Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  What a stroke of luck to have been here, an eyewitness to the exchange between Arroyo and Traeger. It had looked like a standoff—not to say a Mexican standoff—to Neal until Traeger had suddenly dived through the window and headed for the orange grove. His flight seemed to answer the question that had just been put: which one, Traeger or Arroyo, was telling the truth?

  Crosby came in, looked vaguely at Neal, and asked where the bishop was.

  “In his study with a penitent.”

  Crosby shook his head. “Traeger thinks I double-crossed him. He thinks I lured him here so he could be picked up.”

  “Why did he run?”

  “Because Arroyo had pulled a similar stunt on Traeger in San Diego. Once he saw the cruisers arriving, he took off.”

  “Well, he didn’t get far.”

  “Did you ever try running through an orange grove?”

  “Not recently.”

  Crosby looked at him in disgust. “It doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything!”

  “Of course not. Can I have your full name for the story I’ll be writing?”

  “How would you like a knuckle sandwich?”

  “I never eat while I’m working.”

  The study door opened and a pensive Arroyo came out. Then, seeing Neal, he put on the charm. “You saw it all, Admirari. You heard it all. I’m counting on you to get the story out.” He leaned toward Neal. “Sapienza thinks I’m lying,” he whispered, inviting Neal’s disbelief.

  “He’s been around sinners too long.”

  “You are writing this up, aren’t you? My God, what a scoop.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  Arroyo stepped back, then smiled. “I’m not telling you how to do your job.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  Sapienza had come to the door of his study. He beckoned Crosby inside. Neal was curious to know how the session between the bishop and Arroyo had gone. He went over to Lulu, who was plinking away at her computer.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Are you kidding?” She tossed her head, getting the hair out of her eyes. He leaned over and kissed her.

  “For Commonweal?”

  She turned to him. “Neal, this is a web job.”

  That sounded like something from The Joy of Sex.

  “Did I tell you about the offer Pendant made me?”

  “Take it, Neal! You’re on the Titanic.”

  “This life saver?” He patted his belly. “One week on a diet and it’s gone. Maybe sooner.” Lose fifty pounds in minutes!

  Neal went out the front door to a porch shaded by a wooden trellis from which pots of flowers hung. He tried to get comfortable on a metal chair and brought out his cell phone. At the moment, even email seemed too slow.

  Pendant was delighted to hear from him.

  “You asked me to call you before I accepted any offer.”

  “I’ll match it, Neal.” A pause. “I’ll more than match it. Who is it?”

  “Would that be ethical?”

  “Ethical? We’re the media.”

  “I keep forgetting.”

  Pendant wanted a fax number where he could ship his offer. “You read it over and then we’ll talk some more. I want you, Neal. I’ll get you more readers in a day than your column gets you in a year.”

  “Give me your fax. I’ll send you one and then you’ll know where to send yours.”

  He snapped his phone shut and Lulu came out. “What are you grinning about?”

  “I’m being seduced.”

  He told her about the call. To his surprise, she was delighted. “I thought you’d dither until it was too late.”

  “You think it’s a good idea?”

  “Do you know how many readers you’ll have? What is he asking, twice a week, three times a week?”

  “He’s not that demanding a seducer. What’s wrong with weekly?”

  She shrugged. “They’ll archive it. It’ll be there all week anyway. Neal, you have to hold out for top billing. We’ll get a flattering photograph taken. We’ll demand a lead-up to your debut. Fanfare, razzmatazz.”

  “I thought I’d start off with the big showdown here today.”

  “Then you’d better get at it. I’ll send Pendant Sapienza’s fax number. Can I be your agent?”

  “Be patient.”

  She took a metal chair and sat. She squirmed. “This chair makes me feel like I’m being branded. I wonder where they took Traeger.”

  II

  “I never got the knack of that.”

  Ignatius Hannan was elated when Crosby called to report about Traeger—until he realized that the miraculous image of Our Lady of Guadalupe was still missing.

  “What did he do with it?” Nate demanded. Laura, listening in on another phone, thought that her boss was entitled to one stupid question.

  “He doesn’t have it, Hannan. For God’s sake, ever since Mexico City he been trying to find it.”

  “Then why did he run?”

  “Have you ever been surrounded by half a dozen police cruisers?” Crosby reminded Nate of Traeger’s experience in San Diego. “It was dumb, I grant that, but I understand it. I wouldn’t want to be Arroyo when Traeger gets his hands on him. That guy is lying.”

  “He’s committed enough violence,” Nate said. He meant Traeger. “Laura, you on?”

  “Of course.”

  “Look, you talk with Crosby. I’ve got calls to make.”

  “Tell me about the meeting at Bishop Sapienza’s,” Laura said when she had Crosby all to herself.

  Crosby was quick but thorough. Laura felt that she had been in the room during the confrontation between Arroyo and Traeger.

  “Why do you think Arroyo is lying?”

  “Because I know Traeger is telling the truth.”

  “Where did you flunk logic?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “What if neither of them is lying?”

