Back at the chapel, the scene remained one of confusion. Pendergast was bending over the prostrate form of the monk, applying heart massage and artificial respiration. Several of the monks were kneeling in a half-circle, apparently led by the head of the order; others were standing well back, murmuring in low, shocked tones. As D’Agosta walked across the chapel, utterly winded, he could hear the distant beat of a chopper.
He knelt and took the old priest’s frail hand. The man’s eyes were closed, his face gray. In the background, the steady murmur of prayers continued, soothing in its measured cadence.
“I think he’s suffered a heart attack,” Pendergast said, pressing down on the man’s chest. “The trauma of the gunshot wound. Still, with the medevac arriving, he might be saved.”
Suddenly the monk coughed. A hand fluttered and his eyes opened, staring directly at Pendergast.
“Padre,” said Pendergast, his voice low and calm, “mi dica la confessione più terribile che lei ha mai sentito.”
The eyes, so wise and so close to death, seemed to understand all. “Un ragazzo Americano che ha fatto un patto con il diavolo, ma l’ho salvato, l’ho sicuramente salvato.” He sighed, smiled, then closed his eyes and took one long, final, shuddering breath.
A moment later the paramedics burst in with a transport stretcher. There was an eruption of furious activity as they worked to stabilize the victim: one attached a cardiac monitor while another relayed the lack of vitals to the hospital and received orders in return. The stretcher was rushed back out the door, and within seconds the sound of the helicopter was receding again. And then it was over. The church seemed suddenly empty, the smell of incense drifting on the air, the steady sound of prayer adding a curious note of peace to a most shocking act of violence.
“He got away,” D’Agosta gasped.
Pendergast laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Vincent.”
“What did you say to the priest just now?”
Pendergast hesitated a moment. “I asked him to recall the most terrible confession he’d ever heard. He said it was from a boy—an American boy—who had made a pact with the devil.”
D’Agosta felt revulsion constrict his stomach. So it was true, after all. It was really true.
“He added that he had certainly saved the boy’s soul. In fact, he knew he’d saved his soul.”
D’Agosta had to sit down. He hung his head a moment, still breathing hard, and then looked up at Pendergast. “Yeah. But what about the other three?”
{ 68 }
The Reverend Buck sat at the desk inside his tent, the beams of bright morning sun slanting through the door net and setting the canvas walls ablaze. Everybody in camp was still keyed up from the showdown with the police, still abuzz with energy. Buck could feel that same energy coursing through his being. The passion and belief of his followers had astonished, had heartened him. Clearly, the spirit of God was among them. With God, anything was possible.
The problem was, the police would not rest. They would act decisively, and act soon. His moment was about to arrive: the moment he had come so far, worked so hard, to fulfill.
But what moment? And how, exactly, would he fulfill it?
The question had been growing within him, gnawing at him, for days now. At first, it had been just a faint voice, a sense of disquiet. But now it never left him, despite his praying and fasting and penitence. God’s path was unclear, His wishes mysterious.
Yet again he bowed his head in prayer, asking God to show him the way.
Outside, in the background, he could hear the excited hum of a hundred conversations. He paused to listen. Everybody was talking about the aborted attempt to arrest him. Strange that the police had sent in only two. They probably didn’t want to make a show of aggression, have a Waco on their hands.
Waco. That little aside from the woman cop had sobered him up. It had been almost like a surgical thrust. She was something, that one. Couldn’t be more than thirty-five, a real looker, self-assured as anything. The other was just another weak, vainglorious bully, like any number of the screws he’d dealt with in the Big House. But she—she had the confidence, the power, of the devil behind her.
Should he resist, put up a fight? He had tremendous power in his hands, hundreds of followers who believed in him heart and soul. He had the power of conviction and the Spirit, but they had the power of physical arms. They had the might of the state behind them. They had weapons, tear gas, water cannon. If he resisted, it would be a butchery.
What did God want him to do? He bowed, prayed again.
There was a knock on one of the wooden posts of the tent.
“Yes?”
“It’s almost time for your morning sermon and the laying-on of hands.”
“Thank you, Todd. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
He needed an answer, if only for himself, before he could face his people once again. They relied on him for spiritual guidance in this greatest crisis of all. He was so proud of them, of their bravery and conviction. “Soldiers of Rome,” they’d shouted so aptly at the cops . . .