CHAPTER ELEVEN
NO MATTER HOW many pain pills John Novak ate, the throbbing in his hand wouldn't quit. Nor could he rid himself of the well of fear that was eating through the bottom of his stomach, day in and day out.
And now the fear was in his conversation with Angelo Rizzo, inside his elegant beachfront office. Novak realized how helpless he was in dealing with the situation he himself had created. The smell of fear rose from his armpits and permeated the space around his desk. He couldn't believe that only three weeks ago Reverend Cooper had been a name without a face, the mention of which would cause him to yawn.
"Cooper wants a half million from you," Angelo said, slumped comfortably in a white leather chair. He was dressed in golf slacks, a print shirt and sandals.
"He blames me for the loss of his soul," Novak said.
"Cooper doesn't have one. How can he blame you for losing it?"
"Because he's crazy."
Angelo studied the back of his hands. "You just sat there and let Cooper cut off your finger? That's hard to believe, John."
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