For maybe five seconds more, Dom stared at the sh.e.l.l of what had once been Michael O'Malley. Then he pushed to his feet and ran from the room.

HE STOOD IN the middle of the hall while doctors and nurses rushed past and the intercom blared, "Code blue! Code blue!" His heart pounded, but already he was feeling foolish. Running from phantoms. the middle of the hall while doctors and nurses rushed past and the intercom blared, "Code blue! Code blue!" His heart pounded, but already he was feeling foolish. Running from phantoms.

Within moments the hallway emptied, leaving him alone. He rubbed his hands over his face. His eyes burned, but he couldn't cry.

The elevator opened and an orderly with an empty gurney came out, followed by a woman. She wore green scrubs with a stethoscope dangling half out of one pocket, and she had ...

Red hair and that angels-weep kind of beautiful.

They made eye contact for an instant, then she turned away and went to the nurses' station. She picked up a chart, and although she seemed to be reading it, Dom felt an energy coming off her, like an electric charge, and that energy was focused on him.

The orderly had also stopped at the nurses' station, but now he was pushing the gurney down the hall, disappearing around the corner. Dom's gaze followed for an instant, and when he looked back around, he saw the woman in the green scrubs was coming toward him.

She slipped her hand into her pocket, the one without the stethoscope, and she smiled.

Dom whirled and ran in the direction the man with the gurney had taken, his father's words blaring an alarm in his head ... loose threads ... she's got a killer's smile ... it's just as likely to be a bullet to the head loose threads ... she's got a killer's smile ... it's just as likely to be a bullet to the head.

But she wouldn't dare shoot him here, in front of witnesses, would she?

He rounded the corner, the leather of his black priest's shoes slipping on the waxed linoleum. He spotted a blue restroom sign and ducked inside. It was a single occupancy: one toilet, one sink.

He locked the door, then tested the handle to be sure it held. He leaned back against the wall, his hands flat at his sides. His chest heaved. He strained his ears for any sound out in the hall, but all he could hear was his own harsh panting.

He waited for what seemed an eternity, then went to the sink and splashed water on his face.

He stared at the same face he'd seen when he'd shaved this morning. Brown hair, brown eyes. A fairly ordinary face, really, except for those ridiculously deep dimples that he'd always hated because they belonged on a cheerleader's cheeks, but not on a guy. Guys were supposed to be too tough for dimples, even guys who were priests.

The door handle rattled and Dom froze, not even breathing. The handle rattled again, but whoever was on the other side didn't knock or call out. The silence dragged on and on, then Dom heard footsteps walking away.

He gripped the sink with both hands and leaned over it, squeezing his eyes shut. His father was dead. Michael O'Malley was dead, except there had never been a Michael O'Malley. That man was an illusion, a lie. Or his dying words had been a lie. One or the other, because those two realities couldn't exist simultaneously in this universe.

The big kill.

Dom jerked his phone from his pocket and punched in his brother's cell number on speed dial, praying, praying he wouldn't get shunted off to voice mail again. For long, agonizing seconds there was just dead air, and then Dom heard a ring.

Come on, Ry. Come on, man.... Ry would know what to do. Maybe their old man was right, maybe Dom didn't have a gut understanding of evil, but his brother did. Ry O'Malley had been living with it, up close and personal, for years.

The phone rang on and on. Merciful G.o.d in heaven, please- Merciful G.o.d in heaven, please- The ringing ended abruptly, and Dom nearly sagged to the floor with relief. But when the computer voice clicked in, he cut the connection.

He'd almost done something really stupid. Ry had to be told, to be warned, but not like this. Weren't cell phones like two-way radios? Anyone could be listening in.

So think, Dom. Think ...

He couldn't stay locked up in this bathroom forever. He heard deep voices, rough laughter, out in the hall. He went to the door, unlocked and cracked it open. A young man with his leg in a cast up to his hip bone was leaving the hospital, surrounded by a rowdy group of uniform cops. Big, tough-looking bruisers they were, with guns on their hips.

