Fraternity of the Stone

by David Morrell

  He did have another option. If he couldn't go to the priest, the priest could come to him.

  11

  From the darkness of bushes beside the church, Drew peered across the street toward the rectory. Above him, light from within the church cast a glow through stained-glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross. Though the windows were closed, Drew heard the prayers of an evening mass, a priest's muffled voice intoning, "Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God... "

  The congregation joined in, "Give us peace."

  Drew's note had told Father Hafer to retrace the meandering directions he'd been given, returning to the rectory. But Drew had used a direct route to get here sooner. He needed to study various vantages on the rectory, to determine if anyone was watching it. A final precaution. After all, if a hit team had followed Father Hafer, one of its members might nonetheless have been left behind, a final precaution of their own. Only when Drew felt satisfied that the rectory was safe would he risk going forward with the rest of his plan.

  But after six years in the monastery, he'd forgotten that during the seventies the Church had relaxed its rules on obligating Catholics to attend Sunday mass - a Saturday-evening mass could take its place.

  And this was Saturday evening. With mass in progress, with parishioners' cars parked along the street of this well-to-do neighborhood, others pulling to a stop in front of the rectory, their motors running, their drivers apparently waiting to pick up worshippers when mass was completed, Drew found himself confronted with too many possible trouble spots. A match flared in a car down the street, a silhouette lighting a cigarette. Would a professional reveal his position that blatantly? Perhaps - if he wanted to seem like just another driver waiting for a passenger.

  And what about the woman on the steps leading up to the church? She hugged an infant in a pink knitted cap and soft-looking blanket, patting its back as she paced. Had she left mass early because the infant had begun to cry, disturbing the parishioners, and now she waited for her husband? Then why was the infant no longer crying? And given the frost that escaped from the woman's mouth, why didn't she wait in the vestibule of the church, where she and the infant could be warm?

  Too much to worry about.

  Worse, he knew that his suspicions would increase when mass ended and the parishioners came out. In the swarm of activity, he'd never be able to determine if the area was safe. His plan had depended upon his being able to reach the rectory before Father Hafer returned. The priest would be coming back any time, and Drew couldn't risk crossing the street.

  Unless. The mass, he decided. Instead of ruining his scheme, it might be a blessing. He turned and crept back through the bushes toward the side door of the church. In shadow, the door was thirty feet from the rear, adjacent to a sidewalk that allowed parishioners convenient access from the street behind it. He turned the iron latch, then tugged at the large oak door.

  It resisted, and for a moment, his heart pounding, he worried that the door was locked. He tugged it harder; it opened, creaking.

  His shoulders became rigid as he peered inside. He faced a concrete landing, its smooth plaster walls painted gleaming white. To his left, seven steps led up to a door behind which the service was being said - the main part of the church. Straight ahead, other steps led down to the church's darkened basement. And to his right, a third set of steps led up to another door.

  He climbed the steps to his right, gently trying that door. It wasn't locked; he hadn't expected it to be. The priest who not long ago had gone through here to prepare himself for mass would hardly have expected an intruder while he and his servers were at the altar. Even so, Drew had to be silent.

  Behind him, shuffling footsteps beyond the door to the main part of the church suggested that communion was now in progress, the congregation approaching the altar rail to receive the host. At once, from the church he heard the muffled strumming of guitars, a soprano singing the John Lennon-Yoko Ono tune "Give Peace a Chance," on occasion substituting "God" for "peace." Remembering the liturgical hymns that he and his fellow monks had sung at daily mass, Drew winced at the contrast. But at least the congregation was occupied, though now that he thought about it there were always a few impatient worshippers who left mass early, as. soon as communion was nearly finished. Any moment, someone might come through that other door from the church and see Drew sneaking into here. He had to hurry.

  He stepped through the opening, closed the door behind him, and studied the chamber that curved around behind the wall in back of the altar. This area was the sacristy, and it was here that the priest put on his vestments - the alb and cincture, chasuble and stole - before saying mass. Closets, cupboards, and shelves contained not only these vestments and others, but also altar cloths, candles, linen towels, incense, bottles of mass wine, and various other objects necessary for the many Catholic rituals.

  He'd been concerned that one of the priest's assistants might have come back here in search of some forgotten item, but the sacristy was empty. To his left, he saw the archway that led out to the altar, the twinkling candles that flanked the golden tabernacle into which unused consecrated hosts, contained by a chalice, would be locked. The space in front of the altar was deserted, the priest and his assistants still down at the rail, giving communion to the parishioners. The guitars kept strumming. The soprano must have had the Beatles on her mind - she'd switched to the verse of George Harrison's "Here Comes the Sun," but now the "sun" meant "Son" and was sometimes changed to "Lord."

