Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  Traeger pressed his eyes shut. Then what? He wanted to run it off like a film, but people seemed to obscure his vision. Don Ibanez, George Worth, Clare, the priest, and Arroyo. Speed it up or slow it down, all Traeger could see were two foam packages. So how had it been done? He wanted to pound on the steering wheel, he was so frustrated.

  Across the street, the administration building seemed deserted, but that one car was still parked near the entrance. Traeger waited. It was after six when the front door opened. A woman came out. The receptionist? It was. She turned and tried the entrance door and then, assured it was locked, tapped down the steps and headed for the car. Its lights flashed as she approached; she pulled open the door and got in. Traeger was hunched forward, sure that now Arroyo would have to appear and hop into the passenger seat. Please let it happen. But the car backed out of the space, turned, and headed for the street. Watching it disappear, Traeger felt that Arroyo had done it to him again. He could have bellowed in frustration.

  An old guy in jeans and a ragged T-shirt came out of the barracks and began to check the coffee can ashtray for something long enough to light. He looked at Traeger and Traeger looked at him. The man made a gesture with his fingers. Traeger got out his cigarettes, shook a couple free, and held them out. The man was at the car like a shot. Traeger rolled down the window and handed them out.

  “Muchísimas gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  He waited for the wino to scamper away, banking one of the cigarettes in the pocket of his T-shirt. He broke the other in half and put one half in the pocket and the other in his mouth. He sat on the steps before lighting up, leaning back, content. Traeger almost envied him his irresponsible life. Happiness is a bummed cigarette.

  Across the street a car came around from behind the building, an open convertible. At the wheel was Miguel Arroyo. Traeger got his motor running. Traffic was light now, but Arroyo took his time about entering the street, as if he were trying to make up his mind. Finally he pulled out, crossed into northbound traffic, and entered it. For a wild moment, Traeger had thought Arroyo had spotted him and was going to come into the lot in which he was parked. Crazy, of course. He doubted that Arroyo would want to confront him without a posse at his back.

  Traeger shot across the lot and into the northbound lane, keeping the convertible in sight. Where was Arroyo headed?

  At Los Angeles, Arroyo got onto 101 and floored it. Obviously the convertible was a soupy little vehicle. But Traeger’s rental responded adequately. He just needed to keep the convertible in sight.

  This legendary highway created the impression, almost as much as the interstates, that the citizens of California—now the Republic of California, at least below Santa Barbara—lived in their automobiles. A river of cars, lights on now, increasing the sense of flow, moved northward. Another river moved south. Ceaselessly, like other rivers. That Arroyo was in an open car made it easier to keep him in sight, but Traeger was tense, determined not to let the son of a bitch elude him.

  He set the cruise control at eighty, but cars continued to whip by him in other lanes. Arroyo had settled into a steady speed. For hours, Traeger followed him along the beautiful highway. To the right, mountains loomed, their tops still catching some of the setting sun; to the left, coming and going out of sight, was the ocean. Traeger decided that Arroyo was headed for Napa Valley. Maybe to square his silly story with Jason Phelps, though how he could enlist the help of the crusty old agnostic Traeger could not see.

  It wasn’t until San Luis Obispo that Arroyo turned into a filling station. Traeger had been watching his gauge anxiously, belatedly realizing that the car had not had a full tank when he rented it. It seemed a harbinger of a dropping of standards of efficiency in the new regime.

  Arroyo ignored the self-serve lane and went inside while his car was fueled. Traeger, with several rows of pumps to screen him, filled up. He moved forward and parked near the exit, so he could follow Arroyo out. Arroyo would have availed himself of the restroom inside. Traeger did not want to think of his own discomfort. He would wet his pants before he took a chance on losing Arroyo. More and more he was convinced that the founder of Justicia y Paz was taking him to the big showdown.

  It was going around Oakland that Traeger lost Arroyo.

