The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  “They’re getting him ready for surgery.”

  “I’ll only take a minute.”

  The policeman opened the door. “This is the minister. He wants just a moment with the patient. That possible?”

  A severe-looking woman in scrubs double-checked an IV and nodded. “We’ll be wheeling him into surgery in literally one minute. Be quick.” She closed the door behind her.

  Dante stepped up to the old man on the cart, his Oxford button-down ripped open, his undershirt cut away, and layers of gauze taped to his chest. “I’m so sorry,” Dante said. “If I live through the day, I’ll make it right somehow.”

  Fletcher had told him to look for rings first and foremost, and he immediately hit pay dirt, finding a ring on Belltower’s right hand bearing a blue stone cut into a seven-sided shape. With some difficulty he wriggled it off the man’s finger, offering several sorries in the process.

  With a sudden grab, Belltower was squeezing Dante’s hand.

  “Lord, help this man,” he prayed. “Save this man.”

  The door opened behind him, and two men and a woman entered the room, all but shoving Dante out of the way. They unplugged and gathered a number of tubes and wires and, in a matter of seconds, Dante found himself alone in the room.

  He called Fletcher, waiting back in the van. “I got the septangle, but not the other thing,” he said.

  “Was it in a ring?”

  “Yeah, but he only had one.”

  “Probably a pin, then,” Fletcher said. “Was he wearing his jacket?”

  “No,” Dante said, eyes searching the room. Under a chair in the corner, he saw a plastic bag labeled PERSONAL ITEMS. Belltower’s navy jacket was on top. Pulling it from the bag, he held it up by the shoulders. “Nothing on the lapel,” he said.

  “Look inside. Members of secret societies often do that.”

  “Got it,” Dante said, reaching into the interior pocket and finding the pin fastened there. It was the likeness of a block of stone, its edges rough and unfinished. He slipped it into his own pocket and left the room, again vowing that he’d return these items and praying that William Belltower would make it out of surgery alive.

  Ivy could hear someone moving around outside the door again. She’d been pacing, but now she stopped and put her ear to the door. She had to pee awfully bad, but she wouldn’t use the bucket the man with the scar had slid to her. She wasn’t an animal, after all. She needed to get him to come back in. And then she needed to get past him somehow, so she could escape and rescue her friend.

  She reached into her pocket and removed one of the small glass bottles. She wrapped it many times over in toilet paper and placed it in the bottom of the bucket. Then she began to stomp on it. The third time her heel made impact, the bottom half of the bottle shattered. She carefully withdrew the top half and held it in her fist, the mouth of the bottle up near her thumb and the jagged broken end protruding out the bottom. She thought of the sudden ferocity that had marked the victor in every fight she’d seen at the Worst School in America. She needed that.

  She would hold the weapon behind her back while looking small and scared. And when the man got close enough, she would give him another, much bigger scar.

  CHAPTER 63

  As Happy’s van pulled up to the Church of St. John the Baptist, all the church vans were pulling out, having successfully completed a life-changing week of work camp. Fletcher ducked down at the sight of their own church’s van heading home, short three chaperones and two campers.

  He pulled the van up to the curb where the stone path began, leading through the garden and up to his makeshift entrance.

  “Meg, take the wheel,” he said. “We may need you to pick us up in front. I’ll call you.” He and Dante leapt from the van and ran up the path and into the church. They climbed a flight of stairs and quickly made their way through the double doors and up to the sanctuary.

  The nave was empty. Before Fletcher even thought to mention it, Dante had walked right through the space where the aerosol can had revealed laser trip wires earlier in the week.

  “Don’t—” He reached out with both hands, but it was too late.

  “What?” Dante asked, looking down at himself.

  “Nothing. Let’s just do this quick.” Fletcher slid quickly under the altar and pulled back the levers as he had before, remembering to pull his head off to the side to avoid a collision with the drawer as it ejected. He grabbed the cloth-encased septangle and opened the flap on his bag.

  “Hello again.” The voice belonged to Father Sacha, who had come up from behind them through the vestry.

  Fletcher momentarily deflated. “Father Sacha. I’m sorry I don’t have the luxury of time right now. I’ll bring this back. But right now I need it.”

  “I’ve missed you the past couple of days, Fletcher,” Father Sacha said as if greeting a truant parishioner at mass. He nodded toward Dante. “And I believe I know you. A neighborhood minister, no?”

  Dante nodded.

  “And what have we here?” The priest gestured toward the altar relic in Fletcher’s hand.

  “They have my daughter. I have no choice.”

  “Are you ever going to ask for my help, Fletcher?”

  That’s when he noticed that Father Sacha’s cuff links were Maltese crosses.

  Andrew approached the abandoned office building in Dante’s classic Mustang, which he was beginning to rather like. He pulled right up to the back door, threw the car into park, and jogged to the entrance, slapping it with his palm.

  A man appeared from around the corner wearing black military gear and a scar on his right cheek.

  He did a double take at the sight of Andrew through the glass door. He pushed it open, demanding, “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the marks.”

  “Where’s the boss, Manny?”

  “Right where he said he’d be. Why?”

