Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  Sapienza looked ten years younger, slapping around the house in huaraches, a big billowy shirt of a half dozen colors, and khaki pants. He even looked slimmer, but that was probably the shirt. He greeted them as if he had been expecting them. He showed them the letter, his face aglow. It read like a form letter, of course, and was signed + Hector Padilla, OSB. Congregation for Bishops. But at the bottom of the page, in the same ink as the signature, was a little addendum. “You have been an example to us all. God bless you. We must get together soon.”

  “OSB? Are those letters in the right order?”

  “They are if you’re a Benedictine. He’s a good man.”

  Lulu told Sapienza of her intention to do a piece on him. He held up a hand. He wasn’t wearing his episcopal ring. Did he think he had been reduced to the ranks?

  “Absolutely not. I will fold my tent like the Arabs and as silently steal away.”

  “Emilio, you owe it to people . . .”

  He lowered his chin and looked at her. Lulu felt deflated.

  “Of course I don’t need your permission.”

  “You wouldn’t act against my wishes.”

  What kind of a piece would it be if she couldn’t interview him? Of course, she could take his self-effacement as the theme, make a virtue out of necessity. The bishop who avoids publicity.

  Neal said, “What’s this about working more directly with the poor?”

  “What do you know about the Catholic Worker?”

  “I was a volunteer as a boy.”

  “A volunteer boy?” Lulu was trying to make the best of her disappointment.

  The doorbell rang and Sapienza acted as if he wanted to ignore it.

  “Should I see who it is?” Lulu asked.

  He was still thinking when she got up and went to the door. Traeger looked at her through the mesh of the screen. Traeger!

  VIII

  Unintelligent design.

  Catherine figured if Myrna could bronze the house and turn the whole thing into a monument to Jason Phelps, she would do it. Why bother about the future if you didn’t think there was a future? When you’re dead, you’re dead. Wasn’t that the theory? Let the underclass mumble their prayers and hope for heaven, living on and on forever in unimaginable bliss, but Jason and Myrna and others like them thought they knew better. People were just accidental combinations of matter and, however intricate the circuitry, it wasn’t made to any plan. It just happened. Unintelligent design. Calling that science didn’t make it any less ridiculous. Catherine remembered Jason’s heretical remarks about the hard sciences. The sure way to get Myrna’s goat was to refer to Jason as if he were somehow still there with them. Not in their memories, but there. And yet, from time to time she would look out and see Myrna standing over the little mound under which were the ashes of Jason Phelps. What was the point of mourning if he were only ashes?

  The trouble with such thoughts was that they rebounded on her. It wasn’t some big theory that had caused her to bid adieu to the beliefs of her youth—it was a bad marriage and then a string of affairs that had the look of desperation when she allowed herself to remember them. What a swinger she had thought herself to be. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may and while ye may be merry. How sad. Sometimes Catherine thought that the big cure that Jason Phelps, recommended by Myrna, was supposed to effect in her had boomeranged. But she didn’t want to think about that either.

  The business with Neal Admirari had turned her life into farce. Stolen moments with an overweight, middle-aged man in love with himself. Poor Lulu. Only she envied Lulu, not because she had Neal, for heaven’s sake, but because she was, well, together in a way that Catherine knew that she herself was not. So she went over to the hacienda to talk to Clare.

  When she came up along the path to the lawn of the hacienda, she looked toward the basilica and saw Frater Leone. He reminded her of something, she didn’t know what. Maybe her lost innocence. She walked slowly toward the priest. He turned at her approach.

  “He can’t receive visitors yet.” His hands were hidden under his scapular. He bowed. “Forgive my abruptness. Don Ibanez has just come home from the hospital.”

  “Wonderful.” Wonderful for Clare, too.

  As they walked toward the house, Frater Leone described Don Ibanez’s condition in great detail. The blow on the head had not been as damaging as was thought. He had also suffered a slight stroke.

  The priest said he would relieve Clare, who was keeping vigil by her father’s side. Before leaving the room, he turned. “Did you wish to see him?”

  “Later,” Catherine said. Ye gods.

  “He will need speech therapy,” Clare said when she came down. “But thank God he is out of danger. From now on he can only improve.”

  “Where’s George?”

