My King The President (17 page)

Three and a half anxious hours later, smiling through his tears, Father Tim Flaherty and the young priest I’d met before picked us up a block north of the bus station in Annapolis. I fell asleep in the back seat of Monsignor Ralph’s car, with Liz’s matted head on my shoulder, listening to the old priest softly humming
Amazing Grace
. It was by far the most beautiful rendition I had ever heard.

Chapter 15

I have always had a great wonderment and a solid appreciation for the organization and vast power of the Catholic Church, but would never have thought of becoming any active part of it. Nothing in my personal makeup or background could have ever led me to dream of being even so much as a miniscule cog in that great, grinding wheel. Yet, as I looked myself over in the mirror, I had to admit I made a rather decent looking priest! With a freshly trimmed beard and shaved head, the face looking back at me certainly wasn’t my own, and wearing Monsignor Ralph Curtis’ collar and clothes, I had the glib thought that with only a little play acting, I could walk down any street and be taken for an authentic member of the Catholic clergy.

My looks were as far removed from Jebediah Willard as I could get, which was exactly what Father Tim had suggested. Moreover, Liz had undergone a mutation of her own. Sister Agnes, the Mother Superior of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, without her habit, could have easily passed for an aging lady wrestler. She seemed proud of the number she had done on the lovely young woman who now looked like just another of the plain-faced, silent figures who glided about the convent like shadows of shadows. Liz was unhappy to have had her own hair cut short, but after a day or two, had become more or less comfortable in her new costume. The scratches and bruises on her skin were fading rapidly, and the face now framed in white was one people might see as serene instead of beautiful—a remarkable transition.

I was further surprised at how fast both of us were recovering our strength and energy. My memory of how we had gotten to the Mother House (tucked neatly into the heavily wooded southern outskirts of Alexandria) remained only a hazy blur; a dimly lit stage scene furtively enacted in slow motion behind a scrim curtain. I could only guess at how long and vehemently Sister Agnes had protested and argued before giving in to Tim Flaherty regarding our sanctuary. That Liz herself
was
Catholic probably had helped, plus the fact that Father Tim had no doubt told his female counterpart the simple truth about us. In any event, after two days and nights of rest and good food, we were now priest and nun; I with Monsignor Ralph’s clothes, shoes, and wallet, including driver’s license, credit cards, and family photos. Now bald, it was uncanny how much I actually looked like him! Liz had also been furnished with proper evidence of her own new persona—a printed card that told any who might ask that she was Sister Corrine, a member of an order who didn’t talk. All she had to do was “Drop her eyes and smile shyly,” Father Tim said. “What’s next?” he asked us. “You can both stay here for a while if you wish.”

“Liz can,” I said, “But I have to borrow Ralph’s car and run back up to Washington. I should be back tonight.”

“I won’t ask where you’re going,” Father Tim said, frowning. “Ralph can stay here for one more day, but you can drop me off at my church if you don’t mind. I can’t afford to be gone any longer. At least one of us needs to mind the store.”

Not a word of conversation passed between us until I dropped him off at the corner of Tyne and Flanagan. “Will you be all right?” he said at last.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll stop back here on the way back to the convent.”

He nodded, turned and stepped toward his church, and I headed for the address I had looked up the night before.

The small, one-story stucco house looked like every other one in the crammed neighborhood. Only the shutters were different. It was easy to read the house numbers from the street, so I parked Ralph’s ancient Ford Contour at the curb, glanced around, and satisfied that there was no one in sight this early in the morning, I walked up to the front door with confidence. There was no bell or knocker, so I rapped a few times on the glass pane of the door. It opened within seconds, and I looked down at the pretty, thin face that looked so much like her dead father’s I almost lost it. “Hi. I’m Father Curtis,” I managed. “Is your mother at home?”

“Yeth, thir. Jutht a minute,” she said, giving me a gapped-tooth grin. She turned and ran back inside, yelling loudly, “Mo—om, there’th a man at the door.”

Alicia Erikson was not what I expected. I guess I didn’t really know
what
I had expected. When the plump, frowning woman without a trace of makeup came to the door wearing a tattered housecoat and her abundant red hair tied up in what seemed like a thousand curlers said, “May I help you, Father?” I momentarily lost my train of thought. She looked a good ten or twelve years older than Walt had. “Could I come in, Mrs. Erikson? I need to talk to you.”

Her ruddy complexion blanched to pale, highlighting hundreds of freckles. I saw instant apprehension in the green eyes that had been rubbed red. “It’s Walt, isn’t it? What’s happened?” Her voice was on the verge of breaking, but she opened the door for me. I walked in, determined to keep my own inner feelings tucked away out of sight. As soon as we were in the middle of the small, neatly furnished living room, I reached for her hand. She didn’t resist. I looked into her eyes and smiled. “Nothing’s happened as far as I know. Maybe you’d better sit down, Alicia.”

I shouldn’t have said that, I knew. She bit her lip, and new moisture began forming in the corners of both eyes. As she sank down onto the sofa, clutching the robe around her like a shield, I decided there was going to be no easy way to do what I had to do. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible, with the least amount of confusion. “I’m not a real priest, Alicia,” I said, casually removing my wallet, which had Agent Barnes’ ID in its first plastic pocket and which I showed her. “My name is Barnes. FBI, and I really need to get into Walt’s personal computer. There’s a certain file we have to examine. Could you please—?”

“Do you know where Walt is?” she broke in. “Is he all right?”

I kept the benign smile on my face as I lied. “I’m sure he is. His whereabouts and activities are not in my specific department, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but it really is important for me to look at that file.”

“I can’t help you,” she said, chewing on her lip again. “I mean, I don’t know how. I don’t know his password.”

