God Told Me To (4 page)

“Is today the day you’re finally going to ask for a divorce?”

Every few months she would mention divorce. Never with bitterness or anger. It was as if she were merely curious. Passive and unemotional about the whole matter.

He turned his eyes from her and became silent.

Martha waited. She didn’t expect any answer to her question. It struck her as sadly ironic that the man who was an N.Y.P.D. hero couldn’t talk over important matters with a woman who had shared much of his life. The nearest to an explanation he’d given about his walking out was: Our relationship was unsatisfactory. Well, in truth, the final year had been difficult. But she thought she deserved a more detailed explanation. And she had never completely forgiven him the abruptness of his walkout. At least, she had come to accept it as one does an old sore. Left alone, it doesn’t hurt; but think about it and the pain begins. She couldn’t help but wonder if Peter’s silence indicated he didn’t truly know why he’d left. Or why he returned here with such frequency.

She decided it was time to break the quiet.

“I heard all about your exploits yesterday. Keep that up and you won’t need a divorce. You’ll need last rites.”

He tried speaking with a chuckle but it never got through the dryness he felt in his throat. “Don’t press things, Martha. If anything happens to me you’ll be getting all the benefits of a policeman’s widow.”

“Some television people wanted to interview me yesterday. I gave them an old picture of you just to get rid of them. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I looked like a boy.”

“No. You’ve changed remarkably little since we . . . your body has filled out a bit, your shoulders are broader, but your face actually looks thinner. Your eyes still excite me. Which I’m sure you don’t like to hear. Have you put on five pounds in the past ten years?”

He felt it was time to leave. He started to stand while saying, “We’ll talk again soon.”

She took hold of his arm. “Give me a few more minutes.”

He sat back down. Martha swallowed what remained in her coffee cup before speaking.

“I’m not out to hurt you, Peter. You know that. But you’ve been with this Casey for quite some time now. Much longer than the others. If you plan on continuing with her . . . well, we’ve got to resolve our situation.”

“Casey and I had an argument this morning.”

Her expression momentarily brightened.

He said, “She and I’ll work it out.”

“Is she better in bed than I was? Oh, forgive me . . . that’s not fair to ask, is it? But I’ve asked myself that question and a hundred others trying to figure out where we went wrong.”

“It wasn’t you, Martha.”

Nicholas went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. His throat was still dry after drinking it.

“Does Casey know you sneak to Mass every morning like a thief?”

“She knows about my religion.”

“Does she know you confess everything you do to her to the priest.”

“That’s enough.”

“I’m pretty much a Christmas and Easter Catholic these days. But when I do go to church . . . well, Peter, I do celebrate the Mass and I take joy from it. For all the services you attend, I don’t believe you gain any joy. I pity you, Peter. You’ve stripped your religion of its beauty and made of it a relic, a ghost. You’ve tapped out the strength it used to give so that it doesn’t even provide you a sufficient crutch. Neither myself nor the church is preventing your divorcing me. Eventually Casey will discover that and then she’ll leave you. She may be a woman who doesn’t care about marriage, but if she’s that all-modern in her thinking you can be sure she won’t stay with a man who is dishonest with himself.”

She smiled weakly, as if to assure him her words had been sincere and well intended, and her face looked about to crack.

Nicholas said, “I don’t think you still know me well enough to say those things, Martha.”

“Know what? I want a bourbon and I’ve discovered I like being alone for a midday drink.”

The parking lot of the Long Island shopping center was filled. An old tow truck slowly circled the lot. Painted on the truck doors was the legend:
JOHN FLETCHER—TOWING & MECHANIX.
The truck looked and sounded in need of repair and it appeared out of place amidst the cool modernity of the shopping complex. After circling the lot twice, John Fletcher quit searching for a space large enough to park his truck. He pulled to a halt in front of a supermarket. Courteous toward others, he left the keys in the ignition so that anybody he had inadvertently blocked would be able to move his truck.

Fletcher was a large man, but not unusual in appearance. He had been a mechanic all his life, and during the Second War had helped keep American tanks running through the winter of the Bulge.

