Throughout the afternoon, the news on the radio repeated the details about the attack on Uncle Ray's mansion, and his mysterious disappearance. A former intelligence official, committed to fighting terrorism, he was rumored to have been kidnapped, killed by terrorists in reprisal for his lifelong vendetta.
A separate story from State College, Pennsylvania, announced that the body of a man found four days ago in the cellar of a student rental complex resembled photographs of an international assassin known as Janus. Preliminary reports revealed that this mercenary had been using various cover identities, including that of Andrew MacLane, a member of a disbanded government anti-terrorist group, who'd disappeared in 1979. MacLane, it was theorized, had been killed by Janus because their coincidental resemblance allowed Janus to assume MacLane's identity. Hunting MacLane, a dead man, the authorities would thus be misled from the actual target of their search.
Taking turns driving, Drew, Arlene, and Jake reached New York and waited until night before scouting Twelfth Street. The brownstone was not being watched. Drew wasn't surprised; with Uncle Ray gone, Risk Analysis destroyed, and Janus exposed, there'd be no reason for anyone to stake out the house. Neither Drew nor Arlene had given their names to Opus Dei. The fraternity didn't know that Father Stanislaw was dead. Arlene could not be linked to Risk Analysis. Nor to Drew. Nor Drew to her. Going in seemed safe.
But cautious by nature, they entered the brownstone through a building on Eleventh Street, leaving that building's rear, crossing a narrow garden in a walkway where Arlene had once tried unsuccessfully to grow flowers.
The kitchen smelled musty. Arlene opened windows, checked the refrigerator - she'd thrown out anything that would spoil before she'd left to go to Satan's Horn, at the start of her search for Jake - and opened several cans of tuna that she kept in the cupboard.
"You still won't eat meat, huh?" she kidded Drew.
He didn't smile at the tease. "It's the last habit I kept from the monastery."
Not quite.
Jake seemed to understand. "I'd better leave you two alone."
5
Drew glanced across the table toward Arlene.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"Do I make you nervous?" she asked.
"How could you possibly make me nervous?" He smiled and took her hand.
"Because I made you promise when this was over we'd talk."
He remembered the promise and sobered. "Yes, we'd talk."
"About the future. Us. I don't want you to feel any pressure," she said. "I know you have to make a lot of adjustments. After six years in a monastery. But there's something we used to have. To share. It was special. Maybe one day we can have it again."
"One day," he echoed dismally.
"Do you want to go back to the monastery? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
"No. I won't go back. I can't."
"Can't?"
He couldn't bring himself to explain. He'd promised when this was over they'd talk. But he couldn't subdue his apprehension that this wasn't over. Explain? Ruin what might be their last peaceful moments together? Instead, he walked over, embracing her.
Without a word, they went upstairs to her bedroom.
And at last made love.
He felt no guilt. What Arlene had once said was true: His vow was really one of celibacy, not chastity. Given the Church's attitude toward communal property, a member of a religious order wasn't so much forbidden to have sex as not to marry. The restriction was legal, not moral, to prevent a wife from wanting to share what her husband worked for, the Church's assets.
Otherwise, the restriction was only one of self-denial. And at the moment, weary, heartsick, Drew didn't care about self-denial. It occurred to him that two human beings who chose to give comfort to each other, to ease each other's pain, couldn't possibly be committing wrong.
Naked, his body against hers, feeling her warmth, her lean, lithe, muscular response to his thrusts, her breasts and pelvis returning his thrusts, hard yet soft, demanding yet giving, he felt a completeness in himself.
The feeling was sensual, yes. Erotic, yes. But it was more. For beyond the physical pleasure, this sharing of each other cast away his loneliness, his anguish, his sense of imminent doom. In this long eternal instant, he no longer felt damned.
But eternity was shattered. The present cruelly insisted as Drew heard the phone ring.
He pivoted from Arlene's body, staring toward the phone on the bedside table.
No, not yet! I had things I wanted to say! I wanted to-!
The phone rang again. He felt Arlene's body stiffen next to him.
But I'm not ready! Couldn't they have given us a few more hours together?
The phone rang a third time. Its jangle seemed extra harsh in the gathering silence.
"I'd better answer it," she said. "Maybe a neighbor saw the lights and decided to make sure I'm back. We don't want the cops to show up looking for a burglar."
