He turned around and looked at the shrine that stood framed by shafts of rich golden sunlight. It was as if God had cast a spotlight on it, and it lifted Tow-Truck Eddie’s heart and made his soul soar with joy.
He crossed the room and knelt in front of the shrine, bowed his head, and prayed for a long time. His prayers were unformed, just random thoughts and images from deep within his being that he offered up to his Father. Outside, birds sang in the dogwood trees and Tow-Truck Eddie thought it was the sweetest thing he had ever heard, like the singing of angels.
He crossed himself and then reached down for the little mallet and struck the tiny Sanctus bell seven times, because seven was God’s number. The bell, though small, had a clear, high ring and the reverberations wandered gently around the room. Then he reached forward to the small ambry he’d made late last night. It was made from the knotty pine that had formerly been his entertainment center, but Tow-Truck Eddie’s skillful hands—the hands of a carpenter, he reminded himself—had taken that wood and reshaped it from something of pointless value to an object that was most holy. He pulled the doors open, reached inside, and removed the vessels of the Eucharist and placed them on the credence built onto the side of the ambry. He closed the doors and addressed the elements, again crossing himself. He took the paten and placed it on the top of the ambry, which was to be his altar. He had not had time to procure official vessels, and so his paten was a heavy white porcelain dinner plate that he had washed seven times before consecrating it with many prayers. His chalice was a thick pewter boxing trophy he’d won nearly twenty-five years ago. Into it he poured pure water from a bottle of Evian he’d bought at the Wawa for just this purpose; Tow-Truck Eddie did not believe in alcoholic spirits of any kind, not even wine. Finally he lifted the ciborium. It was only a Tupperware container, but it would have to do until he could obtain the real thing. He pried the lid off and removed the Eucharist, holding it in his hands, feeling its weight. He raised it to his nose and filled his nostrils with the scent. It was extraordinary.
He set it down on the paten and took the knife he had prepared specially for this moment. “When first I came among you,” he said aloud, addressing the whole world, “my blood was shed and my body broken by mine enemies. My blood became your wine and my body became your bread and each of you fed upon me to keep alive the New Covenant. Now I make with you a Final Covenant. No longer shall you drink of my blood or eat of my flesh, but of your blood shall I drink, and of your flesh shall I eat. In this way, the Son of Glory shall know his place, and in this way shall the righteous know their Lord. Today, in your hearing, I declare myself the Son of man, the Son of Heaven’s King, the righteous and unyielding Sword of God. Today, I accept the offering of this man who was beast and man, who was unholy and holy. Today is the first Holy Communion of the Final Covenant. All glory to God the most high!”
Tow-Truck Eddie carved a thin slice of the Eucharist and held it up even as he lowered his eyes in humility before his Father. He prayed for many long minutes, and then he raised his head and put the Eucharist into his mouth and ate it. When he had eaten, he took the cup, and after he had blessed it, he drank.
Instantly the power within him seemed to grow, to swell, to explode with the light of a thousand suns in his brain, and he cried out in sheer joy and wonder. Tears ran down his face and his face crumbled into a mask of sobs. He bent down and beat his head against the floor, thanking God.
It took a long time until he could even raise his head, so great was his joy, so overwhelming was the moment. When he did, he sat for a while and made himself calm down, breathing slowly in and out, sniffing back tears. Then he took a freshly laundered white towel and began cleaning the communion vessels. Last of all, he lifted the Eucharist and returned it to the container. Tow-Truck Eddie was surprised at how large it was, and how heavy, though it was a bit lighter since he had washed all of the Baptizer’s blood off it. He sealed the human heart in the container and returned it to the ambry, satisfied that there would be enough of it to last him for many days. He was not worried about it spoiling; if it came to that he would simply find another. There were always sinners out there.
After a while Tow-Truck Eddie got up and dressed for his part-time job.
6
The big cop looked mildly down at him, and then frowned when he saw the bruises on Mike’s face. “Did you get the number of the truck?”
Mike blinked. “What?”
“The Mack truck that did that to your face, kid.”
“Oh,” said Mike, and he forced a fake grin, “I, uh, fell off my bike. Rolled down a hill over some rocks.”
“And then what? A Mack truck fall on you?”
“It looks a lot worse than it feels,” Mike lied. “Hardly feel it.”
