The Sign

by Raymond Khoury

  “For whatever reason,” Brother Ameen said, “divine or otherwise, you were there. It’s your story. And, of course, I’m familiar with your work. People listen to you. Your reputation is solid. Which is why I am telling this to you and you only.”

  “You haven’t told me anything yet.”

  Brother Ameen paused, then said, “The symbol you witnessed, there, over the ice. It’s here too.”

  An altogether different alarm blared inside her, one that sent her pulse rocketing. “What, you’ve got it there too? In the sky?” Her words also visibly snagged Dalton and Finch’s attention.

  “No, not in the sky.”

  “Where then?”

  “You need to come here. To see it for yourself.”

  Gracie’s kook monitor fluttered upward again. “I’m going to need a little more than that.”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Why don’t you try.”

  Brother Ameen seemed to weigh his words for a moment, then said, “Father Jerome’s not exactly here, at the monastery. He was here. He came to us several months ago. He was . . . troubled. And after a few weeks, he . . . he went up into the mountain. There’s a cave, you see. A cave that provides the basics—you know, a shelter with a bed to sleep in, a stove to cook on. Men of God go there when they’re looking for solitude, when they don’t want to be disturbed. Sometimes, they stay there for days. Sometimes, weeks. Months even.”

  “And Father Jerome is there?”

  “Yes.”

  Gracie didn’t quite know what to make of that. “What does that have to do with me?”

  The man hesitated. He seemed uncomfortable with what he was about to tell her. “He’s a changed man, Miss Logan. Something . . . something we don’t quite understand has happened to him. And since he’s been up in the cave, he’s been writing. A lot. He’s been filling one journal after another with his thoughts. And on some of their pages, there’s a drawing. A recurring drawing, one he’s painted all over the walls of the cave.”

  Gracie’s skin prickled.

  “It’s the sign, Miss Logan. The sign you saw over the ice.”

  Gracie’s mind scrambled to process what he’d just told her. An obvious question fought its way out of the confused mire. “No offense, Brother, but—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, Miss Logan.” He cut her off. “And of course, you’ve every right to be skeptical. I wouldn’t expect any less of you, of someone with your intellect. But you need to hear me out. There isn’t a television up in the cave. We don’t even have one here at the monastery, nor a radio for that matter. Father Jerome hasn’t seen your broadcast.”

  Gracie’s kook-o-meter was having trouble sticking to one direction. “Well, I’m not sure your word on that’s gonna get me hopping on a plane just yet.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Brother Ameen added, the restraint in his voice struggling to contain the urgency he clearly felt. “It’s not something he only just started to do.”

  An unsettling realization chilled her gut. “What are you saying? When did he start drawing this sign?”

  His answer struck her like a spear.

  “Seven months ago. He’s been drawing the sign over and over again for seven months.”

  Chapter 18

  Quincy,Massachusetts

  Pure instinct took over and Matt turned in early, pulling into the lot of the 7-Eleven just before the alleyway.

  Being a twenty-four-hour store, it was open, but there were no other cars outside. He flicked the Mustang’s lights off but left the engine gurgling, and just sat there for a moment, bathed by the alternating red-and-green flicker of the store’s Christmas lights, taking stock of the situation.

  They were here already. Waiting for him. Had to be.

  How?

  He quickly segued back to Bellinger’s abduction. They must have been watching Bellinger. Maybe even listening to his calls. And if they were, they knew about his call to Matt. And if this was about Danny, then they knew all about Matt already.

  And Matt had obviously become a problem for them.

  Wonderful.

  He gave his immediate surroundings a quick scan but didn’t notice anything that jarred. They had to be waiting for him near his garage. He put himself in their place and could almost picture the perfect spot where they’d have parked, out of sight, ready to ambush him on his return. Bastards. How could they react so quickly? It had only been, what, not even an hour since he’d leapt out of their van?

  They weren’t short of resources.