He nodded in agony.
She picked up the phone. "Hello?" Her eyes darkened. "Who? I'm sorry. I don't know anyone with that name... Oh, yes, I see. I understand. Since you put it that way." She pressed a hand across the mouthpiece.
Drew didn't need to ask who it was.
"A man wants to speak to you. I don't understand how he knew you were here. He says he offers you a choice. The easy way, or - "
"I get the point." Straining to quell his apprehension, Drew took the phone. "Hello?"
"Brother MacLane" - the voice was deep but smooth; Drew imagined it intoning a mass - "we'd like to know what happened to Father Stanislaw. He didn't check in with us as scheduled. We know he went to recruit you. We want you to tell us what you did with him. And with his ring."
The room seemed to tilt. "I can't discuss this over the phone."
"Of course. Shall we meet in fifteen minutes? At the arch in Washington Square? It's just a few blocks away."
"I'll be there."
"We know you will. We're sure you're as anxious as we are to settle any misunderstanding."
"That's what it is. A misunderstanding." Swallowing, Drew hung up.
He reached for his clothes.
"Who was that?" Arlene asked.
He put on his shirt and pants.
"Who?"
"The fraternity."
She shivered.
"They want to know what happened to Father Stanislaw. They want me to meet them. In Washington Square."
"But you can't take the risk!"
"I know." He hugged her, long and hard, feeling her naked body against him. "If I let them get their hands on me, no matter how I resist, I'll be forced to tell them who killed Father Stanislaw. Jake, not me. And after they've finished with me, they'll come after Jake, maybe even after you. I can't let that happen. Christ, I love you."
She held him so tightly his injured shoulder throbbed. "But where will you go?"
"I don't dare answer. In case they use drugs to question you."
"I'll go with you."
"And prove you're involved?" Drew shook his head. "They'd kill you."
"I don't care!"
"But I do!"
"I'd go anywhere for you."
"To Hell? I'm giving you your life. Next to your soul, that's the greatest gift. Please take it."
She kissed him, sobbing. "But when will...?"
Drew understood. "We see each other again? One day during Lent."
"What year?"
He didn't know. As a drowning man clutches his saviour, he clung to her.
Then released his grip.
And was gone.
EXILE
Egypt. South of Cairo, west of the Nile.
He wandered into the Nitrian desert, where in a.d. 381 the first Christian hermits, fleeing Rome, had begun monasticism. It hadn't been easy for him to reach this wilderness. Without money or a passport, pursued by the fraternity, he'd needed every trick and wile, every ounce of strength and scrap of dete
rmination. His torturous journey had lasted six months, and now as he walked across the sun-parched sand, squinting toward the rocky bluff in the distance where he meant to establish his cell, he felt a great relief, a burden falling away from him. Safe now, away from people, the horrors of civilization, he no longer had to fear for Arlene's safety. All he had to fear for was his soul.
Finding a cave among the rocks, a tiny waterhole nearby, a village a day's walk away where he could buy provisions, he reestablished his routine from the monastery, silently reciting the vespers prayers, recalling the matins service, providing responses to an imaginary celebrant of mass. He meditated.
Rarely he saw another person passing by in the distance. He always hid. But every six weeks - he waited as long as possible - he had to encounter the world when he went to the village for more provisions. On those traumatic occasions, he spoke only as much as was necessary to conduct his business, and the tradesmen, normally fond of haggling, didn't invite conversation. This tall, lean, sunburned man with haunted eyes, his hair grown past his shoulders, his beard hanging down his chest, his robe in rags, was obviously a holy one. They gave him distance and respect.
His days were filled with solitude. But not with peace. As hard as he meditated, he still was often struck by thoughts of Arlene. One day in Lent, he'd vowed, I'll go back to her.
He thought about Jake. And Uncle Ray. And Father Stanislaw. The fraternity. Would they ever stop hunting him? Or was that part of that penance, constantly to be hunted?
Sometimes he remembered his parents. Their deaths. Their graves. Beginnings and ends.
He gazed to the west toward Libya, the madman who ruled it, the terrorists being trained there.
He gazed to the east toward Iraq and Iran, toward Israel and its enemies, toward the Holy Land and the birthplace of assassins and terrorism.
His heart filled with gall.
He had much to think about.
The End
David Morrell - Fraternity of the Stone Page 42