“Sorry you’re missing out on all the action,” Carl said, stroking her hair as he stood behind her.
She reached for his hand and squeezed it tightly. “The last time I looked,” she replied, “the action was all right here … Ah, good. I got her.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she sent off an instant message:
[Hey, girl. What’s up?]
Shaneesa’s response came back right away:
[Some powerful white man named Tom something went and offed hisself. Otherwise just the usual slow news day. And you?]
[Just waiting for you to talk to me, sweet thing.]
Carl leaned forward anxiously as he stared a the screen, awaiting this supremely gifted hacker’s reply.
[Got two items for you. First, I’ve deciphered the aforementioned tat,
bienvenue
. Searched all over and the word itself led to one giant dead end. Started playing around and finally figured out it’s a basic letter-number code. Each letter of the alphabet corresponds with its numeral value: A being 1, Z being 26. He then encrypted it by reversing it, so that instead of B being 2 it’s 25, and so on. You told me he was flyin’ the coop, so I concentrated on that. When they run, there’s usually money involved. Turns out it’s an account number for an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands. Your computer-age version of ye olde Swiss bank account. Account was opened four days ago. And, check it out, five million dollars was just transferred in. Phat, no?]
“Looks like Harry set himself up with a nice little retirement fund,” Carl said.
“Only somebody else had a different way of defining the word
retirement
,” Amanda concurred.
“Damn!” Carl blurted out. “What did he
know
?”
“Too much,” she replied. “Everything. Who hired you. Who was behind all this. He knew five million dollars’ worth.”
Their eyes met and then Amanda’s fingers flew to the keyboard. Shaneesa’s response to her typed-in question was instantaneous.
[Give me some credit, girl! Am already undertaking the highly difficult search for where/who the $$$ came from. I figured that would be of some interest to inquiring minds.]
[Take all the credit you want. But while you’re at it, see who bankrolls Astor Realty Management on Amsterdam Ave. in NYC. What’s item number two? Dish me.]
[Received a VERY strange e-mail. And believe me, it’s only because I owe you my life that I haven’t moved on this yet in a professional capacity. Decided I’d give you 24 hours. You’ve already used up 14 of ‘em.]
[What did it say?”
[Am forwarding. Take care, girl. And best regards to Mr. Right. He’d better be worth it.]
Amanda failed to respond, prompting Carl to nudge her on the shoulder. “Don’t you think you should answer her back? Something like, ‘He sure is’ or ‘Damned straight’?”
“I’m receiving now, big guy,” Amanda said pointedly.
“What is this, ham radio? Since when can’t you send and receive at the same time?”
“Oh, hush, will you? Here it is …”
They read it together in rapt silence.
[Date: Wednesday, July 13 7:34 AM EDT
From: [email protected]
Subject: This is not a prank
To: [email protected]
Dear Ms. Perryman - I have been reading the news on-line since I have been here, with keener interest than you can possible imagine. I happened to read your extremely heartfelt article about your editor and friend, Amanda Mays. After considerable deliberation I have decided to reach out to you. You seem like a sincere and moral person, a loving Christian person. I have to trust someone, so I am trusting you. You will possibly think me to be some form of lunatic or crank. I assure you that I am not. May be wrong with what I’m about to say, but please believe me, I am deadly serious. And quite certainly at great risk.
Just as your friend and her companion Carl Granville are.
If you are not in touch with them, please ignore this message. Do not attempt to contact me or find me. I will be gone. But if by some chance, any chance, you know how to reach Ms. Mays or Mr. Granville, you MUST get word to them at once.
I have reason to believe that President Adamson’s death was brought about by a dangerous and high-reaching political conspiracy. There is more to his suicide than anyone currently realizes. I am not even sure we should call his death a suicide. Murder might be a more accurate way of putting it. But that particular discussion will have to wait for a later time, when we have the luxury of calm reflection. Right now, we have no such luxury.
I have been told some deeply disturbing things. Because I was told them in sacred confidence I cannot share them with you. I can only tell you that it is vital I make contact with Granville.