“I do, Mom.” I had temporarily forgotten the child, who had stood silently behind me. At that moment I remembered how precocious Walt had said she was.

“You do?” I said, squatting so that I could talk to her without looking down at her. She seemed totally unafraid of me. Not in the least intimidated by my looks or what she’d heard me tell her mother.

“Sure,” she proudly announced. “It’th ‘Ethvilthivle’.”

Her mother was just as perplexed as I was. “It’s
what
?”

“Ethvilthivle. Eth-e-v-i-l-eth-i-v-l-e,” she spelled. “It’th a really cool pathword. Don’t you get it? Elvith livth, thpelled backwardth.”

Alica Erikson, long used to her daughter’s snaggle-thoothed lisp, helped me out, the birth of a smile creeping around her lips. “Elvis lives. Spelled backwards.” She reached for the girl and hugged her. “You’re something else, Jody, you know that?”

This was the first time I’d heard the child’s name. “Smartest one I’ve ever met,” I said. What grade are you in? First? Second?”

Jody’s face formed into a little pout. “No, thir. Mom thays I’m at fifth grade level in everything but math, and I’m in fourth grade with that.”

I glanced back at Alicia, who quickly explained. “We do home schooling. I was a high school teacher until a few years ago. Walt and I can’t afford a private school and we didn’t think there was a public school that could keep up with her.”

Before I could respond to that, Jody grabbed my hand. “Come on, I’ll do it for you.” Like she had a Saint Bernard on a leash, she pulled me back into a cluttered room that must have been Walt’s den. Jody plopped herself down in front of the large monitor, stuck the tip of her tongue through the space left by her missing front teeth, and began expertly touching keys. It took me only a moment to realize she had opened Walt’s hidden files. “Whath the name of it?”

Another click or two and the printer obediently disgorged the two sheets, which she handed to me with yet another charming grin. “Any more?”

This time there was only a single page. I folded them all and stuffed them in Ralph’s coat pocket. “You did good, Jody. Real good. Now, you have to do something very, very important for your country.”

Reluctantly, Jody turned back to her task. The whole process took her less than a minute! She handed her mother the disc, then touched a few more keys. The screen went blank. She turned around to face me. “Gone. All gone. daddy’th gonna kill me.”

I put on another happy face. Touched her shoulder. “Your Daddy’s going to be very proud of you. So am I. You have really helped us a lot. Can I come back and see you again sometime? Maybe you can give me a couple of lessons on that thing.”

“Sure. Why do you have to dreth up like a prietht?”

I shot her mother a quick wink. “Maybe your Mom can explain what National Security is, and what cover means. Bright as you are, we may need your help again sometime, okay?”

“Okay. Will you thee my daddy?”

“I don’t think so. Not right away. Like I told your mom, mine is a different department. Other agents will keep you informed, I’m sure.” Saying those words, I felt my stomach going queasy, and couldn’t wait to get out of Alicia Erikson’s house. I kept seeing Walt Erikson’s open eyes, the small hole between them, and his talented hands—

I drove at least ten blocks before I pounded the steering wheel and vented in language that was most unbecoming for a priest. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a playground, strangely deserted. I parked Ralph’s car and walked to a bench facing the swings and monkey bars, reached for the papers in my pocket, then changed my mind. My emotions were so high I knew it would be useless to try to make any attempt at studying them, or trying to concentrate on my mental rip sheet. Nightmarish faces of the dead kept appearing on all the playground equipment. Walt. Cecil. Jean Tyndall. Pete Suggs. Cal.
Cal
?
No, not Cal. Please, God, not Cal
.

Once again, fury burned out logic. Coherent thought. Plans of what to do next. I closed my eyes. Deep breathing. Tried to relax enough to think clearly. It was no use. All the faces melded into the sweet, thin face of a seven year-old little girl who would never again lay eyes on the father she so worshipped. I don’t know whether I cried real tears then or not. Something, something deep inside me pushed me up off the bench. Back to the car. Some unconscious force turned the key. Some other hands guided the car back to Chelsea. St. Andrews. Parked. The automaton that now resided inside Ralph Curtis’ clothes shuffled into the church. A voice not my own called out for Father Tim Flaherty. “Father? Are you here?”

But it was Jeb Willard who found him. In the same confessional booth where he’d shown me Mac’s note. I found him sitting in his own blood, his throat cut from ear to ear. I managed to turn around quickly enough so that this time I didn’t add any erupting contents of my stomach to the red-black, sticky pool on the floor between Tim’s feet.

I didn’t see it, naturally, the tiny room was too dark, but I knew it was there, probably on the wall, and written in a Wom’s blood.

HEMIOLA

Chapter 16

The change in my psyche was immediate, and my brain never worked faster. The first physical thing I did was to gently close the door to the confessional, crouch, turn, and look around, holding my breath and wishing I had a weapon. Could the slimy bastard still be here? Waiting? No. Not likely. Tim Flaherty would never have told Hemiola anything, even on pain of horrible death. I can’t say how I knew that, but I did. My next thought was that if I was going to be able to deal with this devil, I’d have to be just as cold blooded and clever as he was. Even more so.

I also knew it would be a bad idea to call Captain Kemp, even anonymously. Some unlucky parishioner would find the body eventually, probably within the next couple of hours. Something compelled me to reopen the confessional door and take another look at Father Tim. He looked even smaller in death. I closed my eyes momentarily, noting the sickening smell of hours-old blood. Still I didn’t feel nauseous. What I felt was nothing human.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Well, Lord, this time you’re going to have to share some of it
. I closed the door again, this time remembering to wipe the handle with Ralph’s handkerchief.