It was now or never. God’s power . . . moving and working . . .
Aleks weaved quickly between the people separating him and his prey until he stood directly behind the man with the bald spot. He was slightly taller than the priest, and smelled of Old Spice. Aleks leaned forward and whispered into his ear.
“Thy will be done.”
Before the man could turn around, Aleks gave him a quick, hard shove in the small of his back. He watched as the man lurched forward, his hands clawing uselessly at the air, watched as he fell onto the tracks. The train was upon him before anyone could react.
There was a roar in the priest’s head, and the sound of a woman screaming. The crowd recoiled, and a man yelled, “Someone call nine-one-one!” A young student standing next to him covered his eyes, and his girlfriend began to cry.
In the pandemonium that followed, nobody was in charge. Aleks fully expected to be apprehended, but no one seemed to know exactly what had happened. Everyone looked dazed, except for a man in a business suit who whipped out his cell phone and dashed up the steps two at a time. The priest followed him, gripping the railing to steady himself. To his surprise, no one came after him. He staggered out onto the street and sucked up a lungful of fresh air.
Out on Astor Place, there was a disquieting atmosphere of normalcy. Taxis shot up Lafayette Street, careening around the curve in the road where it turned into Fourth Avenue. The orange Mud Coffee truck still sat at the curb, dispersing the aroma of French roast into the surrounding air. With a final glance behind him, Aleks walked quickly toward the Cooper union building, then cut through the small park in the back.
His cell phone rang. Panic tightened his throat; he thought wildly that the police had found him. To his relief, the caller ID read Lee Campbell. He pressed the Talk button with trembling fingers.
“Hello?”
“I’m just calling to see if you’re okay.”
Aleks hesitated. Above him, a moody gray cloud slid across the sky, obscuring the sun. A pigeon pecked at a few scraps of bread on the pavement, then cocked its head and gazed up at him with its bright orange eye.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”
His friend seemed unconvinced. “Look, I have some time later today if you want to get together.”
“I have something I have to do, but maybe I’ll call you later.”
“Please do, all right?”
“Sure, thanks,” Aleks said, and snapped the phone closed.
He headed east, toward the river. It was a quick ten-minute walk to Most Holy Redeemer Catholic Church on Third Street. He had been there several times, though not for some years now. He did not know the current pastor or any of his staff.
The front door was open, and his footsteps clicked a stark echo as he strode down the aisle to the back of the church. The air smelled of incense and lilies, and he was reminded that Easter was only a few weeks away.
He stepped into the confessional and closed the door behind him. Welcoming the dim lighting, he leaned back in the narrow cubicle. He could hear the sound of gentle snoring, then the rustling of the priest’s garments as the man awoke.
Father Milichuk leaned forward, his face nearly touching the grate between them. He took a deep breath, relief coursing through his veins like holy water.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
EVEN A BLIND MAN
BY DARRELL JAMES
The Greyhound arrived in Atlanta, midafternoon, swinging into the terminal on Forsythe Street to let off passengers. A hiss of air brakes, a mechanical unfolding of accordion doors — it marked the end of the journey for Earl Lilly. Three days in the seat from LA, his dog, Melon, curled up at his feet.
He’d come on a mission, the way he thought of it. A copy of his granddaughter’s last letter stuffed into his breast pocket. What had happened to her? And why the sudden cry for help? He had crossed the country to find out.
Earl waited until all the other passengers had disembarked, then called to his dog. “Up!” was all he had to say. And Melon — a cocker-terrier mix — came wearily to his feet and nosed his way out from between the seats.
The bus driver was waiting impatiently, one hand on the lever, wanting to close the doors against the August swelter. He eyed Earl in the rearview mirror.
Earl took his good-natured time. He strung his camera around his neck and centered it just so, adjusted his dark glasses on his nose for comfort, gathered his carry-on bag, smoothed the front of his poplin jacket, and moved up the aisle toward the exit. He was making something of a show of it. And why not? He was seventy years old and a black man back in the South.
Melon followed, brushing at Earl’s pants cuff.