Fonseca gave his hand a weak squeeze. “This is why I sent for you to begin with, Cagliostro. Do you know what the punishment is for any member of the Sovereign Order of the Knights of Malta who is discovered practicing alchemy? Or funding it? Or even encouraging its use?”
Cagliostro nodded. “Such a man should be condemned to row in the galleys for the rest of his days, as should anyone found working on metal apart from natural methods.”
“But you and I know what alchemy truly is, that it is far more than metallurgy. It is boiling a thing down to the essence, whether lead or gold or a man! We can find its essence. And that is why we will continue to thrive beyond these days of treason and treachery.
“When we first met, I saw you examining the tombs of the fallen knights in our conventual church. Do you know why we decorate the tombs of our companions with skulls and bones? We make light of Death because we do not fear him.” A coughing jag overcame him for the space of a minute. “You still have it?” he asked.
“Do I have what?”
“The cloth of St. Paul,” the Grand Master croaked.
“Of course I still have it.”
The old man smiled weakly. “I knew I was right to entrust it to you. Your knowledge, your skills as a pharmacist . . . you will harness its power. The world sees us venerating St. John, but it is St. Paul’s cloth that will give us dominion over Death. And if we do not fear Death, how can we fear mere words spoken by peasants in the streets?”
“But, Fonseca, the tides are turning, and not in our favor. The old order stands precariously, like dominoes placed in a line. It is only a matter of time before someone tips them.”
“Then you would admit defeat?” A look of betrayal spilled across the Grand Master’s face. “Even you?”
“On the contrary, I believe that we have one good move open to us, and only one.” He leaned in close to his friend, who, despite the lemon water he had just drunk, would be dead within three months. “We must tip the dominoes ourselves.”
CHAPTER 7
I doubt you’ll need this dress,” Fletcher said, holding up an unzipped garment bag.
“It’s a skirt and jacket,” Meg said, “not a dress.” The tailored suit was one of the few reminders of the brief window when she and Fletcher had been flush. For that reason, she both loved and hated it.
“Either way . . .”
“What if we go to church?” she asked.
“But we’re coming home Saturday.”
“My mother taught me to always pack something dressy, no matter what. It’s best to be prepared. Speaking of which . . .” She walked across the hall into Ivy’s room. “How’s the packing going in here?”
“Ummm . . .”
“You haven’t even started, have you?”
Ivy shook her head. Meg wanted to be angry, but the sight of her daughter in her pajamas, smiling sheepishly, derailed her plans.
“I’ll tell you what,” Meg said. “You go downstairs and find a suitcase, and we’ll do it together, okay?”
“Thanks, Mom!” The girl bolted from her bedroom, leaving her mother alone to survey the collections of bottles, plastic containers, Styrofoam packaging, and other items that had all been carefully washed, grouped together on the floor, suspended from the ceiling, or perched on shelves—some color-coordinated, some ordered by size, and some apparently grouped randomly.
Meg heard Ivy’s steps loudly descend into the basement. In less than a minute her daughter was lugging a rather large suitcase through the door.
Meg laughed. “We could pack you in that thing!”
“Should I get a different one?”
“No. We can share this one.” She stepped over to Ivy’s dresser and started counting out socks and underwear.
Ivy shrieked. “Oh my—what is this?”
Meg had heard her daughter raise her voice so rarely that she dropped the armful of clothes and rushed over. “What’s the matter?”
Ivy was doubled over in laughter. “Oh, I don’t know, Mom. I only opened the suitcase and found this.” She held up a purple glittery faux snakeskin fanny pack.
Meg stifled a laugh. “It’s called a fanny pack.”
“I know what it’s called,” Ivy gasped, “but why do you have it?”
“Shut up.” Meg laughed. She snatched the functional accessory from her daughter and fastened it around her waist. She made a lap around the bedroom, turning each corner like a runway model and drawing howls from her daughter.