  The sacristy was designed so that the congregation could not see into it through the archway. Confident of concealment, Drew opened several cupboards, at last discovering what he needed - a black, ankle-long cassock. He quickly put it on and secured the numerous buttons. Next, he chose a white, linen, hip-long surplice, pulling it over his head and down on top of the cassock. This combination of vestments was commonly used by priests who took the place of altar boys, assisting the celebrant of the mass.

  On a counter beside the sink, he found a formal head covering known as a biretta - a black square hat with three symmetrical ridges at the top and a pompom in the middle. On impulse, he also took a prayer book from a stack beside an incense burner. The fragrance of the incense, even unlit, suffused his nostrils.

  He stared toward the archway, hearing muffled footsteps cross the carpet toward the altar. He had to get out of here. Quickly returning to the door, closing it behind him, his chest tight, he caught a blurred glimpse of the priest and his servers arriving at the tabernacle now that communion was over. The guitars and the soprano mercifully stopped.

  He gently slipped the latch into place, turned to dart down the stairs to the landing, and froze when the door that led to the main part of the church creaked open.

  A red-haired man and a freckled woman backed out of the church, glancing inward - to the right, toward the altar - each dipping their right hand in a marble holy-water basin, making the sign of the Cross. They were too preoccupied leaving mass early to notice him, but the instant they closed the door and turned to start down the stairs, they straightened, seeing his vestments, and fidgeted with embarrassment.

  Drew lowered the hat to his side, holding the prayer book against the front of his surplice.

  "Oh, uh... Hello there, Father," the man whispered.

  Drew nodded soberly, his voice low. "My son. Escaping the benediction, are we?"

  "Well, yes, that is, you see, Father, we... "

  "Quite all right. No need to explain to me."

  The man and woman glanced at each other, relieved.

  "But you might explain to the Lord. I'm sure you've heard the parable about the guests who left the banquet early."

  They blushed until the woman's freckles were hidden and the man's face matched the color of his hair. "I'm sorry, Father." The man bowed his head.

  Beyond the door, Drew heard the priest intoning, "The mass is ended. Go in peace."

  He gave the man and wom
an a paternal smile. "But I'm sure you had what you thought was a valid reason. At least you came to mass in the first place."

  "As often as we're able to, Father."

  The door to the main part of the church came open, the congregation leaving.

  Drew raised his right hand in blessing. "The Lord be with you," he told the man and woman, then opened the door that led outside and motioned for the couple to go ahead of him.

  On the shadowy sidewalk next to the church, he exhaled frost in the chill October night and put on the hat. He started to say good night, but seeing that the man and woman were headed toward the front of the church instead of toward the street in back, he walked with them. Behind him, parishioners left the church, many of them heading in his direction. That was fine with him. The bigger the crowd, the better. He heard them talking about the sermon, about the weather, about Michael Jackson (whoever he was).

  "You must be new in the parish, Father," the woman said. "I haven't seen you before."

  "I'm here for just a few days, visiting."

  They reached the front of the church, where the bulk of the congregation streamed out the main doors, dispersing both ways along the street. Several cars started; traffic became congested. People clustered, talking. Perfect, Drew thought. If anyone was watching the rectory, so much commotion would be a distraction, and the one person who'd most blend with the scene would be a priest.

  "Well, good night, Father," the man said. "See you in church." He seemed to think he'd made a grand joke.

  When the man took the woman's hand, Drew assumed the proud look of a priest who'd just had the satisfaction of meeting a good church-going Catholic couple.

  He didn't change expression when, beyond the crowd and the procession of departing cars, he noticed Father Hafer approaching the rectory on the opposite side. The priest had his handkerchief to his mouth, coughing. With all the activity. Drew couldn't tell if the priest was being followed, but in a way, it no longer mattered. He'd done as much as he could, had taken as many precautions as he could invent. From now on, everything was out of his control, in the hands of God.

  No, you don't dare think that way, Drew warned himself. You can't presume to depend on God. The Lord helps those who help themselves.

  He crossed the street toward the rectory. For a moment, he had a desperate misgiving about having put on the white surplice over the cassock. In the lamp above the door to the rectory, the surplice would make a perfect target. His spine itched. He clutched the doorknob, turned it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

  But he wasn't in the rectory. Having been here before, he remembered that the rectory had a vestibule, a short narrow hallway that led to another door, the top half made of frosted glass beyond which pale light outlined the shadows of bulky furniture. A tiny lever projected from the middle of the door, just below the opaque glass, and Drew recalled from the last time that, if he turned the lever, a bell would be set off on the other side, a housekeeper soon arriving to let him in. If he decided not to ring the bell, he could simply open the door and enter, his assumption being that the door wasn't locked.

