The Altar Of Bones Part 7

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Long gone. No need to worry about that, Father. And the city'll be sending out a cleanup crew tomorrow, for the, uh ... blood and stuff."

The priest's face, he thought, looked pale and stark, as if drained of blood. Officer Beadsley struggled for something more to say, but all he could come up with was "We'll get the guy who did it, Father. We'll get him."

RY O'M O'MALLEY STOOD unmoving in the dark, heavy silence. The only light came from a pair of electric sconces flanking the large wooden crucifix at the back of the church, but it was enough for him to make out where more crime-scene tape had been set up around the confessionals. unmoving in the dark, heavy silence. The only light came from a pair of electric sconces flanking the large wooden crucifix at the back of the church, but it was enough for him to make out where more crime-scene tape had been set up around the confessionals.

Was that where it happened, Dom? Was that where they got to you? Ah, Jesus, did you even see it coming?

The only details Ry knew about his brother's death were what he'd read in the Galveston Daily News: Galveston Daily News: Dom had been shot in the head while hearing confession, and the police theorized the killer was a drug addict or homeless person because all the alms boxes were broken and empty. Dom had been shot in the head while hearing confession, and the police theorized the killer was a drug addict or homeless person because all the alms boxes were broken and empty.

But Ry knew better. He felt light-headed, almost sick, as he took in the signs of a struggle-pews knocked askew, the empty rings on the confessional door where the curtain had been torn off. Dom had fought back, but what chance did a priest have against an armed professional? Ry's hands, hanging useless at his sides, clenched into fists because it was already done, over, and he'd gotten here too late.

Then he saw more tape stretched around a small chapel next to the sacristy. His footsteps echoed in the vaulted s.p.a.ce. He breathed in the candle wax and incense before the other smell hit him hard in the face. Blood. It was the smell of his brother's blood, and it nearly drove him to his knees.

He staggered, reached out blindly, and his hand got caught in the yellow tape. He ripped it away with a snarl. A bloodred haze filled his eyes, rage and a terrible, tearing grief. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who did this, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

I'm gonna hunt you down and kill every last f.u.c.king one of you.

He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around his belly, hunching over. His eyes burned and his throat felt raw. He wanted to scream his guts out. He hated that he'd been too late, hated that he and Dom had seen so little of each during these last ten years because they'd taken such different paths.

He hated that he was still here, and alone.

He slammed his fist into the marble floor, so hard he nearly broke it. But the pain was good-it focused him, hardened him.

Slowly, he straightened. He looked at the small altar shrouded in black shadows, at a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary and the large bronze candelabra to the right of her that looked oddly out of place. As if there ought to be another, matching, candelabra on the other side.

He stared at the Virgin's too sweet face for a long time. Then he made himself look at the rest of it. A votive-candle rack tipped over, hardened drops of wax and scorch marks. Blood smears and splatter soaked into the porous marble floor. And something else he still couldn't bear to look at, couldn't bear even to think about: the outline in chalk that marked the place where Dom had died.

It would be at the morgue now, Dom's body. Inert flesh and bones, organs and trace evidence, but not his brother anymore.

Not Dom.

RY SLIPPED OUT the back way through the sacristy door, but he stopped while he was still within the thick shadows cast by Sacred Heart's stone walls. He ripped the priest's collar off his neck, drawing in deep breaths of wet, steamy air, trying to wash the smell of his brother's blood out of his head. the back way through the sacristy door, but he stopped while he was still within the thick shadows cast by Sacred Heart's stone walls. He ripped the priest's collar off his neck, drawing in deep breaths of wet, steamy air, trying to wash the smell of his brother's blood out of his head.

It helped a little, at least enough to get him thinking straight again. Except for the occasional car that rolled by on its way to somewhere else, the streets around the church looked deserted. But the killers, Ry thought-they could still be nearby. They would have been in contact with whoever planned the raid on his house in D.C., they'd know about his escape, and they would figure he'd have heard from his brother. So they'd also figure this would be the first place he'd run to.

They were out there, all right-he could practically feel feel them. Watching the church, waiting for a chance to have another go at him. them. Watching the church, waiting for a chance to have another go at him.

They, they, they ... Who were were they? they?