Father Dom joined them.

AN I IRISH PUB was a block down from the hospital, a favorite haunt of the EMT crews coming off their shifts. The bartender's eyebrows went up a notch at the sight of the white collar, but he gave Dom change for a twenty-dollar bill and pointed out the pay phone, in the hall leading to the kitchen, next to the toilets. was a block down from the hospital, a favorite haunt of the EMT crews coming off their shifts. The bartender's eyebrows went up a notch at the sight of the white collar, but he gave Dom change for a twenty-dollar bill and pointed out the pay phone, in the hall leading to the kitchen, next to the toilets.

It was dark back there and stank of stale beer and grease, but Dom barely noticed. He punched in his brother's home number. He didn't expect Ry would be there to answer it, but it was a landline with an answering machine. Was that safer than a cell phone? It didn't matter. Ry needed to be warned.

As he listened to the ringing on the other end, he rubbed his face, felt the wetness of tears.

Then Ry's voice, tough and to the point: "Leave a message."

Dom gripped the phone tighter. Over the pounding of his heart he heard the beep of the machine.

"Ry? It's about Dad. He's dead, and-" Dom choked back sobs, then pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, tried to pull himself together. You're a grown man, for mercy's sake, and Michael O'Malley's son, so you really should be tougher than this You're a grown man, for mercy's sake, and Michael O'Malley's son, so you really should be tougher than this.

He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Yes, that was more like it. He heard a door open and close behind him, the rap of heels on the pegwood floor, and he jerked around. At first all he saw were black stilettos, then the flash of red hair.

He dropped the phone. It clattered and banged against the wall, but the noise it made wasn't as loud as the banging of his heart. He watched the woman emerge from out of the shadows. It wasn't the doctor from the hospital; this woman was older, not as pretty. He thought he'd puke with relief.

She walked past Dom without seeming to see him. He wiped his sweating hand on his pant leg and picked up the phone.

"Ry?"

7.

Washington, D.C.

THE T TWO men in their designer threads and custom-made shoes quickly crossed the street, jaywalking just so they wouldn't have to meet him on the narrow sidewalk head on. Ry O'Malley gave them a little curled-fingers wave, then laughed to himself as he watched the two suits try to decide whether to wave back or run like h.e.l.l. men in their designer threads and custom-made shoes quickly crossed the street, jaywalking just so they wouldn't have to meet him on the narrow sidewalk head on. Ry O'Malley gave them a little curled-fingers wave, then laughed to himself as he watched the two suits try to decide whether to wave back or run like h.e.l.l.

He knew he looked scary as all get out, a real bada.s.s with his long hair and tattoos and biker's black leather jacket. This part of Columbia Heights had been flirting with gentrification for years, but enough stubborn pockets of crime and poverty remained so that at c.o.c.ktail parties the biggest topic of conversation was how to get a permit to carry.

As Ry turned the corner, he heard the stutter and hiccup of an engine badly in need of a tune-up come up behind him. Dusk was just falling, and he paused under a streetlamp to take a pack of cigarettes and disposable lighter out of his jacket pocket. He didn't smoke, but the ritual of stopping to light up was a good way to do a little recon without being obvious about it.

The sick engine, he saw, was under the hood of a small red van with GIOVANNI'S PIZZERIA GIOVANNI'S PIZZERIA painted in white script on the side panels. The van chugged past him and pulled up next to a fire hydrant. A kid with spiked hair and a nose ring got out, carrying one of those insulated cases that were supposed to keep the pies hot but left them soggy instead. painted in white script on the side panels. The van chugged past him and pulled up next to a fire hydrant. A kid with spiked hair and a nose ring got out, carrying one of those insulated cases that were supposed to keep the pies hot but left them soggy instead.

Ry watched the kid climb the steps and ring the bell of a brownstone town house, then he tossed the cigarette into the gutter and crossed the street. A lamp also shone in the bay window of his own Queen Anne style shotgun, but it was set on a timer. No one was waiting inside to welcome him home.

