it held. He leaned back against the wall, his hands flat at his sides. His chest heaved. He strained his ears for any sound out in the hall, but all he could hear was his own harsh panting.
He waited for what seemed an eternity, then went to the sink and splashed water on his face.
He stared at the same face he’d seen when he’d shaved this morning. Brown hair, brown eyes. A fairly ordinary face, really, except for those ridiculously deep dimples that he’d always hated because they belonged on a cheerleader’s cheeks, but not on a guy. Guys were supposed to be too tough for dimples, even guys who were priests.
The door handle rattled and Dom froze, not even breathing. The handle rattled again, but whoever was on the other side didn’t knock or call out. The silence dragged on and on, then Dom heard footsteps walking away.
He gripped the sink with both hands and leaned over it, squeezing his eyes shut. His father was dead. Michael O’Malley was dead, except there had never been a Michael O’Malley. That man was an illusion, a lie. Or his dying words had been a lie. One or the other, because those two realities couldn’t exist simultaneously in this universe.
The big kill
.
Dom jerked his phone from his pocket and punched in his brother’s cell number on speed dial, praying, praying he wouldn’t get shunted off to voice mail again. For long, agonizing seconds there was just dead air, and then Dom heard a ring.
Come on, Ry. Come on, man…
. Ry would know what to do. Maybetheir old man was right, maybe Dom didn’t have a gut understanding of evil, but his brother did. Ry O’Malley had been living with it, up close and personal, for years.
The phone rang on and on.
Merciful God in heaven, please—
The ringing ended abruptly, and Dom nearly sagged to the floor with relief. But when the computer voice clicked in, he cut the connection.
He’d almost done something really stupid. Ry had to be told, to be warned, but not like this. Weren’t cell phones like two-way radios? Anyone could be listening in.
So think, Dom. Think …
He couldn’t stay locked up in this bathroom forever. He heard deep voices, rough laughter, out in the hall. He went to the door, unlocked and cracked it open. A young man with his leg in a cast up to his hip bone was leaving the hospital, surrounded by a rowdy group of uniform cops. Big, tough-looking bruisers they were, with guns on their hips.
Father Dom joined them.
A N I RISH PUB was a block down from the hospital, a favorite haunt of the EMT crews coming off their shifts. The bartender’s eyebrows went up a notch at the sight of the white collar, but he gave Dom change for a twenty-dollar bill and pointed out the pay phone, in the hall leading to the kitchen, next to the toilets.
It was dark back there and stank of stale beer and grease, but Dom barely noticed. He punched in his brother’s home number. He didn’t expect Ry would be there to answer it, but it was a landline with an answering machine. Was that safer than a cell phone? It didn’t matter. Ry needed to be warned.
As he listened to the ringing on the other end, he rubbed his face, felt the wetness of tears.
Then Ry’s voice, tough and to the point: “Leave a message.”
Dom gripped the phone tighter. Over the pounding of his heart he heard the beep of the machine.
“Ry? It’s about Dad. He’s dead, and—” Dom choked back sobs, thenpressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, tried to pull himself together.
You’re a grown man, for mercy’s sake, and Michael O’Malley’s son, so you really should be tougher than this
.
He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Yes, that was more like it. He heard a door open and close behind him, the rap of heels on the pegwood floor, and he jerked around. At first all he saw were black stilettos, then the flash of red hair.
He dropped the phone. It clattered and banged against the wall, but the noise it made wasn’t as loud as the banging of his
He waited for what seemed an eternity, then went to the sink and splashed water on his face.
He stared at the same face he’d seen when he’d shaved this morning. Brown hair, brown eyes. A fairly ordinary face, really, except for those ridiculously deep dimples that he’d always hated because they belonged on a cheerleader’s cheeks, but not on a guy. Guys were supposed to be too tough for dimples, even guys who were priests.
The door handle rattled and Dom froze, not even breathing. The handle rattled again, but whoever was on the other side didn’t knock or call out. The silence dragged on and on, then Dom heard footsteps walking away.
He gripped the sink with both hands and leaned over it, squeezing his eyes shut. His father was dead. Michael O’Malley was dead, except there had never been a Michael O’Malley. That man was an illusion, a lie. Or his dying words had been a lie. One or the other, because those two realities couldn’t exist simultaneously in this universe.
The big kill
.
Dom jerked his phone from his pocket and punched in his brother’s cell number on speed dial, praying, praying he wouldn’t get shunted off to voice mail again. For long, agonizing seconds there was just dead air, and then Dom heard a ring.
Come on, Ry. Come on, man…
. Ry would know what to do. Maybetheir old man was right, maybe Dom didn’t have a gut understanding of evil, but his brother did. Ry O’Malley had been living with it, up close and personal, for years.
The phone rang on and on.
Merciful God in heaven, please—
The ringing ended abruptly, and Dom nearly sagged to the floor with relief. But when the computer voice clicked in, he cut the connection.
He’d almost done something really stupid. Ry had to be told, to be warned, but not like this. Weren’t cell phones like two-way radios? Anyone could be listening in.
So think, Dom. Think …
He couldn’t stay locked up in this bathroom forever. He heard deep voices, rough laughter, out in the hall. He went to the door, unlocked and cracked it open. A young man with his leg in a cast up to his hip bone was leaving the hospital, surrounded by a rowdy group of uniform cops. Big, tough-looking bruisers they were, with guns on their hips.
Father Dom joined them.
A N I RISH PUB was a block down from the hospital, a favorite haunt of the EMT crews coming off their shifts. The bartender’s eyebrows went up a notch at the sight of the white collar, but he gave Dom change for a twenty-dollar bill and pointed out the pay phone, in the hall leading to the kitchen, next to the toilets.
It was dark back there and stank of stale beer and grease, but Dom barely noticed. He punched in his brother’s home number. He didn’t expect Ry would be there to answer it, but it was a landline with an answering machine. Was that safer than a cell phone? It didn’t matter. Ry needed to be warned.
As he listened to the ringing on the other end, he rubbed his face, felt the wetness of tears.
Then Ry’s voice, tough and to the point: “Leave a message.”
Dom gripped the phone tighter. Over the pounding of his heart he heard the beep of the machine.
“Ry? It’s about Dad. He’s dead, and—” Dom choked back sobs, thenpressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, tried to pull himself together.
You’re a grown man, for mercy’s sake, and Michael O’Malley’s son, so you really should be tougher than this
.
He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Yes, that was more like it. He heard a door open and close behind him, the rap of heels on the pegwood floor, and he jerked around. At first all he saw were black stilettos, then the flash of red hair.
He dropped the phone. It clattered and banged against the wall, but the noise it made wasn’t as loud as the banging of his
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