The Sixth Station (10 page)

I pushed my way through the crowd more aggressively, heading for the Seventeenth Precinct on East Fifty-first Street, but the crowd was going in the opposite direction, heading right toward the UN, and it would have been like pushing back a wave.

The man was as far from me as he had been before—about ten feet. What the hell? No one looked like that except—what?—German garmentos or maybe the kind of slick assassins you see only in the movies. I had to get out of his line of vision. Chances were good he wasn’t following me so he could knock off line-for-line copies of my old leather jacket for the Düsseldorf runway shows.

Holding my press creds up, I let the crowd pull me onto Second, and pushed my way onto Forty-seventh Street. As I neared Mary’s Garden, I could see Father Eugene inside the gates, waving frantically at me. How did he know I was coming?

I could see the “German” reaching into his jacket. Je
-sus
!

Eugene reached his arms outside the gate and grabbed onto my jacket sleeve to pull me up to it. He opened the gate a hair—just enough for me to get leverage to squeeze inside, the gate locking behind us.

“My savior!” I exclaimed.

“Hardly! There are only two of them. I’m just a priest,” he laughed.

I wouldn’t think about that remark until later.

9

I shook myself off like a wet dog and tried to get my equilibrium back as we headed to the rectory living room. I collapsed into the fat couch, and Sadowski handed me a cup of coffee. “Light, one Sweet’N Low, right?”

“Too bad you’re a priest,” I cracked, feeling embarrassed that I’d let my jaded-reporter persona creep back in with someone who’d been so kind to me.

He laughed. “Good thing I never thought that.”

“Father—” I started to say, when he stopped me.

“Eugene.”

“Okay. So Eugene,” I blurted out, trying like hell to not cry, “my apartment was broken into.”

“What? When?”

“While I was off getting canned this morning,” I said, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

He came around and put his arm around me.

“Well, that stinks,” he said, oddly unsurprised. I guessed he’d heard everything as a priest. “What did they get?”

“Just my identity,” I answered; a bad attempt at sardonic humor.

“Holy crap,” he said, slapping his forehead. “Your license, passport, credit cards?”

“No, no. I have them all with me,” I said, tapping my bag. “Even my passport. I stuck it in the bag yesterday in case I’d need extra ID at the UN. I meant my job. I kind of identify myself, you know, with the job.…”

“Yes. Of course. We all do. But you’re more than a job, Alessandra,” Sadowski said. “You, dear girl, are very special.”

“Was.
Was
very special…”

“Are you kidding? You, not your friend
—you—
were picked out of all the millions of people yesterday by ben Yusef himself.”

“Yeah, well tell that to my boss. My ex-boss, I mean. I was picked by a mass murderer as his—what?—girlfriend? My luck—it’s the first time a man ever picked me over Dona. That special pick cost me plenty.”

“Not as much as you’ll gain from it.”

“Huh? No disrespect, Father, but I don’t get you. The guy’s a damned terrorist killer and, just for starters? He particularly hates your religion. That doesn’t bother you? And don’t tell me ‘Turn the other cheek.’”

“No? Why not? Isn’t that what my religion is based upon?”

“May I remind you of the Crusades?”

“Yes. Terrible. Many fought back. Kept relics out of the hands of the infidels.…”

I continued as though I hadn’t heard him: “I certainly don’t want to tell you your business, but Jesus was an itinerate preacher whose death went unmarked at first. No? Do you honestly think somebody chopped that one cross to make souvenirs? I’m sure they crucified fifty more guys on it before it got used for firewood.”

Sadowski grinned. “O ye of little faith…”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that in two days.”

“Maybe third time’s the charm?”

“No,” I chided back, before the conversation turned serious again. “I don’t try to get you to play for my side, do I?”

“Okay, okay, you’re right. But no matter what your religion, you will admit that Jesus died for all of us. For all of our sins.”

“Maybe He died for yours,” I said, getting annoyed now. “But I wasn’t born thousands of years ago, so you can’t peg that on me. And maybe He died for His own sins. Ever think of that?”

Sadowski looked genuinely pained by my sarcasm. He stiffened and just said, “Let me ask you another hypothetical. What if this man, this ben Yusef, actually did turn out to be a new Jesus. Would you believe it then?”

I stared at him. “I think you need to seek professional help. You sound nuts.”

