Sins of the Fathers Page 58
THIRTY ONE
HORTON ARRIVED AT two conclusions as he and “Father Bob” slipped over the highway in the black Lotus. First, that the good Father underestimated his intelligence, which was good. Second, Horton was now positive that the priest was going kill him, which was not good. Horton had never been one for small talk, but after almost a hundred miles of silence, crammed into the cockpit of the sports car, he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“How do you like the ride, Father?”
Neary made a show of looking around the interior, checking out the starship dashboard and running his open palm over the leather. “Very nice.”
“You have a little bit of an accent. Is it Greek, or what?”
“Bronx.”
Horton chuckled. “No, I mean over that.”
“Italian. I’ve been living near Rome for several years.”
“Good cars.”
“Excuse me?”
Horton smiled. “I mean they make good cars in Italy,” he said, pronouncing it It-ly. “Ferrari and all those.”
“Of course.” Neary’s jowls bulged. “Although, I’ve not had occasion to experience their particular driving pleasure.”
Another well-placed chuckle. “You sound like a commercial.”
Neary made a sound that at once communicated polite good humor and the request that Horton engage in auto-buggery.
“Guess being a priest and all, you don’t get the kind of green it takes to get behind the wheel of much more than a… What kinda’ car you got, Father?”
“I don’t.”
“Got a driver, huh? I do that for Mr. Mason a lot.”
The scenery blurred past the windows, gray-green and brown, rained-soaked. Neary was quiet. The tires exhaled endless, constricted breaths.
Horton threw another hook. “You, uh, work for some special branch of the Church, right? Father Calvin told me a little. Said you ‘solve problems’.”
Calvin had told him what? It took every last bit of Neary’s experience and control to keep the surprise from showing. “Really? And did Father Calvin describe the type of problems we solve?”
“He said something about cleaning up other people’s messes, that kind of thing. He didn’t go too far into it, but I thought he was maybe talking about some sort of corporate espionage type stuff. Like maybe the big V has to make sure someone gets its back.”
“The big V?”
“You know, Father. The Vatican.”
“Right. Of course.” Neary laughed. “That’s very clever. The big V.”
“So tell me. I mean we’re working together now an’ all. Is it like making sure the money’s clean and the media’s quiet? That kinda’ shit?”
“Actually,” Neary turned toward him. “I give Father Calvin the names and locations of problem individuals and he murders them.”
Horton had been waiting for that. It was the test. He decided before they left the motel that if he could get Father Bob to give him the skinny on the wet work Calvin had already laid down for him it could only mean one thing: Horton was a dead man. There was no way a man like Father Bob would let an outsider know his dirty little secret and then allow said outsider to draw many more breaths. Horton had played it stupid and chatty, a dumb-ass Mafia hood with a big mouth, and Father Bob had bought it. At least he knew what he was up against.
“Wow, that’s some heavy shit, Padre.” Horton laughed and shrugged it off. “Course, if Mr. Mason hands me the name and location of a problem individual, I guess I do the same thing.” Would Father Bob believe his nonchalance? Horton wanted to look over at the other man, gauge him, but didn’t dare. He had already stretched his limited ability at fiction to the breaking point. Now, it was just a matter of figuring out how much time he had left before the priest decided his usefulness was at an end.
“How much longer?” Horton asked.
“What?”
“Till we get there, I mean. You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
Neary pulled the Michigan Road Atlas they’d bought at a gas station out of the door pocket, and flipped through it. “What was that last exit number?”
“Seventeen.”
Neary straightened a bit in his seat. “Not much further.” He arched an eyebrow. “Are you so anxious to get there?”
Not to have you and your buddy put a slug in my noggin. “I just want to get Jeremy back,” Horton said and gripped the wheel. One of his machine bolt knuckles cracked. “You know the kid’s sick, right?”
“Sick?” Neary said. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Well, I mean…” Of course, he knew. Father Bob was Calvin’s boss. He’d sent the younger priest out to Mason’s in the first place. “You’ve dealt with this kind of thing before, I guess is what I’m asking.”
Neary expanded, a great puffer fish in a black suit. “Indeed I have and don’t worry, Mr. Horton.” He pierced the windshield with his gaze. “The Lord and I will deliver us from evil.”
Horton increased the pressure on the gas and the Lotus slashed through the heavy air. The Lord and I will deliver us. Horton didn’t know blasphemy from belching, but man, this priest was seriously arrogant. He flexed his healing pinky—the one the demon had snapped with its fucking mind—and winced. “I hope you’re right, Father.”
“The Lord and I will prevail, my son.”
Horton swallowed his laughter. He wondered if the Lord also packed a Desert Eagle.
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