The Man Who Murdered God (22 page)

Bernie Lipson watched the helicopter hover above the convent. He could see men in dark uniforms scramble down a rope ladder from the craft's open door and disappear beyond the edge of the building's mansard roof.

Ralph Innes walked quickly over to him from the school door. “He's here,” Innes said, looking up at the helicopter. “He wants to see you.”

“Does he know where I am?” Bernie asked, his eyes still peering skyward.

“Yeah.” Ralph shielded his eyes against the glaring spotlight shining from the helicopter towards the ground. “Jesus, how many are they landing up there?”

“Twelve. Every one of them with Uzis.”

Ralph whistled softly. “You coming in to talk to him?”

“You said he knows where I am,” Bernie answered.

“Yeah, but he wants you—”

“My partner's inside with a police special going against a crazy kid with a sawed-off shotgun,” Bernie interrupted. “And in about ten minutes the place is going to be crawling with guys primed to blast eighty rounds a second into anything that moves.” He looked directly at Ralph. “You tell him I'm waiting here for my partner.”

“What's your name?” Bobby asked. He sat straight in the wooden chair, the shotgun resting on his lap. In the other corner of the room, too far away to charge the boy but well within killing range of the gun, McGuire sat stiffly.

“Lieutenant Joseph McGuire, Boston Police Department,” McGuire answered. “Homicide squad.” Keep him talking, McGuire told himself. Keep him talking, and you just might get out of this alive.

“Have you been looking for me, Mr. McGuire?” Bobby asked.

“Every hour of every day for the past week.”

“I'm sorry I caused so much trouble,” Bobby said, like a young child apologizing for his misbehaviour. “I never wanted to cause anybody any trouble.”

McGuire's eyes narrowed. “Bobby,” he said, shaking his head, “how can you say that? You've killed five people.”

“Yes, I know,” Bobby replied. “Three fathers and. . . .” He blinked and shuddered. “And that man in the subway. And a woman. I killed a woman last night.” His voice was tired but unemotional. “Her name was Mattie.”

“Did you shoot her? Like the others?”

Bobby shook his head. “I strangled her. I lost control of myself and strangled her.”

“Why?” McGuire leaned forward, then quickly backward as Bobby raised the gun towards him. “Bobby, we know why you hated the priests and the man who approached you in the subway. But why the woman?”

“She tried to do something the others did to me.”

“The others? In the monastery?”

Bobby nodded. “I told myself no one would ever do that to me again. I would die before I would let anyone do that to me again.”

“Why did you crucify the woman on the wall?”

Bobby swallowed. His eyes began to fill with tears.

“Why?” McGuire repeated.

“It was a warning,” Bobby replied. “To let everyone know I wouldn't let them do things like that to me.” The tears flowed freely, rolling down his cheeks and onto the gun. “Nobody. Ever again.”

Captain Jack Kavander strode briskly across the grassy area to where Lipson and Innes stood among a knot of police sharpshooters.

“Goddamn it, Bernie,” he said, casting a quick glance at the riflemen and their infra-red-equipped weapons. “I wanted to talk to you in the building.”

Bernie's eyes continued sweeping the darkened windows. “Joe's in there,” he said without looking at Kavander.

“I know he's in there!” Kavander spat at him. “Why the hell didn't you stop him?”

“He was already gone. Right, Ralph?”

“He's right, Captain,” Ralph Innes replied. “Just shot out the door and up the steps. We didn't have a chance.”

“Bullshit!” Kavander looked up at the building in front of them. “What'd he go in with?” he asked, his voice softening.

“His thirty-eight,” Bernie said.

“That's all? Against a twelve-gauge?”

“And a vest,” Bernie added. “And Deeley's priest outfit.”

Kavander stared at Lipson, his mouth hanging open in wonder. “Who the hell's crazier?” he asked. “The kid with the gun? Or McGuire?”

“Let the sisters go,” McGuire pleaded. “They haven't hurt you. Why not just let them leave now that you've got me for a hostage?”

“There's no one stopping them,” Bobby answered.

“You are.”

“No, I'm not. They've been free to go from the beginning. I explained to them who I was, and that I only wanted to see a priest.”