“Okay,” Meg said, wiping her eyes and regathering her breath. “It’s all out in the open now. I had a fanny pack in the midnineties. I used to wear it once in a—a lot. It’s good to get that off my chest. Now let’s get you packed; it’s getting late.”
She flipped the suitcase back open to reveal an identical purple pack inside. Ivy let out another squeal. “Two of them? Please don’t tell me you and Dad had matching fanny packs!”
Fletcher poked his head into the room. “What’s going on in here?”
Ivy held the offending item up next to her deep crimson face. “Explain this,” she demanded.
“Oh, yeah—that one’s mine,” Fletcher said.
“He’s kidding, honey,” Meg assured her daughter.
“No, I bought that one with my own money. Before I married your mother. Therefore, it belongs to me. In fact, that’s how I won her over.”
“Don’t . . .,” Meg pleaded.
“I think she’s old enough to hear this,” Fletcher said, sitting on Ivy’s bed and adopting a fatherly posture. “It was those very fanny packs that brought us together. They’re why you exist.”
Ivy was shaking her head vigorously, as if this would negate the truth of the statement.
“You see, I met your mother in a psychology class our sophomore year of college.”
“Philosophy,” Meg corrected.
“No, I first noticed you in psychology. Maybe you didn’t see me, but I noticed this beautiful young woman with big blue eyes and a dazzling purple fanny pack. She was never without that thing. I kept my eye on her that whole semester.”
“That’s called stalking,” Ivy interjected.
“Fair enough. Anyway, I noticed that she would always take it off and carefully hang it on the back of her seat before class. Then, about halfway through, she’d open the zipper pouch and take out one of those cardboard-flavored Little Debbie brownies.”
“Oh, this is getting so much worse,” Ivy said.
Meg was covering her face but couldn’t stop laughing.
“So the next semester we had philosophy together—I made sure of it.”
“Stalker,” Ivy repeated.
“Right, and I had seen a fanny pack just like your mom’s at the mall, so I bought it and stuffed it full of Little Debbie brownies and a note asking if I could take her to a concert. Then I just sat behind her and carefully swapped the two packs. And that is how I won over your mom.”
“I actually called him to get my dorm room key and my wallet,” Meg said.
“Oh my gosh, I love that story,” Ivy said, grinning. “I mean, it’s horrible, but I love it.”
“The best stories are true stories,” Fletcher said, locking eyes with Meg. She gave him exactly the smile he wanted.
“Wait a minute,” Ivy said. “I thought you said you rescued Mom from a bridge.”
Fletcher laughed. “I can’t believe you remember that. No, I rescued her from the other side of the bridge. Because she’s Canadian.”
Ivy looked from the purple abomination around her mother’s waist to the one in her hand and then to her father. “So I guess you were a grifter before you even met Mom.”
Meg’s laughter stopped. Fletcher’s smile faded. An awkward moment passed. Ivy, oblivious, rubbed her eyes and yawned.
Meg broke the silence. “How about I just pack your stuff for you? I think you need to go to sleep.”
Ivy nodded.
“That means you take what I pack and don’t complain, okay?”
&nb
sp; “Okay, Mom.” Ivy crawled into bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin.
Fletcher kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, sweetie.”
“Good night, Father.”
“I love you.”
She nodded. “Got it.”
He left his wife to say her good nights and plopped down on the living room couch. Meg emerged a moment later, a yellow legal pad full of to-do lists in hand, and seemed about to disappear.
“I was close,” Fletcher called.
“Hmm?” She looked up. “What was close?”
“She called me Dad when I wasn’t in there. I heard her. It was nice, and it was nice to see her come out of her shell a little bit. Like the old Ivy.” He smiled. “Now if I could just phase out this Father stuff once and for all.”
“Dad is an earned title,” Meg said, “and when you relinquish it, it takes more than three months to earn it back.”
Fletcher sat up. “Did I do something wrong, hon?”