He let himself in, stepping over the pile of junk mail and flyers that had acc.u.mulated beneath the slot in the front door. He shut off the alarm and went into the living room, took off his leather jacket and flung it at a leather sofa.

His Walther P99 was tucked g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger-style in the small of his back, and he took it out and laid it on the iron-banded Spanish chest he used for a coffee table. The chest was a gift from the prima-ballerina girlfriend he'd lived with for a while, until she'd grown tired of the long separations, of not knowing where he was or what he was doing, or whether the next time she saw him would be on a slab in a morgue.

He sat on the chest and unlaced his boots. They had steel in the toes and one kick with them could cave in a man's ribs or his head, but that made them heavy as h.e.l.l. It felt good to get them off his feet. He padded barefoot into the kitchen and made himself a very dry and very cold martini. He never drank while on a job and he shuddered now as the icy gin bit the back of his throat.

He had his feet up, Stan Getz on the stereo, and the martini was half-gone before he noticed the blinking red light on his telephone answering machine.

He waited until the last, piercing notes of Body and Soul Body and Soul died away before he got up and went to the antique d.i.c.kens desk that faced the room's big bay window. Through the deepening dusk outside, he could see his next-door neighbor trying to defy the laws of physics by squeezing his SUV into a parking s.p.a.ce three inches too small. And the border collie who lived on the corner was taking her owner out for a walk. He watched as they went from the lamppost, to the fire hydrant, to the tire of the pizza delivery van. His ballerina girlfriend had called it "leaving pee-mails," and the memory almost made Ry smile. died away before he got up and went to the antique d.i.c.kens desk that faced the room's big bay window. Through the deepening dusk outside, he could see his next-door neighbor trying to defy the laws of physics by squeezing his SUV into a parking s.p.a.ce three inches too small. And the border collie who lived on the corner was taking her owner out for a walk. He watched as they went from the lamppost, to the fire hydrant, to the tire of the pizza delivery van. His ballerina girlfriend had called it "leaving pee-mails," and the memory almost made Ry smile.

He reached out and pressed the play b.u.t.ton, and the machine's hollow voice said, You have one new message. Thursday, August twelve, four fifty-three p.m You have one new message. Thursday, August twelve, four fifty-three p.m. And then his brother, sounding raw and broken, "Ry?"

The only other word he could make out through Dom's strangling sobs was "dead."

Dad?

Ry's throat closed up, but he shook his head. No way could it be Dad. Ry had gone home over the holidays and the old man had never seemed better. He was still grieving for Mom, sure, and for the loss of their home from the devastation of Hurricane Ike, but otherwise ... h.e.l.l, that game of horse they'd played on Christmas morning-he'd almost kicked Ry's a.s.s.

Had there been some kind of accident? A car crash? The old man liked to take his boat out on the Gulf this time of year, maybe a squall had come up ...

What had the machine said? August 12? That was two days ago.

Come on, out with it, Dom. What in G.o.d's name happened?

He heard a banging noise, as if Dom had dropped the phone, then a burst of laughter, the clatter of billiard b.a.l.l.s. His brother said, "Ry?" again, then a mechanical voice cut in demanding seventy-five cents for another three minutes.

He heard coins being fed into a slot, followed by his brother's voice, sounding scared now, "Oh, G.o.d, Ry. This woman came out of the ladies' room and she had red hair, and after what Dad said, I thought ..."

There was a pause as Dom took a couple of deep breaths, then his next words came out clear and relatively calm.

And strange as h.e.l.l.

"Dad's had a heart attack, Ry. Dad's gone, and now they're going to come after us, because of what he did. The big kill."

"The big what what?" Ry said, but his gaze was already sweeping the street outside, every molecule of his being alert.

He heard his brother draw in another ragged breath, go on, "I know I'm not making any sense, but I can't ... not over the phone. You need to get down here fast, Ry, and I'll explain everything-" Dom made a noise, as if he'd started to laugh, then almost gagged. "I mean, I'll tell you what Dad told me, which isn't enough, not nearly enough. But for now just know there may be people out there who are going to try to ki-"

Ry pressed the stop b.u.t.ton, cutting off his brother's disembodied voice.