  There was a long pause. “Then I’m right back where I started.”

  “It’s a possibility. What charge did they arrest Traeger on?”

  “Suspicion of robbery for now.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  “They were state troopers. In uniform.” A pause. “Most of them.”

  “Go see him. We’ll arrange for a lawyer. You’re going to need his help.”

  “I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “Call back after you’ve talked with Traeger.”

  In the kitchen, Boris was busy about many things. On the stove, in a large pan, a corruptingly aromatic sauce simmered. On one of the tables lay the roast that would become a London broil, a favorite of Nate’s, right after Big Macs. Boris, whistling tunelessly, was breaking eggs one-handed into a stainless steel bowl.

  “I never got the knack of that,” Laura said, picking up an egg. She gave it a whack and then, still one-handed, tried getting the shell open so she could add its yolk to the bowl. The shell collapsed in her hand and she had to dance back not to get yolk all over her. Boris smiled a tolerant smile. He broke another egg. One-handed. Effortlessly.

  “My hands are too small,” Laura said, going to the sink and washing her hands and arms.

  “Or the eggs are too big.”

  She heard voices, male and female, from the room in back where Boris and his wife Lise ate. Wiping her hands, she peeked in. Smiley and Steltz, all lovey-dovey over their coffee, standing by. Nate thought that maybe later he would have to go to Atlanta.

  “Did you hear what happened to Traeger?”

  Smiley looked with exaggerated innocence at Laura. “What happened to him?”

  “He’s been arrested.”

  “What for?”

  Did Smiley even care what the point of the flight to Mexico City had been? Ah well, he had the distraction of his copilot. A beautiful woman, if you liked wide-spaced eyes and a slight lisp.

  “When did you meet Ray?” Brenda asked Laura, the question coming out of nowhere.

&n
bsp; “When we were both single.”

  Take that, you wench.

  “Brenda’s husband was just granted a divorce,” Smiley said.

  “From Brenda?”

  “Who else?”

  “Now all you have to do is kill him and you’ll be free.”

  Smiley looked concerned. Until death do us part. “Would he fire us?”

  “Jack, half the time he doesn’t remember that Ray and I are married. Work it out with God.”

  She had a choice on how to think of herself as she went back through the kitchen. A vocal upholder of the moral law on which the fate of nations rests, or a prissy spoilsport who had forgotten the sins of her girlhood. Boris asked if she would like to take another crack at it. He meant eggs.

  “One’s my limit, Boris.”

  An hour later, Ray returned from Boston, where he had been on business. “I wanted to stay for the game,” he complained.

  “Crosby found Traeger, but they arrested him.”

  “Crosby?”

  “Traeger. I’m waiting for Crosby to call back after he’s seen Traeger. Nate will want to provide legal help, don’t you think?”

  “He will if you suggest it.”

  But Crosby did not call back. Well, who knew the difficulties of visiting prisoners, particularly so soon after the arrest? She put through a call to Crosby.

  “The reason I haven’t called, Laura: I haven’t found him yet.”

  “Did he get away?”

  “He was never brought in.”

  III

  “I was arrested.”

  Traeger was shoved into the backseat, followed by one of his captors, who tossed in Traeger’s backpack before getting in. The other suit got behind the wheel. Around them, the cruisers began to pull away. The driver let them lead but as he followed, the distance between the car and the last cruiser grew. Suddenly the driver turned onto a side road, and the car shot forward. Traeger looked at the man beside him. Old stone face, and he was wearing sunglasses. A similar pair of sunglasses had regarded Traeger from the rearview mirror until the right turn was taken.

  “What’s going on?” Traeger asked.

  His companion lifted a hand. There was something about the man that struck Traeger as familiar. “Take off your glasses.”

  “Welcome back, Traeger,” he said, removing the glasses.

  “Craig!”

  “I was in Albania with Theo Grady.”

  Traeger was flooded with relief. He had been rescued, snatched from the idiots Arroyo had twice set upon him. The driver was Wilberforce, but he must have been after Traeger’s time in the Company. Without sunglasses, Wilberforce looked like a college boy. A dressed-up college boy. At the moment, he was busy getting as far from all those cruisers as he could.

  “How’s the wound?” Craig asked Traeger.

  “It seems to have stopped bleeding.”

  “We’ll have it looked at as soon as possible.”

  “What did you tell the troopers?”

  “That it was a federal case.”

  “But they’ve seceded. They’ve set up their own republic.”

  “I promised to discuss that with them when you were being booked.” A small smile, not smug, but definitely satisfied. “We’ll switch cars soon.”

  Traeger held out his wrists. “How about taking these off?”

  Craig examined the cuffs. “They’re not ours, you know.” Traeger remembered the cop who had managed to get them on him, helped by the other one who had a knee in Traeger’s back. Craig was trying a key and not having much luck.

  “We’ll have to take care of those later, too.”

  Five miles away, in a Latino neighborhood, all the store signs in Spanish, Wilberforce turned into a car wash shed and pulled into line. He pushed open the door and got out.