  Andrew stepped into the building. Manny placed his hand on the holstered pistol on his hip.

  “Why’d you kill Happy?” Andrew demanded.

  “I didn’t. Lorenza did.”

  “But I told you his safety was your responsibility.”

  Manny shrugged. “You shouldn’t have let him get so close.” His eyes dropped to the faux snakeskin fanny pack around Andrew’s waist. “What are you doing here?” he asked again, unsnapping the retention strap on his sidearm.

  “I just had to show you this.” Andrew unzipped the fanny pack.

  Manny laughed. “Look at that thing. Whatta you got in there? Confetti? Glitter?”

  “We call it the Happy Zapper.” Andrew pulled the node from the pack and shoved it into Manny’s neck. The bigger man spasmed and fell to his knees, grappling for his gun, then slumped. The high whine of the battery recharging filled the room.

  “It’s not very stealthy,” Andrew conceded, sending another load of electrical current through him—this time in the ear. “You know, because you’ve got all these batteries to lug around.” He patted the fanny pack.

  Manny was twitching on the ground, white froth spilling from his mouth.

  “You kill my friend, you kidnap my partner’s daughter, and you think I’m just going to go along with it?” He pulled the pocket of the fanny pack open with one finger and checked the charge indicator. “I appreciate your patience,” he said. “Takes a minute to recharge, but this last one should stop that shriveled black heart of yours.”

  Father Sacha sat on the front pew. “You’re looking for the Great and Holy Relic, I presume. Or are you just after the diamonds?”

  “Both, kind of,” Dante said.

  Father Sacha smiled at this. “They were hidden by a predecessor of mine nearly a hundred years ago, the diamonds being an unwelcome reminder of what has gone wrong with the order and the cloth too great a temptation to alchemy.” He paused and thought, pursing his lips. “I can make some calls,” he said, “and have a dozen Knights of Malta—true Knights—here in a few hours.”

 
; “We’ll pass,” Dante said. “We’ve got enough creditors expecting the diamonds.”

  “I’m unconcerned with the necklace,” the priest said, “but we must keep Fonseca’s successors away from the Holy Cloth of the Apostle.”

  “But aren’t you all on the same team?” Fletcher asked.

  “Define team. This is a struggle that goes back hundreds of years. In the beginning the priests held precedence. We only took up arms to defend pilgrims from raiding parties. Then the fighting men took over, and we priests were only kept around to bless the conquest. My ‘team’ wants to undo the damage we’ve done. We will have men before sundown.” He rose from the pew.

  “That might be too late for Ivy,” Fletcher said.

  “I will relay the urgency. In the meantime, do what you need to do. And be careful with that.”

  “What about the necklace?” Fletcher asked.

  “That cursed thing was forged in avarice and adultery and quickly branched out to the other deadly sins. In two hundred and fifty years it has never been the legitimate property of anyone. I’ll trust you to finally do some good with it.”

  “I will,” Fletcher said.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Manny was very dead—back arched, eyes bulging, mouth frozen in a final, silent scream. His gun lay six feet away, where he had thrown it while trying to draw while simultaneously grounding an enormous amount of electricity. Andrew riffled through his pockets until he found a ring of keys. Only one of them looked like it might open an office door. But which door? There were six in view and probably another twenty in the building.

  He approached the first one cautiously. The most direct approach would be to knock or even to shout Ivy’s name. But he was not sure where Lorenza was. Perhaps she was waiting behind one of these doors herself. She was deadly and a little touched, and she made Andrew very nervous. Best to keep this as quiet as possible.

  The first door he tried was unlocked and the room empty. Same for the second. He approached the third door silently and gave the knob a twist. It didn’t move. The key slid in easily and turned. He held the Happy Zapper at the ready and gave the door a push.

  A few feet away stood Ivy, hands behind her back, fear and confusion all over her face. Andrew hadn’t seen her since her sixth birthday, but she was unmistakably the same person. He took a step toward her.

  “Ivy, it’s me,” he said. She was quivering. He took another step. “Remember me?”

  With sudden speed, she reared back, wielding something jagged and shiny, eyes wide and crazy.

  “Nonono!” Andrew said. “Don’t you know me?”

  She froze there for two seconds, poised to strike, the bottle in her hand shaking. Then she dropped it. She wrapped her arms around his neck and began crying into his shirt.

  He picked her up and carried her out of the room, past Manny’s corpse and out to the Mustang.

  “How about we get you to your dad?” he said.

  “Whoa,” she said, loosening her grip on his neck and wiping her eyes. “Uncle Andrew, you have a cool car!”

  “It’s all right.”

  CHAPTER 64

  I want to help,” Meg said. “What good am I in the van?”

  “They don’t let women in the lodge,” Fletcher said. “You want to do something useful? Pray.”

  “I look like an idiot,” Dante spat. He was wearing a tuxedo and a large white turban Meg had fashioned from a bedsheet, which had turned out more convincing than any of them had thought it would.

  “Hit me with the Middle Eastern accent,” Fletcher said.

  “Something like thees?” Dante asked.

  “Good enough.”

  They walked the block from the van to the lodge in silence and hoisted the large brass knocker, giving the door two solid strikes as Faust had earlier.