He had never been in this store. It was crowded. There were all the usual market noises. Chatter and cash registers, bumping shopping carts, children, taped music which was sporadically interrupted by a voice cheerfully reminding shoppers of the daily specials. He walked the aisles looking for a particular department. He was somewhat confused by the hurry and push going on about him. He bumped into people, apologized, moved on.

Fletcher stopped when he came to the kitchenwares department. He looked over a display of knives. He selected a large one that chefs call a French knife. A hard plastic shield held the knife against a cardboard display backing. His hands, strong and calloused, thick as leather from years of working his trade, easily tore the plastic. He did not try to hide what he was doing. He held the knife at his side, and as he moved on, the tip of the blade scratched against the knee of his pants.

He went toward the back of the store. He didn’t push anybody out of his way, but now he walked with a quick and assured pace. Curiously, no one noticed him. Or if they noticed, they said nothing and made no attempt to stop him.

The butcher counter stretched the entire width of the rear of the market. Fletcher paused and eyed the display. Never in his life had he noticed the bright colorful beauty of meat. All the red tones swirled before him. An explosion of red.

Two Suffolk County police officers cruising through the parking lot were attracted by a crowd running from the market. By the time the officers were able to enter the store and make their way through the confusion, John Fletcher had slashed three people to death. Four others lay bleeding from slash wounds. Fletcher was sitting amongst his victims, idly waving the knife back and forth, back and forth. He was sitting in a pool of blood.

When Fletcher saw the officers, he calmly dropped his knife. He raised his arms in surrender, while his mouth curved an eerie, perhaps resigned, smile.

The officers had approached Fletcher with drawn weapons. The younger officer had been immediately sickened by what he saw. Following Fletcher’s smile, the young man lost all control and fired three bullets
.

THREE

Peter Nicholas felt a deep and wearisome sadness after his visit with Martha. Until today, he had managed to think of her drinking as simply a way of filling time. Now it was evident she had a serious problem.

He drove to the church he and Martha used to attend. The priest was busy in the confessional. He decided to wait until the priest was free and sat down in a pew.

It was peaceful.

Quiet.

Stained-glass windows muted the afternoon sun into hues of amber, rose, pale green, violet, dusty yellow. On the altar was the soft orange-and-black flickering of lit candles. The ivory-toned statue of the Blessed Virgin and her child stood before a drape of dark velvet.

Nicholas breathed deeply. He was near enough the altar to smell the burning wax.

He stared a moment at the statue.

He turned and examined one by one the images presented by the windows. Each stained-glass image represented Christ at a different stage of his life. A Latin inscription was at the bottom of each window. Since he was inside the church, Nicholas saw the inscriptions in reverse, but he still remembered his Latin and could translate the familiar words.

We should never have given up the Latin, he thought, that was a great loss to us. Martha had talked about celebration as if the Mass were a revel. Singing and dancing. No—the celebration was the ritual that enabled you become a part of a long tradition. A true celebrant brought discipline and respect to his worship.

He turned and looked again at the statue.

It was curious. Since the birth of Christ countless artists had depicted his story. The Passion would seem to be the more likely source for an artist’s inspiration, yet it was the birth that had most fascinated them. What was it about the birth, wondered Nicholas, that was so compelling? Was it the miracle of the Virgin? Or was it the babe? The babe in the purity of innocence.

He felt sleepy and rubbed his eyes. He glanced to the side and saw only one person still waiting outside the confessional.

Once more he turned to the statue.

Mary’s expression spoke of love and tenderness. The child slept in her arms. A look of perfect contentment on the child’s sweet face. No hint of the pain to come on the Cross.

We know the beginning and the end, Nicholas told himself, but so little else about his life. We know nothing of what he did between his birth and the time of his baptism.

Sleepiness weighed upon him. He shut his eyes. For a second the image of the statue was imprinted on his closed lids. He slept until startled awake by the touch of the priest’s hand.

