The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  “Let me know when to pass under the proximity sensors,” he said.

  “Just one second,” Happy answered. Andrew could hear multiple people breathing heavily into open mics. “Now!”

  A bass-heavy who-ap-who-ap-who-ap sounded all around the men in the gallery. Faust and his underling locked eyes, their faces stern but guarded. A moment later the fake chime of the doorbell followed it up.

  “Get that,” Faust spat, then turned to Fletcher. “Any papers we need to fill out?”

  “No, I’ll close the file tomorrow morning,” Fletcher said, heading back up the hallway. “And don’t worry, your coverage will continue. Again, I apologize for this whole mess.”

  They arrived back at the front door.

  “I already told you, we don’t have any puppies,” the night guard was shouting. “You’re trespassing on private property and you’re publicly intoxicated. You have five seconds to get out of here.”

  “The Internets told me,” Dante slurred, “you had puppies.” He gasped and clamped a hand to his mouth. “Are you hurting the puppies?”

  The bigger man gave him a hard shove. “Leave.”

  “Fiiiiiiiiine,” Dante said, stretching his hands out at his sides. “I’m leaving.” He stumbled away into the growing darkness.

  “I’m leaving too,” Fletcher said. “You mind if I take this with me?” He held up the plastic bottle of water. Having wiped the glass of his prints, it was the only physical trace of his identity that remained.

  “Feel free.” Faust locked his eyes onto Fletcher’s. “What do you suppose happened to your colleague from earlier. Where was he?”

  Fletcher knew what Faust was trying to do, and it almost worked. He felt the unconscious pull—his eyes wanted to flick toward the back of the house where Andrew had been, but he overrode it. “No idea,” he said. “But I’ll be lodging a formal complaint with Ultima about him, and I suggest you do the same thing.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Are you hurting the puppies?” Happy recited from behind the wheel. “No, wait! The Internets!” The van erupted in laughter, the four of them high as they were on adrenaline and the thrill of a successful job.

  “I thought we were toast when you walked in on Belltower,” Dante said, shaking his head. “I had my doubts about you guys, but you really came through.”

  Andrew handed Dante another bundle of cash. “There’s an extra five hundred.”

  “Appreciate it,” Dante said, pocketing the money without counting it.

  “You earned it. But that squares us.” It was suddenly silent, save for the constant squeak of the van.

  “After the job tomorrow,” Dante said.

  Andrew’s smile remained on his lips but faded from his eyes. “There’s an extra five hundred there. For all you know, tomorrow’s job would have only paid four hundred. Let’s just call it quits, huh?”

  Dante pulled the cash back out and counted off five hundred dollars, tossing each bill to the floor as he went. “I’ll take my chances,” he said.

  He and Andrew glared at each other for a moment before Happy chimed in with, “So what did you pull from that safe?”

  The smile returned to Andrew’s face. “This,” he said, holding up the half-inch-thick satchel. The leather was slightly cracked at the bottom, and the whole thing was wrapped many times over with a leather cord.

  “So what’s in it?” Fletcher asked from the passenger seat.

  “No clue.” He reached past Dante and handed the package to Fletcher. “Boss said I was to send the take back with you, Fletcher, and that you should be the one to look inside. Said you’d need it for tomorrow.”

  “Guys, I don’t know,” Fletcher said. “I mean, this was fun, but there’s no way I can disappear another night without major consequences. I think I’m out.”

  Dante leaned up and reached for the satchel. “He’s out and I’m in,” he declared.

  Andrew grabbed him by the shoulders of his jacket and jerked Dante back into the captain’s chair. He landed hard, causing the chair to spin.

  Dante went with the momentum and grabbed two fistfuls of Andrew’s shirt. “If you ever touch me again . . .”

