Celia Thorne was almost ready. She'd prepared everything she thought I'd need to step in and play her double. Now all I had to do was prepare myself for the test. The execution of the ransom drop would involve far more than an elaborate costume. I had to be prepared mentally and emotionally.
At night they will think they have seen the sun.
I tried to focus on the assignment but those damn words refused to stop running through my head. Now if only I could figure out why.
Thirty—ALONE
Carl sat in a stiff wooden chair in the center of The High Coptic's study. Save for the occasional hiss of steam escaping from the radiator, there had been no other sound for almost an hour.
The room was spartan, with stained oak floors and bookshelves that lined the walls, ceiling to floor, with hundreds of books on the teachings of the Gnostic faith. The books deadened sound. How painful it was for Carl to hear himself thinking.
Anticipation was eating him alive. How long, he wondered? How long would he wait before The High Coptic returned? He had been brought to the study the moment he'd arrived. He'd anticipated a deluge of questions and accusations, the unbridled anger of The High Coptic and the other clerics. Instead, there had been nothing but silence, maddening silence. They'd left him to stew, to dream up false excuses and lament over his fate. Their plan was working to a tee.
The door creaked. Carl jumped in his chair, but it was only the sound of the old house settling.
He had been betrayed and had decided to bare his soul. He would tell them of his relationship with Black and her lies. He would remind them of the carefully orchestrated abduction she had planned and how clever it had appeared, so clever in fact that The Faith had drained itself dry, gathering every ounce of their money to support the scheme. He would tell them that he had been deceived, that Black was nothing more than a thief, interested only in financial opportunity. Surely, he thought, The High Coptic would see that he had acted earnestly and in the best interest of The Faith. He had rehearsed his explanation over and over so that it would pour from his mouth despite his nervousness and fear.
Another hour passed.
Daylight disappeared outside the window. The room grew dark. He contemplated switching on the lamp, but was unable to pry himself from the chair.
Carl checked his watch—the dial was barely visible in the fading light. He'd be missed by now. Thorne and the authorities would wonder where he was and begin to contemplate his motives. The scriptures were filled with stories just like this one—he was destined to be the scapegoat, the villain mastermind that had abducted an autistic child. He felt the world collapsing in around him. He realized that he didn’t need to worry about Celia Thorne or the authorities. He knew that he was never going back and that a much crueler fate lay in store for him.
The room grew darker still until it was virtually black. Carl's eyes began to adjust to the darkness. A few rays from the street lamps filtered through the drawn blinds and the heavy drapery. Turn on the light. He thought about it over and over but could not will himself out of the chair.
His stomach began to growl. Another hour had passed. He felt foolish. He was an adult, a cleric in the order of The Faith and yet he was sitting like a punished child in a pitch black room. Turn on the light. Turn on the damn light. He tried to get up but he couldn't. Fear sat upon him like an anvil, pinning him in place.
He knew that The High Coptic and clerics would be sitting at the dinner table by now. The Faith did not eat extravagantly, but the cleric's bellies were always full—and his was not.
A bathroom was just down the hall. He could picture it just on the other side of the wall. He could void and return before he was missed. The High Coptic did not rush through dinner and wouldn't be finished for quite some time. He squeezed his legs together. His nerves had contributed to the problem. He thought he would burst.
The night was fleeting. He was now more concerned with his immediate needs than the excuses he would offer his religious brethren. The pain had almost forced him out of the chair when the door creaked again. The sound was identical to the one he had heard before, but then the knob turned. The door opened and The High Coptic's shadow filled the threshold. The light from the hallway backlit The High Coptic. It blinded Carl, making The High Coptic's face invisible.
The High Coptic stood at the threshold, staring into the dark, silent room. Carl was still there. He could see his outline and could hear the nervousness of his irregular breathing. He and the other clerics had discussed their predicament over the course of a lengthy dinner and had voted to take matters into their own hands. Carl could not be trusted. He was weak. In the eyes of The Faith, weakness was far more dangerous than stupidity, the basest characteristic of man.
