Rage of Angels
“He won’t go anywhere.”
6:30 A.M.
The boy was beginning to stir again. The man watched as Joshua opened his eyes. The boy looked down at the wire on his wrists and legs, and then looked up and saw Frank Jackson, and the memories came flooding back.
This was the man who had pushed those pills down his throat and kidnapped him. Joshua knew all about kidnappings from television. The police would come and save him and put the man in jail. Joshua was determined not to show his fear, because he wanted to be able to tell his mother how brave he had been.
“My mother will be here with the money,” Joshua assured the man, “so you don’t have to hurt me.”
Frank Jackson walked over to the bed and smiled down at the boy. He really was a beautiful child. He wished he could take the boy to Canada instead of Clara. Reluctantly, Frank Jackson looked at his watch. It was time to get things ready.
The boy held up his bound wrists. The blood had caked dry.
“Would you mind taking this off, please?” he asked politely. “I won’t run away.”
Frank Jackson liked it that the boy had said “please.” It showed good manners. These days, most kids had no manners at all. They ran around the streets like wild animals.
Frank Jackson went into the bathroom where he had put the can of gasoline back in the tub so that it would not stain the rug in the living room. He prided himself on details like that. He carried the can into the bedroom and set it down. He moved to the boy’s side, lifted up the bound figure and placed him on the floor. Then he picked up the hammer and two large nails and knelt next to the boy.
Joshua Parker was watching him, wide-eyed. “What are you going to do with that?”
“Something that will make you very happy. Have you ever heard of Jesus Christ?” Joshua nodded. “Do you know how he died?”
“On the cross.”
“That’s very good. You’re a bright boy. We don’t have a cross here, so we’ll have to do the best we can.”
The boy’s eyes were beginning to fill with fear.
Frank Jackson said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Jesus wasn’t afraid. You mustn’t be afraid.”
“I don’t want to be Jesus,” Joshua whispered. “I want to go home.”
“I’m going to send you home,” Frank Jackson promised. “I’m going to send you home to Jesus.”
Frank Jackson took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and moved it toward the boy’s mouth. Joshua gritted his teeth together.
“Don’t make me angry.”
Frank Jackson pressed his thumb and forefinger against Joshua’s cheeks and forced his mouth open. He shoved the handkerchief into Joshua’s mouth and slapped a piece of tape across it to hold the handkerchief in place. Joshua was straining against the wires that bound his wrists and hands, and they began to bleed again. Frank Jackson ran his hands over the fresh cuts.
“The blood of Christ,” he said softly.
He picked up one of the boy’s hands, turned it over and held it down against the floor. Then he picked up a nail. Holding it against Joshua’s palm with one hand, Frank Jackson picked up the hammer with his other. He drove the nail through the boy’s hand into the floor.
7:15 A.M.
Michael Moretti’s black limousine was stalled on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in early morning traffic, held up by a vegetable truck that had overturned and spilled its cargo across the road. Traffic had come to a standstill.
“Pull over to the other side of the road and get past him,” Michael Moretti ordered Nick Vito.
“There’s a police car up ahead, Mike.”
“Go up and tell whoever’s in charge that I want to talk to him.”
“Right, boss.”
Nick Vito got out of the car and hurried toward the squad car. A few moments later he returned with a police sergeant. Michael Moretti opened the window of the car and held out his hand. There were five one hundred dollar bills in it.
“I’m in a hurry, officer.”
Two minutes later the police car, red light flashing, was guiding the limousine past the wreckage on the road. When they were clear of the traffic, the sergeant got out of the police car and walked back to the limousine.
“Can I give you an escort somewhere, Mr. Moretti?”
“No, thank you,” Michael said. “Come and see me Monday.” To Nick Vito: “Move it!”
7:30 A.M.
The neon sign in front read:
BROOKSIDE MOTEL
SINGLES—DOUBLES
DAILY AND WEEKLY RATES
INDIVIDUALES–DOBLES
PRECIOS ESPECIALES
Joseph Colella and Salvatore Fiore sat in their car across from Bungalow 7. A few minutes earlier they had heard a thump from inside, so they knew that Frank Jackson was still there.
We oughta jump in and cool him, Fiore thought. But Michael Moretti had given instructions.
They settled back to wait.
7:45 A.M.
Inside Bungalow 7, Frank Jackson was making his final preparations. The boy was a disappointment. He had fainted. Jackson had wanted to wait until Joshua regained consciousness before the other nails were driven in, but it was getting late. He picked up the can of gasoline and sprinkled it across the boy’s body, careful not to let it touch that beautiful face. He visualized the body under the pajamas and wished that he had time to—but, no, that would be foolish. Clara would be here any moment. He must be ready to leave when she arrived. He reached in his pockets, pulled out a box of matches, and set them neatly beside the can of gasoline, the hammer and the nails. People simply did not appreciate how important neatness was.