Again the sad shrug. “I don’t know. I assume she returned to the convent. I really couldn’t say.”
“Which convent?”
“The Abbey of Poor Clares, as I recall.”
“Is it anywhere near here?”
“I’m not sure, but I think so. Why?”
Peter looked at the man who slumped before him. “Don’t you think it’s natural for a boy to want to see his mother? His real mother?”
“Oh yes, I suppose you would. I’ll ask the cardinal for you.”
“Why can’t I ask him myself? Am I going to be kept prisoner here?”
“I don’t know,” said Krieger, reaching for his bag of tricks, pulling out a sphygmomanometer and a stethoscope.
“What do they want with me?” asked Peter, trying to keep the desperate tone from his voice. “Assuming what you all say is true, why did you do it? Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”
“Please take off your shirt,” said the doctor.
“There’s nothing wrong with my blood pressure. Put that crap away and answer my questions.”
Krieger looked at him for a moment, down at his instruments, then back again. “You’re right,” he said, and packed up the gladstone.
“So. What do they want with me?”
Krieger chuckled, shook his, head. “You mean you really don’t know?”
“I have an idea. Let’s just say I want someone to tell me.”
Krieger sighed heavily. “It’s the Millennium, son. If we had a dollar for every person who’s predicted the end of the world next year, we would be rich men.”
Peter nodded. His worst fears, the craziest suspicions he had refused to acknowledge, were made real. “And I’m supposed to be the Second Coming. That’s ridiculous!”
Krieger clicked the latch on his satchel.
Peter stood up, paced about the small space. “What are they planning to do? Sit around and watch me until I start turning water into wine?”
“Well, I think they want to ‘prepare’ you for your destiny,” said Krieger. “I think that was the way the Cardinal phrased it.” The old man stood up. “I’ll come back later. You’ve got to calm down, Father.”
“No, I’ve got to get out of here.”
“You can’t,” said Krieger.
Peter chuckled softly. “Watch me.”
“What do you mean?” Krieger looked at him with a truly puzzled expression.
Without thinking about it, Peter lunged for the man, grabbing him in a throat-hold. With his forearm pressed against the doctor’s larynx, Peter forced him to his knees. Krieger felt thin and frail under his grip and he hoped he wasn’t hurting the old guy.
“Stay on your knees and you’ll be okay,” he whispered. The doctor nodded, and relaxed. Taking the key from the outer pocket of Krieger’s white coat, Peter felt immediately safer. Just knowing he wasn’t locked in gave him confidence. He tied Krieger with strips of bedsheet, then placed him gently on the bed.
Searching his room, he was surprised to find that he still had everything he would need—passport, money, credit cards. Quickly he changed into a sweatsuit, then stuffed several extra sets of clothes into a small airline carry-on bag.
“I’m sorry about this, but I’m going to need all the time I can get. You understand, don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” said Krieger. “But I should tell you, son—you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“What do you mean?”
“These people are very powerful, and they believe they are doing God’s will. They believe they are bringing about the Second Coming and that the world will finally be returned to Paradise.”
“That’s what they want me to do? Bring about Paradise?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“I can’t stand this. I need time to think. I can’t stay here. I need some time.”
“Be careful. Francesco can be a ruthless bastard. He’s more hood than priest. He’ll do whatever he has to do to catch you. You’ll never get out of the city.”
“Anybody else out there besides Orlando?”
“No, just the regular security people. Lareggia didn’t want to arouse any suspicions.”
“Good…so not many people know I’m here.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Krieger. “You never know with these people.”
“You make them sound pretty rough,” said Peter, almost smiling at the thought of the huge Cardinal huffing after him along a dark, rain-shined alley.
“Let’s say they know some rough people. You’ll never make it.”
“Well, I’m going to try,” said Peter. He tore off a strip of sheet, ready to gag Krieger. “Now, if you don’t mind…”
Krieger obligingly opened his mouth to reveal long, yellowing teeth.
Being careful not to tie him too tightly, Peter finished the job and moved to the door, unlocking it. He opened it a crack and peered out into the darkened hallway. Orlando detected the sound, immediately turning around. Before he could react, Peter threw his full weight against the door. It sprang outward, the outer edge colliding with the priest’s right temple. Stunned, he wobbled in front of Peter like a dazed boxer.
Before Orlando could recover, Peter launched himself forward, kicking the man squarely between his legs. Feeling the other man’s testicles collapse beneath his foot made Peter queasy.
But it was a lot worse for Father Orlando.
Doubled over, sucking violently for air, eyes rolled back into his head, Peter wondered if the priest even felt the roundhouse to his jaw.
After dragging the unconscious man into the room and tying him up, Peter realized for the first time that he’d passed the point of no return.
Leaving Orlando beside the cot, Peter smiled good-bye to Krieger. He got the feeling the old scientist approved of what he was attempting. With a half-smile, he closed the door and locked it, then ran down the long dark corridor. His heart hitched and sputtered like a broken sewing-machine motor, and his mouth was like dry cotton, but he pushed on until he located a stairwell.