The pizza van.

The red pizza-delivery van that had followed him around the corner, that had pulled up next to the fire hydrant over thirty minutes ago now.

Ry dove for the floor just as the van's side door slapped open and the bay window exploded. Uzi Uzi, he thought as he rolled, s.n.a.t.c.hed the Walther off the chest, and came back onto his feet. He pressed his back against the room's inner wall, out of the line of fire from the street.

In the kitchen, the door to the backyard crashed open under the force of what had to be either the world's biggest foot or an honest-to-G.o.d battering ram. Ry reached around the doorjamb with the Walther and emptied half a clip down the hall. More Uzis returned fire, tearing up walls and furniture. Wood splintered, gla.s.s shattered, plaster dust billowed in the air.

Whoever these guys were, they weren't being subtle. And they were professional, taking their time to coordinate their attack, surrounding the house, cutting off any escape route, hitting it hard and fast, and getting out before the cops arrived. Which meant he had a minute, maybe two, before they came at him with everything they had. Ry had another couple of clips in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, but he needed more ammo, and another gun.

The floor plan to his small house was simple. The front door opened into a tiny foyer with a staircase going up and a long, narrow hallway leading back to the kitchen. To the left were the living and dining rooms, separated by pocket doors. Above, was one large bedroom and bath. He had a bas.e.m.e.nt, but the only entrance to it was off the kitchen where the bad guys were, and it was a dead end anyway.

There was no place for him to escape to, no place to hide, and he was fast running out of time.

Ry kept his ammo and extra guns, including a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun, in a wall safe behind a panel of wainscoting next to the fireplace in the living room. He fired most of the rest of the clip down the hall, then dropped and rolled past the open doorway. He commando-crawled across the floor, picking up his jacket on the way. He slapped one of the fresh clips into his gun and lay down another spray of fire. He got return fire, but it was still coming from the kitchen. He'd slowed them down, but he hadn't stopped them.

He popped the wall panel and spun the dial to the safe. Barely two minutes had pa.s.sed since they'd blown in the window and battered down the back door, still he strained to hear the distant wail of sirens. The emergency response system had to be flooded with calls by now, so where were the G.o.dd.a.m.n cops?

The safe clicked open. He jerked up on the handle, swung open the door- s.h.i.t.

Ry's belly clenched into a fist of fear. The guns, the ammo, were gone. In their place were two brick-size packages of white powder wrapped in clear plastic. It could be powdered sugar or flour, but Ry didn't think so. He had to be looking at six kilos of pure-grade heroin.

Jesus. Who were were these guys? these guys? They'd bypa.s.sed his state-of-the-art security system, stolen his guns, and planted the smack in his locked safe, then staged what would look like a drug deal gone bad. He knew the D.C. cops weren't coming now. Whoever these guys were, they had gold-plated connections. Federal, probably, and this operation would be completely off the books. They'd bypa.s.sed his state-of-the-art security system, stolen his guns, and planted the smack in his locked safe, then staged what would look like a drug deal gone bad. He knew the D.C. cops weren't coming now. Whoever these guys were, they had gold-plated connections. Federal, probably, and this operation would be completely off the books.

He heard movement out in the kitchen, the squeak of rubber soles on tile, the metallic snap of weapons being readied. There'd be three guys, he thought, maybe four. And figure another couple guys waiting in the street, by the pizza van, in case by some miracle he made it through the front door alive.

A bookcase flanked the other side of the fireplace. Ry jumped to his feet, spun around, and flattened himself against the wall. Now he had the bookcase between himself and whatever came at him from the kitchen, not that a few inches of walnut and bound paper were going to stop the 950 rounds per minute that came from an Uzi submachine gun.

He was also vulnerable to the street here. At least the first shots through the window had blown out the lamp so the room was in darkness. Except for the red light on his answering machine. He desperately needed to listen to the rest of Dom's message.

Dad's gone, and now they're going to come after us, because of what he did.