The High Coptic had influences outside the sanctuary: a group of dangerous men from Queens. They had come from his native home in Greece, instructed in the ways of the Cosa Nostra by the Italians themselves. They had been of service to him on a few special occasions at desperate times.
The High Coptic believed that the boy was still alive and if he was, there was still an opportunity to find him, bring him to the sanctuary, and wait for him to bless them with the missing prophecies, the ones the Gnostics had waited centuries for. The prophecies would set them free and once and for all restore spiritual balance to the world. The Gnostic faith deserved a place in the world, not in its shadows. The boy held the key to their success.
A few moments had passed. The High Coptic had come to his study to obtain a few precious pieces of information from Carl, shreds of evidence to assist in repairing the situation. He was struck by the man's implied guilt—sitting in a dark room without the courage to turn on a light. He pitied Carl and what he had become. He had spoken so strongly about the woman and her guarantee to deliver the boy. He had sold them on it and then lied to cover his disgrace.
The faint odor of urine wafted through The High Coptic's nostrils. Closing the door, he turned away. He had decided to let the brutes take over. In his eyes, Carl had jeopardized their chances for resurrecting The Faith and would be condemned to an eternity without salvation.
Thirty-one—SHOWTIME
I felt like an actor—two hours in makeup and an outfit that could definitely be described as a costume. I wasn't used to wearing face makeup. The heavy base felt inhibiting on my skin, tugging and pulling with every twitch and gesture. I had to try to forget about it. I had to look and act the part, or I would fail. I had to play the role and forget about the costume—but the makeup was so damn itchy. I felt like a puppy, continually shaking its head the first time the collar got snapped around its neck. I wanted to scratch, pick—ah hell, I just wanted to wash it off but I didn't. Today I was Celia Thorne.
The makeup artist had matched Thorne's complexion and color perfectly. The hair was easy: basic black, pulled back in a bun. Thorne had insisted on handpicking the clothes. She was smaller than I was, hence flat shoes and a hip length coat to understate my height. I wore a minimizing bra for obvious reasons, although the Kevlar vest I wore beneath the Armani sweater set pretty much did the job. I stood in front of the mirror and decided that this was absolutely the very worst I had ever looked in designer fashion, hands down.
NYPD had offices on Penn Station's lower level. Walking by, all commuters saw of it was a steel door with a sticker that read Caution- Door Opens Out. A combination panel permitted access inside. I had arrived hours earlier as Stephanie Chalice and would soon emerge as...well, you know.
Ambler's men had processed the ransom money. Thorne's dough had been chemically treated in a way that could only be detected by specialized equipment when the money was recovered or had reentered the economy. Tracking devices had been sewn into the lining of the Louis Vuitton bag, although we all knew the kidnappers would suspect as much and dump old Louis in the first handy trash bin. In addition a Q-logger, a tracking device roughly the size and thickness of a half dollar, had been cut into one of the banded stacks of cash. Needle in a haystack the
ory—there were one hundred stacks of fifty thousand dollars, tough to find, especially when you're running from the police and FBI.
The big issue for me was the gun. It wasn't easy to conceal a gun like my LDA. For that matter, it was tough to conceal any gun. If I got patted down, they would find it. A holster had been sewn onto the coat's lining and covered with a false pocket. If they wanted to check me, I would open the coat and allow them to run their hands under my arms and in all the obvious places one might holster a weapon. I could only hope they wouldn't think to check the coat separately. It didn't really matter. There was no way I was going in unarmed.
I was wired emotionally and electronically—Q-loggers similar to the one that had been used on the money had been cut into the heels of my shoes. There was one concealed in my hairpin, one in the waistband of my slacks, still one more in my coat's lining. My brooch was a transponder. Lido and Ambler would be able to hear everything I heard.