They'd murdered Dom, and they were trying to kill him, and he still didn't know why. But he knew where he might find some of the answers.

Buried with Lafitte's treasure.

SO AS SOON as I hang up as I hang up, Dom had said, I'm going to write down everything Dad said and put it with Lafitte's treasure I'm going to write down everything Dad said and put it with Lafitte's treasure.

He and Dom had grown up in a small Queen Annestyle cottage a block from the beach on the Bolivar Peninsula, an isolated strip of land that separated the Gulf of Mexico from Galveston and accessible only by ferryboat.

One summer's day, when he was eight, Dom ten, they were exploring the marshes and sand dunes and they came across an abandoned shack, weathered and rotting. Ry was sure the place had to be at least a hundred years old, but Dom said anything that old would long ago have been eaten up completely by the salt water, and they were arguing about that when Ry's foot went through a floorboard and into a hole.

In the hole was a wooden chest, banded with iron, and Ry said it had to be Laffite's treasure chest. Jean Lafitte, the swashbuckling privateer and spy, was one of his heroes, and one story he especially liked had the pirate trying to help Napoleon escape exile only to end up getting his hands on the emperor's treasure instead. Lafitte had buried the treasure, so the story went, near his camp on the Bolivar Peninsula, the secret of its location disappearing along with the pirate into the mists of time.

Dom said a pirate as smart as Lafitte would never bury his treasure in a place where just any old body could stumble across it, and he and Dom argued about that until the moment they broke the padlock with a rock, opened the chest, and found, to Ry's disgust, not jewels and gold doubloons, but a bunch of moldering old newspapers from the 1930s and a single Indian-head nickel.

They got good use out of that old chest, though, using it to stash their own treasure, such as cigarettes and Playboy Playboys, and later booze and pot and that pack of jumbo-size condoms Dom had shoplifted from Walgreens the day after Lindsay Cramer said she'd go with him to the Ball High School homecoming dance.

Ry started to smile at the memory, then his throat closed up and his belly clenched against a fresh wave of pain. Homecoming. Home.

That little yellow house with its white gingerbread trim was gone now, destroyed by Hurricane Ike along with everything else on the peninsula. Mom, Dad, Dom-all of them gone now. The entire O'Malley family was dead, except for him.

But had there ever really been an O'Malley O'Malley family, or was that name just another part of the lie that had been Michael O'Malley's life? For all of Ry's own life, his father had lived in that little house, making only a so-so living by renting out a small string of fis.h.i.+ng boats to the few tourists who made it out to the peninsula. Sometimes, during the lean years, he'd even had to work a few s.h.i.+fts down at the shrimp-canning factory just to make ends meet. Bolivar was hardly a place you'd pick to live if you wanted to get either rich or noticed, it was too isolated, remote; the only way you could even get there was by ferryboat. family, or was that name just another part of the lie that had been Michael O'Malley's life? For all of Ry's own life, his father had lived in that little house, making only a so-so living by renting out a small string of fis.h.i.+ng boats to the few tourists who made it out to the peninsula. Sometimes, during the lean years, he'd even had to work a few s.h.i.+fts down at the shrimp-canning factory just to make ends meet. Bolivar was hardly a place you'd pick to live if you wanted to get either rich or noticed, it was too isolated, remote; the only way you could even get there was by ferryboat.

No, what Bolivar was, was the perfect place for a killer on the run to go to ground.

A killer such as his father.

RY LEFT THE shadows, walking slowly, even stopping once directly beneath a streetlamp to go through his faux-cigarette-lighting routine, giving whoever might be watching a good look at his face. If the hunters were here at the church, he wanted to flush them out now. shadows, walking slowly, even stopping once directly beneath a streetlamp to go through his faux-cigarette-lighting routine, giving whoever might be watching a good look at his face. If the hunters were here at the church, he wanted to flush them out now.

He walked to where he'd parked his ride, a twenty-year-old white Chevy pickup that he'd picked up in a used-car lot near the Houston airport. It was a clunker, but it had the virtue of having come cheap.

