Cruel Mercy Read online

  The curtain offers no resistance and he swishes it aside.

  It is all he can do not to gasp at the sight that greets him.

  The man in the hospital bed has been beaten purple. His face is a mass of swellings and discoloration that make Father Whelan think of trampled grapes. He is bare-chested, and upon his skin has been carved the words SICK FUCK.

  A smile splits the battered features of the plump young man. Tears leak from his eyes and he winces in pain as he tries to pull the blankets over the wounds on his torso.

  “Father,” he says through broken teeth. “Jimmy. Oh thank you. Thank you . . .”

  Whelan looks again at the man. Through the bruises he sees a face he half recalls.

  “Peter?” he asks. “Sweet Jesus, what happened to you?”

  Father Whelan’s mind fills with a jumble of images. Peter was a couple of years below him in the seminary. He was bookish. Clever. He could recall perfect passages of Scripture. Could name chapter and verse. But there was something unappealing about him. He was not popular with the other trainees. His Catholicism was different from Whelan’s. Peter served God dutifully, but it was without the compassion that Whelan hoped to bring to his own ministries. Peter searched for the Lord in books while Whelan sought him out in the hearts of others. Peter nodded sagely at the acts of self-sacrifice and martyrdom in the Scriptures. Whelan pitied the poor men and women for their agonies. For all that they shared a seminary, Whelan could not remember more than a half dozen conversations between himself and the younger man. Why had he asked for him? What had happened to bring him here?

  “Do I call you Brother? Father? James? Please, bless me. Forgive . . .” His features crumple in a wave of weeping.

  Whelan crosses to the bedside and takes a plump, purplish hand in his own. It is clammy and Whelan remembers what they called him when he was not around: Sweatball. Suddenly Whelan recalls why Sweatball had left. He looks at the words on Peter’s chest and lets the question show in his face.

  “You swore,” says Whelan coldly. “Swore in front of the bishop that you would turn from that path. You were helped, Peter. You could have gone to prison but they came to your aid. You could not be a priest but you could be a good man. What did you do?”

  “I tried,” sobs Peter. “I’m so alone, Jimmy. You were always kind to me. Do you remember what you said when I begged you for answers? Do you remember telling me that God had a plan for all of us? That He would forgive me? That I was loved beyond my imagining? You saved me with those words, Jimmy.”

  Whelan tries hard to recall. He was something of a big brother to the younger seminarians. He doled out kind words and motivational chastisements as he saw fit. He was popular and knew how to bring the best out of people. For all that, he recalls feeling little for Peter that could be considered a source of salvation.

  “I was watching,” says Peter. “They were so full of life. So perfect. The light in their eyes was the light of God. That was all I sought—to be closer to Him through their perfection and innocence. I tried to talk to them and they ran away. I stayed, hoping they would return to the park where I had seen them. But when they came back they were with men. And those men hurt me, Jimmy. They did this to me. And I did nothing to stop them. Their every lash brought me closer to God. Every moment of pain helped my redemption.”

  Whelan wants to drag his hand away from the fat man’s. And yet he cannot. He is a priest because he wants to heal and to save. He wants to bring his fellows into God’s kingdom and he believes, truly, in the forgiveness of sins and the intercession of saints.

  “I cannot be the man I am any longer,” sobs Peter. “Tell me, if you forgave my body, could my soul still enter heaven? If I sought out my death at the hand of another, would that be suicide? I search the words in the Book but my soul cannot fathom answers . . .”

  Whelan closes his eyes. These past months, he has seen the cold, empty blackness that can reside within a man’s heart. He has heard Paulie Pugliesca gloat as he recounted the deaths of those who wronged him and has granted absolution in the face of his own revulsion. In Peter, he sees a sinner but he also sees a man in search of redemption. He sees a chance to buy back a little of his own soul.

  “Peter, God has not forsaken you. Nor does he wish for you to suffer. Jesus died for our sins and through His suffering we were born anew. Your suffering is a sin against God, not an act of reverence. Peter, will you pray with me? If I become as brother to you, will you trust your goodness to me?”

  Something wondrous and perfect flares in Peter’s eyes. Whelan witnesses the birth of hope.

