Relic of Time (38 page)

“George,” Arroyo began. He took a deep breath. “George, Neal and I have just made a terrible discovery.”

Neal was thinking of his room in the El Toro Motel and wishing he were there. It wasn't the Plaza, the El Toro, but at least there weren't bodies lying around. Dead bodies. Careful, careful. He reminded himself that Lulu was on her way. Thank God. He wanted to sink into married normalcy, make love to his wife for a change, get the hell out of California before the whole state seceded.

Arroyo had taken George's arm as the three men hurried toward the basilica.

“What is it?”

For answer, Arroyo led him up to the body. George bent over it, then crouched beside the body. He put his hand on Don Ibanez's neck.

“For God's sake, get a doctor.”

Glad to be released, Neal started running toward the house.

“And Frater Leone,” George cried after him. “Have him come immediately.”

“What's going on?” Clare asked when Neal burst into the house.

“Oh, my God. Look, I have to call a doctor. And a priest. Frater Leone.”

Clare's eyes widened and her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Is it my father?”

“Out by the basilica. George and Arroyo are with him. Where's a phone?”

Clare went outside and he watched her hurry toward the basilica. A phone. Where was a phone? And then he thought of his cell. Jeez. He got it out and punched in 911.

Only an ambulance with its siren screaming could have dispersed the media at the gate, but when the gate was opened to let the ambulance in, members of the press followed, like infantry accompanying a tank. George Worth had left Frater Leone with Don Ibanez and gone to open the gate; now he directed the paramedics to the body. Miguel Arroyo stood in the middle of the drive, waiting for the advancing cameramen and reporters. The television truck had trouble getting past the ambulance, but soon its crew was out and ready to shoot. Arroyo had waited patiently, holding up a hand to still the impatience of others. Neal drew close.

“I am Miguel Arroyo of Justicia y Paz,” he began.

“What the hell is the ambulance doing here?” a reporter shouted.

“Something terrible has happened to Don Ibanez, whose hacienda as you know this is. We will soon know whether he will live or die. His attacker was the rogue former CIA agent Vincent Traeger, who had told me he intended to do what he has now done.”

No need to tell this gathering about the bungled effort to take the miraculous picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe back to its shrine in Mexico City. That was the story that had brought them here. But the mention of Traeger interested them more than the condition of Don Ibanez. Neal realized how little fellowship he felt with this bunch.

Arroyo began to review what they all knew about events in Mexico City and groans went up. Arroyo ignored them, going on to make his case against Traeger. Speaking directly to the television camera, he told of Traeger's visit to his office, how he had confronted the man and then sounded the alarm. When the forces of law arrived, Traeger had managed to escape.

“And came here,” Arroyo said, his voice rising. “Came here to attack one of the most beloved residents of Napa Valley.”

“Why?”

“To silence the man who knew what Traeger had done with the sacred painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

And then, with the camera on him, Arroyo brought out a cell phone and summoned the forces of law and order.

Neal turned and went to the hacienda. He saw George Worth, who had left the paramedics to their task, comforting Clare. Neal looked out to where the ambulance crew were doing their stuff. Frater Leone was there, too, doing his stuff. The sight of the priest brought uncomfortable memories. Neal made a wide circle around the group and headed for the path down which Catherine had gone.

There was a lamp on in the study. Jason Phelps seemed asleep at his desk. Neal went inside and tiptoed through the study. At the foot of the stairs, he could see lights above. He mounted them, calling softly, “Catherine? Catherine?”

When he got to the head of the stairs, Catherine rushed out of a room and threw herself into his arms.

“I didn't do it, Neal. I swear to God I didn't do it.”

The feel of her in his arms brought back memories he had promised to expunge. He held her closer. “Everybody does it,” he whispered.

She freed herself and looked at him with horror. “Didn't you see him?”

“The paramedics are with him, Catherine. And the priest.”

“With Jason?”

He tried to take her in his arms again. With the professor dozing, they had the house to themselves. “No, no. Don Ibanez.”

And then she was looking past him. Neal turned and there was Vincent Traeger, standing as if he had suddenly materialized out of nothing.

“What the hell is going on next door?” Traeger asked.

Neal stepped back toward Catherine. He was thinking of what Arroyo had said. It was not a comfortable feeling, confronting a man who was the object of a two-nation manhunt, even with Catherine there for company.

“Something has happened to Don Ibanez,” he said, amazed at how calm he sounded.

“Arroyo, that son of a bitch. So he got both of them.”

It was into Traeger's arms now that Catherine rushed.

“I didn't do it! I came into the office and found him. He was already dead.”

“You didn't do it,” Traeger assured her.

Was he confessing?

“Arroyo. Have you seen him?” he demanded of Neal.

“At the moment he's holding a press conference next door explaining how you attacked Don Ibanez.”

As if he had disappeared, Traeger was gone, thundering down the steps.

“What happened to Don Ibanez?” Catherine asked.

Neal opened his arms and she came into them. “It's a long story, my dear. Where can we sit?”

