“Good place to go with a guy, though,” Courtney was saying. “Nobody would find you up there.” She laughed. Ivy laughed with her, halfheartedly.
Fletcher reached the landing and saw the two of them peering up through a trapdoor in the ceiling, which Courtney was pushing open with a broom handle. He guessed it was the access for either the bell tower or an attic.
Three quick steps and he was standing between the girls. “Is this what your dad meant when he said you’ve been ‘mentoring’ Ivy?” he asked, his best combination of severe, disappointed, and hurt.
Courtney tried to mask her surprise and embarrassment with a snarky smile. “Maybe if you’d answer my messages, I wouldn’t have so much time on my hands,” she said. “Idle thumbs are the devil’s playthings.”
Ivy was studying the floor, biting her lip. Fletcher gently took her hand and led her back toward the stairs. “Come on, hon. I’ll buy you breakfast in the social hall,” he said.
“Breakfast is free.” She laughed, descending the stairs.
“That’s good, because I don’t have any money.”
She giggled, then said, “Sorry I was up there. I didn’t know what to say to her.”
“Don’t worry about it. Listen, we’ve got half an hour before breakfast; I was about to go find a pew and pray. You want to come with me?”
She pointed down at her clothes. “I’m in my pajamas, Dad.”
“Oh, right.” Fletcher smiled at his little girl. He found it hard to believe that she only had one formative year left, but he would make every day of it count. “How about you go get changed and come on back?”
“Okay.” She disappeared down the hall toward the new addition. It wasn’t until she was out of sight that Fletcher realized it—she had called him Dad.
He entered the main sanctuary, a grin dominating his face. The smell of matches recently struck hung in the air. He walked up the aisle, his eyes on the massive cross hanging over the chancel.
“You look like you’re feeling better.” Andre Foreman sat in a pew near the aisle, a battered old Bible open on his lap.
“Dr. Foreman, hi!” Fletcher leaned against the pew in front of him. “Yeah, I’m feeling great today.”
“I understand you had quite a bug. Hopefully nothing you caught at the shelter.”
“Oh, right.” He felt the impulse to generate a smile despite the fact that he was already smiling. Then he felt the dimple appear. “No, I’m fine,” he said.
The preacher nodded slowly. “I come here every Thursday to pray and read the Scriptures,” he said, “before I lead a workshop on inner-city ministry. I do love it here.”
“It’s beautiful,” Fletcher agreed.
“How’s your search coming?”
“What?” Fletcher felt his face flush. “What search?”
“For the real you. You told me everyone finds Jesus in prison. But did he find you?”
“Oh, right. I’m still trying to figure that one out, but things are looking good.”
“You’re a good grifter, are you?”
“Well, I did get caught.” Fletcher laughed.
“But you know you can’t grift Jesus. You can grift yourself, but never him.”
Fletcher’s smile melted away.
“I was just thinking about you while I read my Bible,” Andre said. “Are you familiar with Second Corinthians chapter seven?”
“Sure. St. Paul tells the Corinthians how pleased he is that they’re sorry for their sins.”
“Not just that they’re sorry. Remember, he says there’re two kinds of sorrow—godly sorrow, which brings repentance and leads to salvation without regret, and worldly sorrow, which brings death.”
“So the question is, which kind did I experience in prison?” Fletcher said.
Dr. Foreman nodded again. “It sure looked like godly sorrow to me. You read your Bible voraciously. I remember you telling me that all your academic studies of the Scriptures were coming alive now that you were born again.”
“Yeah, but still . . .” Fletcher shifted.
“What?”
“I used to catch myself thinking how easy it would be to grift Barnabas or Lydia or any of the early Christians.”
“I don’t know about that,” the preacher said, smiling. “Ananias and Sapphira tried grifting the church and got zapped dead by the Holy Spirit.”
“So how do I know which kind of sorrow I have?”
“Godly sorrow leads to repentance. A change in direction. Newness of life. It doesn’t mean the old you never comes to the surface, but it’s not you anymore. You’re new. That’s why the apostle Paul talks about our fight against the Old Man—the old self, who’s constantly trying to take the wheel. We have to keep putting him out of his misery because we’re becoming a new creation.”
