Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  Since then he'd known he'd have to expose them—Creighton, David, and Brice. That's why he'd written the journals.

  The nursing home was quieting. The odors of the beef stew from dinner seemed to catch in the corners of the building and quickly stale. A few residents sought refuge in the TV room, while the rest went to bed. Jittery with his plan, old Lyle turned off the lights in his bedroom and fixed pillows beneath the blankets on his bed. He rolled his wheelchair into the lobby.

  "Good evening, sir." John Reilly stuck his red, ugly face out from around the reception cubicle. He nodded politely.

  Reilly was everywhere. Getting away from him was going to be damn hard. "Screw you, Reilly."

  Reilly didn't blink. "Having a bad night, Mr. Redmond?"

  Lyle ignored him. Instead he stopped in front of the glass doors that faced the circular drive. He stared at the condensation that was freezing in silver webs against the cold, black night. He was going over everything in his mind. One of the women wafted past with her lavender hair, trailing memories as if they were tomorrow's dreams. Maybe she had the right idea. Maybe it was better to lose your marbles.

  And then his spirits lightened. Father Michael drove up in his beat-up Volkswagen van. He jumped out wearing his usual brown Franciscan habit, the simple rope around his waist, his hood up over his head to shield him from the icy chill. He strode toward the nursing home's doors, his jowly face somber. The pouches under his eyes seemed larger tonight, and his large nose was red from the cold air. He moved as if his shoulders carried the weight of all his sixty-plus years.

  As if by magic, John Reilly appeared. "Having a visitor so late, sir?"

  "You bet. I need to see my priest. Confession's good for the soul. You ought to try it sometime." He forced nervous worry from his mind.

  Reilly stood by the door as the priest pushed in. "Lights out at ten o'clock, sir."

  Father Michael nodded. "Of course, Mr. Reilly. You can expect me to leave before then."

  Reilly stepped back, but Lyle could feel his hot, agate gaze follow as the priest rolled the wheelchair back toward the corridor, where the rooms stretched left and right, and to the far left lay the craft, television, and recreation rooms.

  He decided: "Let's go to the rec room, Father Michael." It was too dark and cold for one of their outdoor walks, and they couldn't use his own room because of the needle-nose cameras that recorded everything from the ceiling's corners.

  The priest pushed his hood back onto his shoulders and wheeled Lyle down the corridor. The faint scent of ladies' hand lotions wafted from several of the open doorways. The TV room radiated canned noise from the set.

  The rec room was dark, but Lyle knew where the light switch was. He turned it on. "What do you think about forgiveness, Father?" He pointed a gnarled finger at the windows.

  As the friar pushed old Lyle past Ping-Pong tables to the windows, he said, "The Church offers the sublime Sacrament of Confession so sinners can unburden their hearts and gain forgiveness for their sins. Would you like to make confession now?"

  Lyle shook his head. "I'm not talking about God forgiving me. I'm talking about one man forgiving another."

  They stopped beside the windows, and the priest pulled up a chair so he could face Lyle Redmond. He studied the skull-like contours of his broad face, the age-faded eyes, the bulk of glossy white hair. Power seemed to simmer just beneath the tissue-paper skin.

  With feeling, Father Michael said, "We must forgive. To hate is a sin. If you forgive, my son, you can move forward in your own life without the burden of someone else's mistakes. And, too, forgiveness washes away the burning allure of revenge, which is also a sin."

  Lyle thought about it. "But how does forgiving fit in with the concept of setting things right? If some bullshit artist steals all my worldly goods, don't you think I've got a right to set things straight?"

  "There are the laws of man, and the laws of God. God does not wish us to act in His name for revenge or hatred. No single man has the right to exact punishment and retribution. Instead, the laws of society must take precedence, and after that. . . after the sinner has left this life for the next . . . God will judge."

  Old Lyle looked around the empty room. Somewhere far down the hall he heard footsteps, but they weren't heading toward them yet. The TV next door seemed to blare louder. "But if I'm going to expiate my sins, if I'm going to make atonement like you said, then I've got to act."

