TV and radio stations, all of 'em hollerin' like crazy." He laughed again. "Along about dawn a guy from the Times Times will probably phone, name of Terry Quist. Only since you're a priest, he'll introduce himself as Terence. He'll already know the story back to front. But he'll get the real stuff out of you, the dope about how it feels." They reached the rectory. "I'm sorry to say this, Harry, but you're gonna be famous. So's that poor girl." will probably phone, name of Terry Quist. Only since you're a priest, he'll introduce himself as Terence. He'll already know the story back to front. But he'll get the real stuff out of you, the dope about how it feels." They reached the rectory. "I'm sorry to say this, Harry, but you're gonna be famous. So's that poor girl."
"Mike, she was a parish leader, one of the few young people who really cared. She was wonderful. My star."
"I hate to hear that, Harry. You must be hurting awful bad. I gotta think the perpetrator knew. I mean, the beautiful parish star, and he takes her and brutally rapes her on the altar. That's tellin' me he did did know, and this is one of these weirdo deals. Probably somebody she was familiar with. Struck up an acquaintance with her on purpose. Hell, maybe even at some parish affair. Psychopath." know, and this is one of these weirdo deals. Probably somebody she was familiar with. Struck up an acquaintance with her on purpose. Hell, maybe even at some parish affair. Psychopath."
They reached the kitchen. Harry turned on the lights, revealing the aged stove, the greasy counters, the yellowing oilcloth on the table. "Let me get the coffee," he said.
" 'Fill it to the rim with Brim.' "
"I don't have any decaffeinated, Mike."
"And I don't drink it. I'm just trying to take an easier tone. Lower our blood pressure before we both get strokes. A crime like this works on you, Father. Eats you alive."
Harry looked at him. He could not find words.
After a moment Mike continued. "So this kid was one of the parish stars. And she was in the church alone at a very odd hour. Was she a little loony on religion? I mean, was there any likelihood she might have come there on her own and surprised some derelict sleeping in a pew? It's important we know that."
"She was a stable, normal sort of a person. Her parents died in a fire, she told me. She had been here in Queens for about six months. She was vague about her past. Quite vague. But Mike, she was a good good girl.A darned good girl." girl.A darned good girl."
Mike Banion sank onto a chair. The kettle began to whistle and Harry poured water into their mugs.
When he inhaled the steam Mike coughed, a sound like a car refusing to start. "Foggy morning," he said, cradling his mug in his hands. Suddenly he looked directly at Harry. As always Harry was startled by the depths of pain in those eyes. From the day Mike's first wife had died, they had been like that. Despite his remarriage, Mike still went to Beth's grave every Sunday. "Harry, tell me your story. What did you see?"
"I was awake. The usual morning hells. We've talked about it."
"Awake, horny, worried."
The chill in the room enveloped Harry. He talked too much to Mike Banion, telling him all except the really bad part, the part about the Tituses. Should a parishioner know his priest so intimately? But who else, if not Mike? Harry nodded at the accuracy of Mike's statement. "I heard a noise. Loud. A terrible groan.So I went over to investigate."
I heard the three rings. Their emergency signal. But I can't tell you that. heard the three rings. Their emergency signal. But I can't tell you that.
"Must have been awfully loud."
"Very."
"Church unlocked, of course."
Harry had been waiting for that. "You know it always is."
Mike's face darkened. Harry had been through this with him dozens of times before. He watched Mike relight his cigar and take a long pull. Mike smoked cigars the way other people did cigarettes. He claimed he never got drunk be-cause there was so much nicotine in his blood there was no room for the alcohol.
Given a pint of good scotch he might nod a little, but that was all. "You lock your church at ten P.M. in the future, Harry, and consider that an order. I'm gonna tell the patrolmen to check it out, so don't think I won't know."
Mike's big, spotted hand came across the table and cov-ered Harry's. The touch lasted only an instant, but the tenderness in it shamed Harry almost unendurably. Thank God for good friends, there when you Thank God for good friends, there when you need them. need them. The gesture did nothing to dismantle Harry's shame at what he had come to, only painted it in a more bitter light. "Churches belong open," he said. The gesture did nothing to dismantle Harry's shame at what he had come to, only painted it in a more bitter light. "Churches belong open," he said.
"You're sentimental. That's a weakness."
"God help me, the poor girl was raped in my church! Mike, don't tell me it's because I leave the place unlocked."
"I'm not accusing you, Father. You just tell me if you saw the perpetrator closely enough to make an ID."
Now the lie again. "I heard a noise. Maybe a cough, maybe the sound of the side door closing." "I heard a noise. Maybe a cough, maybe the sound of the side door closing."
"Meaning the guy was just that second leaving. He must still be in the neighborhood."