This late on a wet Sunday night there wasn't a lot of traffic. He needed to get over to Port Bolivar and see if Dom had a chance before he was killed to write down the old man's confession and bury it as he'd said he would, in that old chest they'd used when they were kids. Lafitte's treasure. But first he drove around Galveston Island, making random turns and flipping U-eys, running red lights and stop signs. A little ditty from when he was a kid kept running through his head: Come out, come out, wherever you are... Come out, come out, wherever you are.... But he saw no sign of a tail.

He idled at a stoplight on the Strand, a part of town that had once catered to sailors and wh.o.r.es, now lined with T-s.h.i.+rt shops, condos, and trendy cafes. Like that cybercafe on the corner, SIP 'N SURF SIP 'N SURF in blinking orange neon. in blinking orange neon.

Ry checked his watch. He still had over thirty minutes before the next ferry, the last one of the night, left for Port Bolivar.

THE ONLY OTHER customer in the cafe was a pimply kid, wearing Harry Potter gla.s.ses and a T-s.h.i.+rt that said customer in the cafe was a pimply kid, wearing Harry Potter gla.s.ses and a T-s.h.i.+rt that said TALK NERDY TO ME TALK NERDY TO ME. The barista, a guy with a scraggly goatee, acted put out by Ry's request for a double espresso and a half hour's worth of access to one of the computer stations.

In his message, Dom had said a woman called Katya Orlova had made a film of this "big kill." Ry logged on to the Internet and googled the name. More than eight hundred references popped up. He skimmed through them, but nothing looked even remotely helpful. A dog-grooming business in Des Moines, a Russian gymnast, a Facebook page belonging to a Berkeley coed. Mich.e.l.le Pfeiffer had played a character of that name in a movie called The Russia House The Russia House...

And then he found her. Maybe found her.

It wasn't much, just a few lines in an article, for an academic journal, t.i.tled "Women Behind the Camera: The Feminist Struggle in Hollywood, Yesterday and Today."

Still, the following years saw little improvement in the dearth of opportunity for female cinematographers. Even the few kept on salary by the major studios were rarely a.s.signed directive roles on any major projects. Katya Orlova, for instance, put in four years at Twentieth CenturyFox as second a.s.sistant cameraman before her name finally appears in the credits as a camera operator for The Misfits. The Misfits. Other women- Other women- Outside, a car door slammed. Ry looked up to see one of the island's horse-drawn tourist carriages roll past the window, momentarily blocking his view. Then he saw a woman crossing the street from the direction of a big, black Hummer.

He couldn't see her face clearly through the rain-smeared gla.s.s, but he knew she was beautiful just from the way she carried herself-shoulders back, head held high, her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a swinging, black leather trench coat. Her stiletto boots clicked on the pavement in long, purposeful strides.

She pa.s.sed beneath a streetlight, and he saw dark red hair that shone like wet blood. This woman came out of the ladies' room and she had red hair, and after what Dad said, I thought ... This woman came out of the ladies' room and she had red hair, and after what Dad said, I thought ...

Ry dove for the floor just as the cafe's front window exploded under a hail of gunfire.

HE ROLLED BEHIND the counter as more bullets slammed into the espresso machine's big boiler, spewing hot steam down onto his head. the counter as more bullets slammed into the espresso machine's big boiler, spewing hot steam down onto his head.

Ry had his gun out, but didn't dare return fire. He heard the barista and the kid screaming, but couldn't see them through the billowing steam. He couldn't see the redhead either, but she suddenly made her presence known again by shooting up the computer he'd been using.

He'd been stupid, almost fatally stupid. He hadn't thought they would come at him in a public place like this, where innocents could get caught in the cross fire.

She started firing again, pumping bullets into the wooden base of the counter. Ry pushed to his feet, put his arm across his face, and plunged into the scalding spray, through a swinging door, and into the kitchen. More bullets thudded into the door as it swung shut behind him-but from a different gun this time.

Ry ran through the kitchen, past tables, a baking oven, pantry shelves, a big stainless steel refrigerator. Dammit, where's the back door? There's got to be a back door Dammit, where's the back door? There's got to be a back door.

He found it and was through it, standing on a narrow stoop at the back end of a blind alley filled with trash cans, a rusted-out Dumpster, and a pile of rotting lumber.

Across the alley was the solid brick wall of another building. No door, not even a single window, just a wrought-iron fire escape coming down from the roof, partly unfolded but still too high up for him to reach.

