Relic of Time (14 page)

Grady wished now that they had stayed on the border. He did not like being above the fray, subjected to the enthusiasms of Dougherty and Morgan's assumption that he was in the inner circle. If chaos had been the purpose of the theft, the goal had been reached, but public outrage had yet to translate into the kind of action that would close the border definitively. Through network telephone he expressed his dissatisfaction with Gunther's efforts.

“Introduce a war resolution, Senator.”

Silence. “How much do you know of the way the Senate works?”

“I am counting on you knowing.”

“How are things really going?” the senator asked.

“On schedule.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that we have reached the point where the goddamn government has to get off its duff and defend the border.”

“I'm working on the governors down there. They can call up the National Guard on their own authority.”

Grady could see now that he should have gotten ironclad assurances from Gunther before the event. He had not expected this shilly-shallying; he had counted on a bipartisan reaction and swift retaliation, in the manner of the immediate aftermath of 9/11. That hadn't happened. He still held the ace of spades, the stolen picture, but where were the other players?

It was time to issue a statement.

In the headquarters of Justicia y Paz in Los Angeles, the statement from the head of the Rough Riders had everybody jumping. Grady had announced that if the Mexican and American governments didn't move immediately to shut down the border he could no longer guarantee the safety of the picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe that had miraculously appeared on the cape of Juan Diego when he brought it filled with unseasonable roses as proof to the archbishop.

Miguel Arroyo tried to convince his staff that Grady's statement was just a psychological ploy. Suarez, who hadn't been inside a church in years, swore that he would track down Grady and kill the son of a bitch if it was the last thing he did.

Madelena assured him that Our Lady would strike Grady dead if he harmed her portrait.

“The way she did when he stole it?” Suarez asked.

Arroyo retreated to his office. Fiery as he was in his public statements, his calmness when the cameras were not on him had begun to annoy his companions in Justicia y Paz. Grady's statement had been an inspired stroke, no doubt of that. The question was, what effect would it have? Arroyo slipped away from the building and headed north. On an impulse, he stopped off at Palo Alto.

George Worth's accusation was more in his expression than in his quietly spoken words.

“You have blood on your hands, Miguel. You must stop this.”

Did George really think that he or anyone else was in control of the guerrilla bands who were harassing the Minutemen and in turn being harassed by Anglo volunteers arriving daily?

“I did not produce their outrage.”

“You called them to arms.”

In the Catholic Worker house, things went on as they always did. The defeated pushing their trays along the soup line, come to be fed, come for a place to sleep. Food for now and a bed for tonight. Beyond that their vacant eyes could not see. How could George stand it, being around such losers? Miguel took some satisfaction in the fact that most of the derelicts were Anglos. No wonder Clare had fled the place. George was someone you could admire from afar, but to work at his side required the same devotion he had. Miguel had heard the explanation. These derelicts were in effect Christ in disguise. Well, God bless him, but Miguel felt the same way Clare had. Let George do it.

“Has Clare come back?”

George looked at him, turned away, shook his head.

Miguel had asked the question in order to hurt George. Or maybe just to see how much he missed the beautiful daughter of Don Ibanez. He wished now he hadn't asked.

He continued north and on the way he thought of Clare Ibanez. Don Ibanez regarded him as a rabble-rouser, Miguel knew that. He understood it. It was obvious that the old man considered the way he lived sufficient victory for the moment. And of course his basilica meant more to him now than ever. He did share Miguel's conviction that this state and many others had been unjustly occupied for centuries by the foreign government in far-off Washington, D.C. Latinos were treated worse than blacks; they were treated as badly by blacks as by Anglos. Worse, they were treated as invaders, illegal aliens. But they or those whose blood ran in their veins had settled these lands. They had far more right to them than the Jews who insisted that the state of Israel had biblical warrant to their land. Don Ibanez, it turned out, took the long view.

The old man had patiently laid out the forecasts of the National Policy Institute and the polls of the Pew Research Center.

