Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  “You surely don’t think that Catherine and I . . . Professor Phelps, I am a married man.”

  The hands dropped. Something like hope came into the great pouched eyes.

  Neal affected a laugh. “Catherine jeopardize her position here? For me?” The laugh became genuine. Take her, she’s yours.

  “I asked her to go. In the middle of the night. I threw her out. I assumed she had come from you.”

  “When was this?”

  “After midnight.”

  “My dear fellow, I had been in bed for hours then.” True enough. No need to elaborate. Phelps was taking heart. But what truth seeker is not vulnerable to an artful lie?

  “But where did she go?”

  “Have you checked at the motel you mentioned?”

  Phelps snatched up the phone. He didn’t know the number. Neal tossed an El Toro matchbook onto the desk. It was a risk, but Phelps was clearly deep in self-deception now. He called the motel. Neal turned and looked out the open doors. Far off was a little area with benches, overhanging palms, and to the left, just visible, a bit of Don Ibanez’s basilica. He could hear Phelps on the phone. He heard him slam it down.

  “She isn’t there!”

  “You say you asked her to leave?”

  “I threw her out into the night!” Was he going to cry?

  “Then I suppose she left. She may be on her way back to Minneapolis.”

  The old man fell back in his chair. He seemed grateful for Neal’s guess. Neal leaned toward him.

  “What do you know of the events at Don Ibanez’s?”

  “Events.” Phelps was reluctant to emerge from his cocoon of self-pity.

  “The great hoax. It began here. Haven’t you been keeping up on the news?”

  What was the collapse of the country compared to the loss of a concubine? Catherine had used the word. Strange woman, and alluring. Neal could easily have taken on again the feelings that Jason Phelps was trying to master. The loins are never completely monogamous.

  “They picked up the package I’d been keeping for Don Ibanez.”

  “Tell me about it.” Calmness was all. “What package?”

  Phelps described it, as if to dismiss it from memory; it was an irrelevancy to him in this time of trial. “A foam package, taped.”

  “How large?”

  “What in God’s name difference does that make?”

  But Neal was putting two and two together and hoping they were still on a base ten system. Had the missing portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe found refuge under the roof of a notorious atheist and debunker of such things? But why would Phelps have been told what the contents of that package were?

  “There was an exchange?”

  Phelps clearly wanted Neal out of there. He had picked up the phone again and punched numbers he read from a notebook. Neal rose. As he went out the door, he heard Phelps say, “Myrna, this is Jason.”

  Neal went at a good pace to the back of the property and as he did his view of the basilica came and went as the terrain altered and trees were thick or thin. When he reached the little cluster of benches under the palm trees he saw what seemed to be a path leading into Don Ibanez’s property. It might have been his reason for turning into Phelps’s driveway rather than joining the traffic jam on the road ahead. Thank God he had shut the gates to Phelps’s driveway. But they were unlocked. Neal hurried along the seeming path, in the direction of the basilica.

  VII

  “Three packages?”

  Don Ibanez led Nate Hannan into the little basilica, stood facing the altar, and bowed his head. Hannan followed suit, but the founder of Empedocles did not intend to pray for long.

  “That is where the original hung?”

  A mournful sigh. “That, of course, is a copy.”

  Don Ibanez told them the story later, over wine in his study, his tone the desolate one of a man who regretted ever taking part in such a deception.

  “The monks at the shrine were warned that such a theft was planned,” he explained.

  One response would have been to turn the basilica and surrounding area into an armed camp, and even then there was no assurance that the outrage could have been prevented. And so Don Ibanez had been approached.

  “By the monks?”

  “Miguel Arroyo was their intermediary.”

  “Was he the one who warned them of the planned theft?” Ray asked.

  Don Ibanez looked at him with his tragic pouched eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Go on, go on,” Nate urged.

  The plan was worthy of the most sensational thriller. Remove the original and replace it with a copy. Spirit the sacred image out of the country and hide it where no one would dream of looking. “Where would you hide a book?” Arroyo had asked. “In a library.”

  And what better place for the original picture than in a little basilica exactly like the shrine in Mexico City, though of course on a smaller scale? An artful copy of the image had hung behind its altar from the time of its construction. Now the original would be there.

  “I did not sleep during the days it took to get it here,” the old man said. “But once it was safely here . . .” A beatific expression erased the lines of his face. To have the object of his principal devotion mere footsteps from his house, to be able to visit it at will, untroubled by crowds of pilgrims. “Frater Leone spent hours on his knees in the basilica. And so did I. Those were wonderful weeks.”

  Ray said, “Except for riots, gunfire, general chaos.”

  The beatific expression was replaced by that of a lost soul. “Exactly. No one was more shocked than I at the reaction when a theft did take place. I myself flew to Mexico City to beg the monks to say they knew where the original was. Blood was being shed.”

  “That was when you were supposedly kidnapped,” Laura said.

  “Yes. Miguel Arroyo tried to dissuade me. But I was determined to go.”

  The monks, when Don Ibanez spoke with them, were convinced that any such announcement on their part would be dismissed as the excuse of faithless custodians whose precious object had been stolen.

