On the Fifth Day (5 page)

ding picture lying there, bent slightly now.

"Wait," he said. "Something
is
missing. A little silver fish. You know the one I mean?"

Jim shook his head.

"The police are sending someone over," said the lawyer.

"They said we should touch nothing."

"He asked me where Ed died," said Thomas, half to him

self. "I told him I didn't know. I felt bad about it . . . that I didn't know, I mean. I think he really wanted to know. I'm not sure why, but . . ."

"I don't know where he was," said Jim. "Far East some

where. He had been in Italy, then went to Japan, but I don't think he died there."

"Japan?" said Thomas, all the old mixed feelings flooding 27

O n t h e F i f t h D a y

back as they did when anyone mentioned Japan. It was a bit like being hit again, though it turned into a cold numbness edged with apprehension. It was like waking up and knowing that something terrible had happened the day before but being un

able to remember what it was. "What was he doing in Japan?"

"No idea," said Jim. "We could call the order. The Jesuits, I mean."

Thomas looked at him, and then nodded, which made his head ring again with pain.

CHAPTER 5

"He said his name was Parks," said Thomas, for the second time in as many minutes.

"And this silver fish thing is all you're sure is missing?"

The cop who had introduced himself as Officer Campbell looked bored, as if he had been sent on a wild-goose chase. Now that the initial outrage had subsided, Thomas couldn't re

ally blame him.

"Yes," he said. "I didn't really get chance to look at the pa

pers before he arrived . . ."

"You think it was valuable?"

"Probably not. I suppose it depends what it was made of. If it was silver it might be worth a couple of hundred bucks."

"Could you describe the fish, sir?" said the cop, blowing out a sigh and scribbling on a pad with a black pen.

"Three or four inches long, kind of funny shaped, detailed scales . . . I don't know what else."

"Funny shaped?" said Campbell.

"Crudely modeled, I guess. Fat tail. Big, clumsy-looking fins."

"And it was just a model fish, not, you know, a container or something? Did it open up?"

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A. J. Hartley

"I don't know."

"You think it was, like, symbolic or something? You know, him being a priest and all."

"Symbolic?" said Thomas. "How do you mean?"

"You know, like those metal fishes folks have on their cars.
Jesus fish.
"

The policeman sketched an outline on his pad, a single line looping back on itself to form a leaf-shaped body and open tail. Thomas considered it. It reminded him of a Mobius strip or part of a double helix.

"I don't know," said Thomas, honestly. "I hadn't thought of that. This looked different from those. More realistic."

"We'll keep an eye on the local pawnshops," said the cop.

"And he had a sword? Like, you know, Robin Hood or one of those guys in
Lord of the Rings?
Like a
sword
sword?"

"A short sword, yes," said Thomas. "Like a Roman le

gionary's sword, if that means anything to you."

"Nope," said Campbell. "And he hit you with that?"

"No, with this clublike glove thing he was wearing. Metal. Weighed a ton."

"Weird," said the cop.

"I thought so," said Thomas, expecting a bit more.

"Was there anything else?" said Campbell. "He have a horse or anything?"

"No," said Thomas, smiling in spite of himself.

"You sure?"

"I think I would have noticed, it being upstairs and all."

"Still," said the cop. "Look on the bright side. If he'd been serious--I mean, if he'd been a real hood, you know?--he would have shot you. You just got whacked with a glove, see?

Bright side."

"I'm ecstatic about the whole episode," said Thomas.

"Okay," said the cop, grinning and putting his pad away.

"If you see him again, you call us. Otherwise, I'll ask around, but . . ."

He shrugged.

"I shouldn't hold my breath," said Thomas.

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O n t h e F i f t h D a y

"Not unless you got gills someplace."

"Thanks," said Thomas, matching the policeman's smile.

"You've been of invaluable assistance."

"All in a day's work, sir."

On the way out they met Jim coming in with a box of files. Thomas turned to introduce him.

