C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

"But she's always depicted as young and beautiful-as if she were his sister rather than his mother."

"Right," Lee agreed. "Even more confusing for a young man who's having trouble escaping a clinging mother."

Nelson took a long swallow of scotch. "The less said about Catholic mothers, the better."

Nelson had said very little about his own mother to Lee over the years, and always seemed to steer clear of the topic.

"Which borough do you think will be next?" Nelson asked.

"Chuck asked me the same thing. I wish I had an answer."

Nelson stared out the window.

"How do we do it, Lee? How do we sift through the mountains of misery life throws up at us and keep going?"

"I don't know," Lee said. "Some of us don't."

"Yes, but most of us do, that's the amazing thing," Nelson said, rising from his chair to pace restlessly, hands shoved into his pockets. "You know, Karen talked about ending it all as her disease got worse, in spite of her faith. I even talked about helping her. In the end, though, we cherished every last moment together, even when it was really hard. But that's different, isn't it? I mean, anyone with a terminal illness is going to think about ending it, even if they don't act on that, right?"

"I'm sure anyone would at least consider it-unless their faith prevented them from it."

Nelson snorted. "Faith. One of mankind's greatest lies. Do you know I still have the cross she wore? She had her faith right up until the end. I think I envied her that, even though I never shared in it."

The phone rang. Nelson grunted, balanced his drink on the arm of his chair, then rose to answer it.

"Hello?" There was a pause, and then he said, "Who is this?" Another pause, and then he hung up.

"Who was that?" Lee asked.

"That was really strange," Nelson replied, shaking his head. "All I heard on the other end was music playing."

"What kind of music?"

"It was an old Rodgers and Hart song, actually-one I recognized."

"Which one?"

"'Manhattan.'"

"Oh, God," Lee said. He sank back his chair. "Good lord…so he knows you're on the investigation."

"Obviously."

"Your number's unlisted, right?"

"Right."

"Caller ID?"

Nelson glanced at the receiver. "'Unavailable.' Probably using a phone booth somewhere. We can track it, but I doubt it'll give us much. If he's smart-which he is-it won't be anywhere near his home."

"Well," Lee said after a moment, "at least we can stop wondering which borough is going to be next."

The wind took the barren black branches of the trees and swung them back and forth in a kind of mad dance, a tango of bad weather to come.

They didn't know they were being bad, these soft-eyed girls with their white hands and even whiter throats-little lambs, really, innocent white lambs with their trusting, open faces. They trusted him, and why shouldn't they? He was there to save them, after all, to make sure their souls went up to heaven, instead of down there, that horrible place his mother kept talking about, where demons ate your flesh and you lived in eternal damnation.

He walked along the creek bed, stepping carefully on the stones so as not to get his feet wet. He tried to shut out the sound of his mother's voice in his head, but it was to no avail.

Samuel! Sam-u-el! Are you listening to me? They'll tear at your flesh, and you'll be forever damned-trapped down there in eternal torment! And do you know what the worst thing of all will be? You'll never get to see Jesus again! You'll be eternally banished from His presence. Think about it, Samuel. Never to see Jesus again, never to look upon His divine presence!

He did think about it. It would be too bad, he supposed. But then again, it might be a kind of relief. Jesus' eyes were so sad, so tormented. Samuel felt bad just looking at the carved figurine of Jesus, garishly painted blood dripping from His side, on the cross above his mother's bed. It was as if Jesus were begging Samuel to come save Him from torment, but he couldn't. He wanted to, but Jesus was already dead-they had already killed Him. And yet, somehow, here he was, hanging above his mother's bed, his beautiful doelike eyes begging for mercy-begging him, Samuel, for deliverance, for release from his agony.

Well, Samuel couldn't do anything about Jesus, but he could help those girls. He could release them, point them the way to eternal salvation.

He smiled. It had to be right, what he was doing, because it felt so good. He was delivering them from sin and temptation-and yes, evil. Deliver us. Deliver us. The words rang a tattoo in his head, rhythmic as a pulse. He sniffed at the air like a bird dog on a scent. The wind was blowing in from the river, carrying the smell of salt air and fossilized sea creatures. Forgive us our trespasses. Tonight he would get to work.

Sophia wanted a cigarette. She knew she shouldn't smoke, but she desperately, dreadfully needed a cigarette. She sat at the desk in her dorm room trying to concentrate on the book in front of her: Film Analysis by R. L. Rutsky and Jeffrey Geiger.

Her mother had said she was crazy to think she could make a living working on "those Hollywood movies," as she called them, but her father had glowed with pride when she was accepted into NYU as a film major.

"She has a talent, Loretta-you'll see," he had said to his wife, squeezing her to him, her round little body plump as a ripe peach.

"You should be glad she's staying close to home," he continued, looking out at the garden in front of their two-family house in Queens. "She'll be able to come over for dinner."

Sophia wished she were going away to college, but NYU was a really good school and she was grateful to be accepted into the film studies program there.

Now, sitting in her dorm room with most of her classmates asleep around her, she tried to concentrate on the book on her desk, but the words blurred and danced on the page in front of her. All she could think of was how much she longed for a cigarette.

Finally she gave up. Moving quietly so as not to disturb her sleeping roommate, she grabbed her pack of Marlboro Lights, pulled on her boots and overcoat, and slipped out of the room.

The fresh snow was silent and glistening in the street, soft and white and pristine, not sullied yet by the soot of engines and the pollution of the city. Sticking a cigarette in her mouth, she realized she'd forgotten her matches. She shivered, drew her coat tighter around her, and headed through the snow toward the deli on the corner of La Guardia Place.

The street was deserted, and the street lamps cast pools of light onto the softly falling snow. The flakes swirled and danced under the lights; caught up in the magic of the night, Sophia almost didn't see the man standing in the shadows of the NYU dormitory building. Seeing her, he took a step toward her.

"Need a light?" His voice was soft, his face still half in shadow.

"Sure-thanks."

It was the last thing she ever said.

When the phone rang at seven the next morning, Lee awoke instantly, the sharp stab of sound pulling him out of bed. He grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Lee, it's Chuck."

"Oh, God-another one?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it this time?"

"Old St. Patrick's. You know it?"

"On Mulberry?"

"Right."

Old St. Patrick's Cathedral was a beautiful landmark building nestled between Mott and Mulberry Streets, at the intersections of Chinatown and Little Italy. Lee had never been inside, but had walked past it countless times. It was a fifteen-minute walk from his apartment.

"I know where it is," Lee said. "Jesus."

"I'm on my way," Chuck said, "but you'll probably get there first."