peacoat. This one had been hit by a shotgun blast that also demolished
the glass door; he was crumpled in a thousand bright fragments.
Stepping over the body, Brendan entered the sandwich shop. He did not
have his Roman collar, which might have been something of a shield if he
had been wearing it. On the other hand, degenerates like these would
probably kill a priest as reflexively and as happily as they blew away
police officers. In his suit and tie and topcoat, he was as ordinary and
vulnerable as any man, but he did not care. He was that furious.
Furious that God did not exist or, existing, did not care.
At the back of the small shop was a service counter. Behind the counter
was a grill, other equipment. On this side were five very small tables
and ten chairs, most of which had been toppled. On the floor were a
couple of napkin dispensers, ketchup and mustard bottles, scattered one-
and five-dollar bills, a lot of blood, and Winton Tolk.
Not bothering to study the overturned tables to see if a gunman was
sheltering behind them, Brendan went to the officer, knelt beside him.
Winton had been hit twice in the chest. Not with the shotgun. Probably
the other thug's revolver. The wounds were sickening, far too traumatic
to respond dramatically to a mere tourniquet or first-aid procedures.
His breast was mantled with blood, and blood trickled from his mouth.
The pool of blood in which he lay was so deep that he appeared to be
floating on it. He was still, eyes closed, either unconscious or dead.
"Winton?" Brendan said.
The cop did not respond. His eyelids did not even flutter.
Filled with a rage akin to that which had caused him to heave the holy
chalice against the wall during Mass, Brendan Cronin gently put both
hands on Winton Tolk's neck, one on each side, feeling for the throbbing
carotid arteries. He detected no life, and in his mind he saw the
photographs of Raynella and the Tolk children again, and now he was
seething with resentment at the indifference of the universe. "He can't
die," Brendan said angrily. "He can't." Suddenly he thought he felt a
thready pulse, so faint it was virtually nonexistent. He moved his
hands, seeking confirmation that Tolk lived. He found it: a less feeble
beat than that first phantom drumming, though no less irregular.
"Is he dead?"
Brendan looked up and saw a man coming around the side of the service
counter, a Hispanic in a white apron, the owner or an employee. A
woman, also in a white apron, had risen from behind the counter.
Outside, distant sirens were growing nearer.
Under Brendan's hands, the throbbing in Winton Tolk's neck seemed to be
getting stronger and more regular, which was surely not the case. Winton
had lost too much blood to stage even a limited spontaneous recovery.
Until the paramedics arrived with life-support machines, his vital signs
would deteriorate unavoidably, and even expert medical care might not
stabilize his condition.
The sirens were no more than two blocks away.
Puffs of snow blew in through the shattered windows.
The sandwich-shop employees edged closer.
Numb with shock, in a haze of anger at fate's capricious brutality,
Brendan trailed his hands from Winton's neck to the wounds in his chest.
When he saw the blood oozing up between his fingers, his rage gave way
to overwhelming helplessness and uselessness, and he began to cry.
Winton Tolk choked. Coughed. Opened his eyes. Breath rattled thinly
and wetly in his throat, and a soft groan escaped him.
Amazed, Brendan felt for a pulse in the man's throat again. It was weak
but definitely not as weak as before, and hardly irregular at all.
Raising his voice over the shrieking sirens, which were now so near that
the air trembled, Brendan said, "Winton? Winton, do you hear me?"
The cop did not seem to recognize Brendan-or even to know where he was.
He coughed again and choked more
violently than before.
Brendan quickly lifted Tolk's head a few inches and turned it to one
side, to let the blood and mucus drain more freely from his mouth.
Immedifitely the wounded man's respiration improved, though it remained
noisy, each inhalation hardwon. He was still in critical condition, in
desperate need of medical attention, but he was alive.
Alive.
Incredible. All this blood, and he was still alive, hanging on.
Outside, three sirens died one after the other. Brendan shouted for
Paul Armes. Excited by the hope that Winton could be saved, but also
panicked by the possibility that medical attention would arrive seconds
too late, he glanced at the sandwich-shop employees and shouted, "Go!
Get them in here. Let them know it's safe. Paramedics, damn it!"
the man in the apron hesitated, then moved toward the door.
Winton Tolk expelled bloody mucus and finally drew an unobstructed
breath. Brendan carefully lowered Winton's head to the floor again. The
cop continued to breathe shallowly, with difficulty, but steadily.