  “I could see their point. But I could not agree. They were impervious to argument. The picture was safe. They were convinced that Our Lady would not permit the violence to continue. I returned.”

  But the violence had continued. Finally the return of the miraculous image was agreed to. The bishop, when consulted, was convinced that people would be so overjoyed by its return that all violence would cease. There would be a triumphant procession to the shrine. . . .

  And so the plan for the return was worked out.

  “With Arroyo?”

  “No, no. With your man Traeger.”

  Hannan made a face, but said nothing. Ray asked Don Ibanez to describe exactly what had happened here at the little basilica as the plan was put under way. They all leaned toward him as he went through it, the hiring of the U-Haul, the ready-ing of the Empedocles plane.

  “Let’s stick to what went on here,” Nate said.

  “It was the way I had packaged my copy that caught Traeger’s attention. Two hollow halves that enclosed the picture and then were taped together. Another such case was ordered. When all was in readiness, the copy was brought here from Jason Phelps’s.”

  “Jason Phelps!”

  “He was kind enough to let me store it with him.”

  Laura said, “I am surprised that he would let even a copy of that picture into his house.”

  “Perhaps he wouldn’t have if he knew what the package contained.”

  “Okay, okay,” Nate said. “Then what?”

  “The original had been taken down and stored in the same way as the copy by Frater Leone and Carlos and placed behind the altar.”

  Ray said, “Why didn’t you use the same package?”

  Don Ibanez looked at him.

  “Open the package, take out the copy, replace it with the original, and tape it up again.”

  “That would have been simpler,” Don Ibanez co
nceded. “I suppose we thought things would go more quickly if the original was already packaged.”

  “And who did that?”

  “Frater Leone and myself. And Carlos. When the top half was put in place, covering that benevolent image, I was reminded of when I buried my wife.” His lips trembled and he looked away. Nate waited impatiently. Don Ibanez got control of his emotions. “She is buried in the basilica. As I will be.”

  “So we have two packages. I suppose they looked identical.” Nate clearly wished that he had been here to direct operations. It was difficult not to agree. But as Don Ibanez had said, Nate’s man Traeger had been on the scene.

  “To the untrained eye they were identical.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Frater Leone knelt by the package containing the miraculous image and embedded a crucifix in the Stryofoam, fixing it with Scotch tape. It looked even more like a coffin.” Thoughts of the late Dona Isabella seemed to assail the old man.

  The package containing the copy had been laid across the backs of pews by Traeger when he brought it from Jason Phelps’s garage.

  “When did Traeger make the switch?” Hannan asked. “That is the question.”

  “Nate,” Ray said, “if a switch had been made, the original would still be here.”

  “Do you think Traeger left with the original?”

  Laura asked, “Where is the copy that you stored with Jason Phelps?”

  Don Ibanez looked tragically at her. “In Mexico City. Surely you know . . .”

  Hannan was excited now. “Look, my friend. There you are in the back of your basilica. There are two more or less identical packages, one of which, as you can attest, contained the original image stolen from the shrine in Mexico City. The other contained a copy. If Traeger left with a copy, the original remained. If he left with the original, wouldn’t you have hung the copy where it had hung before?”

  “But I did. You just saw it.”

  “And a copy was in the package taken to Mexico City. What happened to the package containing the original?”

  “Three packages?” Laura suggested.

  “There were only two!” Don Ibanez cried.

  Hannan smacked a fist into his other hand. “So Traeger made the switch after he left here.”

  Ray said, “Let’s back up. Who brought the copy from Jason Phelps?”

  “Traeger. Arroyo helped him although there was no need for that. Despite the frame, it was not that heavy.”

  “Arroyo was here?”

  “I could scarcely exclude him from the return, when he had been responsible for its coming here.”

  “You called him and he came up from San Diego?” Laura asked.

  “No.” He paused. “I don’t remember. I must have.”

  “When was the original packaged?”

  “Just hours before we began.”

  “It was in the basilica?”

  “Behind the altar.”

  “Unguarded.”

  “Oh, Frater Leone insisted on keeping a vigil watch with Carlos throughout the night.”

  They all fell silent.

  Don Ibanez was exhausted. Nate clearly wanted to discuss all this out of earshot of the desolate old man.

  “Traeger,” he growled.

  Ray just looked at him. “Arroyo. He’s all over the place.”

  Laura went inside to find Clare. “Oh, my poor father,” she cried, coming into Laura’s arms. Laura was consoling her when they were joined by Catherine. Laura stepped back.

  “Did you sleep well?” Clare asked Catherine.

  A smile and a sigh.

  “Catherine has been helping Jason Phelps with his papers,” Clare explained.

  Laura said, “Where could I find Frater Leone?”

  “He’s with someone now.” Clare turned to Catherine. “With Neal Admirari. The man who wanted to interview you.”

  “Is he staying here, too?” Laura asked.

  “Oh no. He just arrived.”

  “How on earth did he get through that crowd?”

  “Good question.”

  “Would Frater Leone be talking to him here, in the house?”