You mentioned in your article that he has been ghostwriting a political memoir. A prominent New York editor is suddenly murdered and the finger of blame is immediately pointed at him. He flees to Washington, D.C., so as to seek the help of Miss Mays, a journalist. Her home is promptly destroyed and an FBI agent is found murdered. Once again the finger of blame is immediately pointed at Carl Granville, a talented young author, an Ivy League basketball star, a promising young man with no criminal record. Does this not strike you as strange?
Believe me, it would if you knew what I know.
I know too much. And I believe that Carl Granville and your friend Amanda Mays know too much as well. That is why he has become a hunted animal. Because they cannot let him stay alive. He is capable of ruining everything for them.
If I can see them, I can help them. And they can help me. Possibly we can save each other from this awful predicament we face.
Possibly it is not too late.
Please, if you are in contact with them, tell them I am at the Retreat of St. Catherine of Genoa, located near Paint Gap in the mountains outside of Asheville, North Carolina. I will be here for only one more day. I must keep moving. And searching for answers.
If your friends need more convincing, please tell them these two things: I know about the manuscript he was writing. And I know about Gideon.
If those two statements mean nothing to them, this e-mail should be completely ignored. And erase it immediately from your computer, Ms. Perryman. It is not safe to leave in there. Not safe for me, not safe for your friends, and probably not even safe for you.
Thank you for your consideration. Sincerely yours, Father Patrick Jennings]
Amanda stared a the screen for a long moment. “It’s the missing priest from St. Stephen’s Cathedral,” she said, her voice a hushed whisper. “The one whose car was found by the Potomac.”
“He knows.” Carl gripped her shoulders tightly. “He actually knows what’s going on.”
“How could he?” Amanda asked.
“How do priests know anything personal?” Carl said.
“Oh, my God.” The words came out slowly. “He confessed.” She turned in her chair to face him, her green eyes searching his face. “Adamson confessed! What should we do?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “we should follow Luther’s instructions and turn off the machine.”
“And then?”
“And then we put the pedal to the metal all the way to Paint Gap, North Carolina.”
* * *
It was just past four A.M. when the Challenger jet descended and made a smooth landing at the Asheville Regional Airport, situated on the southern outskirts of the lovely old North Carolina spa town.
The Closer had changed half an hour before the wheels touched the runway.
It was not a difficult change. Changing physically—clothes, hair, appearance—was never difficult for the Closer. Padding could be added or subtracted to alter weight. Hair could be colored, combed, and cut. Posture was easy to manipulate. Uniforms were easy to buy and so extraordinarily effective. People were definitely cowed by uniforms—police, military, even UPS. Voices were easy, too. Had been since childhood. It was
all
easy physically. The Closer could leave a conversation in a crowded room go into any quiet room with a mirror, stay no more than fifteen minutes, return to the same room, and carry on the same conversation—completely unrecognizable.
It was a skill. Nothing to be particularly proud of. Just something useful.
Mentally, though, that was a different thing.
It was harder to change mentally. To
become
another person. To act differently, think differently.
Feel
differently. That was not a skill. That was an art. That was talent. That was, the Closer believed, genius. Part of that genius was understanding people. And understanding yourself. Not just the person you were but the person others wanted you to be. In the Closer’s profession, it was a very useful realization: People saw what they wanted to see, believed what they wanted to believe. Particularly when they were in love, whenever their God was involved, or when they were about to die.
And so, once again transformed, the Closer strode down the steps of the plane into the coolness of the Smoky Mountain predawn, moving somewhat stiffly in the unfamiliar outfit. It was rather constricting, particularly at the throat. But there was no disputing its effectiveness. There were only a handful of people to be found in the terminal at this hour, but those who took note of the Closer were instantly respectful. The elderly redcap who was out front at the curb even went so far as to tip his hat and ask the Closer if he might be of any small service whatsoever. The Closer declined, treating him to a kindly smile.
The Closer felt sure it was kindly, having practiced it in the Challenger jet’s lavatory mirror for several minutes while dressing.
