Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [103]
“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.”
Chapter Forty-five
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