Prayers for the Dead (47 page)

Dolly stopped walking. “He’s an evil, evil man.”

“Yes, he is. And we’ll tell the police that.” Bram glanced at Decker. Decker nodded back. The priest continued. “Once your lawyer arrives, you can tell them all about Mr. Waterson. The lieutenant here? He’ll want to hear what you have to say. Right, Lieutenant?”

“Right,” Decker answered.

Bram said, “And I’ll be with you when you talk to the lieutenant. I’ll be with you, your lawyer will be with you… isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

“Absolutely,” Decker replied.

“You love me?” Dolly asked her son.

“Yes, Mom, I love you very much.”

“Hug me, Abram. Hold me, please.”

The priest embraced his mother.

“Big bear hug, gorgeous.”

Bram squeezed his mother tightly.

“I love you, Abram,” Dolly said. “I want to be with you. I want to be with you, forever!”

The way she spoke sent chills through Decker’s spine, sent his reactions into overdrive. As soon as he saw her hand dip into her caftan, he charged her.

But a fraction too late.

Fire exploded from Dolly’s hand, Bram slipping from her grip, hitting the floor. Decker flew into her, knocking her down as the gun went skittering across the floor, firing as it hit the wall.

“Shit!” Decker screamed as he raced toward Bram. “Shit, shit,
shit
!”

Oliver wrestled Dolly to the floor. “I got her, Pete.”

“Oh my baby!” she moaned. “I’m supposed to die, too!”

“Get her out of here!”

“Oh my God!” Michael shrieked. “Oh my God, oh my God!”

A pair of uniforms ran into the room.

“Call Emergency
now
!” Decker yelled, turning Bram onto his back. He tore open the priest’s shirt while blood spurted from inch-round bullet holes in his chest and stomach, dousing Decker’s face and clothes. Decker placed pressure on the priest’s chest with one hand, fished for his keys with the other. Attached to the ring was a Swiss army knife. He unlatched the blade, sliced into Abram’s flesh and inner fascia. His fingers dove into a blind hole of viscera, searching desperately for the ruptured arteries. He shrieked out, “Somebody call it in?”

“It’s been called in, Pete,” Marge answered.

Decker screamed, “Michael, get over here!”

Immediately, the med student leaped into action.

“Hold this spot,” Decker said, guiding his hand into the priest’s insides.

Bram whispered, “Your father was a good man, Michael. Don’t let anyone tell you diff—” He was suddenly seized with uncontrollable cramps. “Oh God have mercy!”

In Oliver’s hands Dolly wailed, “I want to die. I’m supposed to die! Please let me die!”

“Get her
out
of here!” Decker barked.

Again, Bram attempted speech. “A… tortured man… even so, he remained faithful to Mom to the end… He swore to me…” His body writhed in agony. “Oh sweet
Jesus
!”

“Just hang in there, Abram,” Decker whispered. “You’re going to be—”

“A
good
man, Michael… and Mom’s a good wo—” He cried out as searing pain swept through his body.

“Shhhh,” Decker purred. The priest’s body was still spewing blood. Decker frantically tried to staunch the flow. “Press down right here,” he ordered Michael. Out loud, he said, “I need more hands. Marge, get over here!”

Marge froze with indecision, regarding her ungloved hands.

“
Move it, Dunn!
” Decker ordered.

She ran to him. Decker grabbed her hand. “Press here.”

Bram looked at Marge. “My blood’s clean. I haven’t…” His body broke into spastic convulsions.

“Hold his legs with your knees, Michael.”

“I hurt, Peter.”

“Shhhh,” Decker cooed. “You’re gonna be all right—”

“No, I’m not—” More spasms. His face sweating profusely, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. “Rina had faith in me.”

Decker’s fingers found another ruptured vessel. He tightened his grip as best he could around the slippery, wet cord. “She had unshakable faith in you. Don’t talk, Abram.”

His voice was barely audible. “Tell her—” He began shaking uncontrollably.

“Shhhh.”

“Do you know… Psalms, Peter?”

“Not by heart, Abram. I’m sorry.”

“Rina knows Psalms…
Tehillim
.” He broke into a series of spasmodic coughs, hacking up gobs of blood and sputum. “Tell her…”

“I’ll tell her, Abram.” Decker gently wiped his mouth. “I’ll tell her to say
Tehillim
for you.”