“You scared the hell out of them,” McGuire pointed out. “You were running around yelling. That's what one of the sisters said who escaped.”

Bobby shrugged. “I was angry. I thought this was a seminary or a church. I wanted a priest. I demanded a priest. Then, when I realized where I was, I apologized.” He tilted his head towards the chapel. “They offered to stay in the chapel and pray for me. They said they would remain there as long as I was in the building. And I thanked them for that.”

As if in reply the nuns' voices rose in unison from the chapel. Bobby reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “How much do you know about me, Mr. McGuire?” he asked.

“Almost everything,” McGuire replied. “We know about Larkin and the others. What they did to you. We know how intent you were about becoming a priest, and why you reacted the way you did. . . .”

“Did you speak to my mother?”

McGuire nodded. “Your mother doesn't believe you did these things. She refuses to accept it.”

“Did you see the pictures of my father?” Bobby asked suddenly.

“Only one or two—” McGuire began.

“He bombed babies,” Bobby interrupted. “Did you know that? He was supposed to be a great hero, and he bombed babies.”

“A lot of terrible things happen in wars,” McGuire tried to explain.

“He dropped napalm on babies in villages!” Bobby shouted. His eyes grew wide, and his hands shook, moving the gun in spastic motions. He sat back, breathed deeply twice and spoke in a lower voice. “My father sent me a picture just before he was shot down. He was under the wing of his plane, pointing to a bomb. He had written ‘This one's from Bobby' on the bomb. I asked somebody what kind of bomb it was, and they told me it was napalm. He was burning people alive
with bombs that had my name on them
!”

“We got 'em on radio,” Caddy said around his wad of gum. He was standing next to Bernie Lipson, Ralph Innes and Jack Kavander. “They're through the roof and on the top floor. Nothing but a whole bunch of beds in there. Just twelve tough and horny sons of bitches moving around where a whole bunch of virgin pussy sleeps. Ain't that a hoot?”

Kavander turned slowly and stared at the deputy. “Lipson?” he said.

“Yes sir?” Bernie lifted his eyes from the building.

“I'm giving this man thirty seconds to return inside the school,” Kavander ordered. “If he's not there in that time, you disarm him and arrest him for obstruction. If he resists, shoot him.”

Bobby's head jerked quickly up, and he stared at the ceiling. McGuire had heard it, too. The sound of motion somewhere above them. He wondered what Bobby's reaction would be when the men burst through the door, screaming and waving their assault guns. Would it divert Bobby's attention? Or would his reflex be to squeeze the trigger with the gun in the same position, the muzzle aimed at McGuire's face?

Bobby looked away from the ceiling and down at the floor. He seemed to be smiling at some private thought.

“Do you pray, Mr. McGuire?” he asked.

McGuire shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don't pray.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't believe in God,” McGuire answered.

“I did,” Bobby said.

“You don't anymore?”

“I believe He's alive in most people,” Bobby answered. “But He's dead in me.”

“The death of one god is the death of all,” McGuire recited. “That's what you underlined in that book of poetry, isn't it?”

Bobby nodded and smiled shyly. “Do you know what God is, Mr. McGuire?” he asked. Without waiting for McGuire's reply, he said, “God is simply a life force. It's the invisible part of us that cherishes life, the part that tells us to care for babies and helpless things. And especially the part that drives us towards spiritual fulfilment and eternal life by reproducing our genes through our children.”

McGuire frowned. “That's your idea of God?” he asked. “God is a sex drive?”

“It's a little more complicated than that,” Bobby replied. He glanced up again as the sound of a closing door latch filtered through the ceiling. “But, yes. I guess you can say that.” He looked back at McGuire and smiled. “I have no sexual urges, Mr. McGuire. They were killed in me. They were murdered in me by Larkin and the others. Larkin didn't just use me, you see. He murdered the God in me.”

“Why didn't you kill him, Bobby?” McGuire asked. “Why murder the innocent priests? Why not go to the monastery and kill Larkin?”