Meg looked off into the distance for a moment. “Of course you did, Fletcher. Or they wouldn’t have sent you to prison.” She paused, shook her head once, and finally looked at her husband. “I’m sorry. That was mean. It’s just . . . after all we went through for the past six and a half years, it’s hard to have you just roll back in and expect everything to be normal right away.”
“What should I do, then?” He was working to keep the edge off his voice. “I’ve missed out on half her life already. I don’t want to miss any more. Why would you want me to?”
Meg sat down next to him and studied her feet. “I don’t want you to miss anything. I just want you to remember that she’s fragile, okay? We both are. We lost everything. She lost her dad. I lost my partner in life. We suddenly had zero income. She was just coming back out of her shell when we lost our home and everything we knew. An eight-year-old doesn’t understand what bankruptcy and foreclosure are.”
“I know, Meg. I know what I did to you. I’ve said I’m sorry at least a hundred times, and I’ll say it ten thousand more if you want.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to get it. Ivy was at a private school. One-on-one attention, lots of friends, an amazing future. Then suddenly she’s in literally the worst public school in the country.”
“Don’t exaggerate or anything,” Fletcher said. “An elementary school?”
“It went up through eighth grade. And the school district was the worst in the country. I’m not exaggerating. It was on a list on the Internet. What does that do to a kid? She’s suddenly living in a one-bedroom apartment, hearing gunshots in the night. Then she’s dragged out to the suburbs away from everything she knows and she’s getting picked on for her jailbird dad. That kind of stuff leaves scars, Fletcher.”
“She seems pretty well adjusted to me,” Fletcher offered.
“She is. Thank God for Dr. Levi. He’s really helped her sort out her feelings.”
“Yeah.” Fletcher did not like to think about Dr. Levi, a counselor who had been picked out and paid for by Brad Howard. Whenever Meg and Fletcher had a disagreement, there always seemed to appear some unsubstantiated quote from the good doctor.
“You know why he thinks she collects all that junk?”
“What does he shrink?”
Meg rolled her eyes. “He said she’s trying to salvage what’s left of her childhood. That’s why she takes things that have been thrown out and washes them up and keeps them.”
“Seriously?” Fletcher laughed. “Wow, that’s so incredibly deep. I’m glad I didn’t pay for that guy.”
“Well, I’m glad we happened to find someone who cared enough to get help for a little girl who isn’t even his.”
Fletcher stood up. “Are you kidding me? You think Brad did all that out of the kindness of his heart? You think he gave you this place for half the rental value to be nice? He’s not nice, Meg. He’s a jerk. Which means he had one goal in mind, and it had more to do with your skirt than Ivy’s psychological well-being.”
“He’s not like that. He was going through some hard stuff too, and he was just being kind.”
“That’s way beyond kind. And if Brad moved here two years ago, why does he even own two houses? Did you ever wonder about that?”
“That’s part of what he does for a living. He invests in real estate. And he’s not making any money on this place. You might try and remember that.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“We owe him so much, Fletcher. How can you not see that? Ivy and I had nothing when we moved here. Nothing. One month after filing bankruptcy, and every landlord wanted to run a credit check. I had debts up to my neck and a car that wouldn’t go in reverse. Brad had some compassion when no one else did.”
“Oh yeah, he just oozes compassion. That and creepiness. You’re young enough to be his daughter, for crying out loud!”
“He’s not as old as you think,” Meg said. Then added, quieter, “He’s not even fifty.”
“So he’s got that distinguished-older-man sexiness going? Is that it?”
“It’s not like that, Fletcher! How many times—?” She caught herself and took a deep breath. “He’s a nice person.” Her voice faltered on the last word, and Fletcher knew he was in danger of eliciting tears. He had to redirect.
“Right, real nice, between his constant reminders that I’m a convicted felon and his condescending little comments about my job. What an angel, this guy.”
Meg moved a few inches farther away. “I admit that he’s not very kind to you, but it’s only because he’s worried you’re going to leave us again. He’s protective.”
“It’s my job to protect you. Not his.”