“Is something wrong, Peter?”

“No, Father, I’m sorry I . . .”

“Did you wish confession? The hours are over but . . .”

Nicholas knew he could have napped only a few minutes, yet he felt strangely groggy. He managed to explain that he wanted to discuss something.

“I wish you had phoned ahead, Peter. To tell the truth I’m a bit rushed. If it won’t take too long.”

They moved to the church steps. Briefly, Nicholas spoke of Martha’s problem and the priest promised to have a talk with her. The priest added that perhaps outside help should be considered, a doctor or psychiatrist, possibly even AA.

“She needs spiritual counseling, Father.”

“I’ll look in on her, Peter. But you know, Peter, at times when people begin to lose their faith, they often tend to look for substitutes.”

“She has not substituted her faith for alcohol.”

The priest looked at his wristwatch. “Well, let’s hope not.”

Nicholas was nearly back to the city when a bulletin on John Fletcher came over the radio. It was reported that police had been unable to determine a motive for the slashing attack which eventually took the lives of six people and wounded a seventh. Fletcher was said to be in critical condition. The hospital was named and Nicholas turned his car around.

Reporters were crowding the hospital where Fletcher had been taken. Many of them had covered the Harold Gorman case, also. Nicholas dodged and hid and managed to slip past them all without being spotted. He had a more difficult time getting past the cop who stood outside Fletcher’s room.

The cop argued Nicholas was outside his jurisdiction. Nicholas claimed to be on special assignment. It went on until Nicholas shoved aside the cop and entered the room.

John Fletcher’s body was full of tubes. There was a machine that hummed and another one that beeped. A nurse and an intern were standing around. Nicholas showed his badge to the intern. The intern knew the question that was coming and answered before Nicholas could ask it.

“No chance. He shouldn’t still be alive. Took three bullets, each one should’ve killed him.”

The nurse stepped out of his way and Nicholas went to the head of the bed. He leaned so close to Fletcher the dying man’s breath touched his cheek like damp dust. He began talking, low and easy so as not to frighten, but steadily urging Fletcher to rouse and make a statement. The intern muttered that Nicholas was wasting time. Except for that short comment the only sounds in the room were Nicholas’s low voice and the two machines.

One.

Two.

Three minutes.

Four.

Some instinct had caused Nicholas to come here. He would not give up. He continued his low urging.

Five minutes.

Six.

Fletcher’s eyes blinked open. Round and wet. They didn’t appear to see anything. His lips trembled, as if from cold, and red spittle bubbled between them. His mouth began to twist in attempted whisper. The spittle sprayed Nicholas’s ear as the detective leaned closer. Fletcher’s whisper died in his throat and became a rattle. A thin scratching rattle.

“God . . . told . . . me to.”

The rattle stopped. The machine that had been beeping switched to a soft and steady whine.

The intern pulled Nicholas back from the bed.

Nicholas stood to one side. He pulled out a handkerchief and slowly rubbed the moisture from his ear. Someone tapped his shoulder but he didn’t respond. Nor did he hear what was said to him. Then his shoulder was gripped and he felt himself being spun around.

The cop who had been at the door jabbed a contemptuous finger into Nicholas’s chest.

“I said you’re wanted on the phone, city boy. My boss, he don’t like you forcin’ your way in here no more’n I like it. My boss, he called your boss.”

There were no smooth for-the-media sounds in Deputy Commissioner Hendriks’ voice. The angry tone worked like smelling salts on Nicholas’s numbed senses.

“I told you to take the day off. You weren’t supposed to talk to people. Why are you out in Suffolk getting involved in what isn’t ours?”

“Sir, this slashing out here is connected to our thing with the sniper yesterday.”

“You got a positive?”

“I got something.”

“Don’t give it to me over the phone. Come back here and we’ll discuss it.”

“I’d like to ask around out here.”

“Come in, Nicholas! Suffolk’s got enough trouble without you on the scene. There’s a possibility the cop who shot the slasher was out of order. Some witnesses are saying the slasher had already surrendered.”