The Fraternity of the Stone

by David Morrell

  He chose the biggest Harley-Davidson and pushed it down the street. Among trees, he emptied the chopper’s saddlebags, which were stuffed with tools and an old leather jacket. He exposed the electrical system and hot-wired the bike as he had the Cadillac. To start the engine, he had to straddle the seat and stomp down on the ignition lever. The engine rumbled to life.

  He hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in almost ten years, since the time he’d used one in an operation that required him to—

  No. He shook his head. He didn’t want to remember.

  The cold October air stung his face as he twisted the throttle lever and roared through the night. He wondered how the bikers would react in the morning. Would they feel so angered by the stolen bike that they’d strip what was left of the Cadillac and sell the parts for revenge? He wiped away the tears that the wind forced from his eyes. The bishop’s Cadillac. Four wheels and a board. He knew he shouldn’t find that thought amusing. All the same he did, just as he felt exhilarated by the powerful roaring thrust of the Harley under him, taking him back to Boston.

  And some answers.

  14

  “Father Hafer, please.” Drew kept his voice flat, standing in a phone booth next to a service station, just after 8 A.M., struggling to hide his anger. His hands were numb. He shivered from the cold wind that had buffeted him all night. The morning sun, bringing a hint of Indian summer, blessedly warmed the booth.

  The male voice who’d answered the phone at Holy Eucharist Rectory didn’t reply.

  “Can’t you hear me?” Despite Drew’s effort, he couldn’t keep rage from his voice. He wanted explanations. Who screwed up? Why had he been attacked at the seminary? By priests! “I said I want to speak to Father Hafer.”

  He glanced angrily through the dusty glass of the booth toward the road out front, checking for motorcyclists, cops, anybody who showed an interest in him. His plan had been to go all the way into Boston, but he’d gotten too cold and had to stop in Concord, nineteen miles to the west.

  The voice on the phone still didn’t reply.

  Stalling for time? Drew thought. Was the call being traced?

  Abruptly the man said, “Just a moment.”

  Drew heard a thump as the phone was set down. Voices murmured in the background.

  I’ll give him twenty more seconds, Drew thought. Then I’m hanging up.

  “Hello?” A different male voice. “Did you say you wanted to speak with—?”

  “Father Hafer. What’s the problem?”

  “Who is this, please?”

  Drew became apprehensive. “A friend of his.”

  “Then you obviously haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you like this. It seems so impersonal over the phone … I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  The booth seemed to tilt.

  “But that’s…” The word “impossible” stuck in Drew’s throat. “I saw him early yesterday morning.”

  “It happened last night.”

  “But how?” Drew’s voice was hoarse with shock. “He was dying. I know that. But he told me the doctors had given him till the end of the year.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t his illness that killed him.”

  15

  Stunned, Drew hung up. He forced himself to move, knowing he had to get out of Concord as soon as possible—in case his call had indeed been traced. He needed a place where he’d feel secure.

  To allow himself the luxury of grief.

  To try to understand.

  The trip to Lexington farther east, eleven miles from Boston, did not register on his brain. He remembered none of it, his eyes—his consciousness—misted with pain. He left the motorcycle on a quiet side street, doubting that the report of its theft would have reached the Lexington police this soon.

  In brilliant sunshine that mocked his gloom, he wandered through the village green, pretending interest in the spot where America’s War for Independence had begun.

  His fists clenched, he barely noticed the golden autumn trees, or the smell of wood smoke, or the rustle of fallen leaves beneath his feet. His mind was too full of sorrow and rage.

  Last night, Father Hafer had received a phone call at the rectory. He’d told the other priests that he had to go out. He’d crossed the street to the sidewalk in front of the church, where a car had struck him. On the sidewalk. The force of the impact had thrown him all the way up the steps and against the church’s front door.

  (“He couldn’t have suffered.”

  “But … how do you know?”

  “There was so much blood. The driver didn’t stop. He must have been drunk. To lose control like that, to veer off the street. The police haven’t found him yet, but when they do … the law isn’t strict enough. The poor man had so little time left. To have it stupidly wasted by an irresponsible drunk!”)

  Drew clenched his fists harder as he walked, oblivious to the crunch of leaves.

  Received a phone call? Hit by a car while he stood on the sidewalk? The principal link between my former life and the monastery killed by a drunk?

  Like hell.

  Drew felt the bulge in his jacket pocket. The plastic bag. The body of Stuart Little. He thought of the dead monks. Now he had something else to make someone pay for.

  16

  “Put me through to the bishop.” Drew’s voice was hoarse as he stood in another phone booth, glancing toward his motorcycle on the side street, then toward the tourists on the green.

  “I’m terribly sorry…”

  Drew recognized the resonant voice. It belonged to Paul, the man the bishop had spoken to on his office intercom two nights ago.

  “…but his Excellency isn’t available now. If you’d care to leave your name and number.”

  “That’s all right. He’ll talk to me.”

  “And who…?”

  “Just tell him the man with the mouse.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. He wants to talk with you.”

  Drew heard a sudden click. He glanced at his watch and made a bet with himself: fifteen seconds. But the bishop came on the phone even sooner, in twelve.

