Something Bad (26 page)

Gabe had drawn a face with small features, including arching eyebrows and a mouth that was straight. Thick lines turned the mouth upward at the corners.

Father Costello blinked twice and hissed a single hoarse word. “Hughes.” He grabbed the paper and slammed it down on the table. “Hughes!” His head swung toward Gabe. He looked scared.

Gabe hurried around the table and sat down. He felt the priest’s eyes on him the whole way.

Father Costello spoke in a whiskey-and-cigarettes baritone. “What are you here for? Haven’t you people done enough to me already?”

Gabe put his hand up in a stop motion. “Whoa there, Father. I’m not in with Thibideaux, or Hughes, as you call him. I’m here because of things he’s doing to people back in Boyston. I need to find out what he’s up to. By the way, my name’s Gabe Petersen.”

The priest turned his head slightly and frowned, scanning Gabe from top to bottom. “My daughter’s not really dead. She’s living somewhere on the West coast. You can try, but you’ll never get out of me where she is.”

“The heck you talking about, Father? You got a daughter? I thought you priests weren’t supposed to do that kind of stuff.”

Father Costello relaxed a little.

Gabe tried to do the same, but he was spooked, like he was talking to a ghost.

“Father, I ain’t so interested in what’s happened to you unless it has something to do with how we can stop Thibideaux. Hughes. I think he’s fixing to do something bad out our way, but I don’t know what it is. Can you help?”

A worried look flushed the priest’s face as his hands clasped together in front of his mouth. “Is anyone pregnant in Boyston?”

Gabe frowned. “Yeah. A woman named Miz Murtry.”

The priest lowered his hands and placed the palms flat on the table. “Is the baby’s father around?”

“Naw. He took off as soon as he got the news. Hasn’t been seen since. What’s that got to do with the price of apples?”

“When is she due?” A deep crease divided the priest’s forehead down to the bridge of his nose.

“In about a week or so. You want a birth announcement? Sorry, Father. I don’t see what this has to do with my problem.”

Father Costello leaned back and let out a loud sigh. The crease in his forehead disappeared. “Hughes wants her baby.”

Gabe jerked back in the chair. “He wants her baby? What for?” He leaned across the table.

Father Costello froze. It looked like he was trying to move his lips, but nothing came out.

“Father?”

“What year is this?”

“Two thousand and seven.” Gabe drummed his fingers once on the table.

The priest drew a deep breath and held it like he was winding up for something big. “About twenty-five years ago I came across a composition book that belonged to Hughes. It contained notes on his training from when he was a child. It also explained how his organization worked, from top to bottom.”

“Organization? What kind of organization?” Gabe rubbed his forehead. “I thought he worked as a land speculator.”

“Listen to me. Hughes found out I had the book. I tried to hide it in a Bible, but he made it burst into flames right in the Bible. But I was smart. A few days before that happened, I copied a lot of the information. Anyway, his organization constantly requires new recruits. They get them as babies from people like this friend of yours.”

“There are other babies in Boyston. Why Miz Murtry’s?”

Father Costello leaned forward and massaged his temples with the thumb and fingers of his right hand. “I just can’t remember the details. It was a long time ago. Frankly, it’s a time I’d like to forget. I’d give my life just to forget, but that’s a mortal sin. That’s why I’m here and why I have to withdraw from everyone and everything. From myself.”

Get right to it, Gabe thought. “So how can I stop Thibideaux from taking Miz Murtry’s baby? I got special feelings for her.”

“I’m sorry, Gabe, but I don’t have any idea. I just can’t remember the details of his organization. I wanted to go through it to see if there was any way to stop him back then, but I never got the chance. Without that information, and a good understanding of his organization, it would be hopeless. I think I remember something in the notes, though.”

Gabe sat upright. “You said you made copies? Where did you put them?”

Father Costello looked into Gabe’s eyes, through them. “I hid them in the rectory in Boyston, but I’m sure it’s been torn down by now, along with the church, after what I did.”

