mind you, but there it is. The only group of people more despised than Catholics are Protestants. Used to be Muslims and Hindus and all the Eastern freaks took the cake. Well thatâs all changed, and as a good Christian solider I feel compelled to do my part in cleaning things up.â
He winked.
âWhich brings me here. So then, letâs begin. I need to know what you know.â Agent Smith got off the wooden kitchen chair, settled into the leather recliner to the right of the sofa, crossed his legs, lay his head back, and closed his eyes.
âGo ahead, take some time. Iâm in no hurry.â
----
CHAPTER SEVEN
----
Day Two
BILLY REDIGER left his apartment at two in the morning, climbed into the old cobalt-blue Porsche 911 heâd won in a poker game a few months ago, ignited the engine, and left 2917 Atlantic Street behind for the last time.
At least that was the plan.
Heâd made an emergency call to the judge and explained that, however inconvenient it might be for the court, health issues were forcing him to remove himself from the defense of Anthony Sacks. Unless, of course, she was willing to let him present his closing arguments in absentia , to be read by the clerk.
After five minutes of chastisement, she agreed to let the clerk read his closing arguments, only because the case against Sacks was so airtight that closing arguments were futile anyway, she claimed.
So much for Anthony Sacksâs day in court.
Billy had typed up his closing argumentâwhich took one last stab at confusing the jury by reminding them of their own sinsâsent it to the judge via the Net, packed up his few belongings, and cleared out.
The night was cool and the traffic nearly nonexistent at such an early hour, so he lowered the top, turned up the stereo, and pretended that all was as fine as a sunny Sunday in June.
Truth was, heâd just hit bottom. And even now, the bottom felt like it was about to give way. Muness had long arms, and it would only take him a day at most to figure out that Billy had fled the city and done the only thing that made any sense.
Gone after Darcy. Which in Billyâs mind didnât make much sense at all.
According to the online digital map index, Lewistown, Pennsylvania, was two hundred thirty miles from Atlantic City, up the 42 to the 76 to the 22. A good four hours without traffic. With any luck heâd beat the morning rush and arrive before she headed out for the Hyundai plant where she worked, information according to the thoughts of Ricardo Muness.
Billy tried to tap his hand to the beat crackling through the old speakers but couldnât get it right in such a ragged state of mind. He settled for chewing on his fingernail.
Darcy. He wasnât sure how heâd feel seeing her again. Depended if she attempted to bite his head off or not.
Butterflies fluttered in his belly. Heâd sworn her off and gone his own way when they were still fourteen, but sheâd been his first true love, if indeed love could be found in hell, which was the only way he could succinctly characterize the monastery theyâd grown up in. But their experience had forged a bond between them that he could never deny. A part of Darcy had remained with him to this day. Though which part, he wasnât sure.
The thought made him swallow. What did she look like? Was she large, skinny? Had she become a socialite or retreated into a cocoon? Was she married, dating, an ax murderer, into sports? Did she think about him?
And above all, what would she say about what was happening? This new gift heâd suddenly found, out of thin air it seemed. It had to do with the monastery, didnât it? Strange things like this had occurred in the monastery, but not since, not till now.
The thought had drummed through his mind all day. Whatever was happening to him was tied directly to his childhood. Darcy had stood by his side then, and the fact that he was being driven to her side
He winked.
âWhich brings me here. So then, letâs begin. I need to know what you know.â Agent Smith got off the wooden kitchen chair, settled into the leather recliner to the right of the sofa, crossed his legs, lay his head back, and closed his eyes.
âGo ahead, take some time. Iâm in no hurry.â
----
CHAPTER SEVEN
----
Day Two
BILLY REDIGER left his apartment at two in the morning, climbed into the old cobalt-blue Porsche 911 heâd won in a poker game a few months ago, ignited the engine, and left 2917 Atlantic Street behind for the last time.
At least that was the plan.
Heâd made an emergency call to the judge and explained that, however inconvenient it might be for the court, health issues were forcing him to remove himself from the defense of Anthony Sacks. Unless, of course, she was willing to let him present his closing arguments in absentia , to be read by the clerk.
After five minutes of chastisement, she agreed to let the clerk read his closing arguments, only because the case against Sacks was so airtight that closing arguments were futile anyway, she claimed.
So much for Anthony Sacksâs day in court.
Billy had typed up his closing argumentâwhich took one last stab at confusing the jury by reminding them of their own sinsâsent it to the judge via the Net, packed up his few belongings, and cleared out.
The night was cool and the traffic nearly nonexistent at such an early hour, so he lowered the top, turned up the stereo, and pretended that all was as fine as a sunny Sunday in June.
Truth was, heâd just hit bottom. And even now, the bottom felt like it was about to give way. Muness had long arms, and it would only take him a day at most to figure out that Billy had fled the city and done the only thing that made any sense.
Gone after Darcy. Which in Billyâs mind didnât make much sense at all.
According to the online digital map index, Lewistown, Pennsylvania, was two hundred thirty miles from Atlantic City, up the 42 to the 76 to the 22. A good four hours without traffic. With any luck heâd beat the morning rush and arrive before she headed out for the Hyundai plant where she worked, information according to the thoughts of Ricardo Muness.
Billy tried to tap his hand to the beat crackling through the old speakers but couldnât get it right in such a ragged state of mind. He settled for chewing on his fingernail.
Darcy. He wasnât sure how heâd feel seeing her again. Depended if she attempted to bite his head off or not.
Butterflies fluttered in his belly. Heâd sworn her off and gone his own way when they were still fourteen, but sheâd been his first true love, if indeed love could be found in hell, which was the only way he could succinctly characterize the monastery theyâd grown up in. But their experience had forged a bond between them that he could never deny. A part of Darcy had remained with him to this day. Though which part, he wasnât sure.
The thought made him swallow. What did she look like? Was she large, skinny? Had she become a socialite or retreated into a cocoon? Was she married, dating, an ax murderer, into sports? Did she think about him?
And above all, what would she say about what was happening? This new gift heâd suddenly found, out of thin air it seemed. It had to do with the monastery, didnât it? Strange things like this had occurred in the monastery, but not since, not till now.
The thought had drummed through his mind all day. Whatever was happening to him was tied directly to his childhood. Darcy had stood by his side then, and the fact that he was being driven to her side
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