He was about to make a dash for the street when the black Hummer screeched to a stop across the mouth of the alley. He heard the swinging door bang open back in the kitchen, and he launched himself off the stoop, out and up, and managed to catch the bottom rung of the fire escape with one hand. He jackknifed his legs hard and got enough momentum to pull himself up, just as a bullet slammed into the brick wall next to his head, so close he felt the heat of it.

He ran up the metal steps, ducking and weaving, while the redhead and a guy in a black-hooded sweats.h.i.+rt stood on the kitchen stoop. He felt a sting on his neck, a splash of blood. He pulled himself onto the roof, and, thank G.o.d, he had a bit of cover for the moment.

He lay there, his chest heaving, listening. He couldn't hear them coming up the fire escape after him, and he couldn't hear any more gunfire from below.

He ran at a crouch over the flat tar and gravel roof of what seemed to be a converted warehouse, wending through brick chimneys and hooded vents until he found a door. He reached up, twisted the k.n.o.b- The f.u.c.ker was locked.

He'd learned a long time ago to always carry a set of lockpicks, but he didn't have time to use them now, and just then, lo and behold, and about d.a.m.n time, he heard sirens. But could the redhead have some kind of juice with the local cops, such as some kind of federal badge she could flash at them? s.h.i.+t, if she did, he'd be screwed.

Ry wasn't going to stick around to find out. He ran toward the next building over. It looked like a set of condos, and it had a nice, terraced garden on its roof. It was also convenient that this roof was only a little bit lower than his roof, but s.h.i.+t, f.u.c.k, d.a.m.n, there had to be a dozen feet between them, and it was a long, long way down to the alley below-six stories at least. He might be stupid, but not stupid enough to try jumping over a frigging abyss.

He heard the pounding of feet on the fire escape behind him. He looked back, caught a flash of red hair.

He turned and ran and jumped.

For a moment he seemed to be literally running on air, his legs pumping madly. He'd almost made it across to the other roof when he stopped going forward and gravity won out.

He just managed to snag a drainpipe with his fingertips. He hung there a second, dangling, and of course his fingers started to slip.

He lost his grip, but grabbed at the drainpipe with his other hand, got a better hold of it this time. He hauled himself onto the roof and nearly impaled himself on a tomato stake. He looked up and there she was, her wrists braced on the ledge of the warehouse roof, her gun aimed at his head.

He rolled behind a row of wooden tubs filled with palm trees and came up running.

The condo owners apparently weren't worried about anyone coming in through their roof door because it was, blessed Jesus, unlocked. He took the elevator all the way down to the parking garage, then walked down the rows of cars, banging on hoods, setting off alarms. By the time he climbed the steps onto the street, the cars were playing a loud mad opera.

The Strand was a mess. A half dozen patrol cars ringed the cafe and one of the cops shouted into a bullhorn, scared that he had a hostage situation on his hands. But Ry would bet only the kid and the barista were still inside.

Ry pushed through the crowd, trying not to stick out while he headed toward his truck. He'd had the sense to park it a few blocks away, over on Seawall, where he could shoot straight down to the ferry, leaving in ...

He checked his watch. Six minutes, dammit.

He started to run. He heard someone shout, "Hey, you!" and he looked around. But the yell hadn't been aimed at him. He spotted the guy in the black-hooded sweats.h.i.+rt, though, walking in the street with the Hummer inching along beside him.

He saw the redhead come up the steps from the condo's garage, not even bothering to hide the gun in her hand. He made himself slow down again, tried to blend in-he knew now she didn't give a s.h.i.+t if she killed every innocent in the street as long as she got him.

Dammit, he needed to get to his truck.

Then, music to his ears, he heard a horse's whinny. He waited until the tourist carriage rolled up alongside him, then jumped inside, tossing a twenty into the startled driver's lap.

"How fast can that nag of yours go?"

10.

RY STOOD at the end of the pier and watched the ferry's lights disappear into the night. He listened to the diesel engines die away, then he heard nothing but the lap of water against the pilings beneath his feet. at the end of the pier and watched the ferry's lights disappear into the night. He listened to the diesel engines die away, then he heard nothing but the lap of water against the pilings beneath his feet.