  The priest considered his answer. "What do you have in mind?"

  "I'm not going to do anything illegal. I can tell you that. Anyway, first I've got to see something one last time to gird my loins, so to speak."

  "What about against God's laws?"

  "We're clear there, too." Lyle grinned. "I guess you're going to have to take me on as an act of faith."

  Father Michael was quiet. Set thy house in order for thou shalt die. It was from Isaiah 38, verse 1. He knew that's what Lyle Redmond was doing—setting his house in order. The priest thought about God. If the Lord saw anyone obstinate in sin, He waited until the time He could show his mercy. If Father Michael were going to save Lyle Redmond's recalcitrant soul, it appeared he'd have to be patient too.

  Still, the priest tried: "Tell me what task you have set for yourself so I can be of assistance."

  "I've got to do it myself." Lyle made himself sit up straighter. "He's coming." His voice was low. "It's about time, John Reilly keeps a close eye on me, the bastard. After he's satisfied himself, we can go into action."

  The two men turned to face the door, where Reilly seemed to suddenly appear, stringy and mean looking.

  "Want something, Reilly?" Lyle growled. "Maybe you need to be tucked into beddy-bye?"

  Reilly's cool gaze surveyed the rec room and then focused on the old man. "Anything I can get you, sir?"

  "You can get the hell out. And don't come back." Lyle made his voice menacing. "We've had this discussion before, pea brain. I don't want to see your ugly face again until morning. My priest comes to visit me, I expect privacy. What the hell kind of trouble can I get into with a priest, for God's sake?"

  Reilly blinked slowly. "Good night, sir." He nodded at the friar. "Father Michael." And he turned on his heel and strolled away.

  "You are still cursing," the priest pointed out.

  "I know. I'm trying to change a lifetime of bad habits all at once. Who would've thought it'd be so hard?" He sighed. "Reilly won't come back to check on me for an hour. Maybe more. How about that extra habit?"

  The priest stood and unfastened the twisted rope that was his belt. He pulled his long Franciscan garment up over his head and handed it to old Lyle. Beneath he wore a second habit. He adjusted the belt on it.

  Lyle stood up and took two keys from his bathrobe pocket. Father Michael held up the extra habit, and Lyle poked his head through.

  He felt the heavy cloth drop over him like a promise. Freedom. Redemption. Expiation. And then heaven. His heart fluttered with hope. "You got any questions about our plan?"

  "I understand it. I will do my part. Is there anything I can do for you before we leave?" He tied old Lyle's belt correctly and pulled the hood up over his white head.

  Lyle ran his age-spotted hands down his front, felt the coarse material, and wondered for a second what his world would've been if he'd stuck with the church. Inwardly he shook his head. He'd never had a taste for a reflective life. Even now at his advanced age when he was tired a lot and guilt plagued his spirit, he found contemplating it all difficult. Being a man of action made much more sense.

  "You got any money?" he asked.

  "I took a vow of poverty."

  "Figures." He straightened. He'd been in the wheelchair most of the evening because he was conserving strength. He walked slowly toward the door and turned off the lights.

  The priest put up his own hood, followed, and then passed him. He checked the hall. "I see no one."

  "You go. I'll count to ten." Lyle felt energy kick in. Or maybe it was fear.
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  As the priest turned right, Lyle waited and counted. It wasn't smart for anyone to see the two in their Franciscan habits together. At last he poked his head out and saw the priest vanish toward the lobby.

  Immediately he shambled left past the TV room.

  "Father Michael!" The voice that called trembled with age.

  Lyle froze. He could be in trouble. Quickly he gave up the idea of fleeing. No way could his feet move that fast. He tugged his hood low over his face and turned.

  It was Jed Coopersmith with his swollen ankles and guilt. He'd built a stock fund into a billion-dollar giant back when a billion was really worth something. Of course, he'd screwed employees, investors, and friends and family who became investors, but that was part of business.

  From his motorized wheelchair, Jed tugged on the old man's habit. "Hear my confession, Father. Please. I always sleep better."