The redundant tracking devices were a comfort, but I was still going in alone. All we knew was that I was to board the Long Island Railroad and take it to the Syosset station and from there...who knows. That was only the first part. There was no question that the kidnapers would run me ragged until they were sure I was alone. Support would be close by, but not close enough to risk being seen. How long would it take for help to respond if I needed it? No more than minutes, minutes that might very well add up to an eternity. I'm not bellyaching about any of this, mind you, this is the job and I accept it without conditions. No one had held a gun to my head. I volunteered for the assignment.
I was practicing drawing the LDA from the holster sewn into the coat. Access was good but it wasn't the cross-draw shoulder rig I was used to. It was quick but not quick enough. If the kidnappers wanted to take me out, they'd be able to way before I ever got the LDA in my hand.
Lido walked over and pinched my butt. I didn't waste time looking around, I knew we were alone—Lido was not the type to take chances with our careers. "Careful," I said, "you'll wrinkle my corset."
He peaked his eyebrows, playfully suggesting that it turned him on. "You're pretty hot for a senior citizen—how 'bout a kiss, granny?"
He puckered up. Of course I wanted to kiss him but couldn't. It felt so good to have him back, happy, intentionally teasing me to distract me from the severity of the assignment. "Forget it. One wrong move and I'll have to spend the rest of the afternoon in makeup—go peddle your geriatric charm at a nursing home, Casanova." He snickered. "What time is it?"
"Just past noon...getting nervous?"
I nodded. There was no need for me to bullshit Lido. I'm sure the tension showed on my face despite the many layers of makeup.
"Don't worry. I won't be far away."
I rubbed his cheek. "Thanks."
"Ambler wants to check out your equipment."
What, him too? "You men are all alike."
"Don't be cute. He wants to make sure you're transmitting, check your batteries—you know."
"Yeah okay, let's go." I gave myself one last once over in the mirror—what could I say? I was in my sixties today and had to get used to it. We began walking out of the room. I stopped. There was something I wanted to say. "So I was thinking that maybe we'd take a long weekend when this one's over, just the two of us and an endless supply of pizza. Whatcha think?"
"Sounds like fun. Say, you gonna wear the corset?"
I gave him one of those really obvious winks. "Anything that turns you on, big fella."
"Hey, how about the Poconos?"
"One of those places with the heart-shaped tub?"
"Uh huh. Hey, what about the beer? I mean all that pizza and no beer?"
"I'll bathe you in beer."
"Oh, Jesus...I'm sold."
"Great, I'll wear these shoes." I stuck my foot out, showing off one of my none too enticing Gucci loafers. "There's something to be said for sensible shoes."
"Yeah, nice."
"No really, they're super comfy. I think they're padded."
Lido snickered. "Sweetie, Joan Crawford wouldn't get any wearing those."
"Do I really look that bad?" I knew I did but I was determined to test him anyway. "I'm going to look like this one day."
"Stephanie, do you see yourself? You look like a decomposing Gloria Vanderbilt."
"That mean I won't get any?" I said, pretending to sniffle. It was fun playing pretend, knowing how hot Lido was for my body. We hadn't done it in days, which, for us, was some kind of record.
There was a soft look in Lido's eyes. "You're not going to look like this. Your hips will get a little rounder. That big chest of yours will get even bigger. I see you more like a maturing Sophia Loren—believe you me, I'd do her in a heartbeat." He winked at me.
I thought that was really touching, romantic in fact...Gus picturing us growing old together and all. And the Sophia Loren thing—God, I wouldn't mind maturing into a woman that looked like her. Sophia's beauty is classic. She was still turning heads while most women her age were incapable of turning a corkscrew. I could never see myself down in Boca wearing a polyester warm up suit and cutting the 4:00 PM line for the early bird special. Christ, I'm only twenty-eight, so what the hell am I worrying about? All the same, I wanted to plant one on Lido and couldn't because I was afraid my face would fall off in the process. I gave him an air kiss. It sucked and was no substitute for the real thing, but this was no time for us to start generating body heat.
