With the polygraph results in hand, as well as voice stress analyzer tests showing him innocent of any wrong-doing, Clay’s lawyer used threats of legal action to make the FBI and the State authorities publicly declare Clay was not a suspect in the case. But for him and the citizens of Winder County, it was too little, too late.
In November he resigned as Sheriff, sold his house, and moved to Chicago for a time and then to Manhattan trying to lose himself in a large city. Rather than being a salve for his wounds, the anonymity of the city gave him too much latitude. He drank heavily, as much for the anesthetic value as for the quick amnesia it provided. His vague plan to work in private security evaporated.
In rapid sequence he lost his apartment, moved to a boarding hotel, and then, began living in a perpetual alcohol-induced fog at a Salvation Army Mission; he was as close to the end as any person could be, devoid of ambition or hope. A week after he moved into the mission, he was warned that he could not continue to drink and stay there. One cold winter evening he left with a warning that if he came back with liquor on his breath he would be refused entry. It was Christmas Eve but there was little joy in Clay Montague. He shivered in his suit jacket; he had had deliberately left his parka in his room.
After a few drinks at a mid-town bar that consumed most of his remaining money, he stepped into the cold and watched Christmas shoppers hurrying about their errands, gaily wrapped packages under their arms. Christmas carols played joyously over public speakers. Eager children, their faces glowing with expectations of Christmas morning hurried obediently along beside their parents. People met, laughed, hugged and shook hands wishing each other a Merry Christmas – it was all part of a world in which he no longer belonged. Tired and beaten, missing Jody even more, he made his way into a deserted alley and lay down by an ice-covered brick wall. He knew the temperature was hovering around -10 below zero. Piles of cardboard, a dumpster and several garbage cans were his only companions. Alone, cold and broke, he found that old habits die hard as he blessed himself and said a final prayer asking God for forgiveness for his inability to cope.
A wino shuffled into the alley, a blanket round the shoulders of a tattered coat reaching to his knees. He dropped to his haunches, propping himself against the opposite wall. He began to drink from a soiled paper bag as he watched Clay, slyly evaluating his potential as a victim.
“You dying?” the old wino asked, yellow rabbit teeth bared through his dirty beard.
“I don’t know,” Clay whispered. A feeling of numbness was creeping over his body. The busy street at the end of the alley continued to issue sounds of cars passing and the occasional honk of a horn. The strains of Silent Night, sung by a parade of carolers passing by, wafted in and then faded quickly as they moved on.
“Got any money?” the wino asked.
“Sorry...,” Clay said.
“Can I have your shoes...after you’re gone?”
“Knock yourself out.” Clay closed his eyes and soon his body began trembling in the cold. After fifteen minutes of violent shaking, he could almost feel his heart-beat slowing as paralysis settled over him. It was better this way, he reasoned. He’d been unable to help his poor mother...unable to save his best friend and deputy...and unable to save his wife. Time to make room on earth for another soul who might contribute more. Strangely he began to feel hot as constricted blood vessels near the skin’s surface began to dilate causing a sensation of heat. His heart began to labor.
As Clay drifted into unconsciousness, he looked up through half-closed eyes and watched a shooting star moving slowly across the night sky. He didn’t question his ability to see the star despite the city lights that usually washed out all starlight. It came to a dead stop. He even believed he saw a bright, arc-white Light descending from the heavens and pausing above the city’s canyon of buildings where he lay supine. “Strange,” he thought closing his eyes. The wino suddenly scrambled to his feet in panic and raced out of the alley in fear of a strange luminescence descending upon them. After a few minutes Clay began to feel tremendous warmth blanketing his entire body. But this was a valid warmth. He tried to open his eyes. He was so tired, he could not. Instead, the Light suffused him with a feeling of peace and acceptance that lulled him into the sleep of the innocent. He sighed, resigned his soul to God and surrendered to the darkness.
The next morning, he was surprised to wake up in the alley still feeling that all-encompassing warmth despite the fact the temperature continued to be well below zero. There was no hangover and, for the first time in months, he felt hungry. He remembered vaguely a light that had come into the alley and its accompanying warmth. Was the memory alcohol induced, he wondered? Or simply his imagination seeking relief from his impending doom? Whatever had happened, he was still alive and so, ironically, were his problems. Inwardly he berated himself for his stupidity. This was hardly the way; he was lucky he hadn’t frozen to death. I’ve had my last drink, he vowed as he dragged himself to his feet and walked out of the alley.
Clay hadn’t taken two steps before he bumped into a catholic priest on the sidewalk. The man apologized and looked at him with pity. Quite suddenly the look changed from pity to interest.
The priest, a man of about fifty wearing a black topcoat and 1950s-styled fedora, with a Roman clerical collar plainly visible, stared directly into Clay’s eyes.
“Do you need help, my son?”
Clay found himself nodding and Father Terry O’Leary introduced himself, learned his name, smiled and continued: “Somebody has been very worried about you.” His brown eyes twinkling, he gently placed a hand on Clay’s arm and began to lead him along the sidewalk. Despite the strangeness of the encounter, something inside Clay told him to comply.
