The Fraternity of the Stone (48 page)

He heard footsteps scrape on the concrete stairs over there. The sounds were unsteady, slow. He grimaced, aiming, unable to see who was coming down.

A shoe appeared. Then another. He steadied the Mauser. Dark trouser legs came into view. Drew squinted down the Mauser's sights. The footsteps paused.

A man spoke. His voice, though husky, was weak. "Drew? Are you all right?"

The Slavic accent was unmistakable. Father Stanis-law.

"All right?" Drew exhaled with nervous relief. "I suppose so."

The priest coughed. With painful slowness, he came down the rest of the stairs. His left arm was in a sling. His right hand clutched a pistol. Wavering, the priest leaned back against a wall and took several deep breaths.

"But you don't look all right." Drew stood.

"How do they say it on television. It's only a superficial wound? Don't believe the 'only' part." Father Stanislaw winced. "Even with sedatives, it hurts."

Drew had to grin. "I thought you Poles were supposed to be tough."

Father Stanislaw forced himself to stand straight. "Believe me, we are. If you've ever eaten pierogies, you know how tough I mean."

Drew's grin broadened.

But he didn't let his growing affection for this man distract him from being practical. He glanced toward the men he'd shot. One lay as still as before. The other continued to clutch his stomach, groaning. He searched them and took their guns. Then it seemed all right to cross the room and help the priest.

But Father Stanislaw mustered his strength and approached Drew's side of the hall, motioning to Drew to stay where he was. "I made it this far on my own. I don't need any help."

"How did you get here?"

"Arlene called the townhouse. With another phone number and instructions to find its location."

"I know. I asked her to."

"I was awake when she called. I insisted on talking to her. She told me what had happened while I was asleep. Then I insisted on coming back here with her. My friend, you tried to accomplish too much by yourself."

"I had no choice."

"Perhaps. But recent events" - Father Stanislaw ges-

tured toward the men on the floor - "prove that I was right."

"Arlene." Drew whispered her name. "Where is she?"

"Outside, watching in case these three weren't alone. When we got here, we realized that we couldn't enter the building without alarming you. So we decided to act as your surveillance team. We saw three men enter, one on the side, two upstairs through two different doors. It seemed obvious that they were planning to use the first man as a decoy and the other two as backups."

"So you followed the two men who'd entered upstairs."

"My instincts were right." Father Stanislaw gripped a table for support. "Of the two men I followed, one made himself a further decoy and eventually joined his confederate at the kitchen. But the third man remained behind, to protect his associates if they were surprised. As they were. He shot at you. But I shot him." The priest closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Quite the contrary. I'm not okay." Father Stanislaw's face was the color of chalk. "It occurs to me that this is the third time I've saved your life. Back at the retreat house when I hid in the chapel's confessional. At Satan's Horn. Now here."

"I'm in your debt," Drew said.

"Three times," the priest reminded him.

"Yes." Drew looked at his friend. "No matter the cost, even my life, I promise to return the favor."

"In kind."

"I don't understand."

"In kind," the priest insisted.

"All right. Whatever that means. In kind."

"Make sure you remember that promise. Because" -Father Stanislaw breathed painfully again, his face white - "when we finish this, I intend to demand... on your honor... that you fulfill your word." He coughed. "Right now, we have business to attend to."

Drew understood. He stalked toward the men he'd shot. Grabbing the one who was still alive, he shook him hard. "Where's your boss?"

The man groaned.

"You think you hurt now?" Drew said. "You don't know what 'hurt' can mean." He reached back his hand, preparing to strike him.

"No!" Father Stanislaw said.

Drew barely heard him. "Where's your boss, you bastard? You'll tell me or-"

"No!" The priest grabbed Drew's hand.

Drew glared at him. "I get it now. You don't mind the killing. But you don't like seeing your victims suffer. What's the matter? You're not prepared to go the limit for your faith? You'd better watch out. You've got a soft spot, Father."

"No." Despite his pain, the priest straightened fully. "For my faith, I've gone what you call 'the limit.' Many times. More than you can imagine." His ruby ring - its sword and cross intersecting - glinted. "But never unless it was necessary. Torture? Certainly. Unless there were chemicals available. But only when it was necessary to make someone talk. I know where Ray is. The location of the final number you were given. Now put that man down!"

Drew stared at the man he was holding, feeling his heart contract in disgust at what he'd almost been forced to do, reminded again of how far he'd come from the monastery. Gently, almost with reverence, he set the man down. "All right. We'll call your people and get him medical help. He's just a drone. He deserves the chance to live. But I have to say, that's a chance the bastard wouldn't give me."

"Of course," Father Stanislaw said. "And that's what distinguishes us from them. Our motives aren't based on money. Or the need for power. Or political theories, which by definition are fleeting and shallow. No, our motives are ultimate. And our mercy, if suitable, is that of the Lord."

Drew felt a sudden rush of sorrow. "Too much, too long," he said. "I'm tired of running. I want this to end."

"And it will. Tonight, if God wills it." Wincing, Father Stanislaw reached in his suit pocket. "I have the address. I can take you to Uncle Ray."

Chapter 18.

But despite his anxiousness, Drew had something to do first. Like the ancient Greek paradox that to travel a mile you first had to travel a half mile and after that a quarter mile and after that an eighth of a mile, and thus by subdividing your journey you could never reach its end, so Drew felt there was always something more to do, yet another interruption, always another risk. Perhaps his ordeal would never end. Perhaps he was dead, and this was Hell.

He turned to the wounded man. "Can you hear me?"

The man nodded.

"If you want a doctor, you'll do what I tell you."

The man peered up, helpless.