Anyway, we've got bigger fish to fry, right? We had a long day ahead of us. "Let's go check my audio, you silly, sentimental jerk. There's a kid needs saving."
Gus and I set off to find Ambler. Like all cops do, we put our future together on the backburner to make sure that someone else would have one.
Thirty-two—UH OH
"We've got a fresh wrinkle," Ambler said. He was pacing about as we walked in. He hadn't seen me made up and was quite obviously taken aback by my appearance—his expression said so. "Honey, you've got to start taking better care of yourself—vitamins, calcium, try something." He switched gears again, instantly back to his deep in thought mode, contemplating ideas at the speed of light. He looked troubled. I really didn't need that right now.
"What is it, Herb?"
He continued to shake his head and pace. "I don't like the timing, no sir, not at all."
"Just say it. I've got places to go and the Yoda face your technicians painted on me weighs a thousand pounds."
"Carl's gone," he said.
"Carl...Thorne's servant?" Lido asked.
"Yeah, him. Took off right after the ransom demand came in. He looked suspicious, so I had him followed."
"To where?"
"A townhouse, west of Thorne's place." Ambler finally slowed down. He put his foot up on the desk, peering over his knee at Lido and me with that worried parent look. "Power-walked cross town. Went in and never came out."
"So what do we know, Herb? I'm on my way to the front line."
"Property is deeded to a not for profit, a church."
On the surface, you'd think of a church as the most innocent of all options, but I knew better. I was sure that Ambler had more to tell us. "What kind of a church has you so worried, Herb?"
"Ever hear of The Faith?"
The Faith...it sounded as if it could have been any of a dozen religious entities I'd heard about over the years. I racked my brain but came up blank. I shrugged, Lido shrugged. Ambler noted our gestures and continued.
"We've got a small file on them. All pretty low level up until now. It's a group of fanatics that practice the Gnostic faith. Never mind what they believe in...the bottom line is that they've vowed to overturn the cornerstones of Catholicism. The Gnostic faith predates Catholicism. They're convinced that the Church has conspired to suppress them for thousands of years. We keep tabs on them for precautionary purposes but it's been all bark and no bite. They're poorly funded and poorly connected, led by someone known as The High Coptic."
"So, what you're saying is t
hat these people have literally waited thousands of years for the opportunity to reestablish themselves as a dominât religious faith. Is that about the size of it?"
Lido nodded. Ambler took his size twelve triple Es off the desk.
"And just maybe they believe that Manny Nazzare, miracle child, last living descendant and channel for the most credible prophet of all time, holds the key to their reemergence."
"How so?" Lido asked.
"Perhaps they think that one day he'll channel one of those long lost prophecies that no one has ever heard of before, a prophecy that will set the world straight. Maybe they blame the Catholic Church for stealing the prophecies. Who knows?"
"That's just ridiculous enough to be believable," Ambler said. "I mean we are talking about religion here, right? It's the world of miracles and resurrection, babies born to virgins, walking on water—how much of a stretch is it? 'And a child shall deliver the wisdom of the ages and we will rise again.' I can see it, can't you? These religious muckety-mucks chanting around a burning bush or whatever it is they worship." Ambler looked at me as if he were impressed. "And once again we owe our thanks to you, Ms. Methuselah."
I flipped Ambler a playful bird, a lark perhaps. "I think the burning bush is Hebrew lore, not Gnostic."
"Maybe the bush gets around," Lido chuckled.
"I'm sure a lot of bushes get around," I said pointedly, "but not the bush of Moses. That's a one-man bush." I should have flipped Lido a bird too but I didn't, you can only flip so many birds and still maintain a serious conversation.
Ambler's phone rang. He listened for a few seconds and then asked the requisite questions, the where, when, and how questions.
Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) Page 14