“What?”
“She had her cell phone, but I thought it was to call the desk. I’m sorry. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I can’t believe she did this.”
“Where is she?”
“It’s her day off, but we’ll report her to the chief administrator.”
“I want him moved to an undisclosed room with guards.”
“Of course.”
Beth took Maggie’s arm and led her outside while orderlies began to remove the stuff from the bed. The halls had been cleared, and several security guards patrolled the corridors. Maggie walked with Beth to the nurses’ station, where someone handed her a coffee.
As she made her way back down the hall, she spotted the tall, stylish woman with the birthmark at the elevators. The woman glared at her. A moment later, the elevator light went on and the door opened. Before stepping inside, the woman said something.
“Pardon me?”
“I pray that your son is a miracle child.”
Before Maggie could respond, the woman entered the elevator and was gone.
11
Satan’s doorman lived in a large Tudor home on Greendale Road in Falmouth on Cape Cod. Roman Pace sat in his car on a small parallel street beside a vacant lot that allowed a clear view of the rear of the house.
Roman never met those who hired him—just anonymous telephone calls and cash delivered to a drop spot. It was a good arrangement, since anonymity kept things discreet and simple without the chance of compromise. Roman had no idea if the guy on the other side of the confessional booth was a priest, a bishop, or Friar Tuck. But he wasn’t Father Timothy Callahan. And after a week it made no difference, because a part of Roman began to believe that he was, in fact, in service to God. The same part that began to believe that God Himself had directed Roman to that confessional booth in the first place.
It was a promise that he latched on to.
The rear end of a detached garage had a window that allowed a view of the interior, not that he cared about the contents. The garage door was open, and twenty minutes ago the headlights of a white Lexus had lit up the window as the owner pulled in and then entered the house through the rear door. The neighbors looked to be away, maybe because it was Easter weekend.
After fifteen minutes, Roman exited his rental and walked to the front of the house. Lights burned on the first floor and in one bedroom room on the second. The entrance was flanked with leaded windows through which he could see a foyer, but no movement. He rang the doorbell, and an outside light went on. A moment later, an old guy opened the door. “Sorry to disturb you, but are you Dr. Thomas Pomeroy?”
“Yes.”
He was listed as seventy-one and looked it. His face was lean and pale, with loose flesh under the chin. He had dark, baggy eyes and receding gray hair. He was dressed in chinos and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His expression projected annoyance. “My name is Roman Pace, and I’ve got a message from Thomas Infantino.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Infantino.” And with his left hand, Roman handed Pomeroy a stiff manila envelope with his name printed in bold letters. As Pomeroy took the envelope, Roman pulled a pistol from his jacket and pressed it against Pomeroy’s middle. “I think we best discuss this inside.”
“W-what are you doing?”
“Inside, and not a peep.” Pomeroy’s face froze in shock and horror, but he backed into the foyer, and Roman closed the door behind him.
“What do you want? Who are you?”
“I’ll ask the questions.”
A red Oriental carpet filled the foyer, which was lit by a glass chandelier. A set of dark stairs ran up to the second landing, where a light burned in the room at the top right. “Is anyone else in the house?”
“No.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife is dead.”
This was true, and his daughter lived in Arizona, and he had no other children according to the spec sheet. “Other relatives? Live-in housekeeper?”
“N-no. I’m alone. Who are you? You want money? I can give you some.” He made a move toward the staircase.
But Roman stopped him. “I don’t want your money.” He nudged the man into the living room—a space with dark-wood bookshelves, a black baby grand piano, and a maroon leather sofa and matching chairs—and directed Pomeroy to the sofa.
Pomeroy did as he was told, his face ashen with terror. Roman sat on the leather chair facing him. “I want you to tell me stuff,” he said. “And if I like your answer, I’ll make this easy for you.”
Pomeroy looked into the stolid eye of the Beretta. “Okay, but please don’t—”
Roman raised his finger. “Shhh. Cooperate, and nobody’ll get hurt. Okay?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Are you a religious man, Dr. Pomeroy?”
“What?”
“I asked, are you a religious man?”
Pomeroy hesitated. “No.”
“Have you had any dealings with St. Pius Church in Providence, Rhode Island?”
“No, I’ve never even heard of that.”
“What about the name Timothy Callahan?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“No.”
“Okay. Do you believe in Satan?”
Bafflement clouded Pomeroy’s face. “No.”
“Look, you’re a big-time physicist with awards up to here. So how come someone in the Catholic Church wants you dead?”
An involuntary squeal rose from his lungs. “I don’t know. Please don’t kill me. I’ll pay you anything you want.”
According to online sites, Pomeroy was celebrated for solving some problems involving magnetic resonance, resulting in hospital machines that improved the imaging of cancer cells. Apparently it was a big breakthrough, because several news releases announced articles he had coauthored in the
The man continued to beg.
“You have cash in the house?”
“Yes, yes, in a small safe upstairs.”
Roman snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Let’s go.” He kept the gun to the guy’s back as he followed him up to a bedroom, where he opened the door of a closet. On the floor sat a small safe, the kind you’d find in hotels. “If there’s an alarm trigger, consider yourself dead.”
“No, no alarm up here. Just the back door.”
Roman watched as Pomeroy twirled through the combination, opened the safe, and pulled out four packs of bound fifties and hundreds—$5,000.
Roman took them and put them into his jacket pocket. “Fine. You just bought the rest of your life.