  Which wasn’t helping on the worrisome front.

  He switched the engine off, pulled up his coat collar, and climbed out of the car, his eyes stealthily alert for any movement. He took a few quick steps over to the store and huddled under its awning, using the pause to give the area another quick once-over.

  Nothing.

  Just the single set of tracks headed down the alleyway to the side of the 7-Eleven, disappearing into the darkness, taunting him.

  He stepped inside, triggering a two-toned electronic chime that brought him to the attention of Sanjay, the store’s congenial owner, who was busy restocking the hot dog grill.

  Sanjay smiled, “Hey, Matt,” then noted the dusting of snow on Matt’s head with a bemused expression and said, “It’s really coming down, isn’t it?” In mid-sentence, his forehead crinkled with confusion as he registered Matt’s battered condition.

  Matt just nodded absently, his mind still processing the situation while he made sure there was no one else around. “Sure is,” he finally replied after the distracted beat, then his face darkened and he said, “Sanjay, I need to go out the back way.”

  Sanjay stared at him for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Whatever you need, Matt.” They’d known each other ever since Matt had taken over the lease on the garage down the road. Matt had been a good customer and a reliable neighbor, and by now, Sanjay knew him well enough to know that Matt wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.

  He led him to the back of the store and unlocked the door.

  Matt paused at the doorway. “Don’t lock it just yet, will you? I won’t be long.”

  Sanjay nodded hesitatingly. “Okay.” He glanced away, then turned back and added, “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Not really,” Matt shrugged, then slipped out the door.

  There were no cars around. He stayed low and close to the wall of the back lot and headed away from the main road, making his way past Sanjay’s car and the Dumpsters. Any light from the store quickly petered out, and he was soon in total darkness with only a diffused moon glow to guide him. He ducked into a patch of trees and over to a low, single-story brick structure that housed a small law firm. As expected, all of its lights were out, and no cars were around. With his left leg and hip blazing with pain with every step, he scuttled along the back wall of the building quietly until it ran out.

  He bent down and chanced a peek around the corner. He’d read it right. A dark Chrysler 300C was parked in one of the law firm’s spots, huddled behind the far side of the building, about twenty yards from the entrance to his shop. He could just about make out the silhouettes of two figures inside.

  They were waiting for him. Either that, or they were about eight hours early for their appointment with their lawyer, and no one was that enthusiastic about meeting a lawyer.

  Matt inched back into cover, his mind racing through his options. His first instinct was to charge in, beat them to a pulp, and pound the truth out of them. A few years back, he might have done just that, despite the odds. But right now, the odds weren’t good, and much as he was desperate to take them on, he grudgingly forced himself to accept that it would be the wrong move. He was hurting all over, and his left leg was barely holding him up. He wouldn’t stand a chance, and he knew it.

  He had a momentary lapse and thought of calling the cops, but again kiboshed that idea. He didn’t trust them. Never did and never would. Besides, as far as the cops were
concerned, he could always count on losing any his-word-against-theirs contest. And, as he’d realized, the guys in the Chrysler seemed to have a solid setup, which meant they had connections. All he had was a rap sheet that would dry up an inkjet cartridge.

  Another idea, a more promising one, elbowed its way into that one’s place. He quickly put it through its paces, looking for flaws, and decided it was his best option. His best option out of a total of one, actually. He sneaked a last glance at the Chrysler, convinced himself that they weren’t going anywhere just yet, then made his way back to the 7-Eleven.

  He cut through the store, past Sanjay, who gave him a worried, quizzical glance. Without breaking step, Matt flicked him a stay-put, though not hugely reassuring gesture.

  “I need some tape,” he told him. “Something solid and sticky, packing tape, that kind of thing.”

  Sanjay thought for a beat, then nodded. “I’ll get you what I have,” he said as Matt disappeared out the front door.