Lowry had told Traeger to meet him at the Old Curiosity bookstore in Palo Alto.

The bookstore provided periodic respite from the galley and common room of the Catholic Worker house and, despite the mock proletarian dress of the customers and the bright is-there-anything-I-can-do look of the clerks, Lowry liked it.

There were the books, of course. He particularly liked the radical chic stuff—it gave him shelves of things to ignore. And there was free coffee for those who didn't bring their own from Starbucks, gripping the capped containers as if they were their life support. Coffee and rockers in which to read. Not many students; those who could read were studying the posters that fluttered from kiosks helpfully dotting the campus. Here the customers were middle-aged and fighting it equivocally. Women with gray hair worn long as a girl's, denim skirts made from jeans, the metal-studded pockets emphasizing their rear ends, blouses with scooped necks, beads as big as the jawbreakers of old, the righteous look of the nonsmoker. The men were worse. Sandaled, long-haired, earlobes pierced and wearing discreet rings, half-glasses that lent their eyes a curious look in several senses. Lowry loved them all. They brought back his misspent younger years. Here he could rock and read and observe the customers and forget the lost souls for whom he cooked.

He had Miscamble's
Truman and the Cold War
open on his lap. He had always liked Harry, a foe worthy of one's steel, unaware that he was surrounded by comrades. I'm from Missouri. So was Lowry, from Joplin, a town he hadn't seen in forty years. Truman's decision to drop the second bomb, on Hiroshima
mon amour
, was sympathetically discussed by the author. It brought back memories of V-J Day when everyone thought that all wars had ended.

When he came in, he had stopped at the counter and asked if they had
Mein Kampf.
The owner was at the register, short and wide and wild haired.

“What is it?”

“A German cookbook.”

She drew her top chin into the rest of them. “We don't carry cookbooks.”

The question had established his right to browse.

Lowry rocked himself to his feet, returned the book to a shelf, and went outside for a smoke, enjoying it less than the shocked and angry looks of passersby. Human sacrifice would not raise an eyebrow, but cigarettes! There was a bench, a mandatory thirty feet from the bookstore's entrance, in the shade, large dying leaves yellowing on the walk.

The call from Traeger had come as the former agent was fleeing Napa Valley, on the run again as he had been for a week. He had to talk with Lowry, why he didn't say. Lowry gave him directions to the bookstore when Traeger nixed the Catholic Worker house. Maybe Traeger would know when the hell George Worth was coming back. If he was coming back.

Coeds sauntered by, showing their bellies in front and tattoos on their caboose. The mandatory backpacks made them walk with a forward tilt. Lowry tried unsuccessfully to remember what concupiscence had felt like. He would leave that to George. Would George finally succumb to the lure of Clare Ibanez and set aside the dreams of his youth? The poor devil reacted to the primal desire as if it were a temptation of the most sordid sort. George was not cut out for poverty if only because he had chosen it. The vow of poverty was another thing. Did you ever see a thin Franciscan? Poverty weighed no more heavily on most friars' shoulders than the two other vows had on some. Ah, how the media had lapped up all those clerical scandals. Imagine those hypocritical degenerates doing what everyone else was urged to do! Or presumed to be doing already. Someone sat beside him.

“I was just about to go inside when I saw you here,” Traeger said.

“How goes the battle?”

“You got another of those?”

Lowry handed him the pack of Basics. “You look like hell.”

“Tell me about Arroyo.”

“I saw him do his Zola on television.
J'accuse!
Pretty impressive.”

“The son of a bitch.”

“Does he have a mother?”

“I have to get some sleep. Then we can talk.”

“You can use George's office. There's a cot there.”

“I could sleep on the floor.”

“To do penance?”

“I haven't eaten since yesterday.”

“How about some soup?”

When they rose from the bench, Lowry asked, “Where are you parked?”

“It doesn't matter. It's a stolen car.”

So they walked back to the Catholic Worker house, where Lowry scrambled some eggs and fried some sausage. The smell coming from the kitchen roused several guests who were dozing in the common room. Lowry turned on both vents over the stove.

“Better have this in George's office,” he said, carrying the platter under his apron. Traeger opened the door and they went into the office. Seated at the desk, Traeger finished the eggs and sausage in minutes.

“You were hungry.”

“I didn't dare stop. Except to change cars.”

“Grow a beard.”

“I just shaved it off.”

“The sunglasses are a little obvious.”

Traeger seemed to have forgotten he was wearing them. He pushed them to the top of his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn.

“Get some sleep.”

It was many hours and two meals later when Traeger came out of the office. He was hungry again. This time it was bacon and eggs.

“We have a limited menu.”

“It's delicious.”

“It would be even if it weren't.”

Traeger just looked at him. “Arroyo tried to kill Don Ibanez. Why?”

It wasn't that Traeger thought Lowry had the answer to the question; he needed to talk about the mess he was in. He had been accused on television of attacking the venerable Don Ibanez, who was still in a coma. The killing of Jason Phelps had been added to the accusation. But it was the attempt to palm off a copy of the picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe that had galvanized the California constabulary, state and local.