“Okay,” said the cop, a knowing skepticism in his eyes. He wore a glossy black nameplate that read GOLUB. “So what can I do for you?”
Mike nodded at the hospital entrance. “I just want to go in.”
“To see whom?”
“Huh?”
“Increased security, kiddo. Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“Oh. Yeah. Uh, I’m here to see Mr. Crow. Malcolm Crow.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mike Sweeney.”
Golub consulted a clipboard and then shook his head. “Nope. Not on the list, kiddo.”
“List? What list?”
“The list of people who are allowed to see Mr. Crow. You, my battered young friend, are not on the list. So, kindly go buzz off.” His smile was pleasant but unyielding.
“This is stupid. I just want to visit him.”
“What part of ‘nope’ was beyond your grasp?”
Mike peered up at him. “Are all cops this weird?”
“So I am reliably informed.”“Shit.”
“Hey! Watch your mouth, youngster.”
“It’s not fair that I can’t get to see Crow. Can’t you just let me in? I’m not going to bother him or anything.”
“Well, Mike Sweeney, do you know how many people today have asked to get in to see Mr. Crow?”
“Uh, no.”
“Lots. Do you know how many of them swore that they wouldn’t bother Mr. Crow?”
“No.”
“All of them. Now, here’s the bonus question. Do you know how many of them I have admitted into this Hippocratic establishment?”
“No.”
“Exactly none,” said Golub. “See that guy over there on the bench? He’s a reporter…and I didn’t let him in either. Now, you seem like a nice kid, so I want you to continue to be nice and nicely buzz off.”
Mike trudged dispiritedly toward his bike and trying not to wince, he gingerly bent down to open the lock and pull the plastic-coated chain through the spokes. He was just coiling it around the frame below the seat when a shadow blocked the sunlight, and he looked up to see the small dumpy man Officer Golub had mentioned standing over him. The man looked a little like George, the bald guy from those Seinfeld reruns. A red PRESS card was clipped to his jacket lapel.
“Say, kid, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
Mike slowly and carefully got to his feet, his defenses rising and snapping instantly into place. “What for?”
“I couldn’t help overhearing you talking with that Gestapo agent over there. My name’s Willard Fowler Newton, Black Marsh Sentinel.” He stuck out his hand, and Mike hesitated only for a second or two before accepting it. “I thought I heard you say your name was Mark Sweeney?”
“Mike Sweeney.”
“Mike, right, right. Well, listen, Mike, is it true that you know Malcolm Crow, the guy who was shot?”
“Sure. He’s a friend of mine. I go to his store all the time.”
“You mean the Crow’s Nest. Place that sells all that Halloween stuff? Well, the thing is, Mar…I mean Mike, I’m doing a story—well, I’m trying to do a story—on the shootings, and I need some background on Mr. Crow and the others. Do you think I could ask you a few questions?”
Mike hedged.
“I’ll buy dinner.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he took a half step backward, flicking a glance over at the cop.
“Look, kid, I’m not a kidnapper or child molester. I really am a reporter.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If you don’t believe me, go and ask Officer Godzilla over there. He’ll tell you.”
“Look, I got to get home. It’s getting late.”
“Maybe I could drive you—”
“Yeah, right.”
“No! No, nothing like that,” Newton said quickly, holding his hands up, palms outward. He drew in a deep breath and tried again. “Look, kid, I need to get this story in by press time. So, whaddya say, Mike? Just fifteen minutes? We can sit right on that bench over there, in full view of the nice officer.”
Mike glanced over to the benches, three of which were unoccupied, and on the fourth, the town’s only homeless person, Mr. Pockets, was stretched out, asleep under tented newspapers. He still hedged. “I don’t know what more I can tell you than what the cops would have said. I mean, you already know who got shot and all that, and I guess that you already know that it was probably the Cape May Killer who did it, and—”
Newton’s hand suddenly closed on Mike’s bruised wrist with such force that Mike actually cried out in pain and jerked back. Officer Golub looked over at them, but Newton instantly let go and this time he backed up a step. While he was doing this his mouth went through a number of shapes and yet he wasn’t able to squeeze out a single word. He stopped, swallowed, licked his lips, and with a glaze in his eyes said, “Wait, wait, go back. What was that you said about the Cape May Killer?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, nodding, “I mean, I guess it was him. After what the mayor told Mr. Crow and all….”