Forbidden Sanctuary (13 page)

She still had energy left after her session on the phone, so she put her coat on and took a walk through the cold, silent compound. Like everyone, she gazed first at the brooding pyramid in its center. But unlike most, she was not awestruck or thrilled by it. She was a stubbornly earth-bound person, uninterested in the cosmic questions raised by the pyramid's presence. Comparatively little interested her, actually, except for her job. Which was probably why she was so good at it, she reflected. No distractions, just her undivided attention to the case.

Of course some people saw that as a flaw, she knew. They thought she was too narrow, too demanding; they laughed at her because she didn't know what place the Yankees were in, or who the conductor of the Philharmonic was. To them she was just a humorless middle-aged woman who never seemed to relax. Well, they were right; but they were also mostly her subordinates. If they wanted to go to the opera or muse about aliens that was their business. Her business was catching criminals.

For the most part. What law had Tenon broken? Some immigration statute? She smiled to herself. There! Wasn't that humor?

She walked around the perimeter of the compound. He would have to have scaled the fence to get out, she noted. She couldn't have done it, but it wasn't impossible, especially on a clear night, with the guards facing the other way, with your life at stake. The man—the alien—must have wanted desperately to get away, for him to venture out into a strange, cold planet unaided. And who would want to aid him? Someone who took pity on him for the danger he was in? Or was there something more going on here, some dark plot, the revelation of which would astonish everyone?

Doubtful. She could but hope.

She kicked at the snow, hoping to spot a torn swatch of alien cloth, a few drops of alien blood. If there had been any footprints, they were gone now, as soldiers had tramped back and forth across the snow in the search. Well, she would find nothing in the dark.

A piercing wind sprang up and made her shiver. Best to go in and get some rest, she thought. It would be a long day tomorrow. She retraced her steps to the motel.

She was beginning to feel that nothing would come easy in this case. Sometimes you get a sense of the way the criminal's mind is working, and everything just falls into place. Not this time, though. How would she figure out what was in an alien's mind? For that matter, did they have minds?

She walked into the lobby, vaguely aware of the stares directed at her.
The woman from the FBI. The one that's going to hook us up to the lie detectors.
She was used to that sort of thing. She went up to her room and took a hot bath.

Then she went to bed and dreamed, not of aliens but of needles, quivering wildly and then stopping to point, inexorably, at the guilty person.

Chapter 11

By 8:30 the interrogations were underway. Important people first—
just a few minutes of your time, Professor, purely a formality
—ushered into the second-floor motel rooms, run through a series of questions West had composed, then courteously thanked and excused.

Thus it wasn't until late in the morning that Jerry Coleman of the Boston FBI office reached Angela Summers. He had been in the business long enough to know that she was hiding something, even before he had strapped the sensors to her. There was a different quality to the nervousness, intangible but readily apparent to him. Too bad: she seemed like a nice lady. When he had finished the questions he asked her to wait where she was for a few moments. She looked as if she had expected that. He went to find Madeleine West.

* * *

"She's an interpreter?" West asked, trying to keep the surprise and irritation out of her voice. It didn't pay to show your emotions. This was hard, though, very hard.

"Yeah, I gather they have about half a dozen of them who've learned the language. They're sort of the go-betweens in all the conversations."

"I see."
I must be getting old
, West thought. Why hadn't she realized there had to be interpreters? Her lack of interest in the aliens was no excuse for not having thought the matter through. The aliens would need interpreters; therefore, only interpreters could be suspects, because only they could communicate with an alien crew member. Damn. She took it one step further, called Bacquier, and found out which interpreter had accompanied him to see Zanla the previous evening. Well, at least her stupidity hadn't cost them too much time; and no one else had seen the obvious, either.

"May I see her dossier, please?"

Coleman slid it across the table to her.

West studied it:
summa cum laude... Ph.D.... twenty-seven languages
(Jesus!)...
associate professor... registered Democrat... devout Catholic...
She picked up the phone and talked to Bacquier again. This was turning out to be interesting after all.

* * *

Angela Summers sat in the motel room, alone except for the machine that had been her undoing. She had been terribly apprehensive before, but now that they knew about her, now that her life was about to come crashing down around her, she felt strangely serene. Following your conscience was ultimately liberating, she reflected. No one can really hurt you if you are willing to accept the consequences.

After a long while the man who had operated the polygraph returned. He brought a woman with him. She was middle-aged and a trifle overweight. Her short black hair was liberally flecked with gray. There were deep lines around her eyes. She wore no makeup. She looked like a woman who was used to giving orders. She did not make Angela feel very comfortable.

"My name is West," the woman said.

"How do you do," Angela replied.

The woman nodded and sat down. "Well," she said, "our machine says you've been lying to us. Would you care to tell us the truth?"

Angela said nothing.

West tapped a manila folder with her index finger. "You're in a lot of trouble," she said. "Don't make things worse for yourself by not cooperating."

"If I'm in trouble I should get a lawyer," Angela observed.

West ignored her. "You're a religious person. How can you justify lying?"