“Young man, by midcentury, there will be 127 million of us in this country. And the population of Mexico will reach 130 million. Sheer numbers will decide the issue. Anglos do not breed. They kill their unborn children. They have become sensualists. Justice will be done peacefully, no need to fire a shot.”

“And we'll be dead by then.”

“Not you.”

What the old man suggested seemed like a version of Mon-tezuma's revenge. Miguel didn't doubt those projections, but he didn't quite believe in them either. How often had such visions of the future been thwarted by unforeseen events? The present uproar would put the fear of God into Anglos, but then what? In public harangues, he suggested that what Don Ibanez thought would be settled by the silent swelling of the Latino population could be had now. He wished he believed that. But he had his own projections.

Clare was still a wounded bird, ashamed of herself because she could not share the squalor of the Catholic Worker house with George Worth. That would pass, he was sure of it. Miguel had been all but overwhelmed by the peaceful affluence of the Ibanez hacienda, the grounds, the miles and miles of vineyards. That was a future Miguel could understand, not that he thought that everyone would end up in such a hacienda and with such extensive holdings. It was best not to think of the political corruption of Mexico extending over the Southwest. Had Don Ibanez given any thought to what Latino dominance might mean? A nearer and surer future had become Miguel's aim.

By marrying Clare he would immediately come into possession of all that the generations of the Ibanez family had acquired. What a headquarters for Justicia y Paz that vast estate in Napa Valley would be. Or he could turn the organization over to Suarez and cast blessings on the effort from an affluent distance. He had little doubt that he could, eventually, win the love of Clare Ibanez. But a first condition of that would have to be getting that picture back to the basilica in Mexico City. Until that happy day, he could not woo her. Nonetheless, the absence of the picture from its shrine had to continue. The one thing Miguel dreaded was that Theophilus Grady would disclose the secret alliance between the Rough Riders and Justicia y Paz. Between Grady and Miguel would be more accurate. None of their followers knew of it. Without Grady's help the movement of the picture from the basilica in Mexico City would not have been possible.

Lulu shook Neal Admirari awake, pointing at the television where the statement of Theophilus Grady was being read by a fatuous television reporter, seated on a stool, legs crossed, her skirt up to her hips, the golden hair a sprayed cloud about her empty head. She might have been reading of a wedding, a plane crash, the birth of quintuplets in Peru, anything, and the same manic smile would carry her through.

“Maybe it will work,” Neal said, smacking his dry mouth and looking around for a glass of water.

“Do you know you do that in your sleep?”

“What?”

She tried to make the same sound, but she had been up for an hour, brushed her teeth, had a cup of coffee.

“How would I know, if I'm asleep?”

“Neal, what are we doing in California?”

“Making noises in the night.”

But he took her point. The trouble with this story was that it was everywhere and nowhere. Grady spoke as if from a cloud, politicians from Washington, Miguel Arroyo from L.A. Grady was the story, but where in hell was he?

After a quick breakfast—he didn't want to spoil his appetite for lunch—Neal put through a call to Empedocles. No answer. He looked at his watch. No wonder. He would try again after lunch.

In the dining room Lulu had a glass of juice in her hand and sat frowning over it. “What doesn't make sense, Neal, is the claim of the ransom.”

He nodded and went on eating.

“Once Grady lets go of the picture, he has no more leverage.”

“Does he have it?”

Lulu thought about that. Grady didn't have to have the picture in order to use it for his own purposes, as he had. Did even Grady have the guts to tell a lie like that? If he didn't have the picture,
someone
did. They would not like the swashbuckling head of the Rough Riders stealing their thunder.

“Maybe that's why he went into hiding.”

“
Someone
contacted Hannan and wants the reward.”

“That's what I want to check on with Ray Whipple.”

But Ray Whipple was on his way west when Neal got through to Empedocles. Could he speak to Mr. Hannan? The answer, as he had expected, was no. No doubt the zillionaire was counting his money. Could he contact Whipple in the plane? Another refusal.

He finished breakfast and rose. “We're going to the airport.”

“Los Angeles?” she wailed.

“No. Oakland.”