  A quick glance around yielded no visible threats. Matt walked to the back of the Mustang and popped the trunk. With practiced fingers, he pulled back the lining along its side wall. He reached in behind it and found the small niche he was looking for. In it was a small black box, not much bigger than a packet of cigarettes. Matt pulled it out and stuffed it in his inside breast pocket. He then pulled out the lug wrench from the spare wheel’s tool kit, closed the trunk, and ducked back into the store.

  Sanjay was waiting for him. In his hands was a roll of two-inch-thick duct tape. Matt just grabbed it, blurted out a guttural “Perfect,” and kept going.

  He crept back to the corner of the brick building and peered around its corner. The Chrysler was still there, as he’d left it. He checked the perimeter, backed up, and crept into the shrubs and trees behind the parking bay, keeping low. He maneuvered to a spot around fifteen yards behind the Chrysler, making sure he wasn’t in the line of sight of their mirrors. From there, he dropped to the ground and crawled the rest of the way.

  Matt advanced on elbows that were still suffering from his leap out of the van. He ignored the pain and kept going until he was right behind the Chrysler. He paused to catch his breath and check for a reaction. None came. Satisfied that he hadn’t been spotted, he rolled onto his back and pulled himself under the car. He quickly found a strut that would suit his purpose. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the tracker, and taped it to the strut.

  He was almost done when he felt a small weight shift in the car, which was followed by the click of an opening door. He turned his head sideways, to the passenger side of the car, and froze as he saw first one foot, then the other, drop to the ground, faintly illuminated by the cabin’s inside light. They crunched into the snow, and the light dimmed as the man swung the door back quietly without clicking it shut.

  He felt a surge of panic as a sudden realization hit him. Very slowly, he angled his head sideways to look behind the car and saw the trail he’d left behind in the snow. It led right up to the car, a black streak through the pearlescent shimmer of the light snow cover.

  His body tensed up as he watched the man take a few steps. He was heading to the back of the car. Matt’s eyes stayed on him, fast-forwarding to the moment the man would spot the trail and what the best move would be. With his heart in his throat, he followed the man’s feet around past the rear wheel, farther back to the edge of the car—then they stopped. Every nerve ending in Matt’s body throbbed with alarm, and his fingers reached under his coat and tightened against the handle of the lug wrench. He was about to swing his legs out in an attempt to kick the man off-balance when he turned so he was now facing the wall. Matt then heard a zipper open, and his body pulled back from Defcon five as he realized the man was just out there to take a leak.

  He waited for him to finish, then watched without moving an inch as the man got back into the car. Matt made sure the tracker was solidly attached, then slid back out from under the car and retreated along the same path he’d taken, only pausing briefly to commit the car’s license place to memory.

  He found Sanjay standing by the cash register, clearly unable to do much, out of worry.

  Matt gave him a firm nod of gratitude as he reached over for a pencil and scribbled down the Chrysler’s license plate on a flyer. He tucked it into his pocket, then turned to Sanjay. “Do me a favor. Anyone asks, you haven’t seen me, not since lunchtime. Okay?”

  Sanjay nodded. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  Matt’s expression clouded under competing instincts. “Better you don’t get involved. Safer for you that way.”

  Sanjay acknowledged his words somberly, then hesitated and said, “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” in an uncertain tone, as if unsure about how much he should say or get involved.

  Matt half-smiled. “That’s the plan.” Then he thought of something, took a few steps to the fridge, and pulled out a can of Coke. He held it up to Sanjay and said, “My tab still good?”

  Sanjay visibly relaxed a touch. “Of course.”

  And with that, Matt was gone.

  Chapter 19

  Amundsen Sea, Antarctica

  “So what’s the verdict? Do we believe this guy?” Gracie leaned her head against the cold glass of the conference room’s window. Outside, the light was virtually unchanged, the sky infused with the same grayish pallor, which didn’t help her flagging spirit. She needed to rest, to take a step back and give her mind a chance to reboot, if only for an hour or two. It had to be the equivalent of way past midnight, and the continuous daylight of the Antarctic’s austral summer had already wreaked havoc on her body clock, but there were still too many questions that needed to be answered.