“I was told they were dead.” Bobby shifted in his chair, the gun still pointing at McGuire. “The day I purchased the gun, I knocked on the door, and Brother Schur, the ugly little monk who handles the financial records of the monastery, answered. He said Larkin and Halloran and the rest were dead. He kept the chain on the door and wouldn't let me enter.” Bobby shrugged. “I suppose I could have killed Schur but . . . but I wasn't angry at just monks and priests. I was angry at the Church!” He looked at McGuire with pleading eyes. “They wouldn't believe me! I tried to tell my mother and our priest. But no one would believe me, that men of God could do such a thing!”

The convent was encircled by ambulances. Grim-faced armed men stood speaking to each other in hushed voices.

Ralph Innes walked away from one group to rejoin Kavander and Lipson. “They're on the second floor,” he said. “It's clean. They hear voices from the chapel, and they're ready to storm it.”

“Jesus,” Kavander exclaimed. “I hope they know what they're doing. And who they're going after. There's still over dozen nuns in there, for Christ's sake.”

“These guys don't have a knack for being subtle,” Innes said.

This time the noise was directly above their heads. Bobby glanced up, then back at McGuire. “I guess you don't want to pray, Mr. McGuire,” he said sadly.

McGuire had edged forward on his chair, his weight on the balls of his feet. He was waiting for Bobby's attention to waver. If he dived low, his hands ready to seize the barrel, he might be able to deflect the gun away.

As if in anticipation of McGuire's move, Bobby stood up and edged himself against the far wall, near the closed door. He stood in the direct light still shining from the closet and looked at McGuire, who had settled back in his chair again. “You don't make a very good priest, Mr. McGuire,” he said with a slight smile. “I mean, you just don't look enough like one. That's too bad. I wanted a priest.”

“I know what you wanted a priest for, Bobby.” McGuire said.

“What—” Bobby began. He was becoming agitated. The nun's voices rose again in unison. Footsteps could be heard clearly in the halls above them. “What do you do when . . . when you have a crisis in your life. And you can't pray? What do you do, Mr. McGuire?”

“I get through it. Somehow.”

“Tell me,” Bobby said nervously. “Tell me how.”

McGuire's eyes shifted from the gun, still pointed at his head, to the closed door. There were people in the hallway. He could feel them.

“I keep busy,” McGuire answered blankly. “My wife died,” he added suddenly. “Yesterday. She was . . . we were divorced, but. . . .” He stuttered and looked away. “I . . . I tried to keep busy because. . . .” He felt his body relax and his eyes begin to flood. Embarrassed, surprised by his own emotions, he raised his hand and covered his eyes, suppressing the unexpected tears.

When he looked up, he saw Bobby slumped in the corner, watching him sadly.

“You must have loved her very much,” Bobby said.

McGuire didn't reply.

“Do you know the only place I saw real love, Mr. McGuire?” Bobby asked. “At the aquarium. Between two otters. It was accepted, undemanding love. That's the only kind that really matters, isn't it? Do you know something about otters, Mr. McGuire? They mate for life. When one otter dies, its mate remains by itself and refuse to eat. Then it dies, too. That's the measure of true love, Mr. McGuire. When one mate dies, the life of the other is over, too.”

Bobby had raised the gun again. McGuire sat watching him warily.

“If you can't pray for me, maybe you can quote something from the Bible,” Bobby said. “Do you know anything from the Bible, Mr. McGuire?”

“The ten commandments,” McGuire replied. He was staring down, overcoming the repressed sobs that had shaken his body. “Thou shalt not kill.”

“Of course,” Bobby replied. “Unless thou art at war. Or thou art practicing self-defense. Or thou art the state teaching others not to kill by killing. Or thou art an abortionist. . . .”

“Bobby—”

“How about something philosophical, Mr. McGuire? Don't you know something besides a bunch of thou shalt nots?”

“How about, ‘The truth shall set you free'?” McGuire suggested, still staring at the floor.

Something was happening outside the room. The nuns' prayers had ceased, and there was only silence from the chapel. The sisters' voices had been replaced by something else, something intangible and threatening.

Bobby noticed it, too. He glanced quickly at the door, then back at McGuire. His voice was higher, his words slurred. “That's wonderful, Mr. McGuire. That may be the single most profound statement in the Bible, don't you think? The truth shall set you free. Any more?”