  Arroyo had put up the top after filling up and it was harder to keep him in sight. Traeger drew closer but got into the far left lane to stay out of Arroyo’s sight. There was no point in getting careless, even though he was certain Arroyo had no idea he was being tailed. But suddenly he was gone. Traeger looked around. He couldn’t have turned off. Had he dropped behind? Traeger slowed and was immediately given the horn by the maniac who was tailgating him. He flicked his signal to ease into the next lane and got another horn. The hell with it. He bulled his way across the lanes to a chorus of horns. But where the hell was Arroyo’s convertible?

  He had lost him. Anywhere earlier along the road, Traeger would have been baffled. But, having come this far, he was sure that Arroyo was headed up to Napa Valley. Having convinced himself of that, Traeger stopped at a roadside restaurant, got comfortable, then ate. He went into the washroom again before leaving, leaning toward the mirror. The beard could go, but the mustache kept. He went out to the car, got his kit, and came back inside. Patrons of the washroom took little notice of the man shaving himself at this hour of night. The beard was a bear to remove, even using his nail scissors. His face emerged and, running his hand over it, Traeger realized how much he had hated that beard. He got rid of the mustache, too. What good was half a disguise? Outside near the pumps there was a convenience store, where Traeger bought a baseball cap and T-shirt. It was a Dodgers cap and the T-shirt touted the Raiders. Sports fan at large.

  Back in the car, he felt more relaxed than he had in days. The visit to Arroyo, however it had ended, made clear that Arroyo was his man. And where else could he be headed than up the valley to . . . Don Ibanez? Jason Phelps? That small uncertainty brought back the tension. This was no time to relax. He made pretty good time going up the valley road.

  The El Toro Motel looked full, its lot jammed with vehicles. Traeger went on by and headed toward the hacienda of Don Ibanez. But half a mile short of it, he saw the media crew camped at the gate. He slowed and nosed up to the closed gate of Jason Phelps’s place. He got out and tried the gate. It wasn’t locked. Lights out, he drove in, got out and shut the gate, and left his car near the garages, remembering how he had carried the foam package over to the basilica.

  He pulled down his baseball cap, feeling like Pettitte before his fall, studying the catcher’s signals, and started for the back of the property. When he passed the office, he saw that the desk lamp was on. Jason Phelps lay forward, his face on the desk. The eyes were open but didn’t seem to be looking anyplace in particular. The French doors were not closed. Traeger stepped inside, crossed to the desk, and looked at Jason Phelps. The back of his head was a battered mess, blood pooled on the desk blotter. Phelps had gone wherever atheists go when they die.

  Traeger got out of there, almost running to the path that would take him onto Don Ibanez’s property. He heard voices and stopped. He recognized Neal Admirari’s voice and that was enough. The last thing he wanted to do was run into a member of the media. He had to get to Don Ibanez. Together he was sure that they could figure out what had happened with the original sacred image, how the packages had been switched, or whatever. The original had to be here still. Maybe even hanging again over the altar in Don Ibanez’s basilica. Traeger needed a miracle.

  He backtracked and regained Jason Phelps’s property.

  PART III

  Holy Hermano

  CHAPTER ONE

  I

  “For God’s sake, get a doctor.”

  Neal had just turned from watching Catherine go off down the path when he noticed Miguel Arroyo near the basilica. Kneeling.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, going toward him.

  And then he saw the body. “My God, is that
Phelps?”

  Arroyo gently turned the body over to reveal the face of Don Ibanez. Arroyo rose to his feet.

  “I was afraid of this.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Take his pulse if you want.”

  Neal danced back. “What were you afraid of?”

  Arroyo took Neal’s arm and started toward the house. “Traeger is back.”

  “Traeger!”

  “He showed up at my office in Justicia y Paz. He threatened me.” Arroyo stopped and looked back. “I hate to just leave him lying there like that.”

  Was he suggesting that Neal stand watch by the body? “What can happen to him?”

  Arroyo sighed. “Who will break the news to Clare?”

  “Not me.”

  Arroyo looked at him, nodding. “I feel the same way. I wish there was another woman around.”