A rental car, a white Toyota Celica sedan, was waiting for the Closer in the short-term parking lot, unlocked, the keys under the front seat. Lord Augmon’s people had made the arrangements. That was one of the pluses of working for him. So was the peerless intelligence work. When the Closer had boarded the jet in Oxford, Mississippi, a file had already been prepared containing Father Patrick Jennings’s detailed life story, a list of his closest confidantes, and most significant, his cellular phone records, complete with the corresponding name and address of each party he had called in the twenty-four hours leading up to his disappearance. Lord Augmon happened to own a substantial interest in the cellular phone service that the priest subscribed to. Lord Augmon happened to own a substantial interest in all of the major cellular phone service—with the exception of one, which he owned outright.
The Closer had taken over from there. It was the Closer who had zeroed in on Cardinal O’Brien. It was the Closer who had instructed the pilot to head for Baltimore’s BWI airport. It was the Closer who had found out that the cardinal liked to take a walk in the basilica every night before bedtime. An extremely nervous, extremely bent young priest named Father Garry had been the Closer’s confidential source. His body would be found later that morning not more than twenty feet from the cardinal’s, the gun that had killed Cardinal O’Brien gripped in Father Gary’s own lifeless right hand—the Closer having used that same gun to blow a hole through the roof of Father Gary’s mouth. The autopsy would show that it had been fired at point-blank range. It would also show that Father Gary had experienced an ejaculation shortly before his death. Traces of his semen would be found on the cardinal’s tongue and lips, as well as smeared across the palm of the old man’s right hand and several of his fingers. A small but critical sample of Father Gary’s pubic hair would be found entwined in his sleeve.
God, as the Closer humbly believed, was indeed found in the details.
It would go down as a murder-suicide. The Closer felt quite certain of this, having used a similar technique two years before to eliminate a recalcitrant federal appeals court judge in St. Louis. Lord Augmon had felt that the judge was behaving in an unreasonable manner. Something to do with an antitrust case. The Closer did not recall the specifics or care about them.
The Closer climbed into a rented Toyota, adjusted the driver’s seat for more legroom, and flicked on an interior light. After spending a long moment studying the area road map, the Closer started up the engine and steered the white Celica out of the airport and onto Highway 26, heading north toward the Blue Ridge Parkway, the famous scenic mountain road that would twist and turn its way around Mt. Mitchell and eventually lead to someplace called Paint Gap.
* * *
It took them one hour to reach Memphis on Highway 61 and five more long hours before they hit Knoxville, streaking due east on Highway 40 in the moonless wee hours of the night. In addition to every other bell and whistle known to Detroit, the Suburban came equipped with a highly sophisticated radar detector. This was a good thing. They could not afford to be stopped for speeding.
Or for anything else.
They pulled in once at a rest stop not far from Nashville to fill the Suburban’s not-quite-bottomless gas tank and themselves with hamburgers and coffee. At Knoxville, Highway 40 dipped south into North Carolina. Asheville, home to Thomas Wolfe and the colossal Vanderbilt mansion Biltmore, was another hour after that.
Thanks to the light traffic and Carl’s heavy foot, they arrived shortly before 5 A.M. A sleepy young attendant at an all-night convenience store gave Amanda the directions to Paint Gap. It was just becoming light out as they got on the Blue Ridge Parkway. The climb to Mt. Mitchell, the highest point in the eastern United States at 6,684 feet, was breathtaking. The scene with laurel, azalea, myrtle, and rhododendron. Down below, where there were streams, an early morning mist hung in the still air. A red-tailed hawk circled slowly over the mist in search of its breakfast.
Amanda shut off the air-conditioning and rolled down the windows. The mountain air was cool and clean and mercifully dry after the Mississippi delta. It smelled of fresh pines. “This may be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice hushed with awe.” I’d like to come back and stay for about a year.”
“I’d like to come with you,” he said smiling at her.
The momentary feeling of safety and solitude, as well as the dawn silence, was pierced by a shrill, high-pitched ringing. The sound was so unexpected, so jarring, that it took Carl a moment to realize what is was: