Relic of Time (35 page)

“Let's stick to what went on here,” Nate said.

“It was the way I had packaged my copy that caught Traeger's attention. Two hollow halves that enclosed the picture and then were taped together. Another such case was ordered. When all was in readiness, the copy was brought here from Jason Phelps's.”

“Jason Phelps!”

“He was kind enough to let me store it with him.”

Laura said, “I am surprised that he would let even a copy of that picture into his house.”

“Perhaps he wouldn't have if he knew what the package contained.”

“Okay, okay,” Nate said. “Then what?”

“The original had been taken down and stored in the same way as the copy by Frater Leone and Carlos and placed behind the altar.”

Ray said, “Why didn't you use the same package?”

Don Ibanez looked at him.

“Open the package, take out the copy, replace it with the original, and tape it up again.”

“That would have been simpler,” Don Ibanez conceded. “I suppose we thought things would go more quickly if the original was already packaged.”

“And who did that?”

“Frater Leone and myself. And Carlos. When the top half was put in place, covering that benevolent image, I was reminded of when I buried my wife.” His lips trembled and he looked away. Nate waited impatiently. Don Ibanez got control of his emotions. “She is buried in the basilica. As I will be.”

“So we have two packages. I suppose they looked identical.” Nate clearly wished that he had been here to direct operations. It was difficult not to agree. But as Don Ibanez had said, Nate's man Traeger had been on the scene.

“To the untrained eye they were identical.”

“What do you mean?”

“Frater Leone knelt by the package containing the miraculous image and embedded a crucifix in the Stryofoam, fixing it with Scotch tape. It looked even more like a coffin.” Thoughts of the late Dona Isabella seemed to assail the old man.

The package containing the copy had been laid across the backs of pews by Traeger when he brought it from Jason Phelps's garage.

“When did Traeger make the switch?” Hannan asked. “That is the question.”

“Nate,” Ray said, “if a switch had been made, the original would still be here.”

“Do you think Traeger left with the original?”

Laura asked, “Where is the copy that you stored with Jason Phelps?”

Don Ibanez looked tragically at her. “In Mexico City. Surely you know . . .”

Hannan was excited now. “Look, my friend. There you are in the back of your basilica. There are two more or less identical packages, one of which, as you can attest, contained the original image stolen from the shrine in Mexico City. The other contained a copy. If Traeger left with a copy, the original remained. If he left with the original, wouldn't you have hung the copy where it had hung before?”

“But I did. You just saw it.”

“And a copy was in the package taken to Mexico City. What happened to the package containing the original?”

“Three packages?” Laura suggested.

“There were only two!” Don Ibanez cried.

Hannan smacked a fist into his other hand. “So Traeger made the switch after he left here.”

Ray said, “Let's back up. Who brought the copy from Jason Phelps?”

“Traeger. Arroyo helped him although there was no need for that. Despite the frame, it was not that heavy.”

“Arroyo was here?”

“I could scarcely exclude him from the return, when he had been responsible for its coming here.”

“You called him and he came up from San Diego?” Laura asked.

“No.” He paused. “I don't remember. I must have.”

“When was the original packaged?”

“Just hours before we began.”

“It was in the basilica?”

“Behind the altar.”

“Unguarded.”

“Oh, Frater Leone insisted on keeping a vigil watch with Carlos throughout the night.”

They all fell silent.

Don Ibanez was exhausted. Nate clearly wanted to discuss all this out of earshot of the desolate old man.

“Traeger,” he growled.

Ray just looked at him. “Arroyo. He's all over the place.”

Laura went inside to find Clare. “Oh, my poor father,” she cried, coming into Laura's arms. Laura was consoling her when they were joined by Catherine. Laura stepped back.

“Did you sleep well?” Clare asked Catherine.

A smile and a sigh.

“Catherine has been helping Jason Phelps with his papers,” Clare explained.

Laura said, “Where could I find Frater Leone?”

“He's with someone now.” Clare turned to Catherine. “With Neal Admirari. The man who wanted to interview you.”

“Is he staying here, too?” Laura asked.

“Oh no. He just arrived.”

“How on earth did he get through that crowd?”

“Good question.”

“Would Frater Leone be talking to him here, in the house?”

“I think they went over to the basilica. Father prefers to hear confessions there.”

Catherine dipped her head, then looked away. Laura went off to the basilica. She might just go to confession herself.

The plane circled over the San Diego harbor, and, looking down, Traeger thought there were more naval vessels there than usual. Imagine them shelling the mainland. Well, remember Charleston. But it had been the rebels that did the shelling there.

The landing pattern brought them down alongside the Marine Corps base and Traeger had a good look at the huge parade ground. For years the buildings had retained their World War II camouflage, but that was long gone now. Now there were even women recruits. A bad joke. How do you tell a male and female grunt apart? First you have to get them apart.

Traeger had caught this flight out of Flagstaff, which was calm and cool after the chaos of Phoenix. He didn't bother to change his wetback appearance and there had been a little hesitation on the part of the clerk when he slid a credit card across the counter. He followed it with a passport.

“You've grown a beard,” said Sally with a smile. “Sally” was written on the badge dangling from her neck.

“It's for a movie.”