“Well, he did protect us when you couldn’t. You might try being grateful for that. He helped us feel normal again, got us in a nice enough house, even got me back into the theatre.”
Fletcher squeezed his fists. “I can’t sit here and listen to how supportive Brad has been of your acting. I let you pursue it full-time. And maybe I wasn’t making an honest living, but I wanted you to realize your dreams, and you were getting there. For real. Now this tool gets you hooked up with some dinky community theatre, and he’s the one who supports your acting aspirations? Call me nuts, but I think it’s enough that I live in his house and go to his church and listen to his crap. Can the guy maybe find his own wife?” He waited for a response. None came.
Fletcher looked down at his wife, bent over on the couch, hugging herself around the abdomen, possibly crying. And he hated himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not mad at you. Or even Brad. I’m mad at myself. I’m working on it, okay?”
She nodded, still looking at the floor, and said, “I’m sorry too.” She looked up, her eyes red. “And, Fletch, you really are doing a good job with Ivy. She’s a different person now that you’re back. I know it’ll be hard, what with Brad coming too, but let’s try and leave all this behind this week, okay? Let’s just enjoy some time away as a family.”
“That sounds nice,” he said. “Some time away will be good.”
Across the street, a nondescript gray van was parked at the curb. The driver sat back in the shadows, fiddling with the ring on his finger—a gold ring inlaid with a black Maltese cross. The man had watched Fletcher and Meg fight and make up. He’d also listened to every word through a wireless earpiece. He smiled to himself.
Yeah, some time away will be good.
CHAPTER 8
The sight of the familiar city skyline reaching up from the horizon brought a sense of pure joy to Fletcher. It was as if part of him—the most important part—had been dead for the better part of a decade and had now been resurrected by simply laying eyes on those familiar buildings. He took it all in: the art deco skyscrapers jutting up in all their geometric diversity, the morning sun glinting off those familiar round glass towers. A wide grin filled his face, and his foot mashed the van’s accelerator as he felt the city drawing closer and closer.
Then he
remembered the van’s twelve teenaged passengers and eased off a bit. Sure, the circumstances were not ideal, but a return to the city was just what he needed. Time away from the smallness of suburban life—the stupid vending machine job, the stigma of being the convict who’d been hired for the tax breaks, the house he didn’t even own. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to drop these kids off and disappear into the city.
Then he saw his wife and daughter chatting and laughing two rows back, and the desire left him. They were happy. He was happy. What could go wrong?
“Are you okay, Mr. Doyle?” Courtney had called shotgun before Fletcher had been tasked with driving.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You just, like, stopped talking midsentence. I thought you were having a stroke.”
“No, I’m fine. What was I saying?”
“The long con.”
“Oh, right.” He glanced at Meg in the rearview mirror. He was fairly sure she wouldn’t want him regaling Courtney with stories of the Life, but she was preoccupied and he was too amped to control himself. “Grifters either work the short con, which is going for one big take and then disappearing forever, or the long con, which is when you keep milking the same mark for more and more. You send him to friends and family to borrow more money. It’s nothing to mess with. I’ve never really gotten into it.”
He suddenly felt Meg looking at him.
“The turn is right up here, Fletcher,” she said.
“Thanks.” He looked at her face in the mirror, trying to decipher what she might have heard, but came up empty. His emotional high was suddenly losing altitude. He shook his head. A grifter who couldn’t read his own wife. Boy, was he out of practice.
“What’s this old place?” came a surly adolescent voice from the back of the van. “This isn’t Life Journey Church. We’re in the ghetto or something!”
“This is the address Brad gave me,” Fletcher said, surveying the edifice. The Church of St. John the Baptist was a gorgeous, if ill-preserved, hundred-and-eighty-year-old brick structure with Byzantine influence. Fletcher’s smile returned. It had been torture for a man of his interests and education to finally convert to Christianity, only to begin attending a church that met in a drywall and cinder block box built in the early 1980s. He pulled up to the curb and climbed out, craning his neck to admire the buttresses.
The Last Con Page 5