  “You were always a fine scholar. You have a good mind. I can help you. There are charities that can use a man such as you. I recall you saying you had read legal textbooks. Could you consider studying for such a profession? There is much you could do to help the Church. And I could be there beside you. I could help you overcome your temptations and in so doing you could help me toward my own salvation. I believe in you, as does the Lord. Tell me, Peter—will you allow me to bring you back to God’s path?”

  For a moment there is silence. And then Peter gives in to sobs of pure joy, tears trickling down his cheeks like a baptism from within.

  And as he prays at the bedside, Whelan waits for the warmth of God’s love to fill him. Waits for the slightest flicker of reflected peace to enter him.

  He is still cold as he whispers his final “Amen.”

  FIFTEEN

  It feels as though there is a thumbtack in McAvoy’s throat. Every time he swallows, he pulls a face and looks momentarily like a cat throwing up a fur ball. The action makes his eyes water. He quite understands why he is sitting alone. As he left the hotel this morning, he waved a vague hello to the young girl at reception and her smile deserted her completely. He looks like a man who has been up all night drinking and sounds as though he smokes his cigarettes the wrong way around. He is now the only customer in the gelateria on First Avenue, though the owners are unlikely to see a dip in profits. He is spending plenty on ensuring he does not run out of lemon and mint sorbet. He is hopeful that the next bowl will finally succeed in numbing his throat, though it’s his sinuses and forehead that the sorbet seems to be targeting.

  McAvoy slept for three hours last night. When he made it back to his hotel room, he showered and drank four glasses of water. He called Roisin and told her that he was making progress and hoped to have more for her soon. He called Pharaoh and told her that he was fine, just tired, and that no, he hadn’t been crying. Then he called Alto and left a message. He kept it brief. Something had happened. He thought he might need some help. He’d keep his phone on and would look forward to Alto’s call. And he hoped Alto remembered that he owed him.

  It was still dark when McAvoy awoke, his phone lying on his chest and open to the image he had been staring at as he fell asleep. He had not made much headway on the documents that Pharaoh had sent him but seeing that his every piece of information was in the hands of the men and woman who took him last night, he intended to find out why it was so damn important. He fell asleep before he’d succeeded. When he awoke, the room had seemed too small suddenly. He needed food and different colors, different lights. He slipped into the same clothes as yesterday and left the hotel, noting as he emerged that there was a smell of snow in the air. He started walking and did not stop until he found somewhere he could imagine spending the next few hours of his life. A small part of him had been inclined to send a text to Roisin, informing her that New York was the sort of place where one could get an ice cream sundae at six a.m. but he failed to find sufficient motivation.

  Here, now, McAvoy sits at a small plastic table and drinks his iced tea and takes small, painful mouthfuls of his sorbet, trying to digest the information he has read and reread over the past hour. He knows himself well enough to be aware that there is panic hiding somewhere inside him. He is distracting himself right now. He has witnessed s
uch things before, seen husbands, wives, mothers, and fathers show no emotion upon being told of the horrific death of a loved one. They simply put the information in a locked place inside so that they could continue to focus on practicalities. Tears only came when the cage was unlocked. McAvoy knows that somewhere inside himself there lurks a complete loss of control. But he can keep the creature at bay for as long as he is working, thinking, and trying to make sense of a picture made up of so many ripped-up pieces, and so many missing parts.

  McAvoy gives a little cough that threatens to become a bigger one, and he stifles it with a slurp of drink. Again, he considers the document open on his phone. Ben Neilsen had considered it important enough to add it to the bundle that Pharaoh forwarded to McAvoy. It’s a newspaper clipping from early 1981. The image is of a slim, dark-haired priest in simple black shirt and gleaming-white dog collar, staring beseechingly into the camera with sorrow in his eyes. He has one arm around the shoulders of a short, dark-haired woman, who is weeping into his chest. McAvoy reads the article again.

  PLEASE PRAY FOR OUR MISSING ANGEL

  Fr. James Whelan has urged the people of the Lower East Side to unite in their prayers for missing schoolgirl Alejandra Mota Valverda.