You do not understand religion,
Angela thought. But she was right, it was not pleasant to lie, even in a worthy cause. She considered carefully, and told the truth. Some of it. "I met Tenon and spoke with him," she said. "I admit that. But I did not help him escape. I did not know he wanted to escape. I do not know where he is now. And I won't say anything more without a lawyer."

"You talked with him about religion?"

Angela stared at her and said nothing. She stifled an urge to smile. She was in trouble, yes, but it wasn't the end of the world. And Tenon was free. They couldn't find him, obviously; they were worried. It was part of the pattern, of course:
vomurd.
Not what she had expected would happen, but what did that matter? She hoped Tenon had found some friends. She would pray for him.

West stood up abruptly, slapping the folder against her thigh. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Summers. You are free to go. But you will not be allowed to leave the compound." She nodded coldly to Angela and left the room.

* * *

West was nettled, but not surprised or discouraged. Interrogation of a woman like that would be difficult and probably fruitless at this point. And it was not impossible that she was telling her the truth. The sequence of events made sense: Tenon talks with her, finds out about religious freedom, decides to flee the ship on his own. But if he were still alive then someone, wittingly or unwittingly, had to have helped him. There was not much she could do if the assistance had been unwitting—a truck driver picking up a confused-looking foreigner wandering along the highway, and then forgetting about it, for example. That was pretty farfetched, though. More likely someone knew who Tenon was, and was holding on to him for his own reasons.

But what could those reasons be? She studied Angela's folder some more. After she had finished with it she went to see Bacquier.

"Are you making progress?" he inquired hopefully. "It is hard to believe Ms. Summers had anything to do with this."

"Well, she is our best lead at the moment. Tell me, has she been allowed to go to Mass frequently since she came here?"

"Every day. With an escort. She just goes to church and comes back."

"But conceivably she could talk to people inside the church."

"I suppose so. I don't know whether the soldier goes inside with her or not. Who do you imagine she would speak to? I just can't see—"

"Neither can I. However, it's what we have so far. I'm going to talk to the pastor at that church."

"Very well. You're the specialist."

"Yes. And of course, don't let her out of the compound for any reason until this thing is cleared up."

Bacquier nodded. "Of course."

* * *

Father Gardner was paying bills when the doorbell rang. He considered not answering, but that was foolishness; it was the middle of the day. Aliens came only in the dead of night. And besides, he hated paying bills.

The woman at the door did not look friendly. "Good afternoon, Father. I wonder if I might talk to you for a few moments?"

She was holding her identification out to him. It took a moment for him to focus on it, and another moment to comprehend. FBI. He felt himself flush. He knew she was watching him, observing his reactions, but there was nothing he could do. His flush only deepened. "Of course, Ms.—?"

"West."

"Won't you come in?"

He brought her into his office. She sat where Angela Summers had sat.
Could he be arrested?

"Father, I want to ask you some questions about an interpreter from the Alien Study Team by the name of Angela Summers. Are you acquainted with her?"

How much did they know? Was this woman just toying with him? Never in his life had he wanted so much to lie—no, not lie, to run away and hide. He was a child again, desperate to escape his parents' wrath. But it was too late. "She—uh, I believe she attends Mass here at Most Precious Blood."

"Have you seen her speaking with anyone while she was in church?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what you mean. She sits by herself, I believe."

"Before or after Mass—any contact with anyone?"

"I—I don't think so. I can't be sure, of course. It could have happened."

"Have you spoken with her?"

She was just leading up to that, of course. Wanted to see the priest squirm. Well, if she knew, then what was the sense of squirming? He would just tell the truth. They couldn't find Bernardi—at least not through him. And they couldn't put him in jail for what he had done. At least, he didn't think so. "Yes," he replied firmly.

"Do you have any opinion of her?"

"She seems like a fine, religious woman. I admire her."

The FBI agent was silent for a moment, then abruptly stood up. "Well, thank you for your time, Father. If I have any more questions I'll let you know."

"Yes, uh, certainly." He saw her to the door and stared after her as she walked away. Had he missed something? Had he unconsciously given her some vital clue? He felt vaguely let down. Moments of courage were not frequent for him. Something at least should
happen
when one occurs. He sighed and went back to his bills. Something would happen eventually, he was quite certain.

* * *

Madeleine West sat in her official car and tried to puzzle it out. Something about that man had been unsettling. He had been quite clearly uncomfortable, which was not surprising, but there had been something more, something out of place. Fear, perhaps? Well, she had the resources. She might as well use them. She took her phone out of her pocket and dialed a number. "This is Madeleine West," she said into the receiver. "I'd like some background on Father Gardner, pastor of Most Precious Blood Catholic Church in Greenough. Whatever you can dig up on short notice: interviews with neighbors, school records, log of recent phone calls, any suspicious activities. You know the stuff." There, that would keep a couple of rookies busy for a while.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when a rookie interrupted her dossier-reading with some information he thought might be of interest to her. A few minutes later she drove back to the rectory, and had a long, serious talk with Father Gardner. Then she went back to the compound and called her boss.