  “Guys!” Happy shouted. “Guys! Knock it off.” The two released each other and sagged their weight in their seats like pouting children. He dressed them down like an angry father on a family vacation. “Trick, we can’t give you the package. We do what the Alchemist says, and he says we give it to Fletch. Andrew, you know Trick fits our team like a pair of yoga pants, and he’s in on the take tomorrow. We’re gonna need him.” He turned his attention to his right. “And, Fletcher, if you try and back out now, you’ll wish you hadn’t. We’re all in deep here. Walking away isn’t an option.”

  Fletcher was relieved to find the duct tape still holding at the emergency exit. He had changed back into his street clothes in the van and was carrying only the satchel with him. Everything else—the briefcase, the suit, the gym bag full of supplies—he left in the van. Fletcher was unsure whether he should stash the take from tonight’s score in the file cabinet or keep it on his person. What he had decided was not to look inside. He had an enormous decision ahead of him, and looking at the contents of the leather case would make impartiality an impossibility.

  Using his cell phone as a flashlight, he crept over to the fireproof file cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. His pulse picked up. The leather-bound book he’d seen before was still there, but it had been turned upside down—or rather, right side up, so that Fletcher could read the words on the cover. Catalogue of Relics and Holy Vessels, the title read, over a red Maltese cross.

  He carefully hefted the book and opened the cover. Each page bore a number, the name of an item, and an ink drawing. Number 1 was a sword. Fletcher felt his knees go weak. He and Andrew had stolen that very sword, which had once belonged to Manuel Pinto da Fonseca, the Grand Master of the Knights of Malta. The buyer—someone Andrew had lined up—had paid eighty thousand dollars for it. The information listed in the book was sparse; Fletcher already knew far more, having studied the object at great length before stealing it. He turned the page.

  Number 2 was a monstrance. Fletcher looked all around, not feeling anyone watching him but convinced that someone must be. His neck suddenly felt hot and prickly. This was the Valletta Monstrance—the one he and Andrew had been trying to steal when Fletcher was caught, convicted, and locked away. Again, he knew the object only too well. Numbers 3 and 4 were also items that he and Andrew had stolen—a piece of gold that had allegedly been transmuted from lead in the Grand Master’s palace in Valletta and a four-hundred-year-old Greek New Testament.

  He flipped another page. Number 5 was the object he’d found in the altar two nights earlier. Finally, something he could learn about. “Sacred Septangle,” it was labeled. The only explanatory note read, “Auxiliary for the Great and Holy Relic and, with the sacred trowel, the key to obtaining same.”

  Could this get any weirder? He turned the page. It was blank. He turned again. And again. The rest of the book was empty, aged pages waiting to be filled in. Fletcher took a couple minutes to photograph the first seven pages with his cell phone, then stuffed the satchel into his waistband at the small of his back and let his T-shirt hang down over it. He needed time to process all this.

  He checked his watch. The forty-five-minute drive, plus the stop for gas and snacks, had added up. It was after ten, meaning the kids would all be brushing their teeth and preparing for another night on the sea of air mattresses. With any luck Fletcher could fall right in, answer a few questions about how he was feeling, crawl into bed, and reply to Meg’s slowly amassing mountain of texts.

  Quickly and quietly Fletcher mounted the steps and made his way down the hall, ready at any moment to hear Father Sacha’s voice, somehow comforting and accusatory at the same time. Or worse, an ambush by Brad, realizing he’d been conned and having reestablished his crosshairs on Fletcher. But he made it down the wide hall and around the corner without
incident. He was going to make it. A dozen boys were coming and going from the men’s sleeping quarters, toiletries in tow. He greeted a boy from his service group with a friendly nod.

  And then he saw Meg, sitting in a heap outside the door, eyes red and puffy, resting her head against a balled-up pair of sweatpants. She looked up at Fletcher, her eyes oddly empty, and said, “I’m glad you’re okay.” She rose and set off down the hall, back toward the old part of the church.

