The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  There was a click and the sound of a spring releasing somewhere within. And then the word DIAMANTIA connected with Fletcher’s forehead, knocking him to the ground. He gave his head a violent shake and pulled himself back to his knees. A compartment—like a small drawer—had opened. It was not empty.

  Fletcher freed his phone from his pocket. “You there, Al?”

  “Yes. What have you found?”

  “Looks like a piece of cloth wrapped around something.”

  The Alchemist began breathing loudly into the phone.

  “Keep it together,” Fletcher said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Pick it up carefully.”

  Fletcher examined the inside of the chamber for any sort of sensor or switch. Seeing none, he snatched the bundle and sat back down on his feet behind the altar, quickly unwrapping the item—a seven-sided shape, about three inches across.

  “Looks like a piece of bone, carved into a septangle,” Fletcher said. “Common shape in the occult and Freemasonry. Less common in the altars of Catholic churches, I’m thinking.” He ran his fingers along the glossy surface. One side was perfectly flat and smooth, save for a smaller septangle carved into the center and a Greek word inscribed at each angle. He flipped the object over. The other side resembled a miniature mountain range. “On second thought, I don’t think it is bone. At least not human. It’s too big. And not porous enough. Maybe ivory?”

  “What about the cloth?” the Alchemist asked, impatient.

  “Um, it’s beige, I guess. Buff colored? It’s just a cloth.”

  “Does it have a stain on it? Dark spots?”

  “Nope.” Fletcher examined both sides. “Pretty clean.”

  “How old is it?”

  “I have no idea. Looks like a cotton-poly blend, maybe.” He brought the cloth out into the circle of harsh light and studied the fibers. “If I had to guess, I’d say thirty years.”

  The Alchemist swore. “Put it back,” he said. “Put it all back how you found it and get out of there. I’ll be in touch.”

  Fletcher pocketed his phone and began rewrapping the item, doing his best to approximate its original state. He stuffed it into the small compartment, which he was about to close when he paused. On a whim, he quickly exposed the septangle again and, wrenching his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture. Then another from higher up, getting the altar in the shot as well. He then quickly flipped the cloth back over the artifact and pushed the little drawer back in. He had to throw his hip into it, but it finally clicked shut.

  After replacing the altar cloth, he grabbed the aerosol can, swung over the chancel rail, and quickly padded his way back out through the vestibule and into the connecting hallway. The harsh fluorescent lights seemed to reintroduce a measure of reality to the situation. Fletcher doubled his pace. Fifty more feet and he’d be back at his sleeping bag and slowly deflating air mattress. He felt an unexpected sense of pure exhilaration.

  “Hello?” The word came from behind him.

  Fletcher stopped in his tracks and turned to see Father Sacha approaching.

  “Oh! Hello to you,” Fletcher said, rubbing his eyes and forcing a yawn.

  “Can I help you with something?” the priest asked. He was still wearing his clericals at nearly 1:00 a.m. and seemed as bright and chipper as he had been that morning.

  “Just using the bathroom,” Fletcher said, lying to a priest.

  “I see. What’s that?” He pointed to the can in Fletcher’s hand.

  “Oh, this is just . . .” He looked at the label. “Hairspray. One of the girls must have left it behind. I didn’t know if you guys had a lost-and-found or . . .”

  “What happened to your head?”

  Fletcher’s hand went up to discover that his forehead was hot to the touch and, he assumed, red where the chamber had struck him.

  “I tripped on some luggage trying to get out of that room. Really nowhere to walk in there.”

  “I’m supposed to keep my eye on you,” the priest said.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Your friend. The one who hides his sadness with discourtesy. He told me to keep an eye on you, remember?”

  Fletcher faked a laugh. “Oh, that’s Brad. Always joking around.”

  “There’s a restroom just outside the men’s sleeping quarters, by the way. That should be more convenient for you in the future.”

  “Right. Sorry, I’m a little groggy.”

  The priest looked at him again, his eyes penetrating Fletcher’s, then trailing down to the hairspray in his hand. “I see,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “Well, you won’t find what you’re looking for here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The lost-and-found. It’s in the church office. I can take that for you.” He held out his hand.

  “Oh, sure. Here you go.” Fletcher gave him the can. “I guess I better go get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. Good night, Father.”

  “Good night.”

  Fletcher practically ran to the sleeping quarters and retraced the maze back to his air mattress, now nearly empty. There was no way to fill it back up without waking the whole room, so he just lay on top of his sleeping bag, feeling the cold floor beneath.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and brought up the first picture he’d taken. What was that thing? He zoomed in on the words in each of the seven corners: White, Red, Black, Pale, Martyrs, Earthquake, Silence. These were the seven seals in the book of Revelation. Fascinating, but clearly not what the Alchemist had wanted it to be. Closing his eyes, he was surprised to find his mind at ease—something he had not felt in a long, long time.

  He’d been wrong. The city wasn’t freedom; the grift was.

  I’ll be in touch, the Alchemist had said. The last thought Fletcher had before drifting off to sleep was, I hope so.