  “Where are you? I’ve been waiting for your call. What happened at the—”

  “Seminary? Funny thing. I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “Make sense. My phone’s been ringing since five A.M. about this. I asked you what—”

  “Two priests tried to kill me, that’s what!” Drew felt like slamming a fist through the glass of the booth. “They did kill Hal. And someone else, another priest, was hiding in the confessional!”

  “Have you gone insane?”

  Drew froze.

  “Two priests tried to kill you? What are you talking about? Hal’s dead? I just received a note from him. What I want to know is why you shot at those seminarians. Why did you break into the rest home, scare those priests half to death, and steal my car?”

  Drew’s heart felt squeezed by ice.

  “And something else—this fantasy of yours,” the bishop said.

  “Fantasy?”

  “About the monastery. Thank God, I took the precaution of sending those Jesuits to investigate. If the cardinal and I had decided to alert the police, it would have been a disaster. There aren’t any bodies in that monastery.”

  “What?”

  “There aren’t any monks at all. The place is deserted. I don’t understand where they went, but until I learn a lot more about this situation, I don’t intend to make a fool of the Church.”

  Drew’s voice shook with rage. “So you chose the first option, the cover-up. And you’re leaving me out here alone.”

  “I don’t intend to leave you out there. Believe me, I want some answers. Listen carefully. It isn’t wise for you to come to my office. I’ll tell you where to report.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Don’t speak to me that way. You’ll report to the address I’m about to give you.”

  “No.”

  “I’
m warning you. Don’t compound the trouble you’re in. You vowed obedience. Your bishop is giving you an order.”

  “I won’t obey it. I tried things your way. They didn’t work.”

  “I’m very displeased by your attitude.”

  “Wait till you see your car.” Drew slammed down the phone.

  17

  Impatient, he straddled the motorcycle. His chest, already in pain from the impact of the steering wheel against it, ached more sharply from grief and rage. He kicked down on the ignition lever. The engine rumbling, he grabbed the throttle.

  But where could he go? What should he do?

  The Church, it was now clear, could not be considered a refuge. Someone somewhere in the chain of command could not be trusted. The bishop perhaps, though not necessarily—he might very well be sincere, as confused as Drew himself.

  Then what about Paul, the bishop’s assistant? But the bishop had treated Paul with absolute trust.

  Then who? And more important, why?

  And what about the Slavic priest with the strange red gleaming ring and the .45, who’d hidden in the chapel’s confessional?

  All right. Drew bit his lip. The Church no longer mattered. God did. Drew’s own survival. To save his soul.

  He had to forget that he’d joined the monastery. He had to ignore his retreat from his former life.

  Pretend that you’re still in the network, he told himself. What would you have done if you couldn’t trust it, if you feared an enemy within it?

  The answer was obvious. Instinctive. But tainted with pride, for which he begged God’s forgiveness. He’d once been the best. He could still be the best. Six years meant nothing.

  Yes. He twisted the throttle, roaring away, determined. But not toward Boston now. Not east, but south.

  New York. To the only people he could depend on. To his former lover and his former friend, Arlene and Jake.

  PART FOUR

  RESURRECTION

  SATAN’S HORN

  1

  The brownstone on 12th Street, near Washington Square, was familiar to him from the old days. Of course a stranger might now be living there, Drew thought, so before he began his surveillance, he took the precaution of finding a phone booth whose residential directory had miraculously not been stolen by vandals. His pulse sped as he flipped through the pages for H, moved his finger down one list, and exhaled, finding Hardesty, Arlene and Jake.

  The same address.

  That didn’t mean Arlene and Jake were in town. For sure, Drew wasn’t about to put in the effort of watching the house unless he knew it was occupied. The problem was that he couldn’t simply call to find out—the phone might be tapped, and he didn’t want to let his enemies know he was in the neighborhood. They might have figured he’d try to contact Arlene and Jake.

  He chained the motorcycle to a metal fence near Washington Square and strolled through the large square park, ignoring the junkies and dealers who slumped on benches. He passed the playground equipment, gravitating toward the huge graffiti-covered arch that marked the beginning of Fifth Avenue, the wide majestic thoroughfare stretching north as far as he could see. The sky was gray, but the temperature was warm, upper fifties, and the customary crowd of park musicians gathered beneath the arch, playing mournfully, as if the omen of the dismal sky was sufficient warning that they wouldn’t be using the park much longer.

  “You want to earn five dollars?”

  The young man he’d chosen sat to the side of the arch, beneath a leafless tree, replacing a broken string on his guitar. Long blond hair, a beard, CCNY jacket, a rip in the knee of his jeans, and a toe coming out of one sneaker. Glancing up, the young man said—his voice surprisingly guttural—“Get lost.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t an obscene proposition. And it isn’t illegal. All you have to do is make a phone call for me. I tell you what. I’ll even raise the price to ten.”

  “Just to make a phone call?”

  “I’m feeling generous.”

  “It isn’t obscene or illegal?”

  “I guarantee it.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Done. I’m pressed for time.”