"Yes. I told Officer Reilly-"
Mike Banion stood up and went out the kitchen door. A few moments later he was shouting. Harry heard him yell that roadblocks should have gone up and a house-to-house search started long ago, on and on.
Cops trotted here and there, lights flashed, voices kept fracturing the dawn silence A moment later Mike was back in the kitchen. "By God, God, why didn't you tell me her name?" why didn't you tell me her name?"
"I-I didn't?"
"Reilly says it was Pat Murray. Father, is that true?"
"Well, yes, that's right, Mike."
"She's a good friend of my wife's. She was on a date with my stepson!" stepson!"
Mike Banion thundered off into the churchyard. A mo-ment later his old Dodge was skidding its way out of the muddy parking lot.
For a long time Father Harry Goodwin simply sat, staring. Then he tried to pray. His words mocked him, and soon lost themselves in silence.
Chapter Four.
They guided Jonathan to a car and took him home. They bathed him and attended him, six young sisters in their red habits, and a grave man of perhaps thirty who was so gentle he must love him. sisters in their red habits, and a grave man of perhaps thirty who was so gentle he must love him.
He laid his exhausted friend in his bed.
Jonathan dreamed of wet leaves stinging his face, snatch-ing at his arms. He raced through a vicious jungle of grasping plants and slick, seething creatures barely seen. In this dream he ran with the strength of a wild animal and the hunger of a ghoul. He pursued a woman.
"He's having a nightmare," one of the sisters said. "Shouldn't we wake him, Jerry?"
"Let him sleep." Jerry Cochran stroked Jonathan's sweaty forehead.
In his dream Jonathan stretched out his arms, grabbed at his dream-woman's flying hair, screamed out his desire. She raced on through long, dripping alleys of trees, past flicker-ing candles and bloodied crosses.
"Jerry, he's suffering!"
"We have to let him sleep, otherwise the hypnosis may be permanently weakened. He mustn't be allowed to remember what he did." He looked long at his young friend. "Or what he is."
Jonathan heard none of this. He was utterly lost in him-self, racked by his nightmare. In it he got his fingers in her hair, he dragged her down, he sat astride her.
He tried desperately to wake up. The hands that had grabbed her were not his hands, they were ugly and horn-hard and full of evil strength.
His watchers heard a noise downstairs, the slam of a door, the pounding of Mike Banion's footsteps. "If he knows, we kill him," the young man said laconically.
One of the sisters withdrew a long, thin blade from her habit.
They retreated into the back hall as Jonathan screamed the broken screams of great agony.
Mike came running up the stairs, oblivious to the thick-ened shadows at the far end of the dark hall.
"Wake up, Jonathan!" Mike shouted over the roaring shrieks.
Jonathan heard the voice but it was too faint for him to make out the words. The nightmare continued.
He smoothed back the obscuring fog of his victim's hair and looked upon her face. Her mouth opened and a scream swarmed out like a flight of wasps-and then his anger possessed him, his horrible, vicious anger, and made him delight in the way her flesh swept from her bones as he stroked her. Beneath his scaly palms it scraped away as skin might during the flaying of a rabbit.
This was the worst ever, the most wicked dream he had ever had. And he couldn't stop it. He watched himself tear the skin off her knotting, twisting muscles. His own screams mingled with hers.
"Wake up! Wake Up!" A frantic voice was calling to him.
Help me! Please help me!
"Wake up!" His savior grabbed his shoulders and shook him so furiously the dream finally snapped.
"Wake up, son," Mike Banion was saying. "You and I have a big problem."
"Dad?" His own voice was a whisper. Mike had him by the shoulders, had pulled him half out of the bed.
Mike threw his arms around him. "Wake up, Johnny. This is a serious problem."
Jonathan hugged him back. He had come to love gruff Mike Banion. Although Mike could be fierce, the cop loved him too, in his own way. Behind the tough exterior the love was there. Definitely. But in his own way.
"I've got a hard thing to tell you, Johnny."
Jonathan looked into the detective's eyes. The intensity of the dream made even the reality of Mike seem vague, as if he were on the other side of a dirty window. Jonathan tried to bring things into focus, to prepare himself for whatever unimaginable tragedy had occurred. "Okay, Dad."
"Your girl is in the hospital. She got raped."
Earthquake. The ceiling, the walls, the floor flying out into the night. "My-my-"
"Patricia Murray. She was raped on the altar of Holy Spirit sometime around midnight. She's at the Polyclinic. Bad, I'm afraid, son."
That made the dream boil up once again from Jonathan's unconscious. This time it brought a stunning, terrible image of a blond head twisting and turning below him, lips flecked with blood. He felt her body beneath his own, jerking in spasm.