  CHAPTER 14

  A morning chill edged the air as the participants of the week’s Christian Service Camp lined up at the curb. Fletcher and his family were in Group B, headed to a live-in drug rehab center where they would prepare and serve lunch to the residents, then help lug boxes in from a truck. Tomorrow they’d be doing a similar task at a local soup kitchen.

  The prospect failed to thrill Fletcher. Still, he was looking forward to spending time with Ivy and Meg and happy they would see him in action, doing something selfless. If the passion for prepping and serving lunch did not materialize, he would fake it. That was his area of expertise, after all, and for the past three months he’d overlooked no opportunity to prove to his family that he was a new man, distancing himself from his identity as a thief and a fake as often as possible.

  “Line it up, people. Straighten up.” Brad came tromping up to the curb, addressing the group as a whole as if he were in charge. He jostled his way to the front of Row A, right next to Fletcher. He was dressed as always: pleated khakis, a polo, and penny loafers. But today he had added a brand-new canvas tool belt, stiff and unused, laden with a variety of tools that also bore no signs of wear.

  “I’m jealous.” Fletcher laughed. “Our group isn’t time-traveling.”

  Brad drew down his brow, calling on a ready network of furrow lines across his forehead. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, based on that getup, I have to assume your group is going back to 1991 to model for the JC Penney spring catalog. Right?” A spattering of laughter rose up behind him. Even Meg chortled a bit.

  “I’ll have you know our group is rehabbing a house for a needy family,” Brad said. His head wagged a bit as he spoke. “You may think you know me, Fletcher, but I promise you: I can swing a hammer when I need to.”

  “I’m sure you’ll fit right in,” Fletcher said. “Most guys at construction sites have tassels on their shoes.”

  Fletcher heard Noah repeat the word tassels behind him at least twice, spreading news of the burn laterally to other lines.

  Brad glared for a beat before halfheartedly joining in the laughter. “Aren’t you in the wrong group?�
� he asked. It was a public question, though directed at Fletcher.

  “Nope. We’re Group B.” Fletcher held up the lanyard around his neck.

  “Oh, they didn’t tell you.” Brad lowered his voice in a way that drew in his audience. “I talked with the director last night, and we agreed that it really wouldn’t be fair to send you in with all those drug addicts, considering your past. We’re moving you to Group F for today.”

  “Hilarious, Brad.”

  “I’m not kidding. It’s just best for everybody.”

  Fletcher looked around as if searching for hidden cameras on a prank television show. “That makes no sense. I’ve never been addicted to anything in my life.”

  “Still, though.”

  “I don’t even drink, Brad. Unlike some people.”

  Brad laughed through his nose. “This isn’t about me. These addicts are trying to better themselves, Fletcher. We don’t need them hearing your stories glorifying crime and prison. It might be a real stumbling block to them.”

  Fletcher stepped closer. “Let me tell you something, you—”

  Meg interceded. “It’s okay, hon. We can all move to Group F today.” She tugged her husband’s hand, pulling him back a step. “All three of us.”

  “That’s not the point. This guy is just being an—”

  “I know,” she said, fixing Brad with a firm look. “He sure is. But it’s not worth making a scene.” She tipped her head and rolled her eyes back toward the pack of kids enjoying the show.

  “Fine,” Fletcher said, and stalked fifteen feet down the curb to where a fake-baked young woman in a sorority T-shirt was holding a large letter F at the top of a pole.

  “I guess we’re supposed to join your group today,” he mumbled, tasting the resentment.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, stretching out all three words. “We only have room for one more in our group.”

  “Let me talk to Brad,” Meg said.

  “Forget it,” Fletcher said. “No big deal. We’ll be together tomorrow.”

  “Any other business before we close?” asked the Rev. Dr. Andre Foreman with a level of gravitas far exceeding the pragmatic question. He was the chairman of the Clergy Forum, a group of city ministers who met each month for fellowship and to discuss possible collaborations and opportunities to serve the community.

  “I’ve got something,” Dante said.

  “Reverend Watkins from Broadmoor Outreach,” Dr. Foreman said for the benefit of the other thirty men seated around the table. “It’s good to have you here this month, by the way. We’d like to see more of you.”

  “Thank you. And I’m sure you will. We’re trying to put the outreach back in Broadmoor Outreach Tabernacle these days.” He smiled, bringing a knowing chuckle from several of his colleagues. “To that end, I have an opportunity I’d like to share with you.” He pulled a stack of leaflets from his briefcase and passed them to his left.

  “This is information about a new initiative I’m helping organize. It’s called the Father the Fatherless campaign. As you know, many of our young men simply have no positive male role models in their lives. If you’ve done jail and prison ministry as I have, you’ve seen where that road too often ends. We’re starting a major fund-raising effort to launch a ministry that will provide mentoring opportunities and community centers where young men will have a place to get off the street and spend time doing what kids should be doing.”

  A man across the table spoke up. “Reverend Watkins, this sounds great. But I suggest you take some time to learn about our existing efforts to provide mentoring and after-school alternative programs.”