  Clare fell silent, looking into Catherine’s eyes. “Come.”

  They went out on a patio. George had gone back to Palo Alto.

  “For good?”

  “Catherine, he can’t make up his mind.”

  “About you?”

  “He wants me to decide the question. If I say so, he will abandon the Catholic Worker.”

  It sounded like blackmail to Catherine. Either way, Clare would bear the responsibility. George could console himself with the thought that, left to himself, he would have continued the noble work. Catherine didn’t know what she thought about such good-hearted efforts. It certainly seemed to give an emotional charge to those engaged in the work. Was that fair? She didn’t know. She just didn’t see what the problem was. Marry Clare and live happily ever after or spend his life ladling out soup to derelicts. Of course, he wanted Clare to join him on the soup line.

  “Doesn’t he have anyone to talk sense to him?”

  Clare didn’t like that. “He has consulted Frater Leone.”

  “What did he advise?”

  Clare smiled. “The poor you will always have with you.”

  That was Delphic enough to cover either choice. George had wanted to ponder it in Palo Alto.

  “He feels guilty about being away for so long.”

  “Well, after all. Your father . . .”

  Clare knew that Myrna was staying in Jason’s house, but had yet to meet her. “Why don’t you bring her over for a drink later?”

  “Myrna doesn’t drink.”

  “I would like to welcome her to the neighborhood.”

  “She’s out jogging.”

  Clare was glad to hear it. Of course she was a jogger, too. If what propelled Myrna through her daily miles was the thought that in the end she would be transformed into someone like Clare, she could hang up her running shoes.

  IX

  “Cui bono?”

  Traeger was as surprised as Lulu van Ackeren when she came to the door. Lulu looked terrified and when Crosby and Lowry joined Traeger on the doorstep, she was even more so.

  “Bishop Sapienza is expecting us,” Lowry said soothingly.

  And then Sapienza was at Lulu’s side. “Ah, come in, come in.”

  Once the door was open, Traeger brushed past the bishop, wanting to check out the house. Had Arroyo already arrived? But all he found was Neal Admirari. The columnist was working at his computer at a table near a window that admitted the delightful aroma of oranges from the grove behind the house.

  “Long time no see,” Admirari said.

  “When did you get here?”

  Sapienza and the others appeared. Traeger didn’t like it. Coming to Santa Ana made sense if that could lure Arroyo, but a house full of reporters? Crosby, on the other hand, seemed delighted.

  “Perfect. Church, state, and press.”

  “What’s going on?” Lulu wanted to know.

  Sapienza took her aside to explain and Neal followed them into the kitchen. Traeger was about to move to the window Admirari had abandoned as providing the best vantage point when he heard Arroyo’s voice. In the kitchen, chattering away to the bishop and the reporters. Lowry put a hand on Traeger’s arm. Crosby sauntered int
o the kitchen.

  “Arroyo? Thanks for taking the trouble.”

  “I want him caught as much as you do. He’s a madman. I’m lucky to be alive.”

  Arroyo and Crosby came in side by side. At the sight of Traeger, Arroyo stopped talking and moving, stunned. He looked behind him. Sapienza smiled reassuringly.

  “Miguel, we are going to clear up the mystery and confusion of these past weeks.”

  “Emilio, this man is a fugitive. There is a price on his head.”

  “Perhaps you can collect it.”

  Arroyo thought he understood the situation now. Crosby had snookered Traeger into this meeting and arranged for unimpeachable witnesses. He ignored Traeger as he went past him.

  “I would feel a lot better if that man were handcuffed.”

  Traeger went to Arroyo, put a splayed hand on his chest, and pushed. Arroyo staggered backward, made a grab for a lamp, and brought it down on top of him as he hit the floor. As soon as he did, he rolled to the side, drew a gun, and lifted it toward Traeger. He got agilely to his feet. His eyes remained on Traeger, but it was Crosby he addressed.

  “How stupid do you think I am? I suspected that you two were working together. The house is surrounded. Bishop, you surprise me.”

  “Not as much as you surprise me, Miguel. Put away that weapon.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Sapienza paused. “Very well. If it makes you feel safer. In any case, I want to know what part you have played in all these events.”

  “Why did you kill Jason Phelps?” Traeger asked.

