Reprisal

They found an all-night Shoprite Superstore and bought a pick and shovel in its garden department; they added a flashlight to the bill, then drove the final leg to St. A

"What the hell are you doing?"

"This is it," Bill said, braking and turning the engine off.

"This is nothing! What are you talking about?"

He opened his mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come. He couldn't believe he was back here, actually talking about it with a stranger. A cop, no less. He tried again.

"This is where I buried him."

Had he? Had he actually done that? It seemed ages ago, a bad dream.

"I thought you said in the cemetery."

He looked at the detective. "We can't exactly cruise through the front gate at two in the morning, can we?"

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Augustino said. "I can get an exhumation order—"

Bill shoved the flashlight into his coat pocket, opened the door, and stepped out. He opened the rear door and grabbed the pick and shovel.

"Go ahead. Meanwhile, I'll be on the other side of that wall, digging."

In his heart, in his mind, he was sure that Rafe had been lying. He had convinced himself of that during the trip north. But long-suppressed doubts had been set free and were worming through his gut, welling up in the back of his throat. Bill needed to be sure. Waiting for an exhumation order was out of the question. He wanted to put this horror behind him once and for all. Tonight. Now.

He stepped up onto the hood of the car, threw the pick and shovel over the wall, then climbed after them.

Re

I must be crazy!

But it was too late to turn back.

"Shit!" he said.

He slammed a fist against the dashboard. Then, muttering a stream of curses, he followed the priest over the wall.

It was dark on the other side, and for an instant he was mortally afraid. Somewhere nearby was a mad killer with a brand-new pick. He dropped into a crouch and pulled his pistol.

Then he saw the beam of the flashlight a dozen feet away. Ryan stood there like a statue, shining the light on a patch of ground before him. Re

"This is the spot," Ryan said. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

"There's no marker. How can you be sure without a marker?"

"I know where I dug it. You don't forget something like that. And look—no grass."

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"Has this been dug up?" Re

The priest bounced the business end of the shovel off the hard, cold earth.

"Not recently."

"So there's no grass there. So what?"

The priest's voice was barely audible.

"This isn't the first time I've seen something like this."

Re

"Let's get this over with."

He held the flashlight while the priest did the digging. It was tough work breaking through the granite-hard top soil and at times Re

The priest made quicker progress in the deeper layers below the frost line. When he got the hole hip-deep, he tossed the shovel aside and sank out of sight.

Re

"What are you doing?"

"I don't want to hit him with the shovel."

He's not going to feel it, you jerk!

But Re

And after five years at the bottom of that hole, he couldn't be anything but dead. But his body could still tell stories. Recovering it would put a whole bunch of nails in Father William Ryan's legal coffin.

"Almost there," the priest said, panting. "Just a little bit fur—"

He jerked back.

"What's wrong?" Re

"Something moved."

"Come on, Ryan!"

"No… under the dirt there. Something moved. I felt it."

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"Probably just a mole or something," he said, trying to sound calm.

"No," said the priest, his voice so hushed Re

He began to paw at the earth, frantically.

"Easy, fella. Just take it easy."

Christ Almighty, don't go to pieces on me now.

"I feel him!" The priest was shouting as he tossed huge handfuls of dirt into the air, showering Re

And damned if the dirt in front of the priest didn't seem to be heaving and rippling, as if something was squirming and struggling beneath it. Re

But then something broke through the surface and writhed in the light. At first Re

Re

Or maybe it wasn't Da

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"My God, my God! How could you allow this? How could you allow this?"

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