  “Gracie, come on,” Dalton replied. “He’s talking about Father Jerome.”

  “So?”

  “Are you kidding me? The guy’s a living saint. He’s not gonna fake something like this. That’d be like—I don’t know—like saying the Dalai Lama’s a liar.”

  Father Jerome wasn’t technically a living saint. There was no such thing, since dying was a prerequisite to receiving the honor of sainthood, at least as far as the Vatican was concerned. But he was pretty much a shoo-in for beatification, if not canonization, at some point in the future.

  In his case, though, the term saint was more than appropriate.

  He’d begun his life in 1949 as Alvaro Suarez, the son of a humble farming couple in the foothills of the Cantabrian Mountains in northern Spain. His youth was far from cosseted. His father died when he was five, leaving his mother with the unenviable task of providing for six children in a Spain that was still under Franco’s iron fist and recovering from years of war. Raised a Catholic, the young Alvaro—the youngest of his siblings—showed a great resilience and generosity of character, especially during a harsh winter when a viral epidemic almost took away his mother and two of his sisters. He credited his faith with giving him the strength to forge ahead despite overwhelming odds, and with helping his mother and sisters pull through, and their salvation further solidified his bond with the Church. Throughout his youth, he was also particularly drawn to the stories of missionaries, of selfless souls doing the work of God in the less fortunate corners of the planet, and by the time he was in his teens, he knew he would devote his life to the Church. Having narrowly escaped becoming one himself, he chose to concentrate on helping orphans and abandoned children. He left home at seventeen and began his journey, joining a seminary in Andalusia before crossing into Africa, where he soon founded the first of many missions. En route, he took his first vows a few months short of his twenty-second birthday, choosing the name of Jerome after Jerome Emiliani, a sixteenth-century Italian priest and the patron saint of orphans. The modern Jerome’s hospices and orphanages were now scattered across the globe. His army of volunteers had turned around the lives of thousands of the world’s poorest children. His charitable work, as it turned out, had even outshone that of the historic figure who inspired him.

  Forget the tech
nicalities. The man was indeed a living saint, and Dalton’s point was hard to ignore. Provided what the monk had told Gracie really did involve Father Jerome.

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t Father Jerome on the phone, was it? We don’t even know if the caller was really calling from Egypt, much less from the monastery,” she argued.

  “Well, we do know Father Jerome is really there,” Finch pointed out.

  The reports they’d pulled up after the call confirmed that Father Jerome was indeed in Egypt. He’d fallen ill while working at one of his missions there, close to the border with Sudan, a little over a year ago. After his recovery, he’d pulled back from active duty—he was just shy of sixty now—only going so far as to say he needed to take some time for himself, “to get closer to God,” in his own words. He’d subsequently retreated entirely from public view. Crucially, a couple of brief wire reports did have him traveling north and seeking out the seclusion of the monasteries of Wadi Natrun.

  “And how could he actually have drawn what we saw? I mean, how would you draw it?” Gracie argued.

  “We need to get a copy of that tape,” Dalton suggested.

  Before ending his call, Brother Ameen had offered them a tantalizing piece of corroboration. A British film crew, working for the BBC, had visited the monastery several months earlier. They’d spent a few days there, filming part of a multi-episode documentary that compared the dogmatic approach to faith in Western churches with the more mystical approaches found farther east. They’d managed to get a quick peek inside the cave and shot some footage there, before being turned away by Father Jerome. Brother Ameen assured Gracie it included footage of the priest’s handiwork across its ceiling and walls.

  It was proof that Gracie desperately needed to see. The problem was, getting hold of it would most likely alert the filmmakers to its significance—something they didn’t seem to have clicked to, so far—and Gracie could lose the lead on the story. A story that was still virtually exclusively hers.