  “That’s a good suggestion,” said another man. “What you’re describing has really been the main focus of the Clergy Forum for several years, and we’ve built up a pretty decent network. We’ve all been doing prison ministry—especially Dr. Foreman. And no offense to your vision, but I think we’re all in agreement that the real pressing need is more godly men willing to volunteer their time, not more money.” There were a few grunts of agreement.

  Dante’s chest tightened. “I know there are a lot of piecemeal services being offered, but my dream is to put it all under one roof, a clearinghouse for all sorts of ministries. Centralized.”

  “You say you’ve got a fund-raising drive underway,” Dr. Foreman said. “What’s your goal?”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

  All the other men at the table gawked at Dante for several seconds.

  “I’m, uh . . . sure we’ll all have a look at your information,” Dr. Foreman said, shaking the leaflet in his hand. “Now, who would be willing to close us in prayer?”

  Dante looked around at all these men of God and hated them.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Orangelawn Shelter for Women and Children had once been a high school—the kind that popped up all over the country after the War, filled with wide stairways and named after presidents. It still smelled like a school to Fletcher.

  Inside, though, the conversion had been extensive. Classrooms were now dorms for the nightly homeless, abused, and disabused. An entire wing had been gutted and turned into more permanent suites for women enrolled in the center’s yearlong Life Transformation program. The library and music room were now play areas for toddlers and grade-school kids.

  The gym was still a gym. And that’s where Fletcher was playing Frisbee with two little redheaded brothers. This was the job that every male in the group had been given upon entering the facility: find some boys and just have fun. Shoot hoops, throw the pigskin, chase each other up and down the halls. Fletcher thought about the rest of Group B, sweating over vats of powdered potatoes and lugging boxes from a truck. Thanks, Brad. You actually did me a solid.

  Still, after two hours Fletcher was beat. He had never been overly athletic, and these kids seemed to have limitless energy—running, jumping, and laughing with abandon. Knowing he wouldn’t last the full forty-five minutes till lunch, Fletcher excused himself from the horseplay and plopped down on a stack of mats in the corner. The two boys followed him.

  “Are you coming back tomorrow?” Kyle asked.

  “No, not tomorrow.” Their faces fell. He mentally cycled through the days. “Thursday I’ll be back,” he said cheerily, “and my wife and daughter will be with me.”

  “You have a wife?”

  “Yeah. You’ll love her. She’s better at throwing a Frisbee than me.”

  The boys exchanged a disappointed look.

  “We’re gonna go play basketball,” Kyle said, and they disappeared.

  Mark Walker, the center’s director, had been standing nearby.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” he said. “Their mother’s not even allowed to date until she completes the program next year.”

  Fletcher smiled. “This place is awesome. You do great work.”

  “It’s challenging, but certainly rewarding,” Mark said. “And we really do appreciate men like you willing to get in there with the kids. Trust me, it’s time well spent. A lot of these kids are in their most formative years with no fathers to speak of. Some of the dads are in prison. Others were never part of the picture.” He shook his head sadly.

  Fletcher’s fatigue seemed to grow heavier. “Which years are the most formative?”

  “About six to thirteen,” Mark answered matter-of-factly. “That’s when kids really learn their values and cement family relationships.”

  Fletcher felt a stab of guilt. No wonder he was having such a hard time getting traction with Ivy. Then again, she had one more formative year left, according to Mark. Maybe there was still a chance to graduate from Father back to Dad.

  The director rushed off across the gym floor, bellowing something about lacrosse equipment and fencing, and Fletcher lay back and closed his eyes. Between his leaky mattress, racing thoughts, and covert mission, he’d only gotten about four hours of sleep. And the mats were far more comfortable than his mattress at St. John’s.

  He was startled from a
shallow doze by a deep and resonant voice asking, “Don’t I know you?”

  The man towering over him was tall, well built, and nearly bald. His eyes were kind and a deep chestnut brown that matched his skin.

  Fletcher shook the grogginess from his head and pulled himself to his feet.

  “Yeah. You do,” he said. “I know you, anyway. You’re the preacher from Jackson.” He held out his hand, which was immediately enveloped in a firm grip and given two precise pumps. “It’s great to see you, Dr. Foreman.”

  “You can call me Andre . . . Fletcher, right? We talked a few times after chapel.”

  “That’s right.” Fletcher realized he was wearing an enormous grin. “You saved my life, Andre.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “No, you did. Two years ago I was in the darkest place I’d ever been. My marriage was pretty much over. My daughter didn’t want to visit me anymore. I had no prospects for when I got out. I didn’t even want to get out. And then I heard you preach about redemption. And it’s crazy because I’d been studying the Bible for years, but you made it actually click for me. How God comes when we’re broken and empty-handed and leads us to the cross to receive life. I never put that together on my own.”

  “Because you were an identity thief.”

  “No—what? Why does everyone think that?”

  “We all were, Fletcher. God gives us our identity, our purpose for existing: to glorify him and enjoy him forever. Then we come in and try and jack the whole process. But Jesus told us that if we find our lives, we’ll lose them. But if we lose our lives for his sake, we’ll find them. People give up everything trying to find themselves and reinvent themselves and make something of themselves, and they wind up losing their identity. I’m glad to hear you’re finding yours again.”