The Sign (43 page)

He wasn’t moving.

A couple of onlookers were huddled beside him, the man checking him out hesitantly, the woman staring down, riveted with fear, her hands cupping her mouth.

“Jabba,” Matt yelled as he slid to the ground beside him.

In the darkness, it was hard to see where the wound was, but a pool of blood was spreading out from under him. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, but he caught sight of Matt and tried to say something, but coughed and was having trouble forming the words.

“Did we get her?” he sputtered.

Matt nodded and said, “She’s right here,” turning around to give Jabba a glimpse of Rebecca Rydell, who inched forward, her face flooded with sadness. “Don’t talk,” Matt told him, gripping his hand, tight. “Just hang on, okay? Hang on. You’re going to be fine.” He turned to the couple looming over him. “Call 911,” he shouted. “Call them now.”

The woman raced into the house. Matt just stayed there, hanging onto Jabba—hoping to avoid the worst, cursing himself for having dragged him along—for what felt like hours but was actually less than ten minutes until an ambulance finally showed up.

Matt stayed with him as the paramedics fussed over him before bundling him onto their stretcher with breathtaking efficiency.

Matt kept asking, “Is he going to be okay?” but he couldn’t get a straight answer out of them. With a devastating sense of loss choking him, he watched as they wheeled Jabba into the back of the ambulance, shut the doors, and stormed off.

He heard another siren—a police cruiser this time—and glanced at Rebecca Rydell. She was huddled on the lawn, still shivering.

“Come on,” he said as, mouthing a silent prayer for the life of his new friend, he took her hand and led her away from the horror-struck crowd that had gathered around the blazing house.

Houston, Texas

“
W
here are they now?” Buscema asked the preacher. Reverend Darby was in his study. It was late, but he didn’t mind Buscema’s call. He owed him for giving him the heads-up on Father Jerome’s predicament. He also didn’t mind the ego boost he got from talking about it with virtually the only other person in the country outside his organization who knew what he was doing.

“They should be landing in Shannon, Ireland, about an hour and a half from now,” he told Buscema. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to refuel the jet.” Darby sounded even more pumped than during his sermons.

“So what time will they get here?”

“I make it around six A.M., Houston time.”

Buscema went silent. Then he said, “You might want to delay their arrival a bit.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose it depends,” Buscema thought out loud. “You could sneak him in under the radar. Might be safer to play it that way.”

“Or we could turn his arrival into a major event,” Darby said, completing Buscema’s train of thought. He pondered it for a moment, then said, “I was wondering about that. You’re right. He deserves to make a big entrance. We shouldn’t be sneaking him in like some petty criminal. The man’s God’s emissary, for crying out loud. We’re not like those savages. We’re going to welcome him with open arms. Let’s show the country and the world where America’s moral center really is.”

“I can help leak it,” Buscema told him. “Just give me as much of a heads-up as you can.”

Darby played it out in his mind’s eye. He saw it as something big. Momentous. He flashed to news footage he’d watched a year earlier, of the pope arriving at Andrews Air Force Base. The red carpet, the military dress uniforms. The president and the first lady, greeting him as he stepped off the plane. His mind went back to older footage he’d seen several times. Grainy, black-and-white footage of the Beatles, arriving at Kennedy airport, back in 1964. That was more like it. The frenzied mob, heaving against barricades. The continuous, earsplitting screams. Flashbulbs popping, women wailing. Sheer adulation. That’s what this would be like. That’s what it should be like. With him at the center of it.

The thought put a smile on his face. It would be a defining moment. For the country and, more significantly, for him.

I’ll be upstaging the president,
he thought triumphantly.
And that’s only the beginning.

“I’ll give you enough time,” Darby said.

“You’re going to need some serious crowd control,” Buscema opined.

“Not a problem. The governor is part of my flock.”

“What about beyond that? Any progress on your Christmas offering?”

“The stadium’s booked,” the preacher confided. “It’ll be a rush, but we’ll make it happen. We’re bringing in some performers. Big names. You mark my words, Roy. I’m going to give the people of this country a Christmas they’ll never forget.”

Buscema went quiet. The kind of quiet he knew Darby would pick up on.

Sure enough, the pastor said, “What is it?”

“I’m just a bit concerned about sending out the right message.”

“Meaning?” Darby didn’t sound thrilled.

