Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  “Do you know Pearl Buck?”

  “No, but I know a silver dollar.”

  She laughed. He was fun. Did she ever laugh with Jason? “We were talking about your book. You are writing a book, aren’t you?”

  “Contract signed and sealed. A decent advance.”

  “What’s an indecent advance?”

  “I could show you.”

  Her laughter brought Jason into the room. Of course he was surprised. She had been so fearful about talking with Neal Admirari and here they were laughing and having the time of their lives.

  “You should offer your guest something to drink,” Jason said.

  “Why don’t you join us?”

  He sniffled. “Time for my nap.”

  Neal Admirari had risen to his feet when Jason appeared. Now he crossed the room, introduced himself, and put out his hand.

  “Watch it, Jason,” Catherine warned. “He’ll give you the Catholic handshake.”

  Jason looked at her and then at Neal. “I never heard of that.”

  “It went out with Vatican II,” Neal told him.

  “Maybe it will come back. Like Latin.”

  “I’ve read everything you’ve written,” Neal said.

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “I mean the polemical stuff.”

  “You’ll be a better man for it.”

  Jason gave a little wave then and left them. She could hear him slowly ascending the stairs to his room. If Neal Admirari were not here, she would have been following him up. She felt that Neal had spared her that.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “Do you ever get away from here?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  He suggested the motel in Pinata where he was staying. There was a bar. How long had it been since she had been out of this house? She had come through the town when she first arrived. It hadn’t looked like much.

  “Can I go as I am?”

  He inspected her. “You look wonderful. They may ask for your ID, however.”

  He helped her to her feet, held her hand for a beat too long, and then they went out to his car. It was like going on a date, with Daddy in bed upstairs.

  The motel was called the El Toro and there was a bullfighting motif in the bar where they ordered margaritas. When she licked the salt on the rim of her glass she watched him watching her. He lifted his glass.

  “Olé.”

  “I knew his sister Teena.”

  They laughed. After a sip she told him of the statue of Ole Bull in the park above Minnehaha Falls.

  “A toreador?”

  “A violinist. Norwegian, I think. Minneapolis is a very Scandinavian town.” She told him of svenskarnesdag. And once she had seen Prince Harald when he came on a visit. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Who said I have?”

  It was a date. All the patter she had used in her sexually active days came back, the zest that meeting someone new always brought, wondering what would happen next and not really wondering, knowing that it was up to her. Of course that was out of the question now, wasn’t it? On the third margarita it seemed inevitable. Would she like to see his room? She gave him a long thoughtful look and stood.

  “You can show me the Catholic handshake.”

  After she undressed and slipped into bed, it was of Lloyd Kaiser she thought, not Jason.

  VII

  “I’m turning in early.”

  Smiley and Steltz were standing by, flight plan filed, plane fueled, off to a final Giants game before the departure. Traeger had rented a U-Haul and he and George Worth had been several times to the basilica considering the job they had to do. It did not seem that complicated, except for the size of the image and the awe to be felt in bringing it down and packing it in the foam crate. Don Ibanez, for all his devotion—perhaps because of his devotion—was now anxious to have the image returned to Mexico City. The old man was not given to any display of feeling, but Traeger sensed his anxiety. Traeger himself was struck by the fact that, quite by accident, he was about to fulfill the mission he had undertaken for Hannan. There had been frequent calls from Empedocles, monitoring progress.

  “You’ll get a bonus for this, Traeger.”

  “How will I know? We never settled on my pay.”

  “Let’s just say you’ll be happy.”

  It seemed an odd suggestion from the zealous Hannan that money would make him happy.

  Traeger had decided against telling Dortmund what was planned. There were too many involved already for peace of mind, but it was not a transfer that could be a one-man operation. He could wait for Dortmund’s reaction when the deed was done.

  The only fly in the ointment was Neal Admirari, who had come to the hacienda to consult with Frater Leone. They went off to the basilica and, half an hour later, Admirari returned with a springy step.

  “You’re Catholic, aren’t you, Traeger?”

  “You taking up a collection?”

  “You wouldn’t have taken a job like this if you weren’t.”

  Admirari did not of course know what was planned. Traeger wished the reporter would hit the road.

  “I thought you came out here to talk with Catherine Dolan.”

  “Wonderful woman.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You got something against her?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Admirari seemed about to say something, then apparently changed his mind.

  “Was she of much help?” Traeger asked.

  “What do you think of Jason Phelps?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you how much he looks like Don Ibanez?”

  “No.”

  “Think about it. I wouldn’t say twins, but close.”

  “The mustache?”

  “The height, too. And age.” He paused. “Phelps is an odd duck.”

  “Catherine seems to like him.”

  Admirari looked away. Why didn’t he go away? The last thing needed once they got going was a reporter in the vicinity.

  Later, talking with the returned Don Ibanez in his study, a thought occurred to Traeger.

