Angel of the Underground Page 10

  Gail stares directly at me while baring her rotten teeth. She removes the cop’s eyeball from her socket, holds it near my face, and squeezes. A light brown cornea slips between two fingers while a glob of clear liquid squirts through her thumb. She leans close to my face and slowly exhales hot breath that smells of baby food. She holds open her left eyelid, exposing an empty socket. Her orbital hole has been filled with some sort of cement. “Father Vincent did this to me,” she says, her voice coarse and shrill. “You have him to thank.”

  Gail yanks the cross from my shoulder and matches the now-dull point to my left eye with an eagerness to plunge, but not everyone in the room is apt to see me die. Dennis howls, while rolling Barry’s limp body off himself. His face has turned a muted purple, his lips are dull blue, but his bright eyes are fixated on Gail. She reaches for the handgun, but when the eyeball residue on her fingers prevents her from getting a firm grip, she hops up, grabs the empty shotgun, and limps into the hall.

  Dennis finally is able to get out from under Barry’s massive weight and crawls to the door to check for Gail. He bangs an open hand against the floor, scrambles over to me and says, “I don’t see her.”

  “She has both guns,” I say, “I’d rather not wait for her to come back and use them.”

  Dennis helps me stand on my good leg, wraps my good arm around his shoulders, and carries me to the stairs where we head down one step at a time. Certain Gail will emerge for a final jolt, we look behind us after every movement. When we reach the final step, a hand shoots through the banister rails and grabs my pajama pants. I kick it away with a scream, but Nathan reaches back through the bars and grabs both our legs.

  “I’ve got them,” Nathan says, “get back in here!” He looks around fearfully, as though he has no intention of harming us himself.

  Dennis lets go of me, spins around the railing, and pins Nathan against a wall with a forearm against his neck. “You’ve been helping her?” he asks.

  Nathan tries to speak, but can only wheeze, so Dennis retracts his arm a bit. “She hasn’t done anything on her own since she was crippled by that priest! The same priest who took over a church and had a group home named after him! How is that fair? Can’t you see God punishes no one? Can’t you see Robin and those other kids have to pay for his sins?”

  Dennis pulls Nathan forward, puts a flat hand against his forehead, and slams him back into the wall. His head remains embedded in sheet rock. Dennis pulls him out and tosses him to the floor. Nathan lands, stiff and soundless.

  After grabbing Barry’s car keys off a hook near the door, Dennis walks me outside. The skyline is no longer glowing, but the stars are still hindered by smoke. Dennis helps me into the passenger seat, where I smear blood across the tan upholstery. As he runs to the driver’s side, I notice Lori standing at the window of Barry’s den. She’s cradling her doll and making it wave goodbye at me.

  Dennis climbs inside, slips the key into the ignition, and starts the engine. “You know how to drive?” I ask.

  “First time for everything,” he replies. He backs out of the driveway, rolls over the curb, and jerks us to a stop. He recoils with shame, but eventually proceeds forward slow enough to maintain control. “Where to? Police station or hospital?”

  “Head for the church.”

  “Why? You can’t pray for stitches.”

  “We’ll call for an ambulance there. I have to talk to the person who started all this before Gail moves on to his other congregants.” Probably realizing there’s no straight path to reason, Dennis heads toward the church.

  While riding out of the neighborhood, we come upon Jeremy, who’s running sloppily on the shoulder as though he’s completely out of breath. Dennis appears too intent on driving to notice him, even as Jeremy stops to look at us when we pass. I’m not sure if he can see me in the darkness, but I show him my middle fingers anyway.

  Father Vincent’s rectory is behind the church parking lot, a small building fronted by orange bricks and slim windows. The foundation is lined with bushes and flowerbeds. Dennis lifts me out of the car and guides me up the three wooden steps to the front door. Though the pain in my shoulder and knee are making me lightheaded, I manage to ring the doorbell.

  A few moments later, an old man in a dark red bathrobe answers. Incapable of hiding his repulsion, he looks me over with gaping eyes and says, “God in Heaven! What happened to you?”