  A special candlelit Mass was held last night at St. Colman’s Church—just five minutes from the absent girl’s home.

  “Ali was a friend to all who knew her,” said Fr. Whelan, 29. “There is good in all people but Ali’s goodness simply shone. She is in our prayers and all that matters is that she come home. She is not the sort of girl to run away, and I have personally told the investigators to discount that very idea. Her family are good, hardworking people who are crumbling under the weight of this. Their faith will sustain them, and I urge New Yorkers of all faiths and backgrounds to unite in sending them their prayers and words of support as they go through this dreadful time.”

  Alejandra disappeared three weeks ago. The teen had been assisting her mother, Magdalena, with her duties as a cleaner at St. Colman’s. She left the church at a little after eight p.m. but did not return home.

  The Diocese has begun a collection to sustain the family. It is being administered by sacristan and parishioner Peter Molony, 28.

  Mr. Molony said, “The family is struggling because they are investing all of their efforts in the search for their missing girl. Any financial assistance that can be offered would spare them one burden at such a difficult time. For this reason, the parish has set up a fund in her name and we know that the good people of New York will assist in any way they can. Prayers are enough, but dollars can make a difference.”

  McAvoy finds his lip curling but does not fully understand why. He feels disconnected from things. He cannot decide whether the connections between the players are easily explained or unfathomable. Father Whelan is offering support to the families of Brishen and Shay. He secured a letter of recommendation for Valentine Teague’s passport. More than three decades ago, he was the pastor at St. Colman’s, where he worked closely with sacristan Peter Molony. Last week, Brishen and Shay visited St. Colman’s and met Molony. The next day, both men had horrific wounds and one was dead.

  Were he standing in front of the murder wall at Courtland Police Station back home, McAvoy would be drawing a great circle of red ink around Molony’s face. But Alto has not even questioned him. McAvoy needs to meet this man. He seems to be a connection of sorts, though he cannot see how the sacristan could be linked to organized crime and underground boxing.

  McAvoy looks up at the sound of the door opening and jerks back in his seat as the girl enters the gelateria. She looks tired. Pale. She is no longer wearing her spectacles and her purple hair looks incongruous against the smart blue pantsuit and furry scarf she is wearing.

  “Relax,” she says, crossing to where he sits. “Half the world’s still asleep and the half that’s awake couldn’t give a damn. Enjoy your breakfast. You’ve earned it.”

  McAvoy sits perfectly still. This close, she smells different, too. She’s suddenly all body lotion and medicated shampoo. As she sits, her scarf falls open, and McAvoy sees fresh bruising at her throat. She waves at the young Italian girl behind the counter and mouths the word “Coffee.” A moment later, a cup of strong black liquid is set down in front of her. She takes a sugar cube from the bowl on the table and places it between her teeth. As she sips the coffee through the sugar, she eyes McAvoy, who has not moved since she walked in.

  “Give yourself a moment, Sergeant,” she says curtly. “You’ll work it out.”

  McAvoy pushes the bowl of sorbet away. He coughs, in case his voice should come out as a squeak.

  “You’re a police officer,” he says, and it sounds as though his voice is coming from far away.

  “Very good,” she says, not taking her eyes off him.

  McAvoy rubs his throat. “You hit me in the larynx with a gun,” he says with a hint of rebuke.

  She shrugs. “I spent a lot of time becoming that girl. It’s what she would do.”

  McAvoy is about to speak when the door jangles open again. The street outside is still dark and deserted and against the backdrop, Alto looks almost ghostly. He looks ill, the lines in his face cadaverous.

  “I see you two have made your introductions,” says Alto, joining them.

  The girl barely registers the newcomer’s presence. She seems transfixed by McAvoy. Her glare is making him uncomfortable.

  “I’m Polina,” says the girl, placing another sugar cube between her teeth. “Polina Tymoshchuk. I’ve spent the past ten months getting close to Sergey Volotov’s organization. I even had the skull of a zev, a thief and soldier, tattooed on my stomach and the devil on my ass. I spent seven months in Rikers as part of that cover. And there’s a very good chance I’m burned. My legend’s fucked. It’s all been for nothing.”

