“What does that mean, ‘something happened’?” A mocking tone.
“It’s hard to describe. But you seem angry a lot of the time. And mostly at me.”
“Why would I be angry at you?” he snapped.
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
She saw his left hand close into a fist, open, close again. “What’s going on here, Hallie?”
She was sure that he was stonewalling. “I can’t believe you don’t get this. I need to understand what’s happening.”
“What I need is less bullshit. You think I don’t have enough downtown? I had two kids die on me last night.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. But this isn’t bullshit. You haven’t been the same since that trip.”
His face hardened. “I’m not the one who changed. I saw it in your eyes on the rez, and it’s still there. Poor Stephen. What a horrible place. I feel so sorry for him. You know what? I don’t need anybody’s pity.” He finished the Scotch.
“How much did you drink before you came here?”
“What the fuck does that matter?”
It wasn’t working. “I don’t know what else to say. I was hoping it wouldn’t come down to this.”
“Wait a minute. Are you breaking up with me?”
“I need some time to think. I’m sorry. It hasn’t felt good being with you. I hoped we could talk it out.”
Veins stood out on his forehead. Both hands clenched and opened. She had never seen him this angry. He stood up, breathing fast. “What the hell is going on, Hallie?”
“You’re a good man, Stephen. But—”
“But I’m an Indian. From a disgusting reservation with a drunk mother and a crack-whore sister. That’s it, right?”
“No.”
“You are dumping me. I can’t believe it.”
Something in his tone caught her. “What do you mean by that?”
“My people were right.”
“About what?”
“They said, Don’t get in with a white woman. She will cut your heart out and eat it.”
His look made her step back.
“Know wha’?” he said, really slurring now. “You’re gonna regret this.” He slammed the door so hard the old walls shook.
11
Henry Backer loved the Good Shepherd Chapel more than any other place in the vast cathedral. There were other chapels, of course — bigger, well lit, accessible from inside. The Good Shepherd Chapel was small, and cathedral gardens hid its one door. The only illumination was natural light filtering through slit windows in the cathedral’s two-foot-thick limestone-block walls. When the sky went dark, so did the chapel.
Backer opened it for public worship at six-thirty A.M. and closed it at ten P.M. He might see two or three daytime visitors a week. Many Washingtonians thought the city little safer than a medieval enclave after dark, and visiting outlanders were even more nychtophobic, so no one ever ventured into the lightless chamber after sunset. That was Backer’s favorite time. At night, the chapel was his alone, and he spent hours there talking to the Lord and listening to His answers. Safe in his dank space in the bowels of the vast cathedral, Backer imagined himself a sparrow cradled in the hand of God.
At eleven P.M. Backer entered the chapel and knelt before the simple granite altar to pray and meditate. An hour later, refreshed in mind and spirit, he sat on the wooden pew. After a while someone entered, pushed the door closed, latched it, and sat beside him in the dark.
“Welcome,” Backer said softly. “We are in the presence of the Lord. Do you feel Him?”
“Through and through,” Ely answered, completing their arranged greeting. Backer felt something being placed on the pew beside his thigh. Ely said, “Now it’s all in your hands.”
“Yes,” Backer said. “I am thankful that the time has finally arrived. We went to so many meetings, and there was so much talk. Years of talk. But no one ever did a thing.”
“When interests join, God smiles. Like the junction of roads. A thing of great power. God wills that, and leaves us to find the way.”
“Well …” Backer said. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Yes. I shaved off the hair and beard and lost twenty-one pounds in the cave. I doubt you would recognize me now. No one else will, certainly.” For a few moments he was silent. “Are you ready, Henry?”
It was Backer’s turn to be quiet. Then he said, “To do what is necessary, yes.”
“ ‘Come now therefore, and let us slay her, and cast her into some pit, and we shall see what will become of her dreams.’ ” Ely patted Backer’s shoulder and left. Backer put the parcel, about the size of a paperback book, into his suit jacket pocket. He prayed in the chapel until dawn.
Day Two: Friday
12
Just after eleven P.M., Hallie tipped over the correct flowerpot in Kurt Ely’s backyard. She saw no alarm wires or junction boxes and let herself in, locking the door behind herself. She pulled down shades, closed curtains, and put on her caving headlamp. Its tight circular spot wouldn’t be visible outside. She hoped.
Ely’s bedroom closet held dress shirts and pants, a sport jacket. Scuffed shoes on the floor, sweaters tossed onto shelves. Nothing unusual in dresser drawers, under the bed. The bathroom medicine cabinet contained rubbing alcohol, shaving cream, disposable razors. Two more sparsely furnished bedrooms yielded nothing of interest.
In the basement, a dusty workbench sat against one wall. Old suitcases leaned against another. Unpacked moving cartons were stacked almost to the ceiling at the basement’s far end. She looked and poked but found nothing of interest.
What would be of interest? She couldn’t say exactly. But something had not felt right since her conversation with Maddy Taylor. So now she stood in Ely’s basement, wanting to go but reluctant to leave without … what?
A door opened and closed upstairs. She almost called Maddy Taylor’s name, then shut her mouth. She killed her light and knelt behind the stacked cartons. Someone walked around upstairs, heavy-footed, purposeful. The basement lights came on.
She took small, silent breaths and did not move. The newcomer walked to the workbench. She heard the ripping sound of tape being pulled loose, nothing for several seconds, then the soft beeps of a cell phone’s keypad. A man’s voice:
“It’s me. I got the gift. Yes. Tomorrow. At the cathedral. After, I will confirm.”
The click of a ballpoint pen. “Go ahead.” Silence. “Wait, let me repeat that. Five-two-nine-nine-seven-five-four-four-one-six-eight-two.”
She heard a cell phone snapping shut. The man walked upstairs and left through the back door. She crouched for five minutes, her eyes closed, brow furrowed. Then she turned on her light and searched the basement frantically. She took the stairs two at a time, rummaged through the kitchen, finally found on a counter half of what she needed: a pen. She thought, The hell with paper, and wrote on her palm the numbers she had been repeating silently since the man had spoken them.
That was a relief. But something else was not. Down in the basement, she had heard a voice from the grave.
Back home, her first thought was to call Agent Luciano, despite the hour, to tell him that Kurt Ely might be alive. But then she would have to admit to breaking into Ely’s house. The fact that she had used a key wouldn’t matter to the police. And she had no proof, so Luciano would immediately assume she was trying to shift suspicion away from herself. She hadn’t even actually seen Ely. Calling Luciano would have to wait. But she had the numbers Ely, or whoever it was, had repeated. She could work with them right now.