Buscema let out a ragged sigh, as if this were a tough call. “I’m hearing grumblings. From other pastors and church leaders.”

“I know,” Darby fumed. “We’ve been swamped with calls since the news got out. Every preacher from here to California’s been on the line. Even the governor wants in.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to share that platform, Reverend. Get the word out more widely. Turn this into a much bigger and broader event. The country could use it right now.”

“I’m the guy flying him in, Roy,” Darby noted calmly. “I got him out of there.”

“And you’ll be the one greeting him when he steps off that plane,” Buscema reassured him. “You. No one else.”

“The governor’s also pushing to be there. I’m finding it hard to keep ducking him.”

“Doesn’t matter, Reverend. There won’t be any other pastors at the airport. Just you. It’ll be your moment. That’s the image people will remember when they first see him. But after that, I’d say it’s in your interest to show as much generosity as you can handle and invite as many other church leaders to join you on the big day. You’ve got to think big. You can take the lead on this. America doesn’t have a pope. It doesn’t have a spiritual leader. But the country needs one. Especially given how tough things are right now. Americans need to be inspired. To feel like they’re part of something.” He paused, just enough to let the words settle but not enough to give the preacher an opening to argue back. “You don’t want it to look like just another service at your church. This one’s for the whole country. For the whole world. You can’t be alone on that stage. But you can do it on your terms. And by extending a welcoming hand, you’ll only be elevating your own position as a gracious host . . . and leader.”

TOUGH
PART’S
OVER
,
Buscema thought after hanging up with Darby. Now he’d have to wait and see if the self-obsessed blowhard would play nice and share. He needed Darby to play nice. He needed him to share his new toy with the other kids. And that, he knew, was never easy. Not when you were dealing with a spoiled brat, let alone one with a righteousness complex.

He picked up his phone and hit another speed-dial key. The man on the other end had been waiting for the call.

Buscema just said, “We’re on. Leak it,” then hung up.

Shannon, Ireland

The Gulfstream was parked by a service hangar, away from the small airport’s terminal. Gracie was pacing around by the plane as she spoke on her cell phone. She was out in the open and wasn’t really worried about being spotted. It was night, and there was no one around apart from a few dozy and disinterested maintenance guys who were refueling the jet.

It was much colder there, another shock to her system after the chill of the South Pole and the warm embrace of the Egyptian desert. The cold, though, felt good. Bracing. Numbing. Which was helpful, given that she was on the phone with the abbot and reliving Finch’s death in all its grisly detail.

He was on his way back from Cairo. He told her they’d delivered Finch’s body to the American embassy there. It hadn’t been easy getting there. He told her that fierce clashes had erupted among the hordes outside the monastery once news of Father Jerome’s departure had been made public. Jeep-loads of internal security men had stormed across the plain and contained the outburst, and were now clearing away the last troublemakers, but the situation had repeated itself in Cairo and in Alexandria and in other cities across the region.

Gracie saw Dalton coming toward her, waving his BlackBerry, indicating there was a call for her. She was thanking the abbot when he remembered something and said, “I’m also very sorry about your friend’s glasses. One of my brothers broke them by accident. We put the frame in the pocket of his jacket.”

Dalton was right up with her and mouthed “Ogilvy” to her. Seemed like it was pretty urgent. Gracie raised a pausing index finger at him, her foggy mind trying to make sense of what the abbot was talking about.

“I’m sorry, Finch’s glasses?”

“Yes,” the abbot said. “One of my brothers stepped on them by accident. He didn’t see them.”

“That’s all right,” she said, nodding to Dalton like she was done. “I didn’t notice them either,” she added.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he corrected. “They weren’t outside. They were in the keep, and as you know, it’s quite dark in there. Anyway, I’m really sorry. I know it’s the kind of personal belonging that matters to loved ones at times like these. Would you please apologize to his wife on my behalf?”

“Of course,” Gracie said, still distracted by Dalton. “Thanks for everything, Father. I’ll call you from America.” She clicked off and took the other phone from Dalton.

It was Ogilvy. His news pushed any thought of Finch to the sidelines.

“It’s out,” he told her, his tone urgent. “The word’s out that Father Jerome’s on his way here.”

“What do you mean? It’s been leaked?” Gracie asked. “How?”

“I don’t know. It came up on Drudge half an hour ago and it’s everywhere now.”