  He was trying to quell the impulse to rush at the cocky little Arroyo, weapon or no weapon. By God, he would not be flummoxed by him again. But his question had a curious effect. Arroyo lowered the weapon.

  “Nice try, Traeger. I suppose I also attacked Don Ibanez.”

  “These are recent matters, Miguel. No need to go into them now.” Sapienza picked up the fallen lamp and took the chair Admirari had vacated. “Let’s all get comfortable while you exonerate yourself.”

  “Exonerate myself?”

  “The miraculous image, Miguel. Where is it?”

  Arroyo seemed genuinely astonished by the question. He looked reproachfully at the bishop. “If I knew I would tell you.”

  Crosby had followed the bishop’s example and gotten seated. Neal and Lulu were clinging to one another in the doorway that led to the kitchen. Traeger remained standing, his eye on the no longer menacing weapon, eager to get his hands on Arroyo.

  “From the beginning, Miguel,” the bishop said.

  Arroyo looked at him, at Neal and Lulu, at Crosby and Lowry. “I’ll sit down when he does.”

  “Traeger,” Crosby said. “Please.”

  All the days since he had fled Mexico City after the fiasco of opening the foam case and finding that the whole elaborate plan, so smoothly executed, had resulted only in the delivery of a copy of the missing painting, the long and exhausting trek to the border, making it to Phoenix and then Flagstaff, flying to San Diego to confront Arroyo and then having to leave by the washroom window with troopers swarming through the building, losing Arroyo when he followed him up 101—all that and now this roomful of people, filled Traeger with doubt and suspicion. Whose side was Crosby on? Who in his right mind would want to be on Traeger’s side? Crosby’s mission was to get Traeger. Was this meeting a trap?

  Sapienza reached out a hand and took the weapon from Arroyo and Arroyo sat. Warily, Traeger moved to the side of the room, wanting a way out if it came to that. The aroma of orange blossoms wafted in the open window and filled the room. The image of himself exiting the washroom through that little window came and went. Had Arroyo been bluffing when he said the house was surrounded?

  Arroyo got comfortable. The chair he was sitting in had wooden arms, green leather cushions, a colorful blanket thrown over its back. He smiled at his audience.

  “Very well. This is what happened.”

  It was Arroyo who had alerted the community in charge of the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe that the theft of the sacred image was planned.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Actually, Bishop, I invented it. Something dramatic had to occur in order to bring things to a head in the Southwest, in California particularly. Our people were being treated as invaders of a country that is rightfully theirs. What would arouse them more surely than the desecration of the most revered image in the Americas? I sought and received Don Ibanez’s cooperation. The monks knew and trusted him. Transferring the image to the replica of the shrine that Don Ibanez had built on his property appealed to them. The image was taken down, a copy replaced it, and I brought the original to Don Ibanez’s little basilica, where it hung safely during all the turmoil.”

  “If the theft was a ruse, there would not have been the sacrilege of armed men storming around the shrine. People were killed, Miguel.”

  Arroyo seemed torn between adopting the bishop’s mournful air and a smile of triumph. The smile won. “All things work together for the good, as someone must have said. Even monks can be indiscreet. Only the abbot and the prior knew of the transfer. The others in the community did not, but they had heard of the impending theft. Word got out, and the Mexican authorities contacted Washington, doubtless because I had suggested that the Rough Riders were the thieves.”

  “And were they?”

  “Crosby and Traeger wll be able to verify my guess. I think a team of their old companions in arms shot up the shrine and stole the copy. Of course they must have thought they were engaged in a preemptive strike. Do you know a man named Morgan?”

  Crosby looked at Traeger.

  “Morgan is dead.”

  “Hoisted on his own petard, to coin a phrase. A double agent. He contacted me, having learned that it was I who alerted the monks at the shrine. His fellow agents contrived to get the copy they had stolen into the hands of the Rough Riders. Then Morgan made his fatal proposal. He would sell the copy, get the reward Ignatius Hannan had offered, and disappear to wherever such people go.”

  Traeger thought of that scene in the long-term parking lot at the San Francisco airport. He thought of Gladys Stone. Was she another mole assigned to keep an eye on Morgan?

