“Down the hall to the right, in the chapel.”
While Paladino got in the viewing line, Sam eased through the crowd, which petered out the farther down the hall he went. Several large men loitered outside the chapel entrance, no doubt to keep away anyone who didn’t have a legitimate reason to talk to Sullivan tonight. They seemed to recognize him, as they simply tipped their hats and let him pass through and into the chapel.
Sullivan and Turner sat alone in one of the front pews. As Sam approached, Turner craned his head around. “Choirboy—I’m glad you could make it. Have you seen Eddie yet?”
“Not yet.”
“They did a real good job on him. Top-notch.”
Bellinowski had been shot three times in the head—no doubt there had been a lot of repair work needed to have an open casket. “I’m going to pay my respects as soon as I talk to Mr. Sullivan.”
Turner frowned. “This isn’t a time for business,” he started, but Sullivan held up his hand.
“This isn’t business the way you’re thinking, Lenny,” he said. “Can you step out for a moment? I’d like to talk to Sam alone.”
“Sure thing.” Turner rose, though he looked troubled, and departed without protest.
Sam took his place; the pew was warm from Turner’s body heat. Sullivan didn’t look at him, but kept his image fixed on the cross on the wall. It was a simple thing of polished wood, inoffensive to the various Christian denominations that might use the funeral home’s services. It was no comfort to Sam; he’d heard too much preaching about damnation in his life. The God of the church he’d been raised in was his own parents writ large, constantly on the alert for the slightest slip to justify an eternity in hell.
Sullivan didn’t seem to feel the same way; maybe his church had been different. Perhaps God was kinder when you had the Holy Familiar of Christ to intercede on your behalf.
“We’re done,” he said, when Sullivan didn’t speak. “Doc and I, I mean.”
“And you have what we need?” Was there a slight tremble in Sullivan’s voice, breaking through his control?
Sam couldn’t imagine how he felt, with the possibility of restoring his child to life dangling in front of him. The despair that would come crashing down if it turned out to be impossible.
“Yes.”
At that simple word, Sullivan closed his eyes. When he opened them again, tears shimmered in the candlelight, though they didn’t fall. “I want everything in place and ready to go the moment I give the word. What do you need?”
“A bolt of linen to draw the hexes on. And enough familiars to power it, once the time comes. And the…the body, of course.”
Sullivan nodded. “I remember. The cloth will be waiting for you first thing in the morning at the hexworks. Say your good-byes to Eddie tonight, because I want you at work as early as possible.”
Sam hadn’t particularly wanted to go to the funeral anyway. “Yes, sir.”
“And Sam…” Sullivan turned to him at last, holding out his hand. When Sam went to shake it, Sullivan clasped his hand in both of his own instead. “Thank you,” he said with feeling. “You’re doing me a greater service than anyone else ever has. I’ll never forget it. And don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten your family. Make three hexes to begin with.”
Sam’s throat tightened. It was happening—he was on the precipice of fixing everything. Sullivan would be happy, his family would be happy.
He had to focus on that. Nothing else mattered.
24
Alistair stood in front of the mirror and straightened his tie. He’d put on his monkey suit for Bellinowski’s funeral, not that he particularly wanted to go. But Wanda had spent the night crying into her pillow after Holly left, so she wasn’t in any shape to represent The Pride.
Besides, he wanted a chance to get close to Sullivan. If Sam wouldn’t tell him what he was up to, maybe he could get Sullivan to at least drop a hint.
He trusted Sam to handle things, he did. But something had been bothering him for a while now, and Alistair was tired of standing to the side, unable to even be an ear to bend or a shoulder to lean on.
Sam was too brave, that was the problem. Or maybe too self-sacrificing. Or hell, maybe both at once. His fucking family had gotten him into the mindset of handling everything himself, even before Sullivan swore him to secrecy over whatever project Sam was working on.
A project that was apparently so urgent, Sullivan had ordered him to stay away from Bellinowski’s funeral to keep working. He’d gone to the viewing last night, or so he told Alistair, but even that had been brief. Considering the importance the gangs placed on paying respect to the dead, that alone was enough to set Alistair to worrying.
He checked himself again in the mirror. Black suit, white shirt, black tie and hat. Not his best, but he wouldn’t look out of place at the funeral.
The phone rang. Alistair hurried to it—what the hell was wrong now? “Hello?”