He smiled. “Okay, but remember, Jesus was a seditionist set up by the powers-that-be back then. The Jewish priests and their Roman rulers.”

“You can’t be serious. You’re buying into the conspiracy theorists’ nonsense? You?”

“No, but you have to wonder. Okay, back to reality. Your job and now your apartment. Are you sure they didn’t get anything?”

“Not sure. I ran outta there like my backside was on fire. I mean, it was terrifying. And the cops? Way too busy with a few million lunatics to investigate. I couldn’t even get to the precinct to make a report.

“The goons who broke in made a huge mess—trashed the place. It was like they wanted me to know that they’d been in there, whoever ‘they’ are.” Then I remembered the Wright-Lewis call and, switching gears, asked, “Can I use your phone? Mine is company-issue and I’m temporarily without visible means of communication.”

He answered by saying instead, “You really should find out if they got anything.…”

“I don’t really care right now.” The man was a real one-track-mind kind of guy, I thought, so I reached into my bag and pulled out my iPad. “All I care about is right here.”

He let out a breath and visibly relaxed. “Well, that’s a damned relief.”

“Right,” I said, trying to get him focused on my life crisis, of which the apartment break-in was only one part.

“And you’re still wearing that same scarf from yesterday, right? Nobody gave you a new one or anything, right?”

“What are you—the check-in guy at the airport?”

“It’s just that, I mean, as a reporter and all, you have to keep your stuff private. And maybe you can use that scarf someday for DNA evidence.”

I looked at him, puzzled. “It’s Father Hercule Poirot. Who knew?”

“Sorry, I guess I am playing private eye, but you never know about these things.”

“How about concerning yourself with this one instead: ben Yusef’s words to me were ‘Go forth for I am six.’ Do you know of any theological meaning to ‘I am six’?”

“Hmmm. As a priest, no. As a spiritualist, yes.”

I looked at him, cocked my head, and smirked. “Are you pulling one over on me?”

“No. I’m not so one-sided as my calm, handsome demeanor would indicate,” he joshed.

Then: “Well, six six six is the ‘number of the beast,’ or the Anti-christ, as you know. But the number six alone has a totally different meaning. Six is the number that is supposed to help a person unfold solutions to mysteries in a calm, rational way. It also means ‘enlightenment,’ or a light on the path to solving a spiritual dilemma. Like whether a lapsed Catholic should come back to Christ, perhaps?”

“‘Oy,’ as they say in Latin,” I joked back. “Forget I asked.”

He had another thought. “When you spoke of the Crusades—ever hear of the Albigensian Crusade against the Cathars?”

“Who?”

“A Gnostic Christian sect that flourished in the Middle Ages. Historians divide the Albigensian crusade into six phases—if that means anything…”

“Talk about obscure. No, I don’t think so,” I said, my sarcasm dripping, even though he certainly didn’t deserve it.

Damn! Stop it—he’s a nice guy.

I dropped my attitude, pulled out the note I’d made with Wright-Lewis’s prepaid phone number, and looked at it instead.

“You ever hear of an area code like this?” I asked him as I handed him the paper.

“No, where is it?”

“Don’t know. But if I got it right, it’s the number of a woman named Maureen Wright-Lewis.”

“The spy?” he asked, visibly astonished.

“Yes, and how do you know that, and why do you look so shocked?”

“Do I look shocked,” he said, not as a question. “I’m a history buff.”

Right.

I looked at him, more confused than certain of what this guy was all about, and punched in the number, sure I’d written it down incorrectly anyway.

It picked up after one ring. Sadowski had moved to the edge of his seat in the chair directly across from me. He was trying to listen in, I was certain of it.

“Hello, Ms. Russo,” came the voice on the other end of the phone.

Jackpot! I had gotten the number right after all. “Ms. Wright-Lewis?” I wasn’t sure if it was her secretary or the woman herself.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“If I may ask where ‘here’ is?”

“Rhinebeck, New York.”

“I thought you—”

She cut me off. “Do you know Rhinebeck?”

“Yes, I do. About ninety miles north of the city up on the Taconic…”

It may as well have been in Europe if it meant getting out of this insanely cordoned-off city. How the hell was she in the USA?

“I’m in Rhinecliff, actually. Tiny little village next to Rhinebeck. You need to drive up to see me,” she commanded.

