James Patterson - Run For Your Life

Really, Rozzy baby? You don’t fucking say. How’s that for some real news?

He leaned forward as she spoke and listened intently to the coverage. There was still confusion about the two shootings. The police weren’t sure if they were related, either to each other or to a bizarre incident where a young woman had been pushed in front of a subway. They didn’t know if they were looking for a single suspect or more than one. They were fearful that terrorists might be to blame.

The Teacher sat back and relaxed, smiling. The police and the media were still scratching their heads – exactly how he wanted it.

There was no mention of the mission statement that he’d sent to the Times. He wondered if that was a cop trick – withholding information from the public for some reason – or if there was some other explanation. Maybe the newspapers simply hadn’t made the connection yet. No matter. They would, soon enough.

When the report about the killings was over, and Roz Abrams went back to more banal bullshit that would interest only the herds of human cattle out on the streets, the Teacher turned off the TV set and stood. Carrying the glass with the last of the Cabernet, he stepped into the apartment’s spare room and clicked on the wall switch, bathing the room in bright incandescent light.

There was a human shape on the guest bed, like someone sleeping. Except it was entirely covered by a sheet.

The Teacher gently lifted the sheet off the shape’s face.

“It’s starting, buddy,” he said.

A dead man stared back, his features masked by caked blood. A small bullet hole was visible in his right temple, and a much larger exit wound in his left.

“To getting their attention,” the Teacher said, winking and raising the glass of ruby wine over the body. “And to tomorrow, when we turn it up to eleven.”

At six thirty in the morning, the pews of Holy Name Church on the Upper West Side were silent and empty. With its still-dark stained-glass windows, it might have been the most solemn spot in all of Manhattan.

Which was precisely the problem, Father Seamus Bennett thought as he sat hidden underneath the altar.

This was not some new form of devotional activity. Far from it – he was on a stakeout. For the past two weeks, a thief had been stealing from the poor boxes at the front of the church, and Seamus was determined to catch the culprit red-handed.

He parted the altar cloth and peered out, frowning, through his binoculars. In another couple of hours, the church would be filled with glorious light, pouring through the multicolored windows. But right now, it was so dim he could barely see the front doors. He’d been watching for almost an hour, with no sign of activity.

But this individual was clever. He, or she, always left some money in the boxes, probably thinking that the pilferage wouldn’t be noticed. Seamus knew damned well that it was going on – the usual daily take had dropped by more than half. Still, that suggested that the thief was also stealthy, and probably could sneak in and out of the dim building without Seamus even knowing it. He didn’t want to turn on the church’s electric lights, which ordinarily weren’t used in the mornings. Any change in routine like that might red-flag the stakeout.

He lowered his – what was the cop lingo for binoculars again? oh, yeah – “-eyes” and poured himself some coffee from the thermos he’d brought. There had to be a better way to handle this. He was going to bring a fan next time. It was stifling inside the tiny, covered space. And a cushion, maybe even a beach chair. His legs and butt were past numb from sitting cross-legged on the cold marble floor. A partner would help, too – someone to take turns with him. Maybe one of the deacons.

This was all the fault of his uncooperative grandson, Seamus thought grumpily. Mike had refused to arrange for an NYPD crime scene analysis, and an FBI profile. In fact, he’d seemed quite amused at the thought, adding insult to injury. Was that so much to ask for the glory of God?

“You’d think having a cop in the family might come in handy,” Seamus mumbled through a sip of the steaming coffee.

The ring of his cell phone startled him, and he banged his head on the underside of the altar as he groped for it in his pocket.

The caller was none other than Mike. How do you like that? Seamus thought. Speak of the…

“I need you, Monsignor,” Mike said. “Here. Now. Please and thank you.”

“Oh, I see,” Seamus began. “When I needed a bit of help from you, it was ‘Sorry, Father.’ But now that you need me? -”

But Mike had already hung up.

Seamus closed his phone with a sharp snap. “You think you can get away with it by being polite,” he griped. “But the old priest sees through to your insidious heart.” He crawled out from underneath the altar, rubbing his aching lower back.

Then a voice said, “Monsignor, is that you?”

Seamus swiveled toward the figure, standing by the votives in front of the sacristy. It was Burt, the church’s caretaker, staring at him in wonder.

“Don’t be silly, Burt,” Seamus growled. “Isn’t it obvious that I’m Father Bennett’s evil twin?”

You know you’re in for a rough day when, the instant you wake up, you’re already overwhelmed. I stumbled out of bed and rushed deliriously through my apartment to take the body count. Moans and groans came from every corner. No doubt about it – my family had gone from bad to worse. Thinking of the place as a hospital ward no longer applied. Now it was a MASH unit under mortar fire.

Pretty soon, I had some chicken soup on the stove and a Jell-O chilling in the fridge. Meantime, I ran from child to child with cold cloths in one hand, a digital ear thermometer in the other, and a five-year-old on my back – taking temperatures, hydrating the hot and sweaty victims, and trying to warm those with the shivers. Somewhere in the bunch, there might have been one or two of them who were well enough to go to school, but I was too busy to care. The healthy were on their own this morning.

Especially after only a few hours of restless half sleep, I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. So, reluctantly, I’d called Seamus. I hated to bother him so early, but twenty minutes of dealing with my family’s epidemic had stripped me of all my manners. Besides, didn’t every battlefield need a priest?

“Dad?” Jane said, lifting a notebook from her night table as I came into her room. “Let me bounce this off you. ‘The plague continued. It was looking hopeless. What had Michael, the head of the Bennett family, done to bring such misfortune upon his innocent children?’?”

I shook my aching head. At eleven, Jane was the budding writer in the family, and she’d decided to use her downtime to do an in-depth biography of the Bennetts. It sounded like her style was influenced equally by gothic romances and precocious guilt-tripping.

“That’s lovely, Jane,” I said, closing my eyes as Trent, across the hall, sneezed and then wiped his hands on poor Socky. “But why don’t you add something like, ‘Then their father had an inspired idea for a last-ditch radical cure – blistering spankings for one and all!’?”

Jane frowned. “Sorry, Dad, nobody’d believe it.” She wetted her forefinger and flicked through pages. “I still have some background stuff I’ve been meaning to ask you. First off, about Grandpa Seamus. I thought priests couldn’t get married. Was there some sort of juicy scandal?”

“No!” I half yelled. “There were no juicy scandals. Grandpa Seamus just came to the priesthood later in life, after he lost Grandma Eileen. After he had his family. Get it?”