“I lied to my wife last night,” Fletcher said. “I feel awful about it—some kind of sorrow—but I don’t feel new. And I don’t feel saved.”
“Pshh!” Andre waved a meaty hand. “You think Noah and his family felt like they were saved inside that ark for months on end—more and more claustrophobic, sick of the animals, the smell, worried they’d never see dry land again? The point is they were saved, whether they felt it or not. Let me ask you this, son: What’s your next move?”
Fletcher looked up at the ornate ceiling for a moment. “I guess I see if Jesus takes me back a second time,” he said.
“There’s your answer. It’s like Peter and Judas. They both betrayed Jesus on the same night. They were both sorry. They both wept. Judas tried to return the money and Peter followed along to see if he could help Jesus. But at the end of the day, Judas didn’t look for forgiveness. His was worldly sorrow and it led to death. Hung himself, the joker. Peter’s was godly sorrow, and look what God did with him.
“Or take St. Paul. Jesus found him on the road to Damascus and knocked him right down, turned his whole life around. Godly sorrow. And yet he’s the one who wrote, ‘I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate, that I do. Wretched man am I!’ ”
Fletcher heard footsteps behind him and then Father Sacha’s voice, pleasantly calling, “Andre, how are you this morning?” He reached past Fletcher and shook the preacher’s hand. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, glancing up at Fletcher. “Going casual today, I see.”
“Yeah.” Fletcher laughed. He needed to separate these two men of the cloth. He had lied twice to one of them about his urgent need to leave, only to be seen dressed in a suit by the other a short while later.
“I’m supposed to keep my eye on him,” the priest said, gesturing at Fletcher. “He’s making it easy. Late at night, early in the morning, middle of the day—I find him in here.”
Fletcher was trying to think of a clever reply, something that would belie the rapidly growing sense that he was caught in a trap. His tongue seemed on the verge of delivering when the double doors opened and Happy tromped in.
“Hey, Fletch,” he called out, filling the acoustics of the church, “there you are.”
“Happy,” Fletcher said. “I’m surprised they let you . . . out.”
Happy bounded up the aisle, announcing, “I just got chewed out, man. This dorky guy in a tool belt had the biggest stick up his—”
Father Sacha turned to look at Happy.
“Oh.” The volume of his voice dropped by half. “Hi, Father.” He bowed awkwardly, noticing Andre in the process. “And, Father?”
“Pastor,” Andre said.
“Right.” He pointed at Fletcher. “Anyway, we really need you for the, uh . . . thing for the . . . orphans. Outside. Right now.”
Fletcher checked the time. The thirty minutes the Alchemist had given him had come and gone almost twice now. He sighed. Better to deal with this now than let it hang over him. “Okay,” he said. “But let’s make it fast. I’ve got a breakfast date.”
Happy bowed again, rigidly, once at each of the clergymen, offering each a “Sorry.”
Fletcher’s ph
one beeped as they walked. A message from Ivy. Courtney is outside talking 2 older guys. Not cool. He rolled his eyes. How could that girl get into so much trouble before breakfast?
He replied, Tell her get in here now or I’ll send her dad after her.
They cleared the vestibule and stepped out into the morning sun, Happy prodding Fletcher along. “The boss is pissed,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Another text from Ivy. Will you tell her? Creepy out here. Sketchy guys.
He hit Reply. Just go back in the church. Happy led him to the van, a block and a half away. Andrew was smoking and pacing the curb next to it.
“Finally!” he announced, pulling open the van’s back door. “Come on, Boss wants us to call him.”
Manny sat in the driver’s seat of the delivery truck, waiting. He’d prepared everything the night before, and all that was missing now was the girl. A clipboard bearing a picture of her lay in his lap, a carry-over from when he had been a sniper in the first Gulf War. It was hard to confuse your target if you had a photo a flick of the eyes away—even if the target was blended into a sea of white and red turbans. Or teenage girls in spaghetti-strap tops.