  McAvoy returns her gaze. “You make it sound like I’m to blame,” he says. “You took me. You threatened me. You half crushed my larynx. I’m sorry your operation’s had a hiccup but I don’t think you can point the finger at me.”

  For the first time, Tymoshchuk turns to Alto. “His accent’s charming, don’t you think?”

  Alto stares down at the tabletop. He has not met McAvoy’s eye.

  “What happened to your throat?” asks McAvoy, indicating the bruising at Tymoshchuk’s neck.

  “I met an interesting man,” she says. “The two men who helped me take you away? He shot them, took them, and blew up our car.”

  “He didn’t shoot you,” says McAvoy pointedly.

  “No,” says Tymoshchuk. “And thank you for your concern. He made me as a fed. I don’t know how, but the bastard spoke straight into my wire and said he hoped they appreciated him leaving me alive.”

  Beside her, Alto shakes his head. McAvoy turns to him.

  “I don’t understand,” says McAvoy. “Have you been helping me or trying to hold me back? I thought we were on the same team.”

  Alto looks up, his amber glasses smeared with grime and steam. “There were jurisdictional conflicts,” he says. “The murder of Shay Helden has links to a large, ongoing, preexisting investigation, and there were fears that operational integrity could be compromised.”

  Alto is clearly regurgitating something he himself has been told. It sounds like manager-level jargon to McAvoy, who is fluent in the language.

  “What does any of that mean?” he asks, growing frustrated. “I just want to find Valentine and go home.”

  Tymoshchuk runs a hand through her hair, giving the tiniest wince as her fingers appear to touch something tender. She slides her satchel off her shoulder and retrieves a fat, pinkish file. She puts it on the table in front of her and holds it shut with a hand that shows the tiny faded marks of jewelry now discarded.

  “Did you book him?” asks McAvoy, suddenly turning to Alto. “Ellison? The man with the girl? Was she okay? Did she get to hospital?” A hard
look comes over his face. “Was that all about operational integrity, too, or did he really pose a threat? How many lies have you told me?”

  Alto gives a chastened little nod. “That was a real one,” he says. “Most of what I told you was real. I just couldn’t give you it all. We’re mounting a case against Ellison. You saved that girl’s life. You’re here today because I owe you for that and because I think you deserve to know more than you do.”

  McAvoy shifts in his seat. He takes his phone from the tabletop and nervously plays with it as he waits for more.

  “After this conversation, I think it would be best to curtail your visit to the Big Apple,” says Tymoshchuk. “We tolerated you as a favor to our allies across the Atlantic, who said you had skills to offer and were extremely biddable. Alto is a team player. He gave you enough to keep you out of the way. If you’d known about the Pugliescas, I dread to think how many pieces you’d have ended up in.”

  McAvoy takes a breath. “Pugliesca?” he asks, and he locks his teeth around the word as he trawls his memory for anything connected to the name. He shakes his head.

  “Pick a page,” says Alto lightly, and pushes the file across the tabletop.

  Cautiously, McAvoy opens the folder. It opens on a newspaper clipping: a story about a court appearance by one Salvatore Pugliesca on racketeering charges. The accompanying image shows a swarthy, curly-haired young man sneering at the camera amid a tapestry of microphones, notepads, and flashing cameras.

  “Dropped for lack of evidence,” says Tymoshchuk. “His daddy had a lot of powerful friends. Still does. Knows how the game is played. Who to play, and how.” She looks at Alto as she says this, and her lip curls.

  McAvoy scowls. He pushes the folder away. “I’m just here to find out who hurt Brishen and Shay and to see if Valentine was involved and whether he’s dead or alive. The rest is nothing to do with me.”

  Tymoshchuk finishes her coffee. Sighing, she opens the folder and pulls out a photograph, which she hands to McAvoy. It shows a youngish man with dark hair. He wears a sweatshirt and jeans and were it not for the slack-jawed agony on his face, he would be handsome. A tree branch has entered his torso just below his rib cage and exited from the small of his back. There is snow in his hair and on his shoulders and he is arched backward, one hand on the branch that killed him, as if trying to push himself free.