The priest nodded. “I’m cold…”

Michael’s face was wet with tears and blood. He stuttered out, “He’s going into shock.”

Decker yelled out, “Someone get a fucking blanket! Elevate his feet.” His hands remained deep inside Bram’s chest. Everything was flooded with body fluids, seeping and oozing from the open cavity. At least at present, arterial blood wasn’t actively squirting.

The priest’s face had turned gray, his legs and arms a series of random twitches and tics.

Decker whispered, “Hang in there, Bram. We all need you to hang in there, buddy. I need you to do it, Rina needs you to do it. Everyone needs you, guy. Just hang in there.”

Marge’s hands began to tremble. She willed them to be steady. Her eyes welled up with wetness.

Words forming on the priest’s cyanotic lips.

Our Father who art in heaven
.
Hallowed be thy name
.
Thy kingdom come
.
Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven
.

“Ambulance is here,” Oliver yelled out.

“Thank God!” Marge whispered.

“Nobody move until they get here!” Decker said to Marge and Michael. A group of paramedics raced over to the scene, meticulously relieving the cops of their tenuous positions as medics. Immediately, Marge walked away. But Decker and Michael remained kneeling at the priest’s side. Michael took one hand, Decker took the other.

Bram’s complexion had turned pasty, his skin temperature cold and clammy. He managed to squeeze his brother’s hand. “Finish…”

Michael’s voice trembled, his eyes clogged with tears. There was panic in his voice. “Finish?”

An oxygen mask was placed over Bram’s face, a needle scanning the priest’s arm for a vein. His breathing remained choppy and shallow.

He whispered, “Give us this day…”

“Oh, the Lord’s Prayer…” Michael said, “Yeah… uh, give us this day our daily bread… uh… uh…”

Decker said, softly, “And forgive us our trespasses…”

Michael cleared his throat. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…” He paused as the IV was hooked into Bram’s deflated vessels, an instrument buried into his collapsed lungs.

Decker said, “And lead us not…”

“And lead us not into temptation,” Michael sputtered out, “but deliver us from evil.”

Bram nodded, whispered between labored breaths,

“
Deus, qui inter apostolicos sacerdotes famulum tuum Abram Matthew Sparks et Sacerdotali fecisti dignitate vigere: Praesta, quaesumus, ut eorum quoque perpetuo aggregetur consortio. Per Dominum nostrum
.

“
Te amo, Jesu Cristo
.”

The priest shut his eyes and went slack. Michael looked at Decker with frightened eyes.

“His chest is moving,” Decker said.

Michael bit his lip, continued to squeeze his brother’s limp hand.

A paramedic said, “You’re going to have to move so we can transfer him to the gurney.”

Decker nodded, helped Michael up onto shaky feet. Both of them were covered in blood. “Clean yourself off. Start calling your siblings.”

Tears were running down Michael’s face. “I don’t know if I…” He staggered on his feet.

Decker grabbed his shoulders, steadied him. “I’ll ride in the ambulance. But
you
have to call your brothers and sisters, Michael. No one else can do it except you. Understand?”

Michael stood unresponsive, paralyzed with shock.

“
Understand?
” Decker repeated.

Michael nodded vigorously.

“Tell them to meet us at…” Decker turned to one of the paramedics. A skinny kid with a big Adam’s apple. “Where are you taking him?”

“New Chris.”

Decker swallowed hard. “Tell them to meet me at New Chris.”

The paramedic looked at Decker. “You know you got a bullet wound in your right arm?”

Decker pulled back his sleeve, regarded the shredded fabric of his suit jacket. He quickly removed it. As expected, his shirt was torn as well. He rolled up his sleeve. Next to his bicep was a round patch of raw meat.

The kid said, “C’mon. I’ll patch it in the ambulance.”

The wound was leaking blood. Suddenly, it hurt like hell.

“We’ve been going
at this for over an hour,” Martinez said. “You’re making life difficult on yourself, Mr. Waterson.” The detective leaned across the table in the interview room. “Dolores Sparks shot her son, hoping to make it murder/suicide. He’s been on the operating table for the last three hours, hanging on to life by a thread. The woman wants to
die
, Waterson.” He snapped his fingers. “She turned you in like that!”

“You’re gonna fry, sir,” Webster jumped in, “unless you do something to help yourself.”

“If you talk to us,” Martinez said, “tell us what happened… give us the triggerman… and then maybe Mr. Kent over here will deal.”

Mr. Kent was John Kent, a fifty-five-year-old Fundamentalist Christian who had put in over twenty years with the DA’s office. Fight religious with religious — Decker’s idea.

Kent smoothed his tie and said, “You talk to us honestly, Mr. Waterson. Then maybe I can save you from the chair.”

“How many times must I repeat myself. Dolores Sparks is a very sick woman.” Waterson’s eyes darted about the interview room, deep, wet circles under the arms of his suit jacket. He ran his hand through white, thin hair. “She’s been on medication for years. She’s not a credible person. No jury will believe anything she says.”

“So y’all willing to go to trial,” Webster said. “Good luck to you.”

Martinez said, “You know, Mr. Waterson, if you don’t start talking—”

“I didn’t
do
anything,” Waterson insisted. “I killed no one.”

Webster said, “But you know who pulled the trigger because you hired them.”

“All you have is Dolores’s word against mine. Is it my fault that some demented lady mistook my kindness for craziness?”

Kent said, “Sir, you don’t stand a chance.”

“I wish I had a nickel every time a lawyer said that to me.”

“Spare your life, sir. Then use it to repent to Jesus to spare your soul.”

“My soul…” Waterson looked away.

Farrell Gaynor folded his arms. “You make a good living, Mr. Waterson. You want to tell us how you got so far in the hole?”

Waterson gave Gaynor a steely glance. “I don’t believe I have to answer that. I don’t believe I have to answer any more of your questions.”

“You’re going to talk to us one way or the other. You want a mouthpiece…” Martinez handed him the phone. “I’ve always said, be my guest.”

Waterson looked at the phone, but didn’t move.

Gaynor said, “You won’t tell us about your financial woes, I’ll tell you about them. Your wife, Ellen, underwent treatment for renal cancer. Unsuccessful treatment. Eventually, both kidneys came out. She had two transplants that failed. You blamed Azor for that, didn’t you?”

“
Never —
”

“Then your medical insurance topped out,” Gaynor continued. “Four more years of expensive out-of-pocket dialysis. And during this terrible time in your life, Azor’s just raking it in—”

“You’re despicable.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean Azor’s despicable?”

Foam gathered at the corner of Waterson’s mouth. “He was despicable — a sinner and a pervert.”

Webster said, “I was taught Jesus loves all His children.”

“Not those who mock His words. Pray fervently in public and debase in private.”

Kent’s voice was soothing. “I know it’s hard, Mr. Waterson. Hard to watch the wicked prosper while the righteous suffer.”

The room went quiet.

“You did what you thought was right,” Kent said. “In your eyes, in God’s eyes. But the law doesn’t see it like that, sir. And the law’s going to punish you severely. You might lose your life unless you do something to help yourself.”

Tears spilled down Waterson’s cheeks. “I don’t need help. I didn’t do anything.”

“You did do something, Mr. Waterson,” Martinez said. “We all here know you did do something. You contracted murder—”

“No…” Waterson shook his head. “No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“But that’s how it happened.”

Martinez said, “How much did you pay them?”

Waterson was quiet.

“I got receipts from your account,” Gaynor spoke up. “Which match up nicely with money that had been withdrawn from Dolly Sparks’s account. Ten grand in and out right before Azor died. Ten grand in and out right
after
Azor died. And for good measure, a final ten withdrawn just last Friday — the day after Dr. Reginald Decameron died.”

Waterson wiped tears from his cheek. “Abominations before the Lord. Both of them.”

“How’d you find out about Azor’s inclinations?” Webster asked.

Waterson lowered his head. “Azor had called me… to talk about estate planning. At least, that’s what he said. A strange call because his affairs seemed to be in order.”

A long pause.

“He told me he had some changes in mind. Setting up separate accounts for Curedon once it hit the market. Accounts in his name only. Separate property… as opposed to community property. Naturally, I asked him why.”

Another hesitation.

“Then he just… blurted it out. I was… stunned… repulsed.”

He looked beseechingly at Kent.

“What really disgusted me was his complete…
lack
of remorse. He told me he was going to drop out for a while to think over who he was. He was planning to do evil in the form of an abomination… and he spoke as if he needed a simple vacation.”

Waterson’s eyes became hot flames.