  “You already had a copy of the image in your basilica, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Which was replaced by the original?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  Don Ibanez smiled. “Jason Phelps has it.”

  “Phelps!”

  “Not that he realizes it. When Clare was helping him, I asked her to get Phelps’s permission to store something at his place.”

  “The image.”

  “A copy,” Don Ibanez corrected. “A very exact copy.”

  “So why wouldn’t he know he has it?”

  “The foam container we have prepared for the transfer, it is modeled on the one holding my copy. As soon as the original is packed, we will retrieve the copy and put it in place.”

  “Who will help?”

  “Frater Leone, although it will break his heart not to have the original here. And Carlos, if we need him.”

  “Carlos?”

  “The gardener. Carlotta’s father.” Carlotta worked in the hacienda.

  “And Tomas.”

  “Oh, Tomas would not be of any help. He has a very narrow notion of what a driver may and may not do.”

  Frater Leone, the monk, was an old friend of Don Ibanez, who described him as “my spiritual director.” Traeger hadn’t seen much of the priest. He pretty much kept to himself. Of course he said Mass every day in the basilica and sometimes came to meals in the hacienda.

  “Like me, he is preparing for death,” Don Ibanez said.

  Who isn’t? Not in the way Don Ibanez meant, perhaps, but who could ever drive completely from his mind the thought that at any moment he might die? In Traeger’s case, that thought had usually been accompanied by the violent means that might bring it about. He didn’t like to brood, that nev
er helped, but in planning the transfer of the original to Mexico City he was aware of all the ways the plan could go wrong.

  The night before the planned transfer, Admirari was still hanging around.

  “Where you staying?” Traeger asked, although he already knew Admirari had a room in the El Toro Motel.

  “Why don’t we go there and have a drink, Traeger? Wine’s great, but . . .”

  “I’m turning in early.”

  “I was worried about that. So I brought this.”

  He opened his briefcase and brought a bottle of scotch into view. “What do you say?”

  “Maybe one. I don’t want to think of you driving down that road half smashed to your hotel.”

  Traeger took him away from the others, to a little-used patio.

  “All we need is a couple of glasses and water.”

  “No ice?”

  “When did people start diluting good liquor with ice?”

  “I think you’re going to tell me.”

  “If I knew I would.”

  Admirari filled one of the glasses half full and handed it to Traeger. He handed it back. “I just want a sip.”

  “Then I wish it were single malt.”

  But he obliged. The glass he now handed Traeger was maybe a quarter full. Admirari put a splash of water in his glass, then raised it in a toast.

  “To the ladies.”

  “I thought we were alone,” Traeger said before sipping.

  Admirari let out a sigh and put his legs out before him. “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Just once.”

  He was damned if he was going to talk to Admirari about his wife. Sometimes at night he was still awakened by her call. In the dark it was possible to believe that she was still with him, in the next bed.

  “How about yourself?”

  “Traeger, I’m practically a newlywed.”

  “I wondered where you and Catherine went yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?” Admirari nearly spilled his drink.

  “I don’t tell a joke very well.”

  “Jeez. We went to town to have a margarita.”

  “At the El Toro?”

  “Some bar.” Admirari fell silent. He became morose. “God, I’ve led a footloose life.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your adventures.”

  “What adventures?” He looked alarmed.

  “Who did you say you married?”

  “I didn’t. Her professional name is Lulu van Ackeren.”

  “Is she an actress?”

  “A journalist. I’ve been in love with her for years.” There were tears in his eyes.

  “Why don’t you give her a call?”

  “Not yet.”

  Did he mean the time difference?

  He had another sip before calling it a night. He couldn’t have gotten Admirari out of there any sooner anyway. On the way to his car, Admirari seemed to be trying to convince himself that he was sober as a judge. He might have been walking on a rope. Traeger waited until the car went down the drive.

  Before turning in, he looked out at the basilica. George and Clare were in town, where the U-Haul was being kept until they needed it, which—he looked at his watch—would be six and a half hours from now. He went to bed.

  There is a kind of sleep that isn’t sleep, the only kind he could expect before a dangerous assignment. Was the transfer dangerous? If it went off as planned, it wouldn’t be. He slept and dreamt that he was awake, on the alert.

  VIII

  “I came to help.”

  At three o’clock, Traeger awoke before his alarm went off, depressed the button, and rolled off the bed. He was already dressed, having slept in his clothes. He left the hacienda, walked out toward the basilica, then cut across a field to Jason Phelps’s property to pick up the container with the copy of the portrait. As arranged by Don Ibanez. Before he came out from the trees he saw, despite the hour, the old man silhouetted against the house. There was someone with him. Traeger stopped, holding his flashlight with which he was to give the signal against his leg. He thought it might be Catherine. No, it was a man. He retraced his steps, loping across Don Ibanez’s lawn and up the road. Five minutes later, he came stealthily along the side of the house and stopped. He could hear voices. One was Phelps’s. He half expected the other to be Neal Admirari’s. No. The other man was Miguel Arroyo!

