mom, terrified of what her child nust have gone through, sick at heart, racked by guilt.
"How's that sound, Josh?" Ulrich asked. "You get to sleep in one of hose cool electric hospital beds with the remote controls, and your mom will be right there in the room with you. What do you think about that?"
Josh pushed his face into his mother's shoulder and hugged her tighter. He didn't want to think at all.
Ellen paced the confines of the waiting room like an expectant aunt.
Marty Wilhelm, the agent the BCA had sent down from St. Paul to replace Megan, sat on the couch, flicking through cable channels with the remote, seemingly mesmerized by the changing colors and images. He looked young and stupid. Tom Hanks without the brain. Too cute, with a short nose and a mop of curly brown hair.
Ellen had taken an instant dislike to him, then chastised herself for it. It wasn't Wilhelm's fault that Paige Price had decided to play dirty and turn the media's attentions on Megan and Mitch's budding relationship. Nor was it Marty's fault Megan had a hot Irish temper and a tongue that was too sharp and too quick for prudence. That Megan had become a public-relations problem which had outweighed her value as a cop had nothing to do with Marty.
All those issues considered, she still disliked him.
He glanced up at her with eyes as brown and vacuous as a spaniel's and said for the ninth time, "It's taking them long enough."
She gave him the same look she had given thick-headed boys in high school and kept on pacing.
The only other person in the waiting area, Father Tom McCoy, rose from a square armchair that was too low for him and stretched a kink out of his back. Having grown up Episcopalian, Ellen knew him only in passing and by reputation. Barry Fitzgerald he was not. Tom McCoy was tall and handsome with an athlete's build and kind blue eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He had come to the hospital wearing faded blue jeans and a flannel shirt that gave him more resemblance to a lumberjack than a priest.
He gave Ellen a questioning look as he fished some change out of his pocket. "Coffee?"
"No, thanks, Father. I've had too much already."
"Me, too," he admitted. "What I really need is a drink, but I don't think the cafeteria has a machine that dispenses good Irish whiskey."
As McCoy walked away, Wilhelm cocked his head. "He's not like any priest I ever knew. Where's his collar?"
Ellen gave him The Look again. "Father Tom is a nonconformist."
"So I gathered. What did you think of his deacon—Albert Fletcher?"
"I didn't know Albert Fletcher. Obviously, he was a very disturbed individual."
Fletcher had fallen under suspicion regarding the kidnapping because of his ties to Josh through the Church as Josh's instructor for religion class and as an altar boy. Obsessed with the Church, Fletcher had crossed the line from zealot to madman, unnoticed until he'd attacked Father Tom and Hannah early Friday morning as they'd sat talking in St. Elysius Catholic Church. He had given Father Tom a concussion with a brass candlestick. Later that morning the mummified remains of Fletcher's long-dead wife had been discovered in his garage. The incident had sparked a manhunt that had ended in tragedy during Saturday evening Mass, where Fletcher, ranting and wild-eyed, had fallen to his death from the balcony railing. Whether or not there would be further investigation into Doris Fletcher's demise had yet to be determined.
So much that was bad had happened in so little time. Kidnapping, nicide, madness, scandal. It seemed as if a hidden seam in the fabric of life ad given way, allowing evil to pour into Deer Lake from some dark nderworld. And if they didn't figure out how to close it up, it would continue on, poisoning everything and everyone it touched. The thought gave Ellen a chill.
The hospital was quiet, the halls dimly lit. Word of Josh's return had one
"How's that sound, Josh?" Ulrich asked. "You get to sleep in one of hose cool electric hospital beds with the remote controls, and your mom will be right there in the room with you. What do you think about that?"
Josh pushed his face into his mother's shoulder and hugged her tighter. He didn't want to think at all.
Ellen paced the confines of the waiting room like an expectant aunt.
Marty Wilhelm, the agent the BCA had sent down from St. Paul to replace Megan, sat on the couch, flicking through cable channels with the remote, seemingly mesmerized by the changing colors and images. He looked young and stupid. Tom Hanks without the brain. Too cute, with a short nose and a mop of curly brown hair.
Ellen had taken an instant dislike to him, then chastised herself for it. It wasn't Wilhelm's fault that Paige Price had decided to play dirty and turn the media's attentions on Megan and Mitch's budding relationship. Nor was it Marty's fault Megan had a hot Irish temper and a tongue that was too sharp and too quick for prudence. That Megan had become a public-relations problem which had outweighed her value as a cop had nothing to do with Marty.
All those issues considered, she still disliked him.
He glanced up at her with eyes as brown and vacuous as a spaniel's and said for the ninth time, "It's taking them long enough."
She gave him the same look she had given thick-headed boys in high school and kept on pacing.
The only other person in the waiting area, Father Tom McCoy, rose from a square armchair that was too low for him and stretched a kink out of his back. Having grown up Episcopalian, Ellen knew him only in passing and by reputation. Barry Fitzgerald he was not. Tom McCoy was tall and handsome with an athlete's build and kind blue eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He had come to the hospital wearing faded blue jeans and a flannel shirt that gave him more resemblance to a lumberjack than a priest.
He gave Ellen a questioning look as he fished some change out of his pocket. "Coffee?"
"No, thanks, Father. I've had too much already."
"Me, too," he admitted. "What I really need is a drink, but I don't think the cafeteria has a machine that dispenses good Irish whiskey."
As McCoy walked away, Wilhelm cocked his head. "He's not like any priest I ever knew. Where's his collar?"
Ellen gave him The Look again. "Father Tom is a nonconformist."
"So I gathered. What did you think of his deacon—Albert Fletcher?"
"I didn't know Albert Fletcher. Obviously, he was a very disturbed individual."
Fletcher had fallen under suspicion regarding the kidnapping because of his ties to Josh through the Church as Josh's instructor for religion class and as an altar boy. Obsessed with the Church, Fletcher had crossed the line from zealot to madman, unnoticed until he'd attacked Father Tom and Hannah early Friday morning as they'd sat talking in St. Elysius Catholic Church. He had given Father Tom a concussion with a brass candlestick. Later that morning the mummified remains of Fletcher's long-dead wife had been discovered in his garage. The incident had sparked a manhunt that had ended in tragedy during Saturday evening Mass, where Fletcher, ranting and wild-eyed, had fallen to his death from the balcony railing. Whether or not there would be further investigation into Doris Fletcher's demise had yet to be determined.
So much that was bad had happened in so little time. Kidnapping, nicide, madness, scandal. It seemed as if a hidden seam in the fabric of life ad given way, allowing evil to pour into Deer Lake from some dark nderworld. And if they didn't figure out how to close it up, it would continue on, poisoning everything and everyone it touched. The thought gave Ellen a chill.
The hospital was quiet, the halls dimly lit. Word of Josh's return had one
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