Relic of Time (37 page)

However ignominious his exit from Justicia y Paz, the whole crazy business made it clear that his hunch that Miguel Arroyo was behind whatever had gone wrong with the great plan to return the sacred painting to Mexico City seemed justified. How had he done it? Until Traeger knew how he had been made a fool of, he could not rest. The car radio, when he turned it on, was full of Spanish chatter about the rogue ex-CIA agent who had been terrorizing Old Town and the headquarters of Justicia y Paz. They were expecting a statement from Miguel Arroyo shortly. It never came.

Traeger was already a fugitive. He had seen the stories, watched TV in Phoenix and Flagstaff. He had hoodwinked the venerable Don Ibanez; he had betrayed Ignatius Hannan, the legendary founder of Empedocles; he had mocked the simple faith of the Mexican people by trying to palm off on them a copy of the sacred image rather than the original he was to have brought. When asked if it was certain that Traeger had left the valley with the original, Don Ibanez had nodded slowly.

“Hey, I'm just a pilot,” Smiley had said. “Talk to the boss.”

But Hannan wasn't talking to the media. What could he say? Laura Burke Whipple said simply, “We were betrayed.”

Up until now, although sought, his whereabouts were unknown. Now, as the result of the excitement at Justicia y Paz, it would be known where he had last been. If Arroyo was believed. The cops might doubt, but employees in the building, particularly the receptionist, could vouch for his claim that Traeger had been there.

Eventually the sun went down on his wrath, but did not extinguish it. Sure of his quarry, having him under surveillance, Traeger was willing to bide his time. The next move was up to Arroyo. Meanwhile he considered the cock-and-bull story Arroyo had fed him earlier. Trying to involve Jason Phelps in his story seemed an indication of how imaginative it was. But where in hell was the original?

For days, ever since the travesty in the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Traeger had been putting that question to himself. The switch had to have been made at the outset. Again and again, he recalled carrying the foam case from Jason Phelps, with that idiot Arroyo scampering around, helping with his burden. Could it have happened even before he reached the little basilica with the package containing a copy? For the matter of that, Traeger had never seen what was in the package he carried from Jason Phelps's. He remembered as vividly as could be laying it over the backs of the pews in the basilica. The other package was on the floor behind the altar. Already taped. Don Ibanez knelt before the altar, beside Frater Leone.

Traeger pressed his eyes shut. Then what? He wanted to run it off like a film, but people seemed to obscure his vision. Don Ibanez, George Worth, Clare, the priest, and Arroyo. Speed it up or slow it down, all Traeger could see were two foam packages. So how had it been done? He wanted to pound on the steering wheel, he was so frustrated.

Across the street, the administration building seemed deserted, but that one car was still parked near the entrance. Traeger waited. It was after six when the front door opened. A woman came out. The receptionist? It was. She turned and tried the entrance door and then, assured it was locked, tapped down the steps and headed for the car. Its lights flashed as she approached; she pulled open the door and got in. Traeger was hunched forward, sure that now Arroyo would have to appear and hop into the passenger seat. Please let it happen. But the car backed out of the space, turned, and headed for the street. Watching it disappear, Traeger felt that Arroyo had done it to him again. He could have bellowed in frustration.

An old guy in jeans and a ragged T-shirt came out of the barracks and began to check the coffee can ashtray for something long enough to light. He looked at Traeger and Traeger looked at him. The man made a gesture with his fingers. Traeger got out his cigarettes, shook a couple free, and held them out. The man was at the car like a shot. Traeger rolled down the window and handed them out.

He waited for the wino to scamper away, banking one of the cigarettes in the pocket of his T-shirt. He broke the other in half and put one half in the pocket and the other in his mouth. He sat on the steps before lighting up, leaning back, content. Traeger almost envied him his irresponsible life. Happiness is a bummed cigarette.

Across the street a car came around from behind the building, an open convertible. At the wheel was Miguel Arroyo. Traeger got his motor running. Traffic was light now, but Arroyo took his time about entering the street, as if he were trying to make up his mind. Finally he pulled out, crossed into northbound traffic, and entered it. For a wild moment, Traeger had thought Arroyo had spotted him and was going to come into the lot in which he was parked. Crazy, of course. He doubted that Arroyo would want to confront him without a posse at his back.

Traeger shot across the lot and into the northbound lane, keeping the convertible in sight. Where was Arroyo headed?

At Los Angeles, Arroyo got onto 101 and floored it. Obviously the convertible was a soupy little vehicle. But Traeger's rental responded adequately. He just needed to keep the convertible in sight.

This legendary highway created the impression, almost as much as the interstates, that the citizens of California—now the Republic of California, at least below Santa Barbara—lived in their automobiles. A river of cars, lights on now, increasing the sense of flow, moved northward. Another river moved south. Ceaselessly, like other rivers. That Arroyo was in an open car made it easier to keep him in sight, but Traeger was tense, determined not to let the son of a bitch elude him.

