The Fraternity of the Stone

by David Morrell

  But not in person.

  He’d been cautious about what he told the priest. If he’d merely instructed Father Hafer to go to the Common and wait for further developments, he’d have risked being found on this roof by either the hit team or the police when they predictably checked the buildings along the Common’s perimeter. That way of thinking assumed that the rectory’s phone had been tapped or that the priest was cooperating with the authorities. But Drew’s survival depended upon assumptions. Even now, after many years, he vividly recalled the Rocky Mountain Industrial College in Colorado, Hank Dalton, and his lectures: “Paranoia will save your life. In your world, boyos, it’s crazy not to be paranoid. Assume the bastards are against you. All the time. Everywhere.”

  So Drew’s instructions had been so complicated that he’d told Father Hafer to write them down. No hit team or police force could possibly have so many men that they could cover the complete itinerary with only a few hours’ notice. They’d have no specific target area. From their perspective, contact might be established anywhere.

  But needing an extra margin of safety, Drew had decided not to make that contact in person. As he scanned the three shadowy but visible streets—below him, and to his right and left—he saw no evidence of surveillance, no loiterers or vehicles that stopped with no one getting out. The streets looked normally occupied, innocent, ordinary.

  He’d soon find out. At ten past seven, he saw the priest. Father Hafer wore a long dark overcoat, its top buttons open as instructed, the white of his collar clearly visible in the partly illuminated night. But the way Father Hafer moved caused Drew to frown. The priest didn’t walk so much as he shuffled, slightly stooped, with evident fatigue. He came from the corner on Drew’s right, beginning to cross the Common. Something was wrong. Drew shifted his gaze toward the street that the priest had left. No one seemed to be following.

  Drew darted his eyes back toward the priest, and abruptly his alarm increased. Not because he’d discovered a trap, but because of something far more unexpected, though now that Drew thought about it he’d been given all the clues. He should have realized. Father Hafer was bent over, coughing so hard that fifty yards away Drew was able to hear it. The priest seemed in pain. And thinner than Drew recalled. Even at night, his pallor was evident.

  The priest was dying.

  “Treatment,” the sherry-dusted voice had said from the rectory phone. “He might not want to be available after his treatment.”

  Chemotherapy. Radiation. Father Hafer was dying from cancer. The hoarseness, the lack of breath, how else to account for them? The cancer was in his throat, more likely in his lungs. And with terrible sorrow, Drew recalled the cigarette after cigarette that Father Hafer had smoked six years ago during the interview. The priest once more bent over, coughing, in evident pain. He used a handkerchief to wipe his mouth and straightened slowly, proceeding with difficulty toward the Common. Drew concentrated on the third bench along the path that the priest had been instructed to walk along.

  The first. The second.

  As Father Hafer reached the third, a shadow darted from bushes, rushing toward him.

  Now, Drew thought. If he’s under surveillance, now. Instead of watching the lean, jackal-like figure that seemed to be attacking the priest, Drew focused all his attention on the neighboring streets.

  But nothing happened, no shouts, no sirens, no sudden eruptions of shadows or gunfire. Nothing. Eerie, the night remained still and, except for nearby traffic, silent.

  Drew jerked his attention back toward the third bench along the path. His instructions to the lunging shadow had been explicit, based on the location of lamps in the park, allowing Drew an unimpeded view of what would happen. If the priest had been given a microphone and battery pack to hide beneath his clothes, the shadow’s hasty frisk would reveal it. The figure would raise his right hand, warning Drew to run.

  Of course, the shadow needed incentive to perform the frisk, and earlier Drew had looked for an evident but functional junky in the Combat Zone. He’d given the addict some, but promised him more, of a glassine bag of heroin that Drew had spent part of the afternoon relieving from a second-rate pusher. The bribe had been sufficient to motivate the junky but not enough to moderate his desperation, and not enough for Drew’s purpose—or the possible danger—to be questioned.

  Drew watched as the darting shadow collided with the priest, frisked him without seeming to, and delivered a note to the palm of Father Hafer’s hand. At once, the shadow lunged away, retreating through a dark space between two path lamps, visible again when he scrambled through illuminated playground equipment, rushing as instructed toward the corner of the Common on Drew’s left.

  My, my, Drew thought, well, what do you know? Not bad. Really not too shabby. It just goes to show—in a pinch, don’t underestimate a junky, as long as he’s properly motivated. Drew was delighted not only by the junky’s performance but by his survival. The junky had not been killed.

  Conclusion: If the hit team was in the area, they’d realized that the shadow down there wasn’t Drew but instead a courier. They’d devote their attention to the courier as much as to the priest, in the hope that the courier would lead them back to Drew or at least give them information about what was in the note. The courier would lead them all right—to a cul-de-sac alley three blocks away where Drew had promised to pay the junky the rest of the heroin in the glassine bag.

  Drew had left the bag on a windowsill, and now, as he watched the junky disappear safely, he began to believe that neither the hit team nor the police had followed Father Hafer. But he still wasn’t totally sure. He’d planned yet another diversion, and that was the purpose of the note that the priest now held in his hand.