  The man with the little revolver and big machismo answered. “Yes?”

  “It is I,” Dante said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Dante pulled open his jacket, displaying the ring and the pin. “Arcana Arcanorum,” he said.

  The old man’s face lit up. “Secreto Secretorum,” he said, extending his hand. Dante stepped back and stared as if the outstretched hand were a dead rodent.

  Fletcher sighed impatiently. “The Grand Kophta and High Priest of Egypt does not take part in the secret grips with men of a lesser degree.”

  “The Grand Kophta? But I’ve met him.” He glanced at Dante’s turban. “He’s from North Carolina.”

  “The figurehead, yes,” Fletcher said, annoyed. “This is our true leader, the highest master of our Rite and secret successor to Count Cagliostro, and you are offending him by leaving him standing on the stoop like a beggar.”

  The old man took a step back into the lodge, his face frozen in puzzlement, and waved the two men in. “Of course,” he said, “the Grand Kophta. Welcome! My name is Sheridan Chambers.”

  “I’m afraid this is not a social visit,” Fletcher said. Two men appeared in the foyer from one direction and three more from another. “We fear that your lodge has been compromised. A man was here this morning. Very pushy, trying to gain unauthorized access to the lodge.”

  “I think I know who you mean.”

  “He was . . . purple.”

  “Yes!”

  “You have no doubt seen this man before. He told you his name was Julian Faust. However, he was born Angus McCullum. He is a thirty-third degree Mason of the Scottish Rite and is trying to steal the secrets of our ancient and primitive order to further his own vulgar lodges.”

  The growing number of men in the room gasped and murmured angrily to one another.

  Fletcher let his eyes drift from face to face. “We believe he may have hidden a listening device somewhere in the lodge. Could you show us where he generally goes when he visits?”

  “He spends most of his time with William Belltower, our Master Mason, in the parlor. Although they do like to visit the wine cellar. Belltower is something of a connoisseur.”

  Dante emitted a stream of gibberish.

  “The Grand Kophta would like to see this cellar,” Fletcher said.

  “Of course.” He led the two of them down a winding staircase to a room packed full of overstocked wine racks.

  Fletcher took it all in.

  “These over here are for everyday use,” the old man said, gesturing to his right, “and these are for special occasions. They’ve been cataloging these.”

  The wine racks in question were seven feet tall and filled with dusty bottles. Then Fletcher saw a small section with little dust. He pulled the bottles down, two at a time, setting them on the floor. “Look here,” he said, reaching behind the rack and pulling out a curious object. It was cast silver, Fletcher thought, and looked like a highly decorative coal shovel, consisting of a short seven-sided handle about an inch around and a scoop made to resemble a wide scallop shell, into which were etched the likenesses of a bee and a locust.

  Chambers stood back, slack-jawed. “The sacred trowel! That is a sacred artifact of our lodge,” he said, anger rising in his voice. “It was displayed for more than a century in an ebony case in the Great Hall until it went missing about two years ago.”

  Dante let loose with another barrage of gibberish. Fletcher bowed shallowly at him.

  “The Grand Kophta would like to have this piece analyzed to help us find and neutralize the threat to our ancient Rite. We will return with it within the week.”

  Chambers nodded, his anger still smoldering.

  “We thank you for your hospitality and cooperation,” Fletcher said.

  They mounted the stairs as quickly as possible without arousing suspicion and were out in the late-afternoon sun within a minute, artifact in hand. As they descended the concrete steps to the street, Fletcher whispered, “I know where the necklace is.”

  He felt his phone vibrating and pulled it out. CALL FROM THE ALCHEMIST.

  “Hello.”

  “What happened to the pho
ne I gave you?”

  “It was sort of bugging me.”

  “My patience is at an end, Mr. Doyle. It is now four forty. You have until five forty to bring me what I want or I will kill your daughter.” The line went dead.

  “We’ve got one hour,” Fletcher said. “We can make it.”

  His phone rang again—a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Who’s this?” he said.

  “Have a look to your right.” It was Julian Faust. “Do you see that lovely young lady?”

  Standing perfectly still on the sidewalk thirty yards away was Meg, a red dot hovering on her chest. She looked up at Fletcher, eyes red, and mouthed I’m sorry.

  “Walk toward her,” Faust said. “Both of you.”

  As Fletcher and Dante drew near, they could see the source of the laser dot. It came from under the half-open garage door of an abandoned transmission shop.

  “Come to me, all three of you,” Faust said. “Try anything funny and I’ll kill her.”

  “I should have stayed in the van,” Meg said as they approached the dark building.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Fletcher said.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” They ducked under the garage door and into the darkness.

  Andrew led Ivy through the church doors and into the nave. “We’ll find your dad in here.” But it was empty save for two older women on kneelers, praying. They trekked from one side of the building to the other, glancing into every room and hall. “It’s okay, Ivy. We just got desynchronized, that’s all. I’ll call him.”

  CHAPTER 65

  It took Fletcher half a minute to adjust to the low light. Faust closed the garage door and turned his pistol on the three of them.

  “I suppose I just conned the con men,” he said, tossing a small novelty laser pointer to the ground.