Gideon (52 page)

The Suburban’s cell phone, ringing urgently in its cradle.

He shot a look down at it in disbelief. Amanda was staring at it, too, as if she had never heard such a noise in her entire life. Neither of them made any motion to respond.

It rang a second time.

They stared at each other.

It rang a third time.

Carl’s hand reached forward now, grabbing for the compact black phone. He flicked it open with his thumb so as to receive the incoming call. He held it up to his ear, his heart racing. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and raw. And he said, “Yeah?”

“Is the job finished?” the voice on the other end demanded.

It was a man’s voice. Impatient. Very self-important and British. It was a voice that sent icy shivers of terror down the back of Carl’s neck. It was
him
. At long last Carl was speaking to the demon who was behind the deaths, the shattered lives, who was responsible for all of it.

“I am facing critical time restraints,” the voice went on reproachfully. “Why haven’t you reported in? I
need
to know: Are they dead or aren’t they?”

Anger surged through Carl’s body. The veins in his neck bulged, and he gripped the phone so tightly he thought he might crush it. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice when he spoke, it was so full of rage. “The party you’re trying to reach isn’t available,” he said. “And I’m afraid it’s going to take a
very
long distance call for you to get through to him.”

There was no immediate response from the other end. Just heavy, raspy breathing. Then: “Bloody hell, it’s
you
isn’t it? You’ve bested poor Payton. My, my … you’re vastly more resourceful than I gave you credit for, my boy.”

“Let’s get something straight,” Carl said through gritted teeth. “I am not your boy.”

“It’s a damn shame we didn’t meet under different circumstances, Carl. It’s so difficult to find a bright, independent young man who knows how to think on his feet. Most people your age require such constant supervision.”

“Okay, so
you
know who
I
am.” Carl was fuming. The knuckles on his hand were white with tension. “In the interest of fair play, why don’t you tell me who
you
are?”

“Ah, you
are
young, aren’t you? I’m terribly sorry, Carl, but you see, you’ve reached a level in our little game where I’m afraid there
is
no such thing as fair play.”

“A game?” Carl roared into the phone. Amanda watched him wide-eyed as the fury poured out of him. “You’ve destroyed my career, my home, my
life
. What kind of a fucking game is that? Why did you do this to me?! Why
me
?”

“It’s nothing personal, I assure you, dear boy.”

“Who are you?” Carl screamed. “
Tell
me, you evil bastard!”

“Alas, this conversation is deteriorating markedly. I’m going to ring off now, Carl.”

“I’ll get you!” Carl vowed. “I’ll find you and I’ll make you pay for this! I swear I will!”

But the phone was already dead in Carl’s ear. Boiling over with frustration, he smashed it against the Suburban’s steering wheel, once, twice, three times before Amanda wrenched it roughly from his grasp.

“Stop it!” she ordered. “We may need this phone.”

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then took the phone out of her hand and gently placed it back in its cradle.

“I want to kill him,” he said very quietly. “I want to find out who he is and I want to kill him.”

“Yes,” she answered, just as quietly. “I know.”

He resumed driving. They turned off of the parkway now onto Route 80, a narrow mountain road that meandered its way through the woods past a number of religious retreats and New Age hideaways. Quite a few were to be found here in the mountains outside of Asheville. This was a place where people came to find answers, to find peace, to find themselves. Paint Gap wasn’t much more than a crossroads. The Retreat of St. Catherine of Genoa was located down a dirt road, behind a log gate, and up a long, steep private drive that climbed its way through the forest and passed over a rushing stream before it ended at a rambling lodge that seemed to grow right out of the side of the mountain. It was made of logs, with a great stone chimney in its center. Fragrant wood smoke wafted from the chimney.

One car, a white Toyota Celica, was parked there. Carl pulled up next to it and shut off the engine. As they stepped out they could hear the cool breeze wafting through the tall pines and birds calling to each other. Otherwise, it was so quiet after the endless hours on the highway that their ears rang.

Amanda’s hand reached for Carl’s and gripped it tightly. Together they walked up to the big house.

* * *

“And how may I be of service, Father Gary?” Father Thaddeus inquired politely.