  Drew switched his attention back to the park. Father Hafer stood next to the third bench on the path, clutching one hand to his chest as if to control the startled pounding of his heart. Recovering from the assault, he peered down mystified at the note he held in his other hand, but before he could read it, he suddenly burst into another fit of coughing, pulling out his handkerchief, retching into it.

  May God have mercy, Drew thought.

  The priest wearily approached a nearby lamp and hunched his shoulders, straining to read the note. Drew knew what he would see.

  My apologies for the surprise. I have to be sure that you’re not being followed. If there’d been another way … but we’re almost there. Go back the way you came. Return to the rectory.

  The priest jerked his head up from the note, glancing around with what, even at this distance, was evident annoyance. He crammed the note into his overcoat pocket, bent forward again, and coughed painfully into his handkerchief. With energy born from impatience, he turned to shuffle angrily from the Common, back the way he’d come.

  If I’d known you were sick, I wouldn’t have done it this way, Drew thought. I’d have chosen a shorter, less difficult route. Forgive me, Father, for the suffering I’ve caused you. I had no choice. I had to make the enemy feel as impatient as you are.

  He watched the priest walk with effort away from the Common, then trudge out of sight down the street to Drew’s right. He saw no evidence of hastily reorganized surveillance. No vehicle turned to head in the priest’s new direction. No figure pivoted, hurrying to keep the priest in sight.

  Drew waited twenty seconds longer, and when he still saw nothing unusual, he became as convinced as he was going to be that neither the police nor a hit team were involved.

  Still, from his rooftop position, Drew couldn’t see the street that the priest had entered. Unless he hurried from this roof and rushed to peer around the corner, he couldn’t know if that street was safe. To approach the priest there might be a risk.

  He did have another option. If he couldn’t go to the priest, the priest could come to him.

  11

  From the darkness of bushes beside the church, Drew peered across the street toward the rectory. Above him, light from within the church cast a glow through stained
-glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross. Though the windows were closed, Drew heard the prayers of an evening Mass, a priest’s muffled voice intoning, “Lamb of God, who take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God…”

  The congregation joined in, “Give us peace.”

  Drew’s note had told Father Hafer to retrace the meandering directions he’d been given, returning to the rectory. But Drew had used a direct route to get here sooner. He needed to study various vantages on the rectory, to determine if anyone was watching it. A final precaution. After all, if a hit team had followed Father Hafer, one of its members might nonetheless have been left behind, a final precaution of their own. Only when Drew felt satisfied that the rectory was safe would he risk going forward with the rest of his plan.

  But after six years in the monastery, he’d forgotten that during the ’70s the Church had relaxed its rules on obligating Catholics to attend Sunday Mass—a Saturday-evening Mass could take its place.

  And this was Saturday evening. With Mass in progress, with parishioners’ cars parked along the street of this well-to-do neighborhood, others pulling to a stop in front of the rectory, their motors running, their drivers apparently waiting to pick up worshippers when Mass was completed, Drew found himself confronted with too many possible trouble spots. A match flared in a car down the street, a silhouette lighting a cigarette. Would a professional reveal his position that blatantly? Perhaps—if he wanted to seem like just another driver waiting for a passenger.

  And what about the woman on the steps leading up to the church? She hugged an infant in a pink knitted cap and soft-looking blanket, patting its back as she paced. Had she left Mass early because the infant had begun to cry, disturbing the parishioners, and now she waited for her husband? Then why was the infant no longer crying? And given the frost that escaped from the woman’s mouth, why didn’t she wait in the vestibule of the church, where she and the infant could be warm?

  Too much to worry about.

  Worse, he knew that his suspicions would increase when Mass ended and the parishioners came out. In the swarm of activity, he’d never be able to determine if the area was safe. His plan had depended upon his being able to reach the rectory before Father Hafer returned. The priest would be coming back any time, and Drew couldn’t risk crossing the street.

  Unless. The Mass, he decided. Instead of ruining his scheme, it might be a blessing. He turned and crept back through the bushes toward the side door of the church. In shadow, the door was thirty feet from the rear, adjacent to a sidewalk that allowed parishioners convenient access from the street behind it. He turned the iron latch, then tugged at the large oak door.

  It resisted, and for a moment, his heart pounding, he worried that the door was locked. He tugged it harder; it opened, creaking.

  His shoulders became rigid as he peered inside. He faced a concrete landing, its smooth plaster walls painted gleaming white. To his left, seven steps led up to a door behind which the service was being said—the main part of the church. Straight ahead, other steps led down to the church’s darkened basement. And to his right, a third set of steps led up to another door.

  He climbed the steps to his right, gently trying that door. It wasn’t locked; he hadn’t expected it to be. The priest who not long ago had gone through here to prepare himself for Mass would hardly have expected an intruder while he and his servers were at the altar. Even so, Drew had to be silent.