"Jim, this is Officer Campbell," he said.

Jim nodded peremptorily and glanced away, but the police

man's gaze was steady, and his former wryness had evaporated.

"Hello again, Father," said Campbell.

"You two know each other?" said Thomas. Jim was still looking anywhere but at the cop.

"Oh, we go way back," said Campbell. "Ain't that right, Father?"

Jim didn't reply and the cop left without another word. CHAPTER 6

The man they called the Seal-breaker hung up the phone and considered it for a long moment.

It was supposed to be over. It was all supposed to have died with the priest, but however much War had tried to make his report sound casual, the relaying of a formality, he hadn't been able to conceal the trace of unease in his voice. The priest had a brother.

They had known that before. Of course, they had. It just hadn't seemed important till now.

And may not be still,
he thought. And if it became impor

tant, if this brother to the hapless priest became a threat, the Seal-breaker would move, and fast.

He had stalled with the priest, assuming the problem would just rinse out over time, but the man had been persistent and stubborn. He would not wait for his brother to become a threat. 30

A. J. Hartley

Before the man could even rise to the level of irritant or dis

traction, the Seal-breaker would swat him like the gnat he was. It wasn't as if he didn't have the resources, he thought, with the whisper of a smile. He had the reach, the finances, the sheer power to achieve all manner of things. He also had the will, and that was what would really terrify his enemies, or would if they ever knew who he was. The Seal-breaker him

self was impossible to see. He could shake the hand of his most loathed adversary and they would not know him. And when it came time for action, the Seal-breaker would be a world away while his operatives struck.

His horsemen, he called them, all four poised to do his bid

ding, ready to release whatever private apocalypse the Sealbreaker thought appropriate. He had handpicked each of them for their special talents.

War, his general, a skilled soldier who could deploy his own assault team in any terrain.

Pestilence, his spy, who spread disease with dissimulation and lies.

Famine, his private horror show, a man who sowed terror wherever he walked.

Death, his wild card, and the measure of his near-limitless power.

What could he not do with such cavalry at his command?

It wouldn't come to that, he thought. But if it did, there would be no hesitation this time. For now he would merely alert them, but if he had to unleash all four of them, he would. The Seal-breaker considered the two solitary words he had written down during his conversation with War:
Thomas Knight.

He looked at the name of the man who was now blunder

ing aimlessly around the detritus of his brother's life, and the Seal-breaker, as he dialed the first of the horsemen, felt almost sorry for him.

CHAPTER 7

Thomas sat by the tiny hearth in the tiny living room listening to the oily-voiced secretary of the Jesuit house, his patience wearing thin.

"We're so sorry for your loss. Father Knight was a valued and respected . . ."

"What happened to him?" said Thomas. He didn't want to hear about his brother's life right now. It would complicate his already conflicted feelings too much.

"Well, we don't know, exactly," said the voice, picking its words carefully.

"What the hell does that mean?" said Thomas. He said it quietly, but he could tell the priest on the other end took of

fense.

"Just what it says," said the secretary. "We were notified of your brother's death by the American embassy in Manila, but we don't know why he was there or what he was doing."

"Manila?" said Thomas. Jim turned to look at him, his ex

pression quizzical. "In the Philippines?"

"That's right."

"I thought he was in Japan," said Thomas, feeling his famil

iar reluctance to even say the word rising like gall in his throat.

"So did we," said the secretary, and Thomas thought he could hear something in his voice. Awkwardness? Embarrass

ment? "And indeed he was, for a while. But it seems he left and went to the Philippines, which is where he died."

"How did he die?"

"Some kind of traffic accident, we think," said the priest.

"You think?"

"Again," said the priest with careful patience, "I don't have all the details. You'd have to go to the foreign office for those, or the Philippine embassy directly."

"Right," he said. "Thanks."