  Fletcher followed. “Meg, what’s the matter?” he asked. He had to work to keep up. “Will you talk to me? Look, I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts. It was just—”

  “Do you really want to do this, Fletcher?” They were in the vestibule, apparently a satisfactory distance from the mass of teenagers for Meg to raise her voice. “Because I was planning on going in there”—she pointed into the church proper—“and praying about whether or not I can even keep this up. It’s clear to me that I don’t even know you. You’re still conning me, aren’t you?”

  “Honey, no!”

  “No? I went up to check on you when we got back from Reno’s and—”

  “I told you not to do that.”

  “Well, I wanted to, because I love you and that’s what normal people do when they really love someone. And you know what I found?” He hadn’t noticed the bottle in her hand until now. “I found this in the trash, covered over with some paper towels.” She sloshed the contents around. “Some kind of stink juice or something. What are you, ten years old?”

  Contempt flashed over Fletcher’s face for a moment. He hated hearing Brad’s words from Meg’s lips.

  “Look, this is not something I chose, okay? I need you to trust me.”

  “Trust you?” She laughed a hollow laugh and tossed him the bottle, which he caught and retightened, just in case. “That looks like it took some planning, Fletcher. That’s not a white lie; that’s a con.”

  “This is not a con,” he said, trying not to sound condescending.

  “I think we need to go home.” She was looking past him. “Things were starting to go so well, but now everything’s falling apart, just like this trashy town. I should have known we couldn’t come back here. Let’s just go home, okay?”

  “I can’t,” he said. “But maybe you two should.”

  Meg took a step back, a sense of betrayal in her eyes. “If we leave you here, that’s it,” she said.

  Fletcher slumped at the shoulders. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “What have you gotten yourself into, Fletcher?”

  “Nothing! I didn’t do it! I didn’t choose it.” He heard his voice echoing off the stone walls and suddenly remembered his earlier success. Why did he keep letting his emotions get in the way? He gathered the angst in his chest and transformed it into charm. A familiar calm washed over him. If that move had a name, it would be called The Fletcher, he thought.

  “Look, honey,” he said, smiling.

  “Don’t.” He could hear the prelude to angry tears balling up in her throat. “I don’t want to see that stupid dimple.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t even know? When you smile for real, there’s no dimple. When you’re lying—when you’re faking—it appears. I hate that stupid dimple and I hate your lying and I hate this city.”

  “I’m so sorry, Meg. I—”

  “Just go to bed, Fletcher.” She disappeared through the double doors of the church, leaving him standing in the vestibule.

  “Look out for laser trip wires,” he said under his breath.

  CHAPTER 32

  APRIL 3, 1785

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Cardinal de Rohan had not slept in two days when he turned up at Cagliostro’s door. His wig was disheveled, his clothes and nerves ragged, and his thoughts full of ruin, exile, and the Red Widow—that merciless machine that had separated the heads from a mounting number of bodies and seemed to be only growing in appetite over the past few years. He knew all too well that neither his nobility nor his position in the church would protect him from her falling blade.

  The cardinal sipped the elixir his friend offered him, seeing the effects of his shaking hand in the liquid’s surface. He had arrived at Cagliostro’s home on Rue de St. Claude before five that morning, only to find the alchemist apparently on his way out, carrying a bundle of letters and dressed in a very fine iron-gray coat trimmed with gold lace, brilliant-red breeches, and a fine ruffled hat on which perched a long white feather.

  “My dear Louis,” Cagliostro had said, setting down his papers and guiding the cardinal to a chair. “Sit, please! I will fetch something for your nerves.”

  He had returned with the elixir, a balm for the cardinal’s hands, and a great deal of apparent concern.

  “What has happened to you?” he asked.

  “I fear I have been played for a fool,” de Rohan answered.

  “By whom?”

  “The Countess de LaMotte. She has been acting as an intermediary between the queen and my own person, carrying our letters back and forth. It was she who arranged our meeting in Versailles last year. Oh, how could I be so dense?”

  “What has she done?” Cagliostro leaned forward, his face full of empathy.