“I hope I’m the one who may be of service,” the Closer replied softly, shifting in the hard wooden chair. It wasn’t so much the chair that was uncomfortable as it was the vestments—especially the collar. It was stiff and constricting. But it would not do to draw attention to the discomfort. Father Gary would be used to wearing it. Father Gary had
chosen
to wear it.

“Please continue,” Father Thaddeus urged, nodding. He was a large, powerfully built man in his fifties, deeply tanned from years of rugged outdoor work. His round, creased, brown face reminded the Closer very much of a baked apple.

They were in his private study. Its furnishings were rustic and spare to the point of ascetic. A small fire crackled in the fireplace to take the morning chill off the room.

“Father Patrick and I have been good friends for quite some time,” the Closer explained, lapsing into a slight drawl. “I just happened to be visiting my folks for a few days in Murfreesboro when Cardinal O’Brien phoned to say that Pat was in residence here. He thought—we both thought—that it might make some good country sense for me to stop in and see how Pat was getting on before I headed back up to Baltimore. See if he needed anything. See if he felt like talking.”

“That’s very thoughtful of the cardinal,” Father Thaddeus murmured, making a steeple of his index fingers to support his chin. “And of you.”

“How is he, Father Thaddeus?”

Father Thaddeus sipped his coffee in heavy silence for a moment. It smelled strong and rich and good. The Closer wanted a cup desperately but had declined it when Father Thaddeus offered, not wishing to leave behind any fingerprints or trace of saliva.

“I wish I knew how to answer you,” Father Thaddeus finally said, his voice laden with regret. “I can only tell you that Father Patrick is searching for strength. He is so preoccupied that he will scarcely respond to his name when I utter it. Occasionally I’ll find him on the computer in the office. Doing what, I can’t imagine. Most of his time he spends alone, walking in the woods. Or up at Our Father’s Rock.”

“Our Father’s Rock?” The Closer leaned forward. This sounded promising.

“There’s a narrow foot trail out back that climbs to the top of this mountain,” Father Thaddeus explained. “Ours is the tallest peak for miles around. There is a rock up there—Our Father’s Rock—that enjoys commanding views for as far as the eye can see in every direction. It’s a place of tremendous quiet and isolation. Ideal for contemplation. Many years ago a cabin was built up there.”

“ ‘The wise man built his house on a rock,’ ” quoted the Closer. “The Book of Matthew.”

“Precisely so,” said Father Thaddeus, a pleased smile creasing his brown face. “It’s quite primitive. And scarcely big enough for a cot and a table. Some choose to go there for reading and reflection. Some, like Father Pat, even choose to sleep up there. When the dawn comes, the sun feels so warm and near that you almost believe you can reach out and touch His hand.” Now Father Thaddeus looked out of his study window at the early morning. “I suspect that’s where Pat will be right now.”

“May I see him?”

“Of course. If he wishes to see you.” Father Thaddeus got up and went over to a door that opened out into the garden. “And there is only one way to find that out. By trying.”

“Trying is all we can do in this life,” the Closer said thoughtfully, staring out the door into the cool morning dampness. “And with God’s help, occasionally we are allowed to succeed.”

* * *

Once again he was unable to sleep. Once again Father Patrick Jennings spent the hours before dawn riffling feverishly through the worn pages of his Holy Bible by the flickering light of a small oil lamp, his teeth chattering from the mountain cold, the coarse wool blanked from the cot thrown over his shoulders.

Answers. Truth. Understanding.

These were the things he was searching for. These were the things he was desperate for.

But he could find no solace within those familiar pages. All he could find were mind-numbing platitudes. And more questions. As in Jeremiah 39:18 “You will be delivered because you trust in me.”
When Lord? When will my trust be rewarded?
As in Corinthians 4:5 “God will bring to light the things hidden in darkness.”
How, Lord? Please show me how, for I am lost in the darkness. Show me where the wisdom is to be found. And please—please, God—show me the way
.

Whiskey would be of tremendous help, he felt quite certain. It would warm him and calm him. It would erect soft, cushioned barricades in front of those dimly lit mental corridors down which there was only anguish and terror to be found. Whiskey would allow him to sleep.

But one of his purposes in being here at the retreat was to toss away that crutch. Learn how to walk on his own two legs again. Move forward by his own strength into the dawn.