“No.” Gabe slapped his hand on the desk. “It’s still there. Both buildings are, but Thibideaux’s living in the rectory. Where’d you hide them?”

A slight smile seemed to elevate Father Costello’s cheeks. “I put the papers in an old family Bible, the same one that held the original notes when he burned them. I hid the Bible in the bathroom. The mirrored cabinet on the wall over the sink can be lifted out. It’s heavy, but you could handle it. I put the Bible in the wall behind the cabinet. If you could bring it here, I could explain my notes. Maybe something in there would help. You say Thibideaux lives in the rectory?” His grin faded to a frown.

“Yeah. He don’t leave very often. And he does strange things. Some families have been killed already.”

Father Costello slumped. “Then I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. He’ll find a way to kill you, too.”

Gabe shook his head. “I don’t think so. He had a chance once, when I was snooping. He shook me up pretty good, but he didn’t kill me.”

“He must need you for something. Do you know what that might be?”

Gabe shrugged. “No clue, Father.”

“Well, it gives you a chance, anyway. It looks like you have a choice to make. You can go back to Boyston and try to do something to stop Thibideaux or you can try to get the Bible and bring it back here so we can go over the notes. I’d love to get the best of him again, but I can’t ask you to put yourself in danger. That will have to be your decision alone.” He looked at the table and tapped a foot on the floor. “Is your friend going to have her child baptized?”

“She talks about it all the time.”

His eyes defocused. “Time will be getting critical, then.”

Gabe leaned forward again. “What does that got to do with all this?”

The priest appeared to be physically fading. “He takes the babies at baptisms, but I can’t go into that now, mostly because I can’t remember the details. One thing, though. If you decide to get the notes, it would be best if you didn’t open the Bible until you get here. Don’t expose the contents to anyone. Not even your family. You never know when Hughes is watching. He could torch the notes, too, and that would be the end of it. You understand all this?”

“No, but I understand what you want me to do. What are you going to do now?”

The priest sighed. “I have to go back to my personal prison. It’s my penance for what I’ve done.”

“While you’re in there, can you think about his situation?”

Father Costello smiled. “No. I think about one thing, over and over again. And that’s what I did. It’s my personal hell and I have to live out the rest of my natural life in that hell if my soul will have any chance of being saved after the death of my body.”

Gabe didn’t know what to say, so he became practical. “So how do I get through to you if you go back inside?”

“Just do what you did today.” He pushed the piece of paper across the table. “Save this picture. Put it in front of my face. Hopefully I’ll see it, like today.”

Father Costello straightened in his chair, put his hands in his lap, and crossed his legs at the ankles. He turned to look out of the window.

“Father? Do you remember a young Lutheran boy who would come into your church to confess his sins in the inhouse on Sunday mornings?”

Father Costello didn’t answer. His eyes defocused, aimed out the window. Gabe stood up and turned to leave, but then he stopped. He looked around at Father Costello. Tears welled in the priest’s eyes, then rolled down his cheeks.

T
HIBIDEAUX FIDGETED IN
his chair. He wanted to help the birth of Deena Lee’s child along, so he was trying to capitalize on her headache situation by causing the barometric pressure to vacillate wildly. It had little effect. But that was the best he could do.

With all of his powers, he wasn’t allowed to bring harm directly to anyone. The Organization’s training was clear on that point. If he directly caused the death or discomfort of a citizen, by either using his powers or by using traditional physical force, he could be terminated on the spot.

The lightning couldn’t strike Press Cunningham’s car directly. It had to strike a tree. He couldn’t have taken the sheriff’s gun and shoot him with it. The sheriff’s death had to be due to an event of nature. And the fireball couldn’t incinerate Billy Smyth right off. It had to light up the trailer to give Billy a chance to get out. Why couldn’t the Councillor see that? Why couldn’t he understand that all this is aligned with the Organization’s rules?

Thibideaux sighed. In his current assignment, he hadn’t done anything that could be traced back to him, or the Organization. Everything conformed to the low profile, blend-into-society philosophy of the training.