  Traeger came out of the dark and cleared his throat. Arroyo jumped in fright but Jason Phelps turned slowly.

  “What’s he doing here?” Traeger asked.

  Phelps was surprised by Traeger’s tone. “He spent the night.”

  “It’s still night.”

  Arroyo, seeing who had materialized out of the dark, stepped forward. “I came to help.”

  “Help what?”

  Arroyo glanced at Jason Phelps, who chuckled. “I could have carried it over myself.”

  He meant the white taped container lying on the tiled patio floor. It was identical to the one that Traeger and George Worth had readied for the original and which now lay in the basilica awaiting the execution of the plan.

  Traeger was trying to decide what to do. He did not know how Arroyo had learned of the transfer, and he didn’t care to know. His instinct was to call the whole thing off. If there was this kind of glitch at the beginning of the carefully worked out plan it would affect the whole chain of events. He was going to have to do something about Arroyo. But not here, not now, not with Jason Phelps looking on.

  Traeger went to the container, stooped and picked it up, and started toward the spot from which he had first seen that Phelps had company.

  “Let me help,” Arroyo said, catching up with him.

  Traeger shoved one end of the package at him and kept going. When they were out of earshot of Jason Phelps, Arroyo whispered, “Lowry told me.”

  Traeger nodded. But Lowry knew nothing of the plan to get the original back to Mexico City. He couldn’t have known that it was here in Napa Valley. Then came the only possible explanation. George Worth. Had he talked to Lowry? Had Lowry then talked to Arroyo? From Worth to Lowry to Arroyo. It sounded like a double play.

  When they came onto Don Ibanez’s lawn the U-Haul was backing toward the basilica. Don Ibanez stood in the open doors of the church. He and Jason Phelps did look alike; Admirari was right.

  George Worth was as surprised to see Miguel Arroyo as Traeger had been. Arroyo let go of his end of the package and went to speak to George.

  “Miguel Arroyo?” Don Ibanez had stepped out of the basilica doorway so Traeger could enter with the package containing the copy. At the front of the basilica, there was an illumined vacancy behind the altar. Traeger laid the package over the last two rows of pews.

  “He was at Jason Phelps’s.”

  “Then he knows. . . .”

  “I think I have the explanation.”

  Miguel and George came around the truck. Arroyo seemed eager to justify his presence and helped George open the truck’s doors. Traeger decided that the transfer would go on as planned. But Don Ibanez had one more request.

  He led Traeger halfway to the altar, before which Carlos knelt, his arms extended. Don Ibanez got to his knees and indicated that Traeger should kneel beside him. The old man’s prayer was short. “Mary, Our Lady of Guadalupe, bless and protect this man and his mission.” He bowed his head for a moment, made an elaborate sign of the cross, and began to rise. Traeger helped him to his feet.

  Carlos helped carry the precious foam package to the truck and they slid it in. The package Traeger had brought from Jason Phelps had been taken behind the altar, the copy it held to be installed later.

  The truck doors were shut; Traeger shook hands with Don Ibanez. Frater Leone, looking as if he had never gone to bed, came out of the basilica, wide-eyed. Don Ibanez said something to him and the priest raised his hand in blessing. Arroyo blessed himself, then brought his thumb to his mouth and kissed it.

 
“I want to come along.”

  “No way.” Traeger pushed him aside and climbed behind the wheel. George Worth got into the passenger seat. Traeger made a change of plans. Simplify, simplify.

  “George, I’ll go alone. There’s no need for you to come.”

  “But we . . .”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s what I mean. Hop out, George.”

  It was Arroyo who all but pulled George out of the cab, slamming the door shut. If he couldn’t go, George couldn’t go, was that it?

  Traeger put the truck in gear and moved over the lawn toward the driveway, visible enough in the first intimations of a new day. When he went past the hacienda, Clare was standing there, in a robe, looking beautiful.

  Traeger had hesitated about renting a U-Haul. A pickup with a cap top would have done, or a traditional station wagon whose seats could be flattened. But the gaudy and obvious was often the best disguise. When precious works of art are moved from museum to museum, there is always a decoy van calling attention to itself to mislead potential thieves. Well, the U-Haul was both decoy and the real thing. There was a governor on the motor, top speed fifty-five, which was okay on the mountain roads but when he got to the interstate the limited speed was annoying. He should have disengaged the governor. He shook his head. A U-Haul was one of the most familiar things on the road, but a U-Haul going seventy or seventy-five would call attention to itself.

  He had to be right about the way Miguel Arroyo had heard of the transfer. How else could he have known? But all the way to the airport he picked flaws in the explanation. George Worth lived in another world, but he couldn’t be that stupid. Traeger might wonder about the man’s preference for a soup kitchen even if it meant estrangement from Clare Ibanez, but there were men like that. Idealists. Dangerous.