Taking the steps two at a time, he plummeted downward to the ground floor. He didn’t know what he would do if he encountered a security guard, and so he tried not to think about it. The only thing he wanted to do was get out of the building, just be in the open air, free of this place. Then he would worry about what to do next.
He reached the first floor, peered out the fire door, and saw no one in either direction. The seemingly endless hallway was dimly lit by widely spaced night-lights. He moved along the shadowy corridor, feeling completely vulnerable. His Italian was not good enough to fool anyone for very long, and surely the security guards would accost someone carrying a small bag through the halls of a deserted government office building, especially at this hour. Was Lareggia still in the building? Had he alerted the guards to be extra cautious tonight?
Taking no chances, Peter slipped into an open lavatory door and moved to the back of the room, where a single window peered out upon a garden and courtyard. He slipped off one shoe as he inspected the edge of the glass for any alarm systems, ready to break the pane. Then, embarrassed, he discovered the window was unlocked. Raising it slowly, quietly, he slipped over the sash and dropped the six feet or so to the soft earth.
Free!
The feeling flooded through him like a powerful liquor. He paused for a moment to get his bearings, then set off at a steady jog, heading east. He ran past the statue of St. Peter, turned north on the Viale Del Giardino Quadrato. He kept up a constant pace as he hit the Via Germanico, a fairly large avenue which angled east, away from the Vatican. If he kept traveling east, Peter knew, he would eventually lose himself in the twisting streets of Rome.
The minutes passed but Peter did not tire. His regular jog through Brooklyn was paying huge dividends as he gradually put a good distance between himself and Vatican City. Despite the darkness, he kept to the side streets. There was nothing that odd about an evening jogger, but he didn’t want to attrac
t any attention at all.
After about half an hour of running he began to feel the strain, so he stopped at a small al fresco cafe for a Perrier. He needed to consider his options. He knew he didn’t have much time—if he was going to leave the country he had to do it soon. He had no idea when the authorities would start looking for him.
Walking quietly to a main thoroughfare, he hailed a cab.
In the taxi, on the way to the airport, he thought about his next step. He knew he could not contact anyone through whom they could trace him. They would be on Daniel Ellington in a heartbeat. Sobieski too. The city whirled past the taxi’s window like the lights of a carnival, and he felt totally alone. There was no one in the world, it seemed, who could help him.
FIFTEEN
Manhattan, New York—Windsor
* * *
August 26, 1998
Maybe James really was the asshole her friends had been telling her he was?
The question lingered in Marion’s mind as she listened to him speak in rushed, slurry tones.
“…and it’s not that I don’t love you or anything like that,” he said. His voice battled for prominence with loud, trendy music. Why did nightclubs always locate the phones right next to the stereo speakers? Which segued right into her next question:
“James, why did you have to go to a bar to call me?”
“Huh? What?”
“It’s bad enough you didn’t want to talk about things face to face,” said Marion. “But I can understand that, I guess. A phone always makes it easier. It’s less personal that way.”
“C’mon, honey…It’s not like that at all.” He paused and she could hear ice cubes clinking in a glass, hear him swallowing.
“Is this where you say it’s not over, that you just want to take some time out?” Marion almost laughed, but she tried to retain some control. “Or how about: ‘I think we should see other people for a while’?”
“Marion, please…”
“What’s the matter, James, did I blow all the lines you’d rehearsed?”
“Hey, look, I’m trying to be serious and you’re being sarcastic. What’s the matter, Marion? Can’t deal with reality?”
The bastard had a lot of balls, she had to give him that.
Reality! What did he know about reality?
Living down in Soho, living off his father’s ever-dwindling trust fund while he struggled to reinvent Jackson Pollock. The only thing James Murdoch Cassidy III had succeeded at so far was keeping Pearl Paint in the black.
These thoughts flashed at light-speed through her mind, part of her wanted to spew them out like venom because he was hurting her. But another part of her was tired. Tired of going through the now-familiar mating and parting rituals of urban professionals.
So she only said: “The only reality I’m aware of, James, is that you’re bored with our relationship, and therefore, it’s over, right?”
There was a pause during which the receiver carried only the electric lyrics of love from this week’s hot new female singer.
“Yeah,” said James, finally. “Yeah, I guess that’s it. I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to say. I’m sorry, Marion.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said, unable to hide the bitter aftertaste of her own words. “There’re eight million stories in the Naked City, remember? This has just been one of them…”
“Marion, I hope you’re not upset—”
Goddamn him! What did he think she was? Ecstatic?
“No, of course not! I’m not upset! What’s a year and a half of emotional investment? We’re all going to live forever, didn’t you hear the news?”
“Well, listen…” he said lamely, “if there’s anything I can do…”
“Yeah, right, buddy. There is one thing you can do. You can go fuck yourself!”
She slammed down the receiver and stared at the phone blankly. In spite of herself, hot salty tears broke from her eyes, cutting into her cheeks like acid. Getting up, she walked to the bathroom, grabbing a Kleenex from its flowery dispenser box.