  He could have paid the young man even more. Last night, he’d gone hunting, walking dark streets, making himself a target for predators. Three times he’d attracted attention, confronted respectively by a pistol, a knife, and a club. He’d left each mugger with broken kneecaps and elbows (“For your penance. Go in peace and sin no more”) and taken whatever money they had. The mugging business was lucrative. His total take was two hundred and twenty-three dollars, enough to buy an earth-tone Thinsulate-padded coat and a pair of wool gloves this morning. But though he could afford to be generous with what was left over, he didn’t want to give this young man so much money that common sense would suggest something was terribly wrong.

  As it was, the young man seemed unable to believe his good fortune. He stood, suspicious. “So where’s the money?”

  “Half now, half later. The way this works, we find a phone booth. I touch the numbers for you. I give you the phone. If a man answers, ask if he’s Jake. Tell him you live down the street, and you’re angry about the noise from last night’s party. It kept you awake.”

  “Did he have a party?”

  “Doubt it. Who knows? But stick to your story. Slam the phone back on the hook. If a woman answers, use the same story, but ask if she’s Arlene.”

  “What’s this supposed to prove?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? That either Jake or Arlene is home.”

  Five minutes later, the young man stepped from a nearby phone booth. “A woman,” he said. “Arlene.”

  2

  As usual, Drew started three blocks away from his target, walking with apparent leisure along 12th Street, seemingly indifferent to the neighborhood while studying every detail ahead of him. In keeping with so many other skills he’d reactivated, his instinct for surveillance had not been blunted by his years of inactivity. Nor had the pleasure he’d always taken from it. He let his mind luxuriate in the memory of how he’d first learned.

  Hong Kong, 1962. When he was twelve. His “Uncle” Ray had been distressed because Drew was playing hooky from the private school in which most parents at the embassy enrolled their children. Ray’s distress had been even greater when he learned what Drew was doing—roaming with Chinese street kids, hanging around the slums and the docks.

  “But why?” Ray asked. “An unattended American boy in some parts of this city—those parts—can get himself killed. One morning, the police’ll find you floating dead in the harbor.”

  “But I’m not alone.”

  “You mean those kids you hang around with? They’re used to surviving in the streets. And they’re Chinese, they fit in.”

  “That’s what I want to learn. To fit in on the streets here, even though I’m American.”

  “It’s a wonder those kids don’t just beat you up instead of accepting you.”

  “No. You see, I give them my allowance, food from home, clothes I’ve grown out of.”

  “Good God, why is it so important?” Ray’s usually ruddy face had lost its color. “Because of your parents? Because of what happened to them? Even after two years?”

  Drew’s tortured eyes said everything.

  The next time he played hooky, prowling the streets with the Chinese gang, Ray offered a compromise.

  “You can’t keep doing this. I mean it, Drew. It’s too dangerous. What you think you’re learning isn’t worth the risk. Don’t take me wrong. The way you feel about what happened to your parents, that’s your business. Who am I to say you’re wrong? But at least do it properly.”

  Drew squinted, intrigued.

  “To start with, don’t settle for fifth-rate teachers. And for heaven’s sake, don’t ignore the things you can learn at school. They’re just as important. Believe me, someone who doesn’t understand history, logic, mathematics, and the arts is just as defenseless as someone who doesn’t un
derstand the streets.”

  Drew’s expression changed to puzzlement.

  “Oh, I don’t expect you to understand what I mean right away. But I think you respect me enough to know that I’m not a fool.”

  “Fifth-rate teachers?”

  “Promise that you won’t miss any more school, that your grades won’t be less than Bs. In return…” Ray debated with himself.

  “In return?”

  “I’ll arrange for you to have a proper teacher. Someone who really knows the streets, who can give you the discipline that your friends in the gang can’t.”

  “Who?”

  “Remember our bargain.”

  “But who?”

  Thus began one of the most exciting times of Drew’s life. After school the next day, Ray escorted him to a restaurant in downtown Hong Kong where the food, though Oriental, was not Chinese. And where the owner—amazingly short, round-faced, always grinning, old but with gleaming black hair—was introduced to him as Tommy Limbu.

  “Tommy’s a Gurkha,” Ray explained. “Of course, he’s retired now.”

  “Gurkha? What’s a…?”

  Tommy and Ray laughed.

  “See, you’re learning something already. A Gurkha—” Ray turned with deference to Tommy, almost bowing “—is the finest mercenary soldier in the world. They come from a town by that name in Nepal, a mountainous state north of India. The region’s principal business is export. Soldiers. Mostly for the British and Indian armies. When the job’s too tough for any other soldier, they send in the Gurkhas. And the job gets done. You see that curved knife in a scabbard mounted on the wall behind the bar?”

  Drew nodded.

  “It’s called a khukri. It’s the Gurkhas’ trademark. The sight of it will make most otherwise tough men afraid.”

  Drew glanced with skepticism toward the short, grinning, seemingly ineffectual Nepalese, then back toward the knife. “Can I hold it? Can I touch the blade?”

  “You wouldn’t like the consequences,” Ray said. “The Gurkhas have a rule. If you draw the knife from its sheath, you also have to draw blood. If not your enemy’s, then your own.”