On the Fifth Day Page 4

  "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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  "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

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  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

  abouts over the last six months and whether he had letters or e-mails from him, whether Ed had suffered what they called

  "a crisis of faith." Thomas recalled the scribbled "De Pro

  fundis! " on the postcard with its overtones of despair, but he shook his head.

  Then, very politely, always calling him sir in that formal way some officials have that somehow reinforces the impres

  sion that they are in control, they started on him. He had, they observed, a history of "dissident opinions" and "countercul

  ture beliefs." Had he ever been approached by people who avowed violent solutions to the issues close to his heart? Had he ever been to the Middle East? Did he maintain connections with people who had?

  The whole encounter had been surreal, and a couple of times Thomas had wanted--again--to laugh, but there was 35

  O n t h e F i f t h D a y

  another part of him that wanted to curl up until they went away, though whether that was because he was afraid for him

  self, or for what his brother might have been involved in, he couldn't say.

  Except that there was no way that Ed was involved with ter

  rorists. No way at all.

  Did he really know that? Did he know anything substantial about his brother over the last half-dozen years?

  The only time he did actually laugh was when they rose to leave and he, mustering a defiance he didn't feel, demanded what had prompted this absurd line of questioning.

  "I'm sorry, sir," said Kaplan. "That's classified."

  And even then Thomas's laugh didn't ring quite true, be

  cause if the world had strayed into the realm of such TV

  cliches, he really should be afraid.

  "How did my brother die?" he demanded.

  "That is still being investigated."

  "So you are going to tell me nothing?" he said.

  "We're not at liberty to go into details at this time," said Palfrey, the one with the open, smiling face.

  "Would I find out more if I hopped a flight to Manila?"

  He was being flippant, testing their boundaries, though he also knew that he had no job, so a trip to the Philippines was only unlikely, not impossible. He thought there was a frac

  tional hesitation before the other one spoke.

  "They won't let you into the country," said Palfrey. Thomas stared at him.

  "And if they did," said the other, without a hint of emotion,

  "we'd pick you up the moment you got back."

  "And, sir," said Palfrey, "I advise you to discuss this matter with nobody. The investigation is ongoing."

  What exactly was being investigated--or who--they didn't say.

  CHAPTER 9

  Thomas spent a half hour on the phone to the State Depart

  ment and another ten minutes trying, without success, to reach the American ambassador in Manila. He learned nothing from either call. His brother had died in the Philippines, but how he had died or what he had been doing there in the first place, no one was saying. Whether they knew or not, he couldn't begin to guess, and though it might be normal when dealing with be

  reaved relatives, he sensed their wariness. He felt his irritation mounting as he was shuttled from one uninformative recep

  tionist to another, but he also knew instinctively that his customary bluster would get him nowhere. He was being stonewalled by people who wouldn't be intimidated by any

  thing he had to say. In the end, he thanked them wearily and slid the receiver back into the cradle.

  "Nothing?" said Jim.

  Thomas shook his head.

  "I don't get it," he said. "I'm being dodged."

  "I don't suppose you know any powerful politicians, am

  bassadors, officials in the State Department, things like that?"

  Thomas turned so quickly and with a stare so level and baleful that Jim's face fell.

  "What?" said the priest. "I just meant . . ."

  "I know," said Thomas, regrouping fast. "Forget it. I thought you were . . ."

  He shrugged and, registering the look of startled alarm on the priest's face, smiled.

  "My wife, or rather my ex-wife, works for the State De

  partment," he said, a little embarrassed. "She's not high up or anything and we don't talk so . . ."

  Jim relaxed visibly.

  "You don't want to call her over this?"

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  "No," said Thomas. He wasn't smiling now, and Jim knew better than to push the point.

  "What about Devlin?" said Jim.

  "Who?

  "Devlin," said Jim as if it should be obvious. "Senator Zacharias Devlin; your brother knew him."

  "Senator Devlin?" said Thomas, incredulous. "The familyvalues, school-prayer Republican? Ed knew him?"

  "Met with him at least a few times."

  "You don't sound impressed."

  "You think I should be?"

  "You're a priest," said Thomas, the smile returning.

  "So?"

  "Nothing," he said, "I just figured you religious types would have more in common with a guy like that."

  Jim gave him a steady look. "You seem to have me con

  fused with Pat Robertson," he said.

  "My mistake," said Thomas, shrugging.

  "You don't much like priests, do you?" said Jim.

  "Not as a rule," said Thomas, bristling.

  "Present company excepted, of course," said Jim.

  "Of course."

  The two men looked hard at each other, and for a moment the situation could have turned unpleasant.

  "Tough day," said Jim. "For both of us."

  He wasn't talking about the aftermath of Ed's death so much as the fact of it, and Thomas, who didn't want to appear hostile on this, just nodded and sighed and wondered why he couldn't simply grieve for his brother as a regular person would.

  "I'm ready for a drink," said Jim. "You?"

  "Sure, what the hell," said Thomas.

  The priest pulled a bottle of Bushmills out of a kitchen cupboard and poured two generous measures into the bottoms of a pair of chipped mugs.

  "We're low on crystal," he said, proffering one of the cups.

  "I'd like to blame the Jesuits' vow of poverty, but we diocesans 38

  A. J. Hartley

  will take whatever we're given. We're just not given much these days."

  "Oh, for the good old days of the Holy Roman Empire,"

  said Thomas, "when charity meant . . ."

  "Giving us your money," Jim completed for him, grinning.

  "Now look at us. I've known Carmelites with better gear."

  Thomas smirked and sipped the Irish. It was warm and smoky: familiar as childhood and as conflicting.