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She said, "You mentioned you were at St. Anthony's. Why?"
"To see if what I'd heard was true." The urge to retch gripped Zev again. "To think that was Father Cahill's church."
"He wasn't the pastor."
"Not in name, maybe, but they were his flock. He was the glue that held them together. Someone should tell him what's going on."
"Oh, yes. That would be wonderful. But nobody knows where he is, or if he's even alive." I do.
Her hand shot out and gripped his arm, squeezing. "He's alive?"
"Yes," Zev said, taken aback by her intensity. "At least I think so."
Her grip tightened. "Where?"
He wondered if he'd made a mistake telling her. He tried not to sound evasive. "A retreat house. Have I been there? No. But it's near the beach, I'm told."
True enough, and he knew the address. After Joe had been moved out of St. Anthony's rectory to the retreat house, he and Zev still shared many phone conversations. At least until the creatures came. Then the phones stopped working and Zev's time became devoted more to survival than to keeping up with old friends.
"You've got to find him! You've got to tell him! He'll come back when he finds out and he'll make them pay!"
"A mensch, he is, I agree, but only one man."
"No! Many of his parishioners are still alive, but they're afraid. They're defeated. But if Father Joe came back, they'd have hope. They'd see that it wasn't over. They'd regain the will to fight."
"Like you?"
"I'm different," she said, the fervor slipping from her voice. "I never lost the will to fight. But my circumstances are special."
"How?"
"It's not important. I'm not important. But Father Joe is. Find him, Rabbi Wolpin. Don't put it off. Find him tomorrow and tell him. When he hears what they've done to his church he'll come back and teach them a lesson they'll never forget!"
Zev didn't know about that, but it would be good to see his young friend again. Searching him out would be a mitzvah for St. Anthony's, but might be good for Zev as well. It might offer some shape to his life ... a life that had devolved to mere existence, an endless, mind-numbing round of searching for food and shelter while avoiding the creatures by night and the human slime who did their bidding during the day.
All right," Zev said. "I'll try to find him. I won't promise to bring him back, because such a decision will not be mine to make. But I promise to look for him."
"Tomorrow?"
"First light. And who should I say sent me?"
The woman turned away and shook her head. "No one."
"You won't tell me your name?"
"It's not important."
"But you seem to know him."
"Once, yes." Her voice grew thick. "But he wouldn't recognize me now."
"You can be so sure?"
She nodded. "I've fallen too far away. There's no coming back for me, I'm afraid."
She'd been through something terrible, this one. So had everyone who was still alive, including Zev, but her experience, whatever it was, had made her a little meshugeh. More than a little, maybe.
She started walking away, looking almost silly dragging that little red wagon behind her.
"Wait..."
"Just find him," she said without turning. "And don't mention me."
She stepped into the shadows and was gone from sight, with only the squeaks of the wagon wheels as proof that she hadn't evaporated.
Father Joe Cahill and a prostitute? Zev couldn't believe it. But even if it were true, it was far less serious than what Joe had been accused of.
Maybe she hadn't sold herself in the old days. Maybe it was something she had to do to survive in these new and terrible times. Whatever the truth, he blessed her for being here to help him tonight.
But who is she? he wondered. Or perhaps more important, who was she.
CAROLE . . .
Carole hid the red wagon behind the bushes along the side of the house, then climbed the rickety stairs to the front porch, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. That was when the voice spoke. It had been silent the whole long walk home. Now it started in again.