“Someone was worried about me?” Clay asked, in disbelief. “Who?”
“Why...the Lord, of course,” the priest stammered, with an enigmatic smile. “Remember? Trust in the Lord and thou shall be saved?”
“Hardly likely,” Clay responded, somewhat bitterly.
“Tut, tut....” the priest said, moving him along.
Together, they boarded a series of Manhattan buses. The priest kept up a steady stream of conversation designed, it seemed, to enable Clay to maintain his silence and head off any anticipated protests. It centered on the weather, development in New York, the environment and the increased commercialization of Christmas. In fact, few of his points required any return input which suited Clay just fine. He nodded politely every few minutes and spent the rest of his time asking himself why he was so meekly placing his fate in the priest’s hands.
As they walked up Lexington Avenue, Clay was startled when they turned into the entrance of an upscale building. Somehow he had believed they were on their way to a church or a public mission. When asked, Father O’Leary explained that this was the Opus Dei Regional Office of the Prelature where apostolic works were carried out. He began to proudly relay some pertinent statistics and facts about their surroundings. The 133,000 square foot, 17-story Murray Hill Place contained 100 bedrooms as well as chapels, dining rooms, conference halls and offices. It was used by the Opus Dei Personal Prelature to spread the word of Christ’s presence in all facets of life, and to encourage people to live their lives for the Lord in a spirit of charity, humility and sanctity.
Clay marveled at the opulence of the building lobby sheathed in various marbles and inlaid with carved woods, as busy civilians and priests, carrying briefcases, passed in and out. Father O’Leary had asked him to wait in the lobby and momentarily disappeared. Within a few minutes, he was back. Clay was assigned a bedroom on the 12th floor without any questions or any understanding of why it seemed so natural to meet this priest and to accept his help. He was shown where the dining room was and given a printed handout on meal times. This was followed by a quick tour of a number of chapels – he could choose any for his daily devotions, he was told. All were opulent and many were filled with serious, well dressed and coiffed young male civilians attending mass or simpl
y kneeling at prayer.
As Father O’Leary rattled on, he soon learned that males and females entered through different doors and had separate quarters within the building. Not that the inhabitants would succumb to temptation, the priest said with a lopsided grin, but why give the devil a garden in which to cultivate and perfect his wily ways?
Once he was settled in, Clay was simply asked to meet with O’Leary once a day as part of a “rehabilitation process” which they felt he needed. When Clay inquired why they were doing this for him – there were thousands of homeless on the streets of New York – he was told it was their Christian duty; the Church would help him re-enter society.
Within a day he found his closet wardrobe contained two suits, dress shirts, ties, sweaters, trousers and both dress and casual shoes, all perfectly sized for him. The following day, he entered his room to find his meager belongings from the Salvation Army Mission also stowed neatly in the closet and bureau.
While priests and civilians alike were polite to him in their comings and goings, he was essentially left alone except for his daily meeting with the priest which turned out to be more like psychotherapy sessions rather than the religious indoctrinations he had expected.
As the days passed into weeks, Clay pretty much made his life an open book to Father O’Leary. He also discovered that the kindly, middle-aged man did indeed possess a degree in clinical psychology. And, with O’Leary’s help, he worked to repatriate himself into the land of the living and gradually accepted that he was fated to live with his memories. How he would live sober without his beautiful Jody remained to be seen. But, he reasoned, maybe his destiny was to be a life sentence of regrets.
Clay remained at the building for almost two months. He attended a few Christian lectures as recommended by O’Leary and joined a local chapter of Alcoholic’s Anonymous. The elderly priest told him he could stay as long as he wished, however, it would be better if he resumed a normal life.
In fact, they had formed a kinship as Clay unburdened himself and O’Leary encouraged him to reconnect with who he was, accept the unfairness of life and find hope in the form of his Savior. Clay also had the weird feeling that the good priest knew more about him than he let on. When some of his comments or observations seemed too knowledgeable, too uncanny to be mere guesses, the priest shrugged and said he’d advised many men who had lost their way in the past. He should never feel he was unique in his troubles.
Finally, with O’Leary’s encouragement, he put on a suit and summoned up the courage to walk into a branch of the First National Financial and fill out an application for a business line of credit with the stated goal of starting a small private detective agency.
The Loans Officer, a nattily dressed little man with an impeccable mustache and bad comb-over as well as imbued with an exaggerated sense of his own importance, had looked over the application, fixated on the absence of collateral, wrinkled his nose and shook his head. He asked Clay to check back in two days if he still wanted to proceed. His tone clearly indicated Clay had a better chance of being elected President of the United States than in getting his loan approved.
Two days later, Clay arrived back, ready for the expected refusal. Instead, he found the Loans Officer wearing an entirely different hat. The man had been gracious to a fault and led Clay to a conference room with a long table and chairs. On the table were neat stacks of financial papers and two pens. He even pulled out Clay’s chair as he went to sit down and asked him if he’d like some refreshments. He followed this by saying that the bank had reviewed his application and had deposited ten thousand dollars into an account for him. They were also extending him a line of credit of up to one hundred thousand dollars.