He set the cruise control at eighty, but cars continued to whip by him in other lanes. Arroyo had settled into a steady speed. For hours, Traeger followed him along the beautiful highway. To the right, mountains loomed, their tops still catching some of the setting sun; to the left, coming and going out of sight, was the ocean. Traeger decided that Arroyo was headed for Napa Valley. Maybe to square his silly story with Jason Phelps, though how he could enlist the help of the crusty old agnostic Traeger could not see.

It wasn't until San Luis Obispo that Arroyo turned into a filling station. Traeger had been watching his gauge anxiously, belatedly realizing that the car had not had a full tank when he rented it. It seemed a harbinger of a dropping of standards of efficiency in the new regime.

Arroyo ignored the self-serve lane and went inside while his car was fueled. Traeger, with several rows of pumps to screen him, filled up. He moved forward and parked near the exit, so he could follow Arroyo out. Arroyo would have availed himself of the restroom inside. Traeger did not want to think of his own discomfort. He would wet his pants before he took a chance on losing Arroyo. More and more he was convinced that the founder of Justicia y Paz was taking him to the big showdown.

It was going around Oakland that Traeger lost Arroyo.

Arroyo had put up the top after filling up and it was harder to keep him in sight. Traeger drew closer but got into the far left lane to stay out of Arroyo's sight. There was no point in getting careless, even though he was certain Arroyo had no idea he was being tailed. But suddenly he was gone. Traeger looked around. He couldn't have turned off. Had he dropped behind? Traeger slowed and was immediately given the horn by the maniac who was tailgating him. He flicked his signal to ease into the next lane and got another horn. The hell with it. He bulled his way across the lanes to a chorus of horns. But where the hell was Arroyo's convertible?

He had lost him. Anywhere earlier along the road, Traeger would have been baffled. But, having come this far, he was sure that Arroyo was headed up to Napa Valley. Having convinced himself of that, Traeger stopped at a roadside restaurant, got comfortable, then ate. He went into the washroom again before leaving, leaning toward the mirror. The beard could go, but the mustache kept. He went out to the car, got his kit, and came back inside. Patrons of the washroom took little notice of the man shaving himself at this hour of night. The beard was a bear to remove, even using his nail scissors. His face emerged and, running his hand over it, Traeger realized how much he had hated that beard. He got rid of the mustache, too. What good was half a disguise? Outside near the pumps there was a convenience store, where Traeger bought a baseball cap and T-shirt. It was a Dodgers cap and the T-shirt touted the Raiders. Sports fan at large.

Back in the car, he felt more relaxed than he had in days. The visit to Arroyo, however it had ended, made clear that Arroyo was his man. And where else could he be headed than up the valley to . . . Don Ibanez? Jason Phelps? That small uncertainty brought back the tension. This was no time to relax. He made pretty good time going up the valley road.

The El Toro Motel looked full, its lot jammed with vehicles. Traeger went on by and headed toward the hacienda of Don Ibanez. But half a mile short of it, he saw the media crew camped at the gate. He slowed and nosed up to the closed gate of Jason Phelps's place. He got out and tried the gate. It wasn't locked. Lights out, he drove in, got out and shut the gate, and left his car near the garages, remembering how he had carried the foam package over to the basilica.

He pulled down his baseball cap, feeling like Pettitte before his fall, studying the catcher's signals, and started for the back of the property. When he passed the office, he saw that the desk lamp was on. Jason Phelps lay forward, his face on the desk. The eyes were open but didn't seem to be looking anyplace in particular. The French doors were not closed. Traeger stepped inside, crossed to the desk, and looked at Jason Phelps. The back of his head was a battered mess, blood pooled on the desk blotter. Phelps had gone wherever atheists go when they die.

Traeger got out of there, almost running to the path that would take him onto Don Ibanez's property. He heard voices and stopped. He recognized Neal Admirari's voice and that was enough. The last thing he wanted to do was run into a member of the media. He had to get to Don Ibanez. Together he was sure that they could figure out what had happened with the original sacred image, how the packages had been switched, or whatever. The original had to be here still. Maybe even hanging again over the altar in Don Ibanez's basilica. Traeger needed a miracle.

He backtracked and regained Jason Phelps's property.

PART III

Holy Hermano

CHAPTER ONE

Neal had just turned from watching Catherine go off down the path when he noticed Miguel Arroyo near the basilica. Kneeling.

“What's wrong?” he asked, going toward him.

And then he saw the body. “My God, is that Phelps?”

Arroyo gently turned the body over to reveal the face of Don Ibanez. Arroyo rose to his feet.

“I was afraid of this.”

“Is he dead?”

“Take his pulse if you want.”

Neal danced back. “What were you afraid of?”

Arroyo took Neal's arm and started toward the house. “Traeger is back.”

“Traeger!”

“He showed up at my office in Justicia y Paz. He threatened me.” Arroyo stopped and looked back. “I hate to just leave him lying there like that.”

Was he suggesting that Neal stand watch by the body? “What can happen to him?”

Arroyo sighed. “Who will break the news to Clare?”

“Not me.”

Arroyo looked at him, nodding. “I feel the same way. I wish there was another woman around.”

“Catherine just went back to Jason Phelps's place. Should I get her?”

“How about the woman who works for Hannan?”

“Oh, they've gone.”

It was George Worth that they found when they entered the house. Arroyo asked him to come outside.