  “Okay, Arroyo. So you got the picture to Don Ibanez’s basilica. Let’s talk about the plan to get it back where it belongs.”

  “Traeger, I confess that I am as confused by that as you are.”

  “I’m not confused, damn it. How did you make the switch?”

  Arroyo looked at Sapienza. “I suppose I could be flattered by this suggestion of my shrewdness. I cannot tell you how I felt when I learned what had happened when Traeger delivered that package to the shrine.”

  His eyes went to Traeger. “How did you do it? You left with the original painting. Everyone trusted you, Don Ibanez trusted you, and you betrayed them.”

  “Cui bono?” Sapienza murmured.

  “I don’t understand,” Arroyo said.

  “Miguel, you can’t seriously expect us to believe that Traeger would insure the failure of his own plan. What could he possibly gain from that?”

  “I never had the original,” Traeger said. “The package I delivered and which held only a copy was put into my hands by Don Ibanez himself. It never left my sight. I had no idea that I was taking such precautions over a copy. So where is the original, Arroyo?”

  “I repeat. I do not know.”

  “As God is your judge?”

  “It had to be you, Traeger. Why? Only you can tell us. But I can guess. You could arrange to deliver it to Ignatius Hannan, who would doubtless have enriched you for your troubles. For that matter, you could have done the same with Don Ibanez. Did you attack him when he reacted in shock to your proposal?”

  “Miguel, Miguel, please stop. Let me summarize.” Sapienza brought his hands together as if in prayer. “Consider the point we have arrived at. Traeger accuses Arroyo of knowing where the original is.”

  Traeger exploded. “Is tha
t why I’ve been chasing all over creation trying to find it?”

  Sapienza parted his hands and showed a palm to Traeger. “Arroyo in turn accuses you. Of course both of you protest your innocence. The question is, how do we resolve the matter?”

  “Excellent,” Neal Admirari cried. “How do we?”

  It was then that Traeger saw a file of cruisers approaching the house. By God, it was a trap. All this palaver had been meant merely to hold him until the police arrived. In a trice he was at the window. He leapt through and headed for the orange grove, the soft soil gripping his feet in their size fourteen tennis shoes and making speed difficult. He became aware of figures ahead. The grove seemed full of cops. He changed direction; he felt cornered. He stumbled, trying to draw his weapon, when a shot rang out and he felt a piercing pain in his upper leg. Then they were upon him, bringing him to the ground, pinning him. He was flipped on his back and his weapon taken. The face of Crosby appeared, looking down at him with a sad expression.

  “Nice going, Traeger.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I

  “Sapienza thinks I’m lying.”

  Neal watched Traeger being hustled away, handcuffed now as Arroyo had wished him to be earlier. Crosby walked at Traeger’s side, talking away. What was he doing, gloating? He had done what he was being paid to do, find Traeger. But what had finding him solved? The miraculous image of Our Lady of Guadalupe was still missing. Traeger was put into an unmarked vehicle by two huge men in civilian clothes. The uniformed troopers in their cruisers led the procession as they drove away.

  Lulu had decided that the meeting in Sapienza’s living room and the capture of Traeger in the orange grove behind the house overrode any reluctance on the part of the now retired and inclined to be retiring bishop.

  “Emilio, you’ll be on every website. You might just as well get in a few words yourself.”

  He had said neither yes nor no, taking Miguel Arroyo off to his study and closing its door. Lulu asked Neal to spell “cui bono” for her. But it was her mention of websites that had caught Neal’s attention. He had just learned that a half dozen papers had dropped his column, and that made a baker’s dozen in the current year. All the talk about the demise of the print media seemed suddenly credible. He had resisted the claim as hyperbole. In every airport terminal he passed through there were stacks of newspapers—local, national—and magazines! There seemed to be a magazine for every conceivable hobby or interest. The covers were almost as hilarious as those in the supermarket checkout line. “Build your summer home with pine cones.” “Lose fifty pounds in minutes!” “Double your computer’s speed.” It was the number of magazines devoted to electronics and computers that struck him. Without telling Lulu, he had sent an e-mail to Nick Pendant at Mercury. Just hello and how are you? If Pendant didn’t connect the message to his earlier efforts to sign up Neal, he was not the new employer Neal was looking for. And of course there was the book.