  “I think they went over to the basilica. Father prefers to hear confessions there.”

  Catherine dipped her head, then looked away. Laura went off to the basilica. She might just go to confession herself.

  VIII

  “I get bit.”

  The plane circled over the San Diego harbor, and, looking down, Traeger thought there were more naval vessels there than usual. Imagine them shelling the mainland. Well, remember Charleston. But it had been the rebels that did the shelling there.

  The landing pattern brought them down alongside the Marine Corps base and Traeger had a good look at the huge parade ground. For years the buildings had retained their World War II camouflage, but that was long gone now. Now there were even women recruits. A bad joke. How do you tell a male and female grunt apart? First you have to get them apart.

  Traeger had caught this flight out of Flagstaff, which was calm and cool after the chaos of Phoenix. He didn’t bother to change his wetback appearance and there had been a little hesitation on the part of the clerk when he slid a credit card across the counter. He followed it with a passport.

  “You’ve grown a beard,” said Sally with a smile. “Sally” was written on the badge dangling from her neck.

  “It’s for a movie.”

  “Oooh.” She studied his ID again, trying to place him.

  “Just a bit part.”

  She nodded and looked as if now she understood.

  “I get bit.”

  Her trilling laughter followed him to the gateways.

  At the San Diego airport the crew from Homeland Security was now a division of the California militia. Mostly the same personnel, however. Everything Traeger had with him was in a single shoulder bag so he breezed right through to the rental car counter.

  During the days since his escape from Mexico City he had gone over and over the failed plan, wondering just where it had gone wrong. Somehow there had been a switch of the cases and he had gone off with a copy to Mexico City. He was lucky to have escaped with his life. He had contacted no one yet. He was working for himself. He did not like being made an ass of. Who does? But by amateurs?

  He drove toward Old Town, where the San Diego branch of Justicia y Paz was located and which Arroyo had grandly announced was now headquarters. Maybe all of California would look like this if Washington kept ceding territory, like Kutuzov retreating from the invading Napoleon. But the Old Town was largely quaintness, a tourist draw. Would there ever be tourists again?

  In Phoenix he had called up Justicia y Paz on the web. The San Diego branch. Of course it had a site. It was the buildings Traeger wanted to get familiar with. Spanish and English ran in double columns down the page but they were broken from time to time by photographs. He had skipped over the beaming face of Miguel Arroyo and kept scrolling down to the buildings. When he had a good sense of the layout, he scrolled up to the founder and head of Justicia y Paz. He studied the smiling face of the man who had made an ass out of Vincent Traeger.

  “Adios, amigo.”

  Does anything ever quite match its website? The buildings were as pictured, but they were smaller than they had appeared. The administration building, a hospitality house—soup kitchen, that is—and a building that seemed to have been lifted from an old army base. The homeless found a home there. Traeger pulled into the lot in which Arroyo’s car had been bombed.

  When he went inside, the receptionist rose and told him he was in the wrong building. She pointed him to the barracks.

  “Miguel Arroyo is expecting me.”

  She seemed surprised when he spoke. But she could not put together his costume and the eastern seaboard voice he had assumed. It was a one-story building, with labels and arrows all over the place.

  “I can find my way,” he said, and headed down the hall.

  “Wait! I have to announ
ce you.”

  Doors were opening along the corridor but there were no heroes among the curious. A bell started ringing, some kind of alarm. But the door on the far right side of the corridor had opened and Miguel Arroyo came out to see what the hell was going on. He came toward Traeger with his biggest smile.

  “Amigo, no ahi.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”

  Arroyo stopped and the smile began to fade. Who was this peon?

  “We can talk in your office.” He took Arroyo’s arm and then recognition came.

  “Everything’s okay,” Arroyo called over his shoulder. “Turn off that alarm.”

  Traeger shut the door behind them. Arroyo regarded him warily.

  “I’ve been worried about you, Traeger.”

  “I was sure you would be.”

  “But there’s a manhunt on. How did you get here?”

  “It took you a moment to recognize me, didn’t it? Besides, I’m trained for this sort of thing.”

  “Amazing.”

  “How did you do it, Arroyo?”

  Arroyo took a chair and so did Traeger. “Just review the whole thing, Miguel. I really do want to know how you managed it.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting . . .”

  “Cut the bullshit. Thanks to you I went on a pointless mission to Mexico City, where I might have been lynched if I hadn’t vamoosed.”

  “What a journey that must have been.”

  “I thought of you all the way. Now here we are, alone at last. I decided against really blowing you up in your car. I want to know how you did it.”

  “And then?”

  “One thing at a time.”

  “Traeger, as God is my judge, I did not do whatever you think I did.”

  “What do I think you did?”

  “Tell me. I have no idea.”

  The phone on the desk rang; Arroyo picked it up. “Not now. Nothing. I’m busy.”

  Traeger suggested that the way to do this was for Arroyo to describe everything that happened that morning before Traeger drove off in the U-Haul.

  “What can I say? I was visiting with Jason Phelps when you showed up. That was my first inkling that something was afoot. I helped you take the package to Don Ibanez, remember?”