  “We’re looking for Father Vincent,” I say.

  “You should be looking for a hospital.” He opens the door and helps me into a small vestibule where an empty coat rack stands beside a lenticular Shroud of Turin. Dennis leads me into a living room area and sits me down on a black leather couch. The blood flow from my leg seems to have lessened, but I still leave a spotted trail on the beige carpet. “Sit tight, I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Can you tell Father Vincent we’re here?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not in a proper state of mind. I’m Father Desmond. I’ll be more than happy to help you.”

  “Please. He’s involved with what happened to us tonight. I’m the last orphan from his home.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re here, but I can’t promise cohesion. He’s been on something of a bender since the crimes began.”

  Father Desmond heads down a slender hallway. Two voices in conversation carry in from a further room. Father Vincent staggers into the living room wearing maroon pajamas and black slippers. His cheeks are red and his hair is uncombed, but his glassy eyes become fully attentive to my condition. He drops to his knees before me, but his hands linger as though searching for a spot to touch that isn’t marred with blood.

  “Who did this to you?” he asks.

  I suck in a breath and, certain the news will stun him, expel, “Gail Grantham.”

  Father Vincent lets out a loud, strangely insincere laugh, but his eyes flood with worry. “That’s impossible. She’s my age and, last I heard, an invalid.”

  Father Desmond returns to us while clicking off a cordless phone. “Do you mean Gail Poerio,” he asks, “the nun in training who jumped off a roof all those years ago?”

  “Depends on who you believe,” I reply, “some might say she’s targeting the person who pushed her.”

  “You’re delusional,” Father Vincent says. He stands and careens to a booze-topped bar, pours himself a large glass of brandy, and sucks it down in three swallows. “How much blood have you lost exactly?”

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence the murders started when you were appointed to this church? You got away with a crime against her. She spent most of her life suffering while you continue receiving honors. She’s destroying the children who lived under your name to absolve your sin.”

  Father Vincent rolls his eyes at the ceiling as if to act complacent, but his hands are shaking so badly he’s forced to make fists. “The church and I aid in spiritual matters. I suggest you take this up with the police.”

  “Can’t you make restitution with her while she’s still alive?”

  “How? I’m not in harm’s way. She’s hunting you kids.”

  “She killed Sister Alice. Who’s to say you’re not on her list?”

  His posture straightens, his eyes suddenly focus, and he says evenly, “What are the chances she knows you’re here?”

  “Probably high. She’s crafty.”

  “Oh, that’s just great! Thank you so much!” He rushes down the hall, ducks into a room, and slams the door shut. A heavy piece of furniture slides from one side of the room to another and bangs against the door.

  Dennis caresses my hand and says, “What’s the backup plan when religion fails?”

  “Stitches,” I reply, as the pain of my wounds suddenly increase. Dennis helps me to stand, but when I straighten my knee a newly formed scab rips open and sends warm blood running down my leg. We take three steps toward the front door, but I’m too dizzy to continue.

  “An ambulance should be here any minute,” Father Desmond says. “Why don’t yo
u wait in the bathroom? Not to sound unkind, but you’re staining the new carpet.” Dennis guides me into a bathroom down the hall. I lean against the sink as he grabs two blue towels from a rack beside the shower. I press one to my shoulder while Dennis ties one around my knee. The priest watches us in the door frame and begins nibbling on his fingernails. “If Gail is responsible for the crimes, as you say, how would she know you’re here?”

  “I was fostered into her house,” I reply, “we have a strange way of crossing paths.” The barrel of a handgun suddenly appears aimed at his left temple, but he’s unaware. The trigger is pulled before I can warn him. A terrible bang echoes through the room as his eyes fill with blood. Father Desmond drops to the floor like a string-cut marionette.