  But he did neither. Instead, he turned and watched the outside door and waited. In winter, this vestibule would prevent wind from penetrating the rectory's interior, though Drew couldn't help concluding that those drafts would be insignificant when compared with the bone-cold winters he'd spent in the monastery, where his only source of heat had been the logs the custodian brothers had brought to his cell for his wood stove. The custodian brothers. The hermits. Dead! All dead! A groan escaped from him. He suddenly realized that Father Hafer was taking too long, that the priest who'd celebrated the mass would soon be coming from the church and discover him here, a stranger pretending to be a priest, and raise an outcry when he recognized the vestments that Drew had stolen from the sacristy.

  Drew's pulse quickened as he heard the outside latch. He lunged behind the door as it swung open. A shadow appeared. Drew squeezed himself against the wall, feeling the pressure of the door against his chest. The shadow entered. And as Father Hafer shut the door, coughing, he found himself face to face with Drew.

  12

  "Father, I can explain."

  Father Hafer's eyes widened, dark, yet bright with anger.

  "You."

  Drew raised his hands. "I'm sorry. Honestly. If I'd realized you were sick, I wouldn't have - I'd have found another way - "

  "You!"

  "There isn't time. We have to leave. It isn't safe to talk here." Drew spoke in a rush, trying to calm the priest, to keep him from such an outburst of indignation that he'd attract concern in the rectory. "Believe me, I wish I hadn't made you walk so - "

  "Isn't time? We have to leave? It isn't safe?" Father Hafer glared. "What in God's name are you talking about? You've left the monastery. You've forced me to suffer through that charade with the note. Look at the way you're dressed. Have you lost your... " At once he halted, his role as a psychiatrist taking precedence over his other role as a priest. He seemed to recognize the mistake he'd made.

  "No, Father, not my mind. My soul perhaps." Drew gestured toward the traffic noises outside the door. "And if I'm not careful, my life. The monastery was attacked. All the monks are dead. I'm being hunted."

  Father Hafer's gray face turned shockingly pale. He stepped back, either revolted by what Drew had said or afraid to be within Drew's reach. "Dead? But that's impossible! Do you realize what you're saying?"

  "I told you there isn't time. We're both in danger. Whoever killed the others might be coming here. They might be here already."

  Father Hafer stared toward the door. "But this is madness. I don't... "

  "Later. I'll explain. But first we've got to leave. Do you know a place where we can talk? A place that's secure."

  Hearing a sudden noise, Drew whirled toward the inside door to the rectory. It opened, a tall, thin priest squinting out with concern.

  "Yes, I thought I heard voices." The priest studied the two of them, focusing on Drew's surplice and cassock, frowning as he became aware of the agitation on their faces. "Father Hafer? Is everything all right?"

  Drew's chest pounded. He kept his eyes on Father Hafer.

  Father Hafer seemed to hold his breath. He returned Drew's gaze, intense, debating, then swung toward the priest in the open doorway. "All right? No, not at all. I've just received the bad news about someone I've been counseling. I'm afraid I'll have to go back out again."

  Drew felt his stomach muscles relax.

  The priest at the door considered what he'd heard. "If you have to. Remember, Father, you're supposed to rest."

  "In time. But this matter can't wait."

  The priest at the door brought his attention back to Drew. "You must have come in a hurry that you didn't change your vestments after mass. What parish are you...?"

  Father Hafer interrupted. "No, it's better if he doesn't violate a confidence. You wouldn't want to be burdened with troublesome information."

  "Yes, that's true. I understand."

  "But" - distressed, Father Hafer turned to Drew -"perhaps the vestments can be taken off now."

  They stared at each other.

  PART THREE

  GUARDIAN

  RETREAT HOUSE

  1

  "No. Surely not. All of them?" Father Hafer's voice cracked.

  Drew sat across from him, assessing. The priest appeared to believe, and yet to fight against believing, as if having first suspected that Drew had lost his sanity, he now was frantic to protect his own by questioning the unacceptable, the unendurable.

  "None - God help us - survived?"

  "I didn't check every cell. There wasn't time. It wasn't safe. But in the ones I did check... and in the kitchen where I found the two custodians who'd been shot. See, at first the vespers bell didn't ring. Then it did, but later than it should have. That's how I know that the others are dead."

  "I'm not sure I -"

  "Habit. If any monk survived, he couldn'
t have known that the others were dead. When he felt the summons of the bell, he'd have automatically gone to the chapel."

  "And?" Father Hafer seemed to want to add "escaped."

  "Been executed. I didn't hear any shots, but the guns would have been equipped with silencers. Then, too, I have to assume that the team had garottes."

  Father Hafer stared at Drew as if the word "garottes" came from an unintelligible language. With the shock of sudden comprehension, his face contorted. He leaned forward in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and moaned. "May God have mercy on their souls."

  2

  They were in an apartment on the fifteenth floor of a glass-and-chrome building. Father Hafer had parked the rectory's station wagon in an underground garage, then taken Drew in an elevator to the private entrance of this unit.