"But I've told you we already have the address," Father Stanislaw said. "There's no need to - "

"Isn't there?" Drew's voice was urgent. "We've forgotten something." He explained what had to be done.

The priest looked distressed. "You're right. And he has to be made to do it soon."

Drew knelt beside the wounded man, giving him orders. "You understand?"

The man nodded, sweating, in pain.

"And then we'll get you a doctor. All you have to do is show us how tough you are. There's nothing to it." Drew dragged him toward the kitchen. "To stay alive, just talk without groaning."

In the kitchen, Drew sat him on the floor against a cupboard and lifted the cardboard box off the unhooked phone. Crouching, he held the receiver near the wounded man's face, leaning close so that he himself could hear what was said on the other end of the line.

He pointed his Mauser toward the wounded man's temple, silently ordering him to talk. The man's eyes glazed, out of focus. For a moment, Drew was afraid he would faint.

"We've got him." The man sounded hoarse as he spoke to the phone.

"Just a moment," a gruff voice replied.

In fifteen seconds, Uncle Ray's voice came on the line. "Is he dead?"

"That's right."

"What took you so long? You had me worried."

"We couldn't find him at first."

"He's alone?"

"Yes."

"Bring the body back here. I want to make sure it's disposed of."

"We're on our way." The wounded man's eyes flickered. He sagged toward the floor.

Drew set the phone down onto its receiver, breaking the connection, then eased the man flat on the floor. "You chose the wrong profession, my friend. You should have been an actor."

"You promised." The man groaned.

"I'll keep it. How did you get here? What kind of car?"

"A dark blue van. A Ford." The man's lips looked parched. "It's in the parking lot behind this hall."

Turning, Drew saw Father Stanislaw watching from the open kitchen door. "You can use this phone to get him a doctor now. And you'd better tell your people to remove the bodies." He searched the wounded man, finding what he wanted - the keys to the van. "By the way," he told the priest, "I'll need some help when we get there. Did Arlene explain?"

"I'll make the arrangements."

"And while you're doing that, I'd better let Arlene know we're okay. She'll have heard the shots. She'll be worried."

"She's beside the church." The priest picked up the phone. "I'll hurry."

"Please. There's a lot to be done."

Drew rushed from the kitchen. As he ran up the stairs, he remembered the powerful, unfamiliar emotion he'd felt when Arlene had gone up these same stairs two hours ago, his unexpected loneliness when she'd left and shut the door. Again he ached with longing. It seemed a betrayal of his years in the monastery that he wanted so badly to see her again, to hold her. And yet if it was a betrayal, he no longer cared. He stepped outside, saw her waiting near the church, and started toward her. Despite the dark, her eyes shone, relieved that he was safe, eager. In a moment, she was in his arms.

Chapter 19.

Fighting the impulse to press his foot harder onto the van's accelerator, knowing he'd be foolish to risk being stopped for speeding, he drove steadily north out of Boston. The city's glow filled his rear-view mirror; his headlights blazed toward night-cloaked trees and fields.

Knuckles stiff from the pressure of his grip on the steering wheel, Drew followed Father Stanislaw's instructions. At first, he hadn't recognized the address on the slip of paper the priest had given him. Then, with growing excitement, he had, no longer surprised that the priest knew how to get there. Because the priest had been at that address before - two days ago. It was Uncle Ray's country estate, north of Boston, on the Bay.

Drew had to admire his enemy's cleverness. Ray, appearing to have fled his estate on the Bay because of Drew's threat, had now reversed his tactic and gone back, apparently assuming that the estate was the last

place Drew would look. But in gaining the advantage of the unexpected, Ray had chosen a site that was difficult to defend. Father Stanislaw had described the estate as remote and sprawling, too large, with too much cover to be adequately protected. "Getting onto the grounds will be easy," the priest had said. "Getting into the house, though, that's another matter. He'll concentrate his men there. To go in and grab him, you'd need a small army."

That won't be necessary, Drew thought, as he headed relentlessly toward the Bay. All we need is the three men I asked for.

And three untraceable cars.

Shortly after seven, he reached the Bay, its white-tipped waves distinct in the dark. Rolling down his window, he smelled a cold sat breeze and stopped at the side of the road where his headlights revealed a historical marker about the Revolutionary War.

He waited. Five minutes later, headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror, stopping behind him. The headlights at once went out. He stepped from the van, noting with fondness Arlene's silhouette behind the steering wheel of the Oldsmobile, the priest slumped beside her as if asleep.

He saw three other pairs of headlights coming toward him. They slowed and stopped in a row behind the Oldsmobile. They too went dark. Three men got out of the cars. As Arlene left the Oldsmobile, Drew joined them on the gravel road.

"The Lord be with you," he said to the men.

"And with your spirit," they answered as one.

"Deo Gratias." He studied the men. They were in their middle thirties. Their outdoor clothes were dark, their haircuts conservative, almost military, their eyes direct, disturbingly serene. "I appreciate your help. Father Stanislaw says you've had experience."

They nodded.

"For what it's worth, if everything goes as planned, if there aren't any accidents, I don't think your lives are in danger."

"It doesn't matter," one said. "Our lives don't matter. The Church does."

The Oldsmobile's passenger door came open. Father Stanislaw stepped from the car. "The equipment's in the trunk."

Arlene had the key. When she opened it, a light went on. Drew blinked in surprise at automatic weapons, magazines filled with ammunition, grenades, even a miniature rocket launcher.

"You've had this stuff in the trunk all the time?" Drew asked, astonished. "You could start a war."

"We are at war." Father Stanislaw's face was as pale as the sling supporting his arm.