  Gail steps over the priest while Dennis shoves me into the back wall. He stands with his arms outstretched to block her path. I try moving him aside, but he won’t budge. “You can kill me in her place,” Dennis says, “I’m not living without her!” Gail dispenses a remorseful sigh and fires two shots. One bullet rips straight through Dennis’s forearm and cracks the tiled wall. The other hits his thigh and remains embedded. He collapses with a groan.

  Gail points the gun at my face, winks, and pulls the trigger. The gun bangs and flashes. I expect a bullet to rocket through my face, but it shatters the window behind me. Gail cackles merrily and steadies the gun. I cringe in preparation of her next shot.

  As Gail clicks back the firing hammer, Dennis kicks out his good leg against her left knee and buckles it inward. She crumples to the floor. I surge forward and pin her down with my knees on her elbows. She fires a shot that puts a hole in the bathtub, an indication she’ll never give up, which destroys any compassion left within me.

  While visions of all those she’s claimed flash through my mind, I slap my left hand over Gail’s face, grip her ridged larynx with my right hand, squeeze as hard as I can, and pull back with all my might. Skin and ligaments stretch and snap against my fist. Her shredded arteries pump streams of blood from a widening gorge. I stand with a final thrust, ripping her spongy throat free, and throw the moist clump onto her chest. She tries to pinch her neck together while the floor beneath her pools outward with foul blood. I should probably feel horror, but I feel nothing at all but relief.

  When Gail releases her final gurgling breath, I instinctively begin to make the sign of the cross, but she deserves no such respect, so I drop my hand.

  Father Vincent emerges from his room and glances fearfully down the hall. He perks up at the sight of Gail’s wet corpse. His smile beams and a hand lands over his heart. “Oh, thank God,” he says. “We’re going to live!”

  I’m not sure if any part of his heart or soul is reserved for the children who died because of what he did to Gail, but I do know they died because of him. Since God allowed children to perish under His watch, I’m forced to assume Father Vincent won’t receive punishment for his role. I can’t allow those kids to have died in vain. I pick up the revolver from Gail’s puddle and say, “Unfortunately for you, Father, we all walk away from this with scars.”

  “I have no scars. You saw to that.”

  I fire a direct shot at his right knee. A hole tears through his pants while the floor behind him spatters with bloody chunks of bone. He howls as though he’s completely sober.

  “You’ll acknowledge the victims whenever you kneel.”

  Father Vincent hobbles out of the bathroom. I turn to Dennis, who’s sitting against a wall and holding a towel to his leg. I crumble beside him as sirens wail outside. Red and blue lights flash in the hallway. Dennis looks at me with a crooked smile that blends agony and joy. We lean our heads together and share a quiet, trembling smile of alleviation.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Using a crutch for the first time isn’t easy, especially on the prowl. I struggle through a hospital corridor, searching for Dennis’s room, which I’m told is on the same floor as mine. I’m careful not to make a noise that would cause the nurses to catch onto me, since I’m supposed to remain in bed, as evidenced by the pain that explodes from my mended wounds with every abrupt step I take. I’ll have to use an arm sling and a knee apparatus for a while, but it’s better than dying. Luckily, I’m not the only one to have survived in Gail’s wake.

  Barry suffered a massive coronary and is in intensive care recovering from a triple bypass. Unless he drastically changes his lifestyle and eating habits, chances are high he won’t outlast the year. I can’t say I’ll miss him, but I appreciate that he tried to protect me.

  Father Vincent didn’t press charges on me for shooting him. Instead, he blamed the gunshot on Gail. He said she tried to kill him because he refused to denounce God, thereby making himself a martyr. In front of reporters he tearfully thanked God for saving his life, and said he felt forlorn and heartbroken over the deceased children. Whether or not he feels anything at all is something I may never know. I don’t plan on seeing him ever again.

  Nathan will need a few days of observation for a severe concussion, and was placed under arrest for aiding and abetting a serial killer. Police believe he did more than drive Gail to the scenes, as they found bomb wiring in the garage that matched the remnants found in Sister Alice’s bedroom. I find it hard to believe he had the composure to look me in the eye, since he had such a hand in the crimes. He will die in prison, alone and unforgiven.

  As for Gail, the police were able to clear up some of the mystery, such as how she got to the rectory so fast. Apparently, we gave her a ride. When she fled from Barry’s den she went straight into the hatchback of his SUV and wrapped herself in a blanket, probably knowing we’d drive away to seek help. Detectives found a file folder under the box spring of her mattress full of documents stolen from the rectory office. She had the locations of every child from the group home, a collection of addresses for families who have children under eighteen years of age, and a message to herself to stop Father Vincent’s spread of Catholicism at its youngest source. Though I initially thought I would be punished for taking her life in such a gruesome manner, the police commended me for putting a stop to her horrific murder spree.

  The police explained why only one cop showed up when I ran outside summoning them. Detective Morris had several officers staking out the house, as promised, but three separate fires were set to homes in our neighborhood, prompting them to external action. The police are still trying to figure out whether or not Gail and Nathan had anything to do with those incidents. I’m betting they did.

  Social Services believe it’s best to get me as far away from my past troubles as possible, and are shipping me off tomorrow to Pennsylvania. I’m told my latest foster family has an in-ground swimming pool and two playful dogs, and that I’ll have a spacious room on an upper floor. I can’t rejoice. I don’t want to leave Dennis behind. I asked if he could come with me, but the suggestion was quickly denied. With nobody but a deranged Lori to take care of him, I have no idea what his future holds.

  Knowing this is the last night I’ll get to spend with Dennis, I find his room without anyone catching on. He’s laying on the bed with his mended leg in a suspension unit. The TV across from him is turned off, and he’s staring outside at a moonlit sky. When my crutch squeaks against the polished floor, he looks at me with a welcoming smile, and shifts over slightly so I can climb in bed beside him. After I crawl under his arm, he holds me close so we can both fit on the slim mattress. He looks at me with moist eyes and runs a finger over my crucifix charm. “I’m surprised you haven’t given up,” he says. “You’re the savior you were waiting for. Not God.”

  “It might take awhile before I get back to how I used to feel about Him,” I say, “but I think He had two reasons for sending me to your house. You’re my favorite one.” I kiss him on the lips, then rest my head over his beating heart. Fearing I’ll never hear it again, I try as hard as I can to not fall asleep.

  I envision Dennis and me stepping off a silver bus in front of the Monroeville Mall. The building appears exactly
as it does in his favorite movie, Dawn of the Dead. The parking lot is empty, except for numbered light poles, while truck trailers are parked in front of the entrances to barricade the bands of wandering corpses. None of the zombies bother us, as they seem content to dwell in a world where the worst has already happened.

  We find our way into the mall by squeezing between a trailer and the glass door entryway. Luckily, one of the panels is unlocked. The power is on inside, which allows electronic window puppets to gyrate, a xylophone score to play over widespread speakers, and a clock tower to remind us that life will always go on despite the grimness of the outside world. We frolic hand in hand through the film locations (notably the arcade, bank, and supermarket), skate around the ice rink on our sneakers, and slide down the escalator divide at Penny’s. We move with the merriment of living on our own in a place where evil has been obstructed.

  Dennis eventually stops us on a wooden bridge that crosses a pond. When he wraps his arms around my stomach, I lean my backside against his hips. He points to a wooden wall that conceals a maintenance hall, and says close enough to dampen my ear, “That’s the barricade the survivors built to keep the zombies out of the stairwell. We’ll have to travel through the air ducts, but we’ll live beyond there.” He turns me around and puts his hands on my cheeks. “There’s nothing to worry about anymore. We’ll always be safe here.” We then kiss with the passion of a couple allowed to grow up, and grow old, together.

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to Alice Cooper. His songs and stage shows have rescued me from my lows and strengthened me in my highs. I’ve learned through his music that tackling the most serious subjects of life need not come across as heavy-handed. The grimness around us can be made entertaining through equal traces of awareness, shock, and humor.