Going to come, s.h.i.t-they were already here. He'd been f.u.c.ked before, but not this f.u.c.ked.

He reloaded, pointed the Walther in a two-fisted grip at the open door, and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

Galveston, Texas AT THE SAME time, in Sacred Heart's peaceful quiet, Father Dom was hearing confessions. He sat behind the thick purple velvet curtain, in the closetlike darkness of the confessional box. He was adrift, empty of all feeling. He'd even stopped being afraid, but then he supposed that was because the human psyche could only live on an emotional knife-edge for so long. time, in Sacred Heart's peaceful quiet, Father Dom was hearing confessions. He sat behind the thick purple velvet curtain, in the closetlike darkness of the confessional box. He was adrift, empty of all feeling. He'd even stopped being afraid, but then he supposed that was because the human psyche could only live on an emotional knife-edge for so long.

He'd thought about running, disappearing, but he had no idea how to go about it, and besides, he had obligations, duties. A priest could no more abandon his flock than a father and husband could walk away from his family. And so he went on with his life. He'd buried his father, celebrated ma.s.s, baptized a baby, read his breviary, tried to pray. And everywhere he looked, every time he turned around, it seemed there was another redheaded woman. Even the woman in the funeral home had red hair, although it was probably from a bottle since she was at least sixty. Who knew there were so many red-haired women in Galveston?

He heard the far-off ring of the telephone in the rectory and then silence. Something wasn't right. It was too quiet. No one had entered the confessional box for a while now, and he could hear no movement out in the nave, no voices. Where were the tourists? They came every evening at this time, drawn by the setting sun, which turned the church's famous giant white onion dome into a brilliant pink.

He parted the purple velvet curtain to peer out. Not a soul. Then a movement by the altar rail caught his eye, and his heart jumped. A woman in a bright yellow sundress and a wide-brimmed straw hat genuflected and made the sign of the cross. Her hair was dark brown, though, not red, and he felt stupid.

He let the curtain fall into place again, but the fear had come back, like a punch to the gut.

Why was the church suddenly so quiet, so empty? Something wasn't right- The door to the confessional box on the left creaked open, startling him. He heard the rustle of clothing, the hum of an indrawn breath. He smelled jasmine, faint and sweet.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession ... rather I should say, my last real real confession, in a church, before the presence of G.o.d, was a long, long time ago." confession, in a church, before the presence of G.o.d, was a long, long time ago."

A woman's voice, low and quiet, and so compelling he turned toward it to look through the mesh screen, but he couldn't make out her face, just a hat and a cloud of long dark hair, and he thought, Okay. You're gonna be okay Okay. You're gonna be okay.

"Our Lord is everywhere," he said, "not just in a house of worship. But I'm sure He's pleased you are here all the same."

She nodded and her mouth parted on a soft sigh. "Oh, Father, you are so right. Time is an earthly concept and G.o.d is truly everywhere. He sees all. So I guess what I really need to know is, will He absolve every sin? Even the terrible ones? Provided a girl is sorry enough, of course."

"Would I be sitting in this stuffy, dark little box on such a fine summer's evening if I didn't believe in G.o.d's mercy?"

Her laugh was delightful, soft, but something about it was off, as if this was some sort of game to her, a play to act out-and he knew then that he was not okay, not okay at all. Had known it instinctively all along.

He went utterly still. He felt her intensity, felt the impact of each separate word as she said, "I have blood on my hands."

"Don't kill me."

"The first time I killed for him," she went on, as if he hadn't spoken, "I used a knife and it was messy. The blood, it got everywhere and later I showed him the blood smeared on my skin, so he would know what I would do for him, the lengths I could go, how I would kill for him. I think it shocked him, but he also liked it. It excited him."

Hot bile rose up in Dom's throat. "Listen to me. You don't want to do this."

"Actually, I do. I really, really do. I've never killed a priest before, and I wonder what it feels like." She sighed. "You know what I've come for, Father. Give me the film, and I promise I'll let you live."

Liar.