At first Clay felt his temper rising. Was this guy being funny? Barely holding his anger in check, he frowned suspiciously at the man and mentioned he’d only applied for ten thousand dollars.
The Loans Officer shrugged and, while looking somewhat perplexed himself, said that the President of the First National Financial had ordered that Mr. Montague be given whatever funds he needed. Within reason, of course. Was one hundred thousand enough?
Clay suddenly realized they were serious. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, no matter who had fouled up in the credit approval process. He signed the papers, and was given a leather check book, a balance book, several bank pens and a bank calendar.
As he was being walked to the street entrance, the Loans Officer had moved in close to him and whispered conspiratorially: “C’mon, tell me who you really are?”
Clay looked at the little man and decided to take advantage of the puzzling but welcome situation. He tried to mask his distain as he said: “Let’s just say there are people in the bank watching how you treat the disenfranchised – the more vulnerable customers – as compared to the well-heeled. Get it?”
“B-But I’m protecting the bank’s assets,” the Loans Officer protested.
Clay gave him a policeman’s look. “It’s how you do it. You’ve been warned.” The officer’s eye grew large, he nodded, gulped and opened the door for Clay, picking lint off his shoulder as he did so. He very nearly bowed as he said good-bye and good luck.
Having cleared the financial hurtles, Clay feared possible complications when applying for his New York State Private Investigator’s License. After all, he had been a suspect in a murder investigation. But, everything had run remarkably smooth there also. He wondered if life was just trying to pay him back for some of the garbage it had thrown his way.
Business started slow but progressed to the point where it supported a reasonable existence years ahead of where he’d been heading, he reminded himself. Most of his cases involved marital disputes, commercial theft and criminal defense research. Soon he had a steady diet of defense lawyers needing his detecting skills. Things went so well that within six months he’d financed a small loft condo in lower Manhattan and settled into a predictable routine of working and sleeping. He played a little handball to keep in shape, ran five miles daily and attended Alcoholics Anonymous on a quasi-regular basis.
His close friends were few: Fast Eddie down at Belmont, and Paddy Duffy, owner, operator and bartender of the tavern across the street. Fast Eddy never took more than a $10 bet from him and Paddy never served him anything stronger than a Johnnie Ryan Cola as they spent hours debating the talents of the Yankees and the Mets. He also had a few other friends from Duffy’s who played poker with him every Friday night in a back room at the bar.
Though there was now stability in Clay’s life, something inside him had died, call it a spark, or a zest for living; emotionally he felt...emotionless. Still, though he forced himself not to live in the past, neither did he look to the future. He’d found a spot in his soul in which to hide his memories so they didn’t hurt quite as much. Lately, however, he felt strangely restless, as though he had to do something – something he’d forgotten – the calm before the storm. Though it began as a vague and nebulous feeling, it was becoming increasingly real to him. He seemed to be waiting for something. For what, he had no idea. So he continued his work with small investigations of theft, fraud and other crimes. And, he waited.
~ 12 ~
“Comfortable, Sister?” the voice asked, from the front seat.
“It’s wonderful,” Maria answered, wishing she could exchange her hard bed back at the Quebec convent for the comfort of the back seat of the automobile. “If I look a little larger when I leave, you’ll know I’ve stuffed these cushions under my habit.”
The two men in front laughed.
Sister Maria Michelle Lapierre yawned and sank deeper into the velvet upholstery of the long, black limousine transporting her from Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci Airport to the Vatican. A mere novice, she was being given the royal treatment again. Pretty heady stuff for a nun-in-training, as she liked to call herself.
Cardinal Malachi had telephoned from Rome to Sister Superior at the convent in the Eastern Township village of Rock Island and told her t
hat Sister Maria was urgently needed in Rome again. In the past three years, she had been summoned to Italy twice by the mysterious cardinal, but on each visit, he merely conducted lengthy discussions with her on her faith, on her personal philosophy, her opinion of church teachings and finally on her reported gift of “second sight.” And, he always insisted they meet in plain clothes at a restaurant or other facility in the city of Rome, never actually in Vatican City. She must surely be the only aspiring nun to have come to Rome twice before and never made it there, she mused. Oh well, the third time seemed to be the charm. She was told she was being taken directly to Vatican City.
The cardinal had always been evasive as to the reason for his interest in Maria, only saying that future considerations might include her, but refusing to elaborate further. Now she had been summoned urgently? Had she somehow done something wrong? Or was this another meeting from which she would emerge as puzzled as she had been from the first two.
Sister Superior had always told Maria that she was an intelligent and sophisticated woman but with the unquestioning innocence and optimism of a child – all wonderful qualities – but qualities which both blessed, and sadly, sometimes, betrayed her. Whatever Rome had in store for her, she had every right to evaluate and weigh its consequences. She mustn’t take anything or anyone at face value, and that included the cardinal.
In retrospect, Maria knew the elderly nun was probably right as evidenced by the fact she did not fare exceedingly well in a world based on greed, acquisition and, often, deception. Still she held her virtues and her optimism close; she did not want to harden, did not want to change. Indeed, from what little she had been able to learn from the cardinal, it was a strange set of coincidences that had brought her to the Vatican’s attention.
The Plan Page 16