How they would lure her to the mouth of the alley at eight in the morning, he had no idea. But he would be ready. He absentmindedly fingered the long scar on his right cheek, his eyes and ears taking in everything around him. Movement. He snapped to attention and looked down at his clipboard, pen in hand as if checking a list of deliveries. Not her. Wait, there she was. Two of them. He hit the speed dial on his phone.
The Alchemist answered. “Yes?”
“I’ve got the girl in sight, but she’s not alone.”
“How many?”
“Just the two.”
“Grab them both.”
“Yes, sir.” He grabbed the zip ties and the duct tape and climbed through the back of the truck.
CHAPTER 34
Dante had risen early and done his usual regimen of two hundred push-ups for the first time in almost a week. He could feel the sloth and despair burning away.
Since Brinkman’s visit, he’d taken to sleeping on a cot in the bare room above the church. Despite being in a far worse neighborhood than his apartment, it was more defensible, logistically speaking. No large windows inviting bricks or bullets from people whose deals had fallen through by the running of his mouth. No witnesses to dial 911 should he have to take care of someone skulking around. He kept the Glock close at hand.
But now maybe his luck was changing. Upon arriving back at the church last night, he’d found a check for ten thousand dollars from a donor who had seemed a long shot the day before and who had continually fiddled with his iPhone during their meeting. Then he saw the e-mail from a dealership in town offering twenty-five large for the Infiniti, assuming it matched his description. Add in the two thousand from the job in the Hills, and he was closing in on ninety grand of the five hundred he owed. Sure, half the sand was through the hourglass, but he had another job lined up with Bishop and his people today, and he was confident he could negotiate a bigger piece of the pie. They needed his skill set and they knew it.
But the strongest lift to Dante’s spirits had been one word uttered by the nervous little tech guy the night before. He’d referred to their boss as the Alchemist. Dante had heard that name spoken before, always with the same sort of fear and reverence that adorned the name La Bella Donna. Perhaps he could leverage this into a major payday—Trick could talk, after all—or perhaps he could roll over on the Syndicate, offer the Alchemist some valuable information and find protection with a new organization. If he could play one against the other, he might come out with his head intact. The important thing was that more parties—more variables—meant more options.
He updated his spreadsheet and slurped up a spoonful of cereal. Would a hundred grand be enough to buy his way in with the Alchemist? Better to try and hit one fifty—a reasonable goal—and then make an offer.
The church’s landline rang.
“It’s a blest day at Broadmoor Outreach Tabernacle. How may I help you?”
“Is this the guy with the hollow Bible?” The voice was scratchy and flat, and Dante didn’t recognize it.
“I think you have the wrong number,” he said. He picked up the Glock from next to his cereal bowl and quietly chambered a round.
“You’re the guy. You got my brother thrown in the hole last month.”
Dante ran through the deals he’d made over the last few weeks. Nothing jumped out at him. Then again, he’d probably seen a hundred inmates in the past month.
“You’re confused. I make pastoral visits and file reports. That’s all. Anything involving retribution is above my pay grade.”
“No, Brinkman told me it’s you,” the man said. “You’re gonna pay. Ten large. Or you’ll find out what retribution really looks like.”
Dial tone.
Dante hung up the phone and set the gun down next to it. Marcus Brinkman was sending a message—a small reminder of the cloudburst of pain and destruction that would be falling on Dante’s head if the Syndicate removed its umbrella of protection. He looked at his spreadsheet again. Seventeen percent. It seemed smaller now. If he was going to make a play, he had to do it soon.
Happy sagged his weight on the console between the van’s front seats and dialed the Alchemist. He looked from Andrew to Fletcher. Both were silent, glaring at each other, waiting. The sound of the phone ringing, wired into the van’s sound system, filled the space.
Immediately upon entering the vehicle, Fletcher had pulled the satchel from the small of his back and tried to hand it off to Andrew. He was out, he said. But Andrew would have none of it. If Fletcher was going to quit, he’d have to do it firsthand.
“You have many talents, Mr. Doyle,” the Alchemist said in his now-familiar accent, “but punctuality is not among them. You really want to stop disappointing me.”