Outside there were shouts and doors slamming and running feet coming
toward the sandwich shop Brendan's hands were wet with Winton Tolk's
blood. Unthinking, he blotted them on his coat-and it was then that he
realized the rings had reappeared on his hands for the first time in
nearly two weeks. One on each palm. Twin bands of raised and inflamed
tissue.
Cops and paramedics burst through the front door, stepping over the dead
man in the navy peacoat, and Brendan quickly moved out of their way. He
backed up until he bumped against the service counter, where he leaned
in sudden exhaustion, staring at his hands.
For a few days following the first appearance of the rings, he had used
the cortisone prescribed by Dr. Heeton at St. Joseph's, but when the
rings had not reappeared, he had soon stopped applying the lotion. He
had almost forgotten about the marks. They had been a
curiosity-baffling, but of little concern. Now, as he looked at the
strange marks, he heard the voices of those around him, fuzzy and
strange: "Jesus, the blood!"
"Can't be alive . . . twice in the chest."
"Get the fuck out of my way!"
"Plasma!"
"Type his blood. No! Wait . . . do it in the ambulance."
Brendan finally looked at the crowd around Winton Tolk. He watched the
paramedics as they worked to keep the wounded man alive, get him on a
stretcher, and move him out of the sandwich shop.
He saw a cursing policeman dragging the dead man out of the doorway to
make it easier for the paramedics to exit with Tolk.
He saw Paul Armes moving along beside the stretcher.
He saw that the blood in which Tolk had been lying was not merely a pool
but a lake.
He looked at his hands again. The rings were gone.
4.
Las Vegas, Nevada
The Texan in the yellow Day-Glo polyester pants would not have tried to
get Jorja Monatella into bed if he had known she was in the mood to
castrate someone.
Although it was the afternoon of December 24, Jorja was not yet in the
Christmas spiri
t. Usually even-tempered and easygoing, she was in an
exceedingly sour state of mind as she strode back and forth through the
casino, from the bar to the blackjack tables and back to the bar again,
delivering drinks to the gamblers.
For one thing, she hated her job. Being a cocktail waitress was bad
enough in a regular bar or lounge, but in a hotel casino bigger than a
football field, it was a killer. At the end of a shift, her feet ached,
and often her ankles were swollen. The hours were irregular, too. How
were you supposed to provide a stable home for a seven-year-old daughter
She also hated the costume: a little red nothing, cut high in the crotch
and hips, very low at the bustline, smaller than a bathing suit. An
elastic corset was built in to minimize the waistline and emphasize the
breasts. If you were already smallwaisted, with generous breasts-as
Jorja was-the getup made you look almost freakishly erotic.
And she hated the way the pit bosses and casino floormen were always
hitting on her. Maybe they figured any girl who would strut her stuff
in an outfit like that was an easy lay.
She was sure that her name had something to do with their attitude as
well: Jorja. It was cute. Too cute. Her mother must have been drunk
when she got creative with the spelling of Georgia. It was all right
when people heard it, because they had no way of knowing she spelled it
cute, but she had to wear a name tag on her costume-joRJA-and at least a
dozen people a day commented on it. It was a frivolous name, misspelled
like that, so it gave them the idea she was a frivolous person. She had
considered going to court to have the proper spelling made legal, but
that would hurt her mother. However, if guys at work kept hitting on
her, she might even have it changed to Mother Teresa, which ought to
cool off some of the horny bastards.
And fending off the bosses was not the worst of it. Every week, some
high-roller-a bigshot from Detroit or L A. or Dallas, dropping a bundle
at the tables-would take a shine to Jorja and ask the pit boss to fix
him up with her. A few cocktail waitresses were available-not many, but
a few. But when the pit bosses approached Jorja, her answer was always
the same: "To hell with him. I'm a waitress, not a hooker."
Her routine, cold refusal did not stop them from pressuring her to
relent, which they had done an hour ago. A wartfaced, bug-eyed oilman
from Houston-in phosphorescent yellow pants, a blue shirt, and a red
string tie-one of the hotel's favored clients, had gotten the hots for
her and had made inquiries. His breath stank of the burritos he had
eaten forlunch.
Now the bosses were angry with her for refusing a highly valued
customer, for being "too stuffy." Rainy Tarnell, the blackjack pit boss
on the day shift, had the gall to put it just like that-"Honey, don't be
so stuffy!"-as if falling on her back and spreading her legs for a
stranger from Houston was merely the equivalent of a fashion gaucherie
like wearing white shoes either before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.