He'd missed the boat, the very last f.u.c.king boat. After getting shot at, scalded, and almost falling into the abyss, he'd gone and missed the d.a.m.n boat- Headlights flooded the road behind him.

He'd left his truck idling behind him, the pa.s.senger door open, and Ry dove for it just as the whole world exploded into a whirl of noise, bullets splintering the wooden planks of the loading ramp and ricocheting off the metal railing. He sprawled across the front seat, covering his head with his arms as more bullets shattered the back winds.h.i.+eld and slammed into the tailgate, shredding the metal into confetti.

The gunfire seemed to last forever, but suddenly there was a lull. He raised his head just enough to get a look out the side-view mirror. He saw that the behemoth black Hummer was blocking the loading ramp, and that really wasn't good at all. They had him trapped-metal railings four feet high on both sides of him, the Hummer behind him, and the empty ferry dock in front of him. And beyond the ferry dock, only black night and blacker water.

More gunfire rocked the truck. He thought of her shooting Dom, and he wanted to take her out right now with his bare hands, but he was outnumbered three to one and they had Uzis and his dying wasn't going solve anything.

He had to save his own a.s.s first, then he'd kill her.

Crouched behind the steering wheel, he saw two men come out from behind the Hummer, firing their automatics. The whine and ping and thud of bullets were all around him. Save his a.s.s, h.e.l.l. Who was he kidding? The chances of making it out of this alive were zilch, and that really p.i.s.sed him off because not only did he not want to die, he didn't want to give the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds the satisfaction of killing him.

He fastened the seat belt with one hand, while he threw the gears.h.i.+ft into reverse with the other, floored it, and prayed. The truck roared backward so fast the steering wheel bucked. He twisted half-around to look out the shattered back winds.h.i.+eld and aimed the truck right for the Hummer. He grinned like the very devil as he got closer and saw the men jump out of the way, their faces white in the Hummer's headlights. He didn't see the woman. Maybe she was still inside, behind the wheel.

Six feet until impact ... four ...two ...

Now.

In the last instant before his truck was going to crash into the Hummer, Ry slammed the gears.h.i.+ft into first instead. The back tires spun on the wet wood, throwing out sparks and smoke, and then, at last, he felt the tires get traction and the truck shot forward. The railings flew by in a blur. The end of the loading ramp loomed ahead, black and empty, closer, closer ...

Oh, s.h.i.+t, maybe this really wasn't such a good idea after all.

The truck shot off the end of the ramp and out over the water. For one breathless instant it felt as if he were flying.

He plunged down so fast he barely had time to suck in air before the truck smacked the water, so hard his teeth rattled. Water poured through the shattered windows. Down, down. How deep was was it here? It was pitch-black, so black he felt blind. it here? It was pitch-black, so black he felt blind.

Then he felt another jolt, softer this time, as the truck hit the silty bottom.

He pushed up against the steering wheel, but he was wedged in. He nearly lost it then, until he realized the seat belt was holding him down. He felt for the belt's lock and pressed, but it wouldn't open, and he stopped himself just in time from yanking on it and maybe making it worse.

Okay, okay, don't panic. Your chest feels a little tight, but that's all in your head. You know you've still got plenty of time left before you run out of air.

When he and Dom were kids, they used to compete with each other to see who could hold his breath underwater the longest. His brother had always won. The most Ry had ever lasted was about three minutes, enough time if he could get out of the d.a.m.n seat belt. But the lock wasn't budging.

He grabbed the knife he'd strapped to his ankle and began madly sawing, until finally it busted open, and he was free.

He punched his feet through what was left of the back window and pulled himself out of the truck. His arm snagged on something metal, and he felt a flash of hot pain. The darkness was absolute. He felt his way along the truck bed, the tailgate, back b.u.mper, a tire.

Then he realized he was actually seeing the tire and he looked up. He could see the s.h.i.+ne of the Hummer's bright lights cutting through the water, and trails of bullets, looking like flickering silver snakes.

He felt along the tire's rim until he found the air valve, then tore at the pocket of his priest's coat to get at his burglar picks. He was starting to feel light-headed, clumsy, his chest seriously hurting now.