  “Fold your arms,” Craig suggested.

  They strolled through the shed and out again to a car that seemed to have just been washed and polished. The keys were in it. Wilberforce got behind the wheel and Craig, Traeger, and his backpack got in behind. The car moved away from the shed and again they were on their way.

  “Where are we going?”

  Once more the little smile. “To the scene of the crime.”

  Within minutes, Wilberforce found a drugstore and bought bandages for Traeger’s wound. The next stop was a hardware store; Wilberforce hopped out and went inside. When he came back, he handed a sack to Craig. A hacksaw. Minutes later, Traeger really felt free again. He put the cuffs in his backpack.

  “Souvenir,” he said, giving a little smile of his own.

  His leg wound was more of a burn than anything. The bullet had only grazed him. An angry red crease, but it was more painful than a typical flesh wound. He spread the disinfectant salve Wilberforce had bought over it, and then slapped on a bandage.

  As they sped along, the feeling of relief lifted and thought began. As with Crosby, he was wondering why he should trust these former comrades. Remember what had happened on the roof of the North American College just last year. Supposed allies were suddenly revealed as enemies. He put his head back and closed his eyes, remembering Pocatello. He let the figures that had emerged from the Chinook form. One of them had been Craig or a reasonable clone thereof.

  “Call Dortmund,” Craig said, as if he were reading Traeger’s thoughts.

  “Good idea.” He got out his cell phone, scrolled through the numbers, and punched Dortmund’s. It was answered on the fourth ring.

  “Traeger.”

  “Did it all go off well?”

  “All?”

  “Your rescue. I assume that you are now in the custody of Craig and Wilberforce.”

  “Everything is fine.” He tried to make it a question.

  “Once I gave them your cell phone number, they were able to pick up your trail. How did things go at Bishop Sapienza’s?”

  “I was arrested.”

  “Oh my.”

  “I was rescued from the clutches of law and order.”

  An elderly chuckle came bounding off a satellite into Traeger’s ear. The car was now making good progress on 101. He said as much to Dortmund.

  “And your destination?”

  “The scene of the crime.”

  Craig gave him the small smile.

  “Good. Good. Well, remember the password.”

  “Remind me.”

  “Watch your back.”

  IV

  “I’ve got to make a call.”

  After Crosby had reported to Ignatius Hannan and been passed on to Laura, he told Lowry and Bishop Sapienza of the offer of legal help for Traeger.

  “Not quite the upshot we were looking for,” Lowry said. “We were outfoxed.”

  Sapienza frowned. “Of course, Miguel is a scoundrel of the worst kind, the kind that is certain he’s fighting for a great cause.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  Sapienza dipped his head. “He said he wanted to go to confession.”

  “Did he?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Any help the bishop might have been seemed neutralized by Arroyo’s pious ploy. “That doesn’t mean I can’t accompany you, however. Where would they have taken him?”

  It took a while to find out. The state police were reluctant to admit that they didn’t know where Traeger was. The feds had him. The feds! And feeling like a fool, Crosby remembered the two suits who had handed Traeger into the car. He turned to Lowry.

  “Outfoxed again.”

  Fifteen minutes later he got an excited call from the state police. They had found the car, abandoned in a car wash.

  “Where could they have taken him?”

  Crosby fought the grim possibilities that suggested themselves. For weeks, Traeger had been known as the rogue CIA agent. For everyone concerned, that designation was as good as a target on Traeger’s back.

  “I’ve got to make a call.”

  “Ah, Crosby,” Dortmund drawled. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”


  “You know what’s been going on?”

  “My dear boy, I’ve been out of the loop for years.”

  Crosby began to give the swift resume he had given Laura. “Yes, yes,” Dortmund interrupted. “So he has been abducted?”

  “Could they have been ours?”

  “One might very well think so. I have heard from Traeger.”

  “Where is he? Where is he being taken?”

  “They must assume that Traeger knows where it is. What everyone has been seeking.”

  “Did he give any indication where . . .”

  “The scene of the crime.” Dortmund chuckled. Crosby hoped to get as old as Dortmund so he could find this funny. “The scene of the crime,” the old man repeated.

  That had to mean the estate of Don Ibanez in Napa Valley.

  After the call, Crosby announced where he was going. Somewhat to his embarrassment, Bishop Sapienza gave him a blessing before he left. Crosby hurriedly crossed himself. It was as if he were going into battle. On the way north, he dropped Lowry in Palo Alto.

  “The bookstore, Crosby. The Old Curiosity Shop. I have an hour or so before I have to prepare the evening meal.”

  A road once traveled can seem longer or shorter, depending, and 101, traveled as often as Crosby had done, seemed twice as long. The late afternoon traffic was fierce; road rage seemed just around any gentle bend of the concrete ribbon. As one will, he tried to review the events of the day in the hope of feeling less silly. If Traeger had contacted Dortmund, Traeger must know that Crosby had not set him up in Santa Ana. But Dortmund had an oblique sense of humor. What fun it must be for him to be monitoring these events from the safe haven of retirement.