If only that dawn would come.

No, he simply could not drink now. He needed to think clearly. So much was at stake. Too much for him to make a false step. Was that what it had been when he’d e-mailed the reported in Washington—a false step? It was a risk, certainly. If he was wrong about these people, about Granville and Mays, then his message was a disaster. It would bring the wrong people down upon him as surely as vultures swooping down on a rotting corpse. But he had thought it out carefully. Detail by detail. President Adamson had seen the beginning of a manuscript—a detailed account of his corrupt and tragic past. A young writer is hired to write a secret political memoir. His editor and others around him are killed, and he’s accused of the murders. He seeks help from a Washington reporter; her house is burned down, an FBI agent is killed, and they flee together. The question was: Were they fleeing because they were guilty or because they were innocent? It made sense; he just
knew
it made sense. The young man, without knowing what he was getting into, had been hired by those trying to bring down the president. If they would destroy a man like Adamson, surely they wouldn’t hesitate to crush young Granville. Adamson, in his confession, had said they would stop at nothing. And that they were powerful enough that nothing could stop them.

No, he didn’t know if he’d done the right thing. But at the very bottom of it all, underneath all his suspicions and interpretations, was the one thing he knew to be true: A terrible crime had taken place, and he had to do something about it. But what?

If only the answer would come, Father Patrick reflected a he sat there in the tiny cabin atop Our Father’s Rock. Perched there utterly alone in the darkness, vulnerable and exposed, shivering as he waited for the dawn. An apt parable of his present personal crisis, he concluded ruefully. In every direction but one there was a sheer drop of several hundred feet into the ravine below—certain disaster. Only one way led to the right path, the path back to safety.

Help me to choose the right path, Lord. Help me before I go inexorably, irretrievably mad
.

At the purplish first light, when at long last he could begin to make out the shapes of the rocks around him, Father Patrick walked. Walking was his only escape from his demons. At first he stuck to the well-worn trail as it twisted its way around outcroppings of bare rock back down into the forest. But after a hundred yards or so he abruptly left the trail, breaking off into the wild brush. It was a densely overgrown primeval forest. Almost impenetrable. Branches and vines shredded his vestments and tore at his hands and face, inflicting deep, painful scratches. But he did not turn back. Rather, he went faster, ignoring the blood that trickled down his forehead into his eyes. And faster still. Until at last he broke into a mad gallop, crashing through the brush like a rampaging black bear, an animal roar coming from deep within his throat. He tripped and fell repeatedly on the downed tree limbs and rocks, turning his ankles, skinning his knees, his elbows, his palms. He came down heavily on his right shoulder and lost all feeling in his arm. But he would not stop. He would not be stopped. Not until exhaustion finally overtook him and he fell to his bloodied knees, quivering, sobbing, bathed in sweat. And so he prayed:
Lord God, I have reached my limit. You have always taught me that you would never give me more to handle than I was capable of withstanding. But I cannot go on, Lord. I am on my knees, bloodied and bowed. Deliver me, Lord, for I trust in you. Save me
.

Father Patrick remained on his knees for several minutes, his eyes tightly shut, before he finally shook himself and climbed unsteadily to his feet, gazing around blindly at the forest. Order. Priorities. He needed these things. He would go back up to his little cabin. Wipe his face clean. Don fresh clothing. Go down for breakfast. Eat. Father Patrick ran carefully through the list again, reciting the words out loud, collecting himself. And then, gingerly, he made his way back through the brush toward the path. When he reached it he climbed back up to Our Father’s Rock.

The sun was breaking right over Mt. Pisgah now, bright and warm. It was directly in Father Patrick’s eyes as he reached the uppermost outcropping. That was why it took him a moment to realize he was not alone up there.

Another priest stood perilously close to the edge of the rock, gazing out a the view. “Father Thaddeus was right,” this priest said to him in a muted, awed voice. “You
can
almost reach out and touch His hand.” Now the priest turned and smiled at Father Patrick. He was quite young and clear-eyed and uncommonly handsome, with sparkling white teeth, flawless skin, and lustrous dark hair. Goodness and kindness seemed to radiate from his thin but athletic frame as he stood in the morning light. “Good morning, Father Patrick.”