  “Some months back she informed me of the queen’s desire for a certain necklace, one worth two million livres. But the queen, she said, was hesitant to buy such a luxurious item during a time of need. And so I volunteered to carry out its purchase and to obtain the piece for Her Majesty, which I did.”

  “But do you have that much gold at your disposal?”

  “Not even a fraction! I arranged for payment to be made in five installments, the first of which was due a week ago. But the queen has not paid. The jewelers have been harassing me, threatening to go to Her Majesty, moaning that I have ruined them. The older man has twice threatened to end his own life at the gate of my palace.”

  The count pursed his lips in thought before saying, “It would seem the queen did not want the necklace after all,” as if this were some hidden kernel of knowledge that he had managed to divine. “Can you simply return it?”

  “If only I could! I gave it to the queen’s valet the day I signed surety for it. And now neither he nor the Countess de LaMotte is anywhere to be found, and I am done for.”

  Cagliostro placed a firm hand on the cardinal’s shoulder. “It sounds as though you have only one course of action open to you, my friend,” he said. “You must go to the queen, remind her of the intimate letters the two of you have traded, and insist that she abide by the terms of your agreement.”

  Rohan looked up at Cagliostro, his mouth agape. “I value your advice, old friend, but do you really think that would be wise?”

  Count Cagliostro smiled. “You’ve said yourself that the queen no longer bears you any ill will. This seems to be a simple misunderstanding. So tell me, what trouble could possibly come from an honest and forthright approach?”

  CHAPTER 33

  The burner phone awakened Fletcher early the next morning. Another text from the Alchemist. The van. Broadmoor and Willow. 30 minutes. Fletcher slammed the stupid phone against the ground. The battery had been on the verge of dying yesterday until Happy had helpfully charged it back up during their trip to the Hills. Fletcher gave it another, harder rap against the floor and assessed the damage. A small crack bisected the screen, but to his disappointment the display still worked, informing Fletcher that it was 6:40 a.m. That explained the messy rows of sleeping teenaged boys all around him. The wake-up bell wouldn’t sound for another twenty minutes.

  Fletcher had slept maybe four hours, and that fitfully. He was sagging on the air mattress, although not as much, as a fellow chaperone had loaned him a vinyl repair kit the night before. Still, he knew there was no more sleep to be had this morning so he rose and grabbed his bag. May as well get a shower in before the morning rush, he reasoned. He worried what damage the steam from the unventilated shower area might inflict on the satchel and its contents,
but he was not about to let it out of his sight. Once in the bathroom, he zipped his bag shut, wrapped it in a towel, and stuffed it under the bench outside his shower stall.

  Clean, clean-shaven, and wearing fresh clothes, Fletcher emerged from the men’s locker room feeling something of a separation between last night’s angry encounter and the day that lay ahead of him. Somewhere in scrubbing away the remnants of yesterday’s failures, Fletcher had determined to put an end to his involvement in the Alchemist’s schemes. They had Trick now, who was talented and eager to be involved; having replaced himself in the dynamic of the group, Fletcher would take his leave one way or another.

  In addition to severing ties with his criminal associates, Fletcher had determined to repair his relationship with his wife and reconnect with his God. He’d almost said a prayer in the shower to that end, but it seemed somehow foolish to take such a major step with a scalp full of shampoo when he could wait a few minutes and offer a proper prayer on a kneeler surrounded by sacred art and architecture.

  “Look up there. Is that a ladder?”

  Fletcher came to a stop. The voice came bouncing down a flight of stairs. It belonged to Courtney, and it came from an area of the church that had been deemed both off-limits and dangerous. He thought about calling her down from there and giving her a lecture on respecting the church and following the rules. Then again, that would make him a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t it? Besides, he’d managed to avoid interacting with Courtney since ignoring her texts, and he had no desire to land back on Brad’s list. He took another step toward the main sanctuary, then stopped again.

  “I bet there are bats.” It was Ivy’s voice. “No way I’m going up there.”

  Fletcher headed up the stairs quietly.