  “Catherine just went back to Jason Phelps’s place. Should I get her?”

  “How about the woman who works for Hannan?”

  “Oh, they’ve gone.”

  It was George Worth that they found when they entered the house. Arroyo asked him to come outside.

  “George,” Arroyo began. He took a deep breath. “George, Neal and I have just made a terrible discovery.”

  Neal was thinking of his room in the El Toro Motel and wishing he were there. It wasn’t the Plaza, the El Toro, but at least there weren’t bodies lying around. Dead bodies. Careful, careful. He reminded himself that Lulu was on her way. Thank God. He wanted to sink into married normalcy, make love to his wife for a change, get the hell out of California before the whole state seceded.

  Arroyo had taken George’s arm as the three men hurried toward the basilica.

  “What is it?”

  For answer, Arroyo led him up to the body. George bent over it, then crouched beside the body. He put his hand on Don Ibanez’s neck.

  “For God’s sake, get a doctor.”

  Glad to be released, Neal started running toward the house.

  “And Frater Leone,” George cried after him. “Have him come immediately.”

  “What’s going on?” Clare asked when Neal burst into the house.

  “Oh, my God. Look, I have to call a doctor. And a priest. Frater Leone.”

  Clare’s eyes widened and her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

  “Is it my father?”

  “Out by the basilica. George and Arroyo are with him. Where’s a phone?”

  Clare went outside and he watched her hurry toward the basilica. A phone. Where was a phone? And then he thought of his cell. Jeez. He got it out and punched in 911.

  Only an ambulance with its siren screaming could have dispersed the media at the gate, but when the gate was opened to let the ambulance in, members of the press followed, like infantry accompanying a tank. George Worth had left Frater Leone with Don Ibanez and gone to open the gate; now he directed the paramedics to the body. Miguel Arroyo stood in the middle of the drive, waiting for the advancing cameramen and reporters. The television truck had trouble getting past the ambulance, but soon its crew was out and ready to shoot. Arroyo had waited patiently, holding up a hand to still the impatience of others. Neal drew close.

  “I am Miguel Arroyo of Justicia y Paz,” he began.

  “What the hell is the ambulance doing here?” a reporter shouted.

  “Something terrible has happened to Don Ibanez, whose hacienda as you know this is. We will soon know whether he will live or die. His attacker was the rogue former CIA agent Vincent Traeger, who had told me he intended to do what he has now done.”

  No need to tell this gathering about the bungled effort to take the miraculous picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe back to its shrine in Mexico City. That was the story that had brought them here. But the mention of Traeger interested them more than the condition of Don Ibanez. Neal realized how little fellowship he felt with this bunch.

  Arroyo began to review what they all knew about events in Mexico City and groans went up. Arroyo ignored them, going on to make his case against Traeger. Speaking directly to the television camera, he told of Traeger’s visit to his office, how he had confronted the man and then sounded the alarm. When the forces of law arrived, Traeger had managed to escape.

  “And came here,” Arroyo said, his voice rising. “Came here to attack one of the most beloved residents of Napa Valley.”

  “Why?”

  “To silence the man who knew what Traeger had done with the sacred painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

  And then, with the camera on him, Arroyo brought out a cell phone and summoned the forces of law and order.

  Neal turned and went to the hacienda. He saw George Worth, who had left the paramedics to their task, comforting Clare. Neal looked out to where the ambulance crew were doing their stuff. Frater Leone was there, too, doing his stuff. The sight of the priest brought uncomfortable memories. Neal made a wide circle around the group and headed for the path down which Catherine had gone.

  There was a lamp on in the study. Jason Phelps seemed asleep at his desk. Neal went inside and tiptoed through the study. At the foot of the stairs, he could see lights above. He mounted them, calling softly, “Catherine? Catherine?”

  When he got to the head of the stairs, Catherine rushed out of a room and threw herself into his arms.

  “I didn’t do it, Neal. I swear to God I didn’t do it.”