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He hung up before the priest could shower Ed with more postmortem accolades about piety and orthodoxy.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not being told the whole story?" he said. He was looking at the phone, but as soon as he had spoken he turned his gaze on Jim. The priest looked down. "How did you know the cop?"

"Oh, you know," Jim said with a dismissive wave. "Small neighborhood. Similar lines of work, in a way."

"He didn't seem to like you that much."

"Sometimes the people they want to lock up are the ones people like me and Ed are trying to . . . what's the word?"

"Save?"

"Protect. Nurture," said Jim. "That kind of thing. Kids, mainly."

Thomas nodded, still feeling evaded.

"You said he was in Italy before Japan?" he said.

"A retreat house in Naples," said Jim. "He was back for a few days before heading over to Japan. Look."

He took a postcard that was propped up on the mantel and blew the dust off. It showed a collage of statues and mosaics from some ancient site, superimposed on a picture of a coni

cal mountain and deep blue sky: Pompeii, according to the back. Ed's looping handwriting was scrawled on the back in blue ink: "
De Profundis!
" it said. "Cheers, Ed."

"
De Profundis?
" said Thomas, studying the mosaic, the way it made images out of meaningless fragments.

"Psalm 130 and an old Catholic prayer," said Jim. " 'Out of the depths.' It's a statement of faith in the face of despair.

'Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord, Lord, hear my voice. O let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleading. If you, O Lord, should mark our guilt, Lord, who would survive? . . . Because with the Lord there is mercy and full

ness of redemption.' "

"Seems an odd sort of thing to write on a card," said Thomas.

"I took it as a joke," said Jim. "The voice of despair com

ing from this beautiful, fascinating place."

"Compared to here," said Thomas.

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"He was in his element," Jim agreed, grinning. The doorbell rang.

"Excuse me," said Jim. "I'd better get that."

As the priest left the room, Thomas put his hand in his pocket and found the note he had written earlier. He drew it out, read it once, and then crumpled it and dropped it in the trash can by the door. He wouldn't be leaving just yet. He was still standing there when Jim reentered the room. There was something in his face, a hunted, anxious quality that hadn't been there before.

"What's up?" said Thomas. "Who is it?"

"It's for you," said Jim, and his voice was unnaturally low, almost a whisper.

"For me? Who is it?" Thomas repeated.

The question was answered by two men in dark suits who entered the room behind Jim. One brandished a badge in a flip wallet.

"Mr. Thomas Knight?" he said.

Thomas nodded, absorbing something very like panic from Jim.

"We're from the Department of Homeland Security. We'd like to ask you some questions about your brother."

CHAPTER 8

It was turning into a very strange day. Emotionally, Thomas had run the gamut from the dull shock of his brother's death, through the strangeness of dealing with the residue of his life, to the fury and humiliation of the battle with the man who had called himself Parks. Now he was even more baffled, even more defensive and outraged, but he was also scared.

"You don't fool with terrorism," said Jim after they had gone. "Not anymore."

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He was right. One day in the not too distant past this might have been the subject of a thousand sardonic cracks about the absurdity of what he had been asked by these men, but not now, not with the country flinching every time someone left a bag unattended. Thomas muttered his irritation and exaspera

tion at the craziness of it all, but inside he was badly alarmed. They were both in their fifties, sober suited and careful. One of them, a guy with narrow eyes who introduced himself as Kaplan, seemed tense, always looking around, a coiled spring physically and mentally. The other did most of the talk

ing. His name was Matthew Palfrey, and he smiled all the time, as if to reassure, though the result managed to be the op

posite. Maybe that was the idea.

They had asked him about his brother's "sympathies," and whether his religious sensibility had ever led him to connect with religious leaders from outside Catholicism. They asked him if Ed had known friends or associates of Arab descent, and if he had a copy of the Qur'an in his bedroom. They asked if he had access to large sums of money or had ever had any weapons training, a question so thoroughly wrong that in any other circumstance Thomas would have howled with laughter. They asked how much Thomas knew of his brother's where