“Oooh.” She studied his ID again, trying to place him.

“Just a bit part.”

She nodded and looked as if now she understood.

“I get bit.”

Her trilling laughter followed him to the gateways.

At the San Diego airport the crew from Homeland Security was now a division of the California militia. Mostly the same personnel, however. Everything Traeger had with him was in a single shoulder bag so he breezed right through to the rental car counter.

During the days since his escape from Mexico City he had gone over and over the failed plan, wondering just where it had gone wrong. Somehow there had been a switch of the cases and he had gone off with a copy to Mexico City. He was lucky to have escaped with his life. He had contacted no one yet. He was working for himself. He did not like being made an ass of. Who does? But by amateurs?

He drove toward Old Town, where the San Diego branch of Justicia y Paz was located and which Arroyo had grandly announced was now headquarters. Maybe all of California would look like this if Washington kept ceding territory, like Kutuzov retreating from the invading Napoleon. But the Old Town was largely quaintness, a tourist draw. Would there ever be tourists again?

In Phoenix he had called up Justicia y Paz on the web. The San Diego branch. Of course it had a site. It was the buildings Traeger wanted to get familiar with. Spanish and English ran in double columns down the page but they were broken from time to time by photographs. He had skipped over the beaming face of Miguel Arroyo and kept scrolling down to the buildings. When he had a good sense of the layout, he scrolled up to the founder and head of Justicia y Paz. He studied the smiling face of the man who had made an ass out of Vincent Traeger.

Does anything ever quite match its website? The buildings were as pictured, but they were smaller than they had appeared. The administration building, a hospitality house—soup kitchen, that is—and a building that seemed to have been lifted from an old army base. The homeless found a home there. Traeger pulled into the lot in which Arroyo's car had been bombed.

When he went inside, the receptionist rose and told him he was in the wrong building. She pointed him to the barracks.

“Miguel Arroyo is expecting me.”

She seemed surprised when he spoke. But she could not put together his costume and the eastern seaboard voice he had assumed. It was a one-story building, with labels and arrows all over the place.

“I can find my way,” he said, and headed down the hall.

“Wait! I have to announce you.”

Doors were opening along the corridor but there were no heroes among the curious. A bell started ringing, some kind of alarm. But the door on the far right side of the corridor had opened and Miguel Arroyo came out to see what the hell was going on. He came toward Traeger with his biggest smile.

“
I wasn't sure you'd recognize me.”

Arroyo stopped and the smile began to fade. Who was this peon?

“We can talk in your office.” He took Arroyo's arm and then recognition came.

“Everything's okay,” Arroyo called over his shoulder. “Turn off that alarm.”

Traeger shut the door behind them. Arroyo regarded him warily.

“I've been worried about you, Traeger.”

“I was sure you would be.”

“But there's a manhunt on. How did you get here?”

“It took you a moment to recognize me, didn't it? Besides, I'm trained for this sort of thing.”

“Amazing.”

“How did you do it, Arroyo?”

Arroyo took a chair and so did Traeger. “Just review the whole thing, Miguel. I really do want to know how you managed it.”

“You're not seriously suggesting . . .”

“Cut the bullshit. Thanks to you I went on a pointless mission to Mexico City, where I might have been lynched if I hadn't vamoosed.”

“What a journey that must have been.”

“I thought of you all the way. Now here we are, alone at last. I decided against really blowing you up in your car. I want to know how you did it.”

“And then?”

“One thing at a time.”

“Traeger, as God is my judge, I did not do whatever you think I did.”

“What do I think you did?”

“Tell me. I have no idea.”

The phone on the desk rang; Arroyo picked it up. “Not now. Nothing. I'm busy.”

Traeger suggested that the way to do this was for Arroyo to describe everything that happened that morning before Traeger drove off in the U-Haul.

“What can I say? I was visiting with Jason Phelps when you showed up. That was my first inkling that something was afoot. I helped you take the package to Don Ibanez, remember?”

“So we brought the package. There was another ready for delivery to the shrine in Mexico City. Somehow it was the copy I put into the U-Haul and took to Mexico City. You should have been there when it was opened.”

“I've seen pictures. Traeger, believe me, you've been news.”

“I'm being hunted.”

“What have you got to fear? The beard was a good idea, by the way.”

“How did you make the switch?”

“I could sit here all day and deny I did that and you wouldn't believe me.”

“So quit pretending you didn't do it.”

Arroyo dropped into thought. He hummed and looked away. He turned to Traeger, his expression altered. “Maybe I do know what happened that night.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, no. This is a guess. But a good guess.”

Traeger waited. He had been conned once by this guy and he didn't plan to have it repeated.

“Phelps,” Arroyo said. “Jason Phelps. That has to be it.”

“Arroyo, if that's the best you can do . . .”

“But it has to have been Phelps. Look, I told him everything that was about to happen. How could anything go wrong at that point?”

“You said you hadn't known.”

“Don Ibanez had called me. That's why I was up in the valley.”

“How can I tell when you're not lying? When you're not talking?”

Arroyo winced. “I suppose if I'd been through what you have I'd suspect everyone else, too. You realize everyone thinks you still have the sacred image. Or know where it is.”