“Oh, I’m a big disappointment,” Fletcher said. “And add this: I’m out. To smooth things over, I found you a guy who’s as good as me, more of a go-getter, and he’s willing to take my place. Andrew has his number. I suggest you tie him down before he gets a better offer.”
The Alchemist laughed. “You’re not out. You’re in deeper than ever. Now, the next job is an easy one. It—”
“Are you deaf? I’m out. I’ve done everything you asked up to this point, but if you push me any further you’ll be in danger of making a new enemy, and who needs that? How about we just part amicably?”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds and then a click. For a moment, Fletcher thought the Alchemist had hung up. “Hello?” he said.
Then the Alchemist was back. “You will hear me out,” he said, “and if you decide you still don’t want the job, we go our separate ways.”
Fletcher plopped down in one of the swivel chairs. “Fine,” he said.
“Can I assume you looked through the prize from last night?”
“Nope. Not interested.”
“What self-control. Open it now.”
Fletcher couldn’t deny a bit of excitement as he unwound the leather cord, opened the satchel, and pulled out a stack of very old pages—perhaps thirty of them—wrapped in bubble paper, which Fletcher quickly discarded.
“Uncool,” Happy said, popping a bubble with his thumb. “Why not just store them in acid?”
Fletcher thumbed through the old papers quickly. “Looks like letters,” he said. “Late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. All in French.”
“That’s correct. Your next task is to provide translations of these.”
“You got the wrong guy, Al,” Fletcher said. “What little French I ever knew is pretty much gone.”
“Ah, but your lovely French-Canadian wife speaks it fluently. It’s time we activate her. And let’s bring in your would-be replacement as well.”
Fletcher felt the blood pounding in his temples. “Dream on, Al. I’m not about to bring my wife into this.”
�
��You will if you care about what I have in my possession and what I do with it.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a pile of incriminating photos and footage. That’s old news. And you haven’t thought this through.” His phone bleeped in his right pocket. A text from Meg, as if she knew they were talking about her. “The only reason I even care about my parole and your stupid pictures is because I don’t want to lose my family. I tell Meg about all this and I lose them anyway. So go ahead and make your play.”
“I already have,” the Alchemist said, laughing again.
Fletcher opened the message from Meg. Ivy with U? Not @ breakfast. Another message popped up. Courtney missing 2. Brad ir8. Prank?
“I repeat,” the Alchemist was saying, “you’ll do this job if you care about what I’ve got in my possession and what I do with it. Or rather, with her.”
The burner phone buzzed in Fletcher’s other pocket. It felt like it weighed five pounds as he lugged it out and opened the message: a picture of Ivy on a chair in a white room, her mouth taped, hands bound behind her back.
Fletcher dropped the phone.
“What is it?” Happy asked.
Fletcher looked at Andrew, sitting across from him, trying to hide the guilt spilling across his face. Rage was growing in Fletcher’s chest. By instinct, he gathered it together there. Then he consciously uncaged it. His left hand found Andrew’s throat and clamped down, feeling the flesh compacting. He slammed his old partner against a mounted LCD monitor, spider-webbing the screen. His other hand groped on the counter for something sharp, coming up with a flathead screwdriver. He pushed it up to Andrew’s left eye, where it met the bridge of his nose.
Five expletives in, Fletcher realized he was wasting words. “You’re a dead man, Bishop,” he said.
“Come on, Fletcher,” Happy pleaded. “We’re all friends here. Use your words.”
“Shut up!” Fletcher ordered. “Tell me where she is, Andrew. Or you will die right here in this stupid van.”
“I don’t know.”
“Dead. And that’s not a figure of speech. I’m talking dead-dead. You know, like when you’ve finished a long day of letting your friends go to jail in your place and destroying their families and you roll into that depressing basement apartment of yours and flip on the TV. And there’s a news story about some poor sap who got stabbed to death on the street, and his heart is no longer beating and he’s just a bag of meat, lying on a slab at the morgue, slowly assuming room temperature. That’s you if you don’t tell me: Where is she?”
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