His mind automatically clicked into recitation mode—he turned trance-like and spewed memorized rules. A recruiter can’t cause the death of a priest, minister, or other church leader, including nuns—directly or indirectly. It brings too much attention to the Organization. The same holds for ranking members of State or Federal governments, again for the same reason. The military is to be avoided at all costs. All aspects of life are too regimented there, and the level of record keeping is well in excess of that in public life.

I can’t even trigger a headache in Deena Lee Murtry, he thought. He patted the arm of his chair. “Still, it won’t be long now,” he said out loud.

T
HE CAR ACCELERATED
as it swerved into the fast lane. The roar of its engine registered in Gabe’s left ear, to the rear. Then, it was even with the back of the cab. The front fender of the vehicle appeared in his peripheral vision, but he kept his head straight, his attention on the road directly in front of him. The car pulled alongside and seemed to slow. Still, he stared ahead. Movement triggered an involuntary glance, but he did it with his eyes, not his head. The passenger’s window slid down. If I slam on the brakes, he’ll go past, Gabe thought. His heart gave an extra beat, then another. Why were people like this around the cities?

A larger movement caught his attention. Something extended from the open window, directly at him. He braced himself by stiffening his arms against the steering wheel and hit the brakes—not hard enough to start a skid, but hard enough so the front of the truck dipped downward with the decelerating force. The car flew past and he saw the puff from its exhaust pipe as the driver hit the gas. The car shrunk into the distance.

Gabe was familiar with the middle-finger salute, and its meaning. He’d even used it once when a grain elevator operator tried to cheat him on his vehicle tare weight after he’d offloaded his grain. But the frequency of its use in the Chicago area was incredible—worthy of a call to the Guinness Book of World Records. He had scanned a thick paperback book of their records some time ago and he had been totally unimpressed with the significance of some of the published accomplishments. A category for the frequency of middle finger usage must exist.

A full day’s mileage from Chicago brought on a fatigue that lowered its weight on him in parallel with the setting sun. He found the contralateral partner of the rest area he used on his inbound trip and pulled off. Once again, he parked between two eighteen-wheelers and curled up on the front seat of the pickup.

A loud voice broke through his slumber. A shout, and an answer. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to three. He peeked between the steering wheel and the dashboard and saw two men standing face-to-face, backlit by the distant lights of the parking area. He squinted until his eyes adjusted to the muted light. The taller man pushed the other and climbed up into the cab of the truck parked to Gabe’s left. The smaller man stumbled and went down on his left hip. His straight left arm prevented a total collapse.

The man propped himself up with both hands on the ground and slowly straightened his back into a hunched stance. He shuffled his feet a few times to gain his balance and stumbled toward Gabe’s truck. His clothes were tattered and dirty, his hair plastered to his head and infiltrated with the dulling tint of dust.

He came closer and squinted at the truck. Gabe tried to shrink down below the dash slowly so his movement wouldn’t be noticeable.

“Hey,” the man shouted and pounded the hood of the truck. He stumbled around to the driver’s side window and banged it hard enough to shake the truck. Gabe reached for the window crank, but he wasn’t fast enough. The man banged the window again and again.

Gabe didn’t want to drive with a broken window so he cranked it down about an inch. “What do you want?”

The man slurred a phrase through yellow teeth. “Knee somebody.”

Gabe leaned back away from the window. He wasn’t sure if he heard right.

“Knee somebody. Knee somebody.”

Gabe still wasn’t sure what the man said so he lowered the window another two inches, just enough to prevent the man from pushing his head into the cab.

The man’s eyes widened. He brought his mouth to the opening and with a nasal voice, sprayed saliva into Gabe’s world. “Need some money.”

Gabe fished in his right pants pocket and pulled out a half-fist of coins. He showed it to the man and slid over to the passenger’s side window. Cranking it down to the halfway point, he leaned his right arm out of the window. With an elbow flip, he flung the coins backward, past the truck bed and into the night. The money rang on the pavement like metallic chimes. The scavenger stumbled toward the sounds.