  Lyle felt compassion for Jed, but he couldn't stick around. Father Michael was probably already out the door, and that pissant Reilly could head back in a moment to check on him. He had to get out of here.

  As they stood in the corridor, he laid a hand on Jed Coopersmith's shoulder. He gave his voice the formality of Father Michael's and tried to add that faint German accent. "My son, I have heard your confession many times, and I will hear it again another night. From past experience, I order twenty Hail Marys for your sins. Then you can sleep." Lyle pulled away.

  But Coopersmith wasn't finished. "Only twenty Hail Marys?"

  Immediately he understood. "Of course. You are right." Coopersmith wanted something commensurate with his guilt. "Fifty Hail Marys, say the rosary twenty times, and light a candle for Mrs. Miller." Mrs. Miller was in the infirmary with bronchitis.

  "That's a lot," Coopersmith decided with satisfaction. "But I can do it. I should've thought about Mrs. Miller myself." He began to mutter.

  Lyle turned the wheelchair and aimed Coopersmith back toward the TV room. As Coopersmith rolled away, Lyle slipped the key he'd stolen into the outside door and eagerly stepped into the frigid wind of the November night. He realized at the first blast he wasn't dressed warmly enough, but there wasn't a thing he could do about it now. Shivering, he moved stubbornly onward across the dark parking lot. His steps grew erratic in the cold. It seemed to pierce him to the core.

  He needed to get to the gate where the priest would pick him up. The lot was eerie with shadows, and the night air stank suddenly of rotting bones. Lyle shuddered, but he kept his gaze on the gate. He reminded himself the priest would meet him on the other side. Then they'd drive off safely through the bucolic development he'd built with guts and determination so very long ago. As he stumbled forward, his brain seemed to thicken. It all seemed as if it were yesterday—

  Inside the rambling building, Father Michael walked into the lobby. Peril seemed to close in from all sides. He felt a wave of dread. But he nodded casually to the woman behind the reception desk. John Reilly was sitting in a chair beside the door, a Playboy in his hand. Reilly was dangerous. Still, the priest couldn't lie to him. He decided not to look at him.

  But Reilly stood up and walked in front of him and stopped before the double glass doors. His hard, thin body was blocking Father Michael. He grabbed the priest's arm and dug his nails in.

  Father Michael stopped, ignoring the pain in his arm. He calmly raised his gaze. He refused to let himself cringe.

  Reilly demanded, "Mr. Redmond go to bed?"

  Suddenly the priest felt stronger. If he was facing one of Satan's minions, he knew with certainty he was the stronger of the two, because he had God at his side. Inwardly he felt peace descend upon him, and his choice to help Lyle Redmond not only made sense but grew imperative.

  The priest said truthfully, "Mr. Redmond left our meeting when I did."

  Reilly's gaze remained hard and intimidating, searching for a lie.

  The priest said, "Good night, Mr. Reilly."

  Reilly continued to search another few seconds. At last he stepped silently aside.

  Father Michael pushed through the doors and hurried across the bitter cold of the lighted drive. Instantly he was worried. The temperature had dropped below freezing. Old Lyle shouldn't be out in this. He hopped into his van. The motor started quickly, and he sped back toward the kiosk that guarded the nursing home's grounds.

  The priest said a prayer that Lyle would remain safe. No one ever really knew what was in the heart of another, but he sensed Lyle Redmond had finally crossed the Rubicon toward salvation. He desperately wanted the old man to live long enough to enjoy the fruits of it. And he hoped to be there to witness his deliverance.

  As he paused the van so the sentry could view him, a brown Chevrolet arrived and stopped on the other side of the kiosk. He could see the woman inside. She had gray hair pulled back severely into a bun.

  The sentry pushed a button, and the steel arm that blocked the priest's path lifted. As the sentry turned to question the gray-haired woman, Father Michael hit the accelerator and the van raced down the road. He needed to circle back and find old Lyle quickly. The temperature was still dropping.