  Behind him, shuffling footsteps beyond the door to the main part of the church suggested that communion was now in progress, the congregation approaching the altar rail to receive the host. At once, from the church he heard the muffled strumming of guitars, a soprano singing the John Lennon–Yoko Ono tune “Give Peace a Chance,” on occasion substituting “God” for “peace.” Remembering the liturgical hymns that he and his fellow monks had sung at daily Mass, Drew winced at the contrast. But at least the congregation was occupied, though now that he thought about it there were always a few impatient worshippers who left Mass early, as soon as communion was nearly finished. Any moment, someone might come through that other door from the church and see Drew sneaking into here. He had to hurry.

  He stepped through the opening, closed the door behind him, and studied the chamber that curved around behind the wall in back of the altar. This area was the sacristy, and it was here that the priest put on his vestments—the alb and cincture, chasuble and stole—before saying mass. Closets, cupboards, and shelves contained not only these vestments and others, but also altar cloths, candles, linen towels, incense, bottles of mass wine, and various other objects necessary for the many Catholic rituals.

  He’d been concerned that one of the priest’s assistants might have come back here in search of some forgotten item, but the sacristy was empty. To his left, he saw the archway that led out to the altar, the twinkling candles that flanked the golden tabernacle into which unused consecrated hosts, contained by a chalice, would be locked. The space in front of the altar was deserted, the priest and his assistants still down at the rail, giving communion to the parishioners. The guitars kept strumming. The soprano must have had the Beatles on her mind—she’d switched to the verse of George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun,” but now the “sun” meant “Son” and was sometimes changed to “Lord.”

  The sacristy was designed so that the congregation could not see into it through the archway. Confident of concealment, Drew opened several cupboards, at last discovering what he needed—a black, ankle-long cassock. He quickly put it on and secured the numerous buttons. Next, he chose a white, linen, hip-long surplice, pulling it over his head and down on top of the cassock. This combination of vestments was commonly used by priests who took the place of altar boys, assisting the celebrant of the mass.

  On a counter beside the sink, he found a formal head covering known as a biretta—a black square hat with three symmetrical ridges at the top and a pompom in the middle. On impulse, he also took a prayer book from a stack beside an incense burner. The fragrance of the incense, even unlit, suffused his nostrils.

  He stared toward the archway, hearing muffled footsteps cross the carpet toward the altar. He had to get out of here. Quickly returning to the door, closing it behind him, his chest tight, he caught a blurred glimpse of the priest and his servers arriving at the tabernacle now that communion was over. The guitars and the soprano mercifully stopped.

  He gently slipped the latch into place, turned to dart down the stairs to the landing, and froze when the door that led to the main part of the church creaked open.

  A red-haired man and a freckled woman backed out of the church, glancing inward—to the right, toward the altar—each dipping their right hand in a marble holy-water basin, making the sign of the Cross. They were too preoccupied leaving mass early to notice him, but the instant they closed the door and turned to start down the stairs, they straightened, seeing his vestments, and fidgeted with embarrassment.

  Drew lowered the hat to his side, holding the prayer book against the front of his surplice.

  “Oh, uh … hello there, Father,” the man whispered.

  Drew nodded soberly, his voice low. “My son. Escaping the benediction, are we?”

  “Well, yes, that is, you see, Father, we…”

  “Quite all right. No need to explain to me.”

  The man and woman glanced at each other, relieved.

  “But you might explain to the Lord. I’m sure you’ve heard the parable about the guests who left the banquet early.”

  They blushed until the woman’s freckles were hidden and the man’s face matched the color of his hair. “I’m sorry, Father.” The man bowed his head.

  Beyond the door, Drew heard the priest intoning, “The mass is ended. Go in peace.”

  He gave the man and woman a paternal smile. “But I’m sure you had what you thought was a valid reason. At least you came to mass in the first place.”

  “As often as we’re able to, Father.”

 
The door to the main part of the church came open, the congregation leaving.

  Drew raised his right hand in blessing. “The Lord be with you,” he told the man and woman, then opened the door that led outside and motioned for the couple to go ahead of him.

  On the shadowy sidewalk next to the church, he exhaled frost in the chill October night and put on the hat. He started to say good night, but seeing that the man and woman were headed toward the front of the church instead of toward the street in back, he walked with them. Behind him, parishioners left the church, many of them heading in his direction. That was fine with him. The bigger the crowd, the better.

  “You must be new in the parish, Father,” the woman said. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I’m here for just a few days, visiting.”

  They reached the front of the church, where the bulk of the congregation streamed out the main doors, dispersing both ways along the street. Several cars started; traffic became congested. People clustered, talking. Perfect, Drew thought. If anyone was watching the rectory, so much commotion would be a distraction, and the one person who’d most blend with the scene would be a priest.

  “Well, good night, Father,” the man said. “See you in church.” He seemed to think he’d made a grand joke.

  When the man took the woman’s hand, Drew assumed the proud look of a priest who’d just had the satisfaction of meeting a good churchgoing Catholic couple.

  He didn’t change expression when, beyond the crowd and the procession of departing cars, he noticed Father Hafer approaching the rectory on the opposite side. The priest had his handkerchief to his mouth, coughing. With all the activity, Drew couldn’t tell if the priest was being followed, but in a way, it no longer mattered. He’d done as much as he could, had taken as many precautions as he could invent. From now on, everything was out of his control, in the hands of God.