“Well, I’m in Midtown Manhattan right now,” I explained. “It’s like a city under siege. It
is
a city under siege actually.…”

“Yes. I know that,” she said quietly, her voice urgent. “Still, I need to see you. Today. It’s about ben Yusef. He’s not who you think he is, and he’s not the one who should be on trial. When can you be here?”

She left the reporter part of me no choice.

“I’ll try my best, Ms. Wright-Lewis. But besides the city being cordoned off, you know, ever since what happened to me yesterday, I’m kind of under siege myself. I can’t go anywhere without being mobbed or followed. But if it’s that important…”

“Yes, it is that important.” A pause. “Here’s the address. Have you a pen?”

“Hold on a sec,” I said, reaching for my pen. “What’s the address please?”

“It’s Twenty Grinnell Street, Rhinecliff, New York,” she answered. “When may I expect you, Ms. Russo?”

“Well, like I said, Midtown is cordoned off, and I can’t get to my car, which is parked in the garage under my apartment building, because my street is closed to traffic.…”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said.

Man!
“I will certainly do my best,” I answered. “But I think I might be like a hippie trying to get to Woodstock back in the day.”

I don’t know if she heard that or not, because I realized that she was no longer on the line. Nonetheless I said, “Hello? Ms. Wright-Lewis? Hello?” Nothing.

“That’s odd,” I said to Father Sadowski. “She wants to see me and she wants me to drive to Rhinecliff. How in hell am I supposed to do that? I couldn’t get my car out of my building garage if I were Jesus Himself.”

“I have a car,” he offered, “but it’s parked in Harlem. Cheaper there.”

I thought about it a minute and said, “I guess I could take the subway to Harlem … but I’m sure the goons are waiting for me, though.…”

His eyes twinkled. “They aren’t waiting for a couple of priests walking on Forty-eighth and Lexington,” he said. “Sit tight a minute.”

Sadowski left me sitting there and went out the rectory door, which led, I presumed, into the Church of the Holy Family proper. He returned about a half hour later dressed in his blacks with starched clerical collar and requisite big black priest shoes.

He was holding a dry-cleaning bag in one hand and a beat-up shopping bag in the other.

“I figured the priest thing was too corny,” he offered, handing me the bag. “So I lifted one of the nun’s habits. Some of the young nuns like to dress up. Makes them feel more … I don’t know. Anyway, you can slip the whole habit over your regular clothes.”

“Me as a nun? The church might collapse,” I said.

“We should get a move on,” he urged, ignoring my quip.

I slipped the nun’s garment over my head and stepped into the bathroom, where I scrubbed my face clean, slipped on the black stacked heels, which were somehow exactly my size, then some black sheer panty hose (
Isn’t panty hose how I got into this mess?
I thought) and a pair of horrible no-prescription-lens granny sunglasses, and slipped my jeans back on. The last item I attempted was the starched wimple. I tried keeping the hard white vinyl headband in place on my forehead while I pulled on the veil, but then realized the veil came first. I tucked in all my hair and was happy to see Velcro tabs at the back that would keep the damned thing from falling off.

“Voilà!” I said, happily emerging from the bathroom with a curtsy.

“Dear God,” Sadowski said. “Put on your rosary, Sister!”

When I looked totally stumped as to how one would do such a thing, he stepped in and draped it for me. “Thanks, I almost hung myself trying to get this veil on.”

“Let’s go,” he said, handing me my red satchel. I put my Fryes and leather jacket into the shopping bag and then put a newspaper on top.

He looked me over and shook his head. “Hmmm. Not very nun-like, but too late to do anything about that.” We began to head toward the door that led to the stairs that led to the tunnel that led to Forty-eighth Street.

“Sadowski,” I said, pausing midstep, “why are you doing this? What do you care if I get an interview with someone who nobody’s heard about in decades who lives God-knows-where doing God-knows-what?”

“I’m living vicariously?”

“Right. Not to look a gift horse, and it’s a big gift—but, I mean, why have you rescued me from mad crowds both times I was in trouble, and now this? And the car and all.”

“I’m a priest. I help people,” he said, his hand on the knob of the door.

“Pardon my Latin, but bullshit.”

He opened the cellar door and flicked on the wall switch. “Guess the light’s broken,” he said, as I followed him through the door and down the pitch-black stairwell, beginning to think that maybe this wasn’t a great idea.