Though she hated being a casino cocktail waitress, she could not afford
to quit. No other job would pay her as well. She was a divorced mother
raising a daughter without benefit of child-support payments, and in
order to protect her credit rating, she was still paying off bills that
Alan had run up in her name before walking out on her, so she was
acutely aware of the value of a dollar. Her wages were low, -but the
tips were exceedingly good, especially on those occasions when one of
her customers started winning big at cards or dice.
On this day before Christmas, the casino was two-thirds empty, and tips
were bad. Vegas was always slow Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the
crowds did not return until December 26. The whizzing-rattling-ringing
of slot machines was muted. Many of the blackjack dealers stood idle
and bored in front of empty tables.
No wonder I'm in a sour mood, Jorja thought. Sore feet, back pain, a
horny creep who figures I ought to be as available as the drinks I
serve, an argument with Rainy Tarnell, and no tips to show for it.
When her shift ended at four o'clock, she hurried to the changing room
downstairs, punched the time clock, slipped out of her costume and into
street clothes, and was out the door into the employee parking lot with
a speed that would have drawn praise from an Olympic runner.
The unpredictable desert weather did nothing to instill the Christmas
spirit in her. A Las Vegas winter day could be cold, with bone-numbing
wind, or it could be warm enough for shorts and halters. This year, the
Her dusty, battered Chevette started on only the third try, which should
have improved her mood. But listening to the starter grind and the
engine cough, she was reminded of the shiny new Buick that Alan had
taken with him fifteen months ago, when he had abandoned her and Marcie.
Alan Rykoff. More than her job, more than any of the other things that
irritated her, Alan was the cause of Jorja's foul mood. She had shed
his name when the marriage had been dissolved, reverting to her maiden
name, Monatella, but she could not as easily shed the memories of the
pain he had inflicted on her and Marcie.
As she drove out of the parking lot into the street behind the hotel,
Jorja tried to banish Alan from her thoughts, but he remained at center
stage. The bastard. With his current bedmate, an airhead blond bearing
the unlikely name "Pepper," he had flown off to Acapulco for a week, not
even bothering to leave a Christmas gift for Marcie. What did you tell
a seven-year-old girl when she asked why her daddy didn't buy her
anything for Christmas-or even come to see her?
Although Alan left Jorja saddled with bills, she had willingly forgone
alimony because, by then, she loathed him so much that she had not
wanted to be dependent on him. However, she had gone after child
support and had been shocked when he countered by insisting Marcie was
not his child and, therefore, not his responsibility. Damn him. Jorja
had married him when she was nineteen and he was twenty-four, and she'd
never been unfaithful. Alan knew she hadn't cheated, but protecting his
jazzy lifestyle-he needed every dollar for clothes, fast cars, and
women-was more important to him than his wife's reputation or his
daughter's happiness. To spare little Marcie humiliation and pain,
Jorja had released Alan from responsibility before he could voice his
sleazy accusations in the courtroom.
So she was finished withhim. She could put him out of her mind.
But as she drove past the mall at the intersection of Maryland Parkway
and Desert Inn Road, Jorja thought about how young she had been when she
tied herself to Alan, too young for marriage and too naive to see
through his facade. When she was nineteen, she thought he was
sophisticated, charming. For more than a year, their union had seemed
blissful, but gradually she began to see him for what he was: shallow,
vain, lazy, a shockingly promiscuous womanizer.
The summer before last, when their relationship had been rocky, she had
tried to salvage the marriage by coercing Alan into a carefully planned
three-week vacation. She believed that part of their problem was that
they spent too little time together. He was a baccarat dealer in one
hotel, and she was employed in another, and they frequently worked
different shifts, slept on different schedules. Just the two of them
and Marcie-embarking upon an adventurous three-week car trip seemed a
good way to repair their damaged relationship.
Unfortunately but predictably, her scheme had not worked. After the
vacation, upon their return to Vegas, Alan had been more promiscuous
than before. He seemed determined-driven-to take a poke at anything in
skirts. In fact, it was almost as if the car trip had somehow pushed
him over the edge, for the number and intensity of his one-night stands
developed a manic quality, a frightening desperation. Three months
later, in October of that year, he walked out on her and Marcie.
The only good thing about the car trip had been the brief encounter with
that young woman doctor who had been driving cross-country from Stanford
to Boston on, she'd said, her first vacation ever. Jorja still
remembered the woman's name: Ginger Weiss. Although they had met only
once, and then for little more than an hour, Ginger Weiss had quite
unwittingly changed Jorja's life. The doctor had been so very youngso
slender, pretty, feminine-it had been difficult to accept that she was