She scanned around with her eyes, suddenly paranoid. A vision of converging mobs flashed before her, then evaporated. “Do they know we’re here?”

“No, they didn’t mention that. All they know is that Father Jerome is out of Egypt and on his way here, to Houston. It doesn’t even mention Darby.”

Gracie frowned. This wasn’t good. She pictured the media circus and the chaos that would be greeting them.

“We’ve got to change destinations. Fly in somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.”

“Why?” Ogilvy asked.

“’Cause people are going to go nuts when they see him. We’ll get mobbed.”

“I called Darby. He told me he’s got the cops lined up to help. They’re gonna cordon off the tarmac, provide a rolling escort. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Are you kidding me?” Ogilvy asked. “This is still our story.
Your
story. Every reporter in America would give both arms to be in your shoes. Think about it. Every single TV set in the country is going to be watching you as you walk off that plane right alongside Father Jerome, with Dalton’s camera giving us a live inside track. And Darby wants you and Dalton to stick around. He’s going to put you up with them. I’m flying out too. So just relax and get some rest and get ready for it. We’ve got a show to do, and you’re about to get the biggest scoop of your life.”

Boston, Massachusetts

“
D
ad?” Rydell couldn’t believe his ears. His pulse raced ahead with equal doses of fear and hope. He could feel it pounding against his cell phone. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “They got me out. I’m fine.”

Rydell’s heart cartwheeled. Her voice had a quaver in it, but she didn’t sound afraid.

“Hang on,” she said.

He heard some shuffling as the handset evidently changed hands, then he heard the last voice he was expecting.

“Are you alone?”

He recognized Matt’s voice. A sudden panic seized him. “Where are you? What have you done?”

Matt ignored his question. “She’s safe. Can you get out without the escorts?”

“I don’t know.” Rydell faltered. “I . . . I can try.”

“Do it,” Matt ordered. “Do it right know. And meet us outside the place you took Rebecca for her eighteenth birthday.”

The line went dead.

Rydell didn’t know what to think. Was she Matt’s hostage now? Was that his plan? He wasn’t sure what he preferred—knowing she was in his hands, or in Maddox’s.

He wasn’t sure either way. What he was sure of was that now that Rebecca was out, Drucker didn’t have any hold over him. Unless he tried to grab him and substitute him for Rebecca.

He had to get out.

Now.

He picked up the hotel phone and hit the reception button. Got an answer on the first ring.

“This is Rydell. I need security up here. Right now. As many guys as you can send. My bodyguards are up to something; I need protection right now. From them.” His tone left no room for doubt as to the urgency involved.

The flustered voice on the other end was still fumbling through a reply when Rydell hung up. He darted to the bedroom, found his wallet and his coat, and pulled his shoes on; darted back to the door of his suite and eased against it for a peek through the peephole. He could see the two bodyguards, Maddox’s men, standing outside his door. Looking bored, killing time. He waited. About ten seconds later, he heard the whine of the elevator’s motor and the clunk of the doors sliding open. Four men rushed out and stormed over to the suite’s door. Rydell saw the bodyguards step toward the security guys, arms raised in a halting what’s-going-on gesture.

Rydell grabbed his chance. He swung the door open and stormed out, sprinting past the surprised bodyguards and through the wall of security guys, waving a panicked finger back toward his bodyguards and shouting, “Stop them. They’re trying to kidnap me. Help me get out of here.”

The security guys flinched with confusion, as did the bodyguards, who were caught flat-footed by Rydell’s rushed exit. Maddox’s men stepped forward forcefully, one of them reaching for his holstered handgun, but the security guys weren’t cowed. Two of them were beefy bouncer types, and they just stood their ground and closed in on each other, creating a barrier across the corridor. One of them, the biggest one of the lot, held up a stern warning finger and had his handgun out too, a mocking you-really-don’t-want-to-do-this grimace across his face. Rydell didn’t wait to watch the outcome. He slipped into the elevator, jabbed the down button repeatedly until the doors rumbled shut, and rode down to the lobby, his nerves on fire. The short ride felt like forever. He raced out the second the door opened, flew out of the lobby, and hurtled into a lone, waiting cab. He ordered the guy to just go, and craned his head back as the cab drove off, to make sure they weren’t being followed. He made the driver take a few rudderless lefts and rights. When he was satisfied that they were on their own, he told him where to go.