  41

  9:02 PM, SUNDAY

  All the way up Interstate 95, the New Jersey Turnpike, and the Hutchinson River Parkway in the Keelines' Chevy, Julia had considered how she could get into the nursing home, because she suspected the security there had probably been alerted to watch for her. Still, despite the worry, another part of her was elated. She'd done what Orion had said was possible: She'd put herself under hypnosis, and by the time she'd slammed the accelerator and roared from the Romanov Theatre garage into the alley, she could see almost clearly again. She told herself that if she could do that, surely she could figure out how to get into the nursing home.

  She was going to beat them. She was going to find Maya Stern.

  She'd had a few driving mishaps at first. She'd knocked aside the trash cans at the end of the alley, but she'd quickly regained control and gotten the feel of the Chevy. She'd always loved to drive and soon found herself settling into the rhythm of it without much difficulty. Besides, driving again, if nervously, was a lot better than a black, sightless world with killers chasing her.

  Through Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey, she thought constantly about everything that'd happened over the last two days. It was beginning to make a horrible kind of sense. What most struck her was the alexandrite ring her grandfather Austrian had given her. Everything seemed to come back to the ring and Dan Austrian and the Redmonds—her blindness, the two packets that had brought Sam and her together, the murder of her mother, the killer Maya Stern, and ultimately the charges against Douglas Powers.

  The seemingly random events were coming together in an intricate mosaic of murder, politics, and greed.

  Because of the discovery of the pictures of her alexandrite ring, her mother's emerald earrings, and the jewel-studded box that sat in Lyle Redmond's retreat, she was now sure Daniel Austrian had to have been involved with the Second Himmler Treasure. Just as he'd given the earrings to her mother and the ring to her, he could've given the box to Lyle Redmond. Which meant it was increasingly likely Grandfather Redmond also knew what had happened to the Amber Room, and that led straight to Creighton, David, and Brice.

  And the Amber Room was at least one subject of the packet Sam received. It must not be who'd received the packets that'd been important, but what was in them. Vince had taken Sam's. He and Creighton were very close, which meant it could've been on Creighton's orders, or on Creighton's behalf, without any need for orders.

  The night of her debut something so traumatic had occurred that she'd gone blind and couldn't remember what it'd been. Creighton must know. That was the only explanation that made sense since he'd sent her to a psychiatrist who'd refused the one treatment—hypnosis—that might've helped her regain her sight and learn what had caused its loss.

  Creighton appeared again when she thought about the attack on Douglas Powers's reputation. More than anyone, Creighton would
gain if Powers lost. But it wasn't just Creighton. . . . She knew intimately how the Redmonds operated. Every family member in good graces would benefit, including Vince, who'd made no secret of his desire to lead the Central Intelligence Agency.

  In the end, Creighton and Vince had the wealth and contacts to hire the Janitors. And they could easily have managed to introduce Maya Stern as her companion.

  It made her head throb and her throat tighten, because now she guessed her mother's life had been sacrificed to her uncle's ambition, if not worse. And Sam and she were the next victims, as was Douglas Powers. It pained her to her core that her own family could be so vile. But she was also furious. Outraged. The betrayal and evilness were somehow worse because it came from her own family.

  She finally exited the Hutchinson River Parkway in Armonk and stopped at a gas station for directions. As she drove on through this dark up-country region of watershed wilderness, a plan formed in her mind to get into the nursing home without being recognized. It was dangerous and it might not work, but she had to try it.

  She was nervous and sweating when she reached the kiosk guarding the entrance to the nursing home's nighttime grounds. Across on the other side of the kiosk a green VW van with a Franciscan priest at the wheel paused to exit. As the van pulled away, the priest seemed to stare at her. Had he seen her before? She couldn't be certain, but she didn't think so as she eyed him in return.

  The priest drove away, and the voice of the guard snapped her out of her reverie.

  "Yes, miss?" He was muscular, somewhere in his mid thirties, with the bored expression of too many nights at an uneventful job. But she'd learned there was no safety for her anymore, and she could take no chances. No way would she identify herself as a relative of Lyle Redmond, much less reveal her own name. With her thick tortoiseshell framed glasses, her gray hair, and her drab, swept-back bun, she had to hope no one would recognize her.