She knew she shouldn’t be acting like this. Especially since she wasn’t sure she even loved him anymore. Hell, if she’d ever loved him. But if that was the case, why did she feel so bad?
It was more than the rejection or the fear of being alone, Marion knew.
It was the time.
A year and a half was a decent piece of her life, damn it. Her last birthday had been her thirtieth, and for the first time she had experienced the pangs of lost youth. The older she grew, the harder it was to get away from the idea that time was running out.
How many chances do you get? How many times can you blow it before it’s all over?
Wiping away the tears, she took several deep breaths, walked to the window, and looked out on Riverside Drive and the flat, dull-green swath of the Hudson. It was late afternoon and the city was hotter than a cheap laser. Air conditioning kept her insulated from the heat; reflecting on that, she wondered if perhaps her job was doing the same thing to her personal life.
Working in television, gaining the quasicelebrity status inherent in a broadcast position, she had slowly discovered, did a tap-dance on the nonprofessional hours of her life. Men were attracted to her quite naturally, and they seemed initially to enjoy the mystique surrounding her as an on-screen personality. But as familiarity grew, as intimacy flared and finally raged, she also noticed the growth of real resentment in the men she’d dated since coming to New York.
The male ego, apparently, was not built for dating a female TV star. Well, not really a star, she corrected herself, but at least she was a recognizable person.
Strangers were constantly coming up to her and starting conversations, relating to her on a level of intimacy and familiarity that normally did not exist between people unknown to each other. But New Yorkers were used to seeing her and hearing her address them in their living rooms each night. That’s pretty intimate. And it was hard for guys to handle.
After a while James began to resent, and then openly loathe, all the rude interruptions whenever he took her out. It was a pattern she had seen and felt before, with the men before him, and she wondered if the pattern would ever be broken.
Then there was the issue of her healthy salary. Despite almost two generations of women’s liberation, a lot of men still didn’t like the idea of being involved with a woman who made more money than they did. Welcome to 1955.
Well, the hell with all of them.
The phone rang. Its shrill, electronic insistence stung the silent air of the apartment.
Damn him!
“Listen to me, James!” Marion half-yelled as she picked up the receiver. “I don’t want—”
“Excuse me…” said a female voice. “Is this Ms. Marion Windsor?”
Clearing her throat, Marion tried to sound professional. “Yes it is, who’s this?”
“Ms. Windsor, this is Pam at the switchboard. I just got a call from a Father Peter Carenza. He says he’s in Rome, at the airport, and he needs to talk to you right away. He doesn’t have your number, it’s unlisted, and nobody would give it to him. He talked me into calling you—I hope you don’t mind.”
Instantly her journalist’s instincts clicked into place. She automatically reached for a pen and pad. “No, of course not! What’s the matter, did he say?”
“He sounded pretty excited. He said it was extremely important that he speak to you, that it was an emergency.”
Peter Carenza in Rome. What was going on? “Give me the number, Pam.”
She wrote down the string of digits, hung up, and immediately punched in the transatlantic call. The phone only rang once before she heard the priest’s resonant basso voice. The connection was amazingly clear.
“Ms. Windsor?” he asked. There was a hitch in his voice, and she could hear the idiot-thrum of crowds in the background.
“Yes, this is Marion Windsor, what can I do for you, Father?”
“Listen, I don’t have time to explain ev
erything. I’m sorry to call you at home, but they said today was your day off. I’m in some trouble, and—”
“Trouble?” The word, and the way he said it, spiked through her nervous system. She felt instantly alert. “What kind of trouble? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m okay, but I have to get out of the country right away. I’m catching a ten-thirty flight on TWA. It’s supposed to arrive at JFK around ten tonight, your time. Can you meet me there?”
“At the TWA terminal?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, yes, I guess so. Father what’s going on?”
“No time to explain. Listen, I know this might sound funny, but I need a place to stay. Can you help me?”
She was so surprised, she said nothing.
“Look, there’s nobody else I can ask!” he said, filling in the dead space. “Nobody I can trust. They don’t know I know you…”
“Father—”
“And wear sunglasses and a hat!” His voice peaked, and she could feel the fear leaking out of him. “Don’t let them recognize you if they’re waiting at the airport!”
“Father, don’t let who—?”
“No time! My plane! Can you be there?”
“Yes, of course,” she said in rush.
“Good-bye, Ms. Windsor. God bless you…”
She wanted to ask more questions, but he was gone. The silent receiver mocked her for a moment, then emitted a pizzicato of clicks before a dial-tone finale.
What was going on? Her head still throbbed from the confrontation with James, and although Marion wasn’t a big drinker, she definitely needed something right now. A glass of zinfandel or maybe some brandy.
That priest was very strange. From her first contact with him, there was strangeness, mystery, even the suggestion of the bizarre. She remembered what Huber had told her and what her videotapes of Esteban and Peter Carenza himself showed. Now Peter was talking the standard paranoid/ conspiracy rap. About “they” and “them” and what “they” knew and what “they” didn’t know. It all sounded so familiar, but in this case, she sensed an honesty, a sincerity about Peter Carenza.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 11