  The feel of her in his arms brought back memories he had promised to expunge. He held her closer. “Everybody does it,” he whispered.

  She freed herself and looked at him with horror. “Didn’t you see him?”

  “The paramedics are with him, Catherine. And the priest.”

  “With Jason?”

  He tried to take her in his arms again. With the professor dozing, they had the house to themselves. “No, no. Don Ibanez.”

  And then she was looking past him. Neal turned and there was Vincent Traeger, standing as if he had suddenly materialized out of nothing.

  “What the hell is going on next door?” Traeger asked.

  Neal stepped back toward Catherine. He was thinking of what Arroyo had said. It was not a comfortable feeling, confronting a man who was the object of a two-nation manhunt, even with Catherine there for company.

  “Something has happened to Don Ibanez,” he said, amazed at how calm he sounded.

  “Arroyo, that son of a bitch. So he got both of them.”

  It was into Traeger’s arms now that Catherine rushed.

  “I didn’t do it! I came into the office and found him. He was already dead.”

  “You didn’t do it,” Traeger assured her.

  Was he confessing?

  “Arroyo. Have you seen him?” he demanded of Neal.

  “At the moment he’s holding a press conference next door explaining how you attacked Don Ibanez.”

  As if he had disappeared, Traeger was gone, thundering down the steps.

  “What happened to Don Ibanez?” Catherine asked.

  Neal opened his arms and she came into them. “It’s a long story, my dear. Where can we sit?”

  II

  “Get some sleep.”

  Lowry had told Traeger to meet him at the Old Curiosity bookstore in Palo Alto.

  The bookstore provided periodic respite from the galley and common room of the Catholic Worker house and, despite the mock proletarian dress of the customers and the bright is-there-anything-I-can-do look of the clerks, Lowry liked it.

  There were the books, of course. He particularly liked the radical chic stuff—it gave him shelves of things to ignore. And there was free coffee for those who didn’t bring their own from Starbucks, gripping the capped containers as if they were their life support. Coffee and rockers in which to read. Not many students; those who could read were studying the posters that fluttered from kiosks helpfully dotting the campus. Here the customers were middle-aged and fighting it equivocally. Women with gray hair worn long as a girl’s, denim skirts made from jeans, the metal-st
udded pockets emphasizing their rear ends, blouses with scooped necks, beads as big as the jawbreakers of old, the righteous look of the nonsmoker. The men were worse. Sandaled, long-haired, earlobes pierced and wearing discreet rings, half-glasses that lent their eyes a curious look in several senses. Lowry loved them all. They brought back his misspent younger years. Here he could rock and read and observe the customers and forget the lost souls for whom he cooked.

  He had Miscamble’s Truman and the Cold War open on his lap. He had always liked Harry, a foe worthy of one’s steel, unaware that he was surrounded by comrades. I’m from Missouri. So was Lowry, from Joplin, a town he hadn’t seen in forty years. Truman’s decision to drop the second bomb, on Hiroshima mon amour, was sympathetically discussed by the author. It brought back memories of V-J Day when everyone thought that all wars had ended.

  When he came in, he had stopped at the counter and asked if they had Mein Kampf. The owner was at the register, short and wide and wild haired.

  “What is it?”

  “A German cookbook.”

  She drew her top chin into the rest of them. “We don’t carry cookbooks.”

  The question had established his right to browse.

  Lowry rocked himself to his feet, returned the book to a shelf, and went outside for a smoke, enjoying it less than the shocked and angry looks of passersby. Human sacrifice would not raise an eyebrow, but cigarettes! There was a bench, a mandatory thirty feet from the bookstore’s entrance, in the shade, large dying leaves yellowing on the walk.

  The call from Traeger had come as the former agent was fleeing Napa Valley, on the run again as he had been for a week. He had to talk with Lowry, why he didn’t say. Lowry gave him directions to the bookstore when Traeger nixed the Catholic Worker house. Maybe Traeger would know when the hell George Worth was coming back. If he was coming back.