Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion Page 28

  But then he remembered there used to be cool names in music. Back in the old days. This time he struck gold: Elvis, Conway, and Ricky. Elvis was the coolest, of course, and if he’d had an American face, he’d have gone with it and not thought twice. Being who he was, though, he thought Elvis would be too much of a reach. He’d get a lot of shit about it and wind up killing someone. He liked Conway a lot, too, but then he found out it was pretty much a country name, and he was pure city, born in Saigon, just learning to walk and steal from fruit stands before the city fell. That left Ricky—as in Nelson. He had the hair for it. He had the sleepy-eyed look the guy had used, too. Set the suckers up, thinking he was about to nod off and, zip, he’d have ‘em by their throats.

  So Ricky it was. After six months, he still liked his choice.

  He climbed the steps of St. Magnus with a spring in his step. Passing through the front doors, he dipped his hand in the holy water, made the sign of the cross. He figured he was fucked as far as God was concerned. But who knew? Maybe good manners counted for something.

  All thoughts of salvation departed as he stepped into the church proper; he cased the place as if he were entering a restaurant where a gang shootout was about to erupt. Half a dozen women were scattered among a couple hundred pews, the best he could tell. Damn Father Nguyen kept the lights low when he wasn’t saying mass. Saving on electricity, Ricky had been told. The parish operated on a tight budget. Also, he’d been told the low light was good for prayer and reflection.

  That’s what all the ladies were doing, as far as he could see. Praying. Five Vietnamese women, four in American clothes, one granny in an ao dai that even in the dim light looked as old as she was. Maybe her wedding dress. Worn to pray for her dead husband, no doubt.

  When the sun was out, Ricky didn’t mind too much the lights being low, but on a cloudy day like today, with all the shadows in the church, it was too easy to imagine somebody lying in wait to ambush him. Someone could step out from behind a pillar and shoot him in the back. Not be bothered at all by killing someone in a church. It wouldn’t bother Ricky to do it. The notion became so real to him he could see it all in his mind. In slow motion. The muzzle flash, him falling, the blood pooling. The granny hobbling over, horrified, the hem of her dress soaking up the blood. Her scream bringing Father Nguyen rushing in. The priest stopping short when he saw Ricky. Refusing to hear Ricky’s last confession or give him absolution.

  Ricky would die and go from the church straight to hell. He thought a lot about dying. When he wasn’t thinking about killing. Or sex or food. All the basics of life. Like…

  Who was that? The sixth woman in the church. American, this one. She knelt in a pew just to the rear of the confessional booths. There was enough light to see that she wore a green scarf over red hair and a pale white face. Her features were … he couldn’t decide if she was plain or pretty. Might go either way depending on how she was feeling, and if you fixed her up.

  Right now, maybe she leaned more toward plain because you’d have to turn off all the lights in the church not to see how sad she was. Ricky thought he could see the track of a tear on her left cheek. Despair meant vulnerability and, to Ricky, nothing was more enticing than a defenseless woman. He started to drift toward the red-haired woman, thinking, yes, she was young enough for him. Not bad looking at all really. And so wrapped up in her own sorrow that—

  A hand fell hard on Ricky’s shoulder. He jumped a foot in the air, hating that he had been taken by surprise, his hand reaching for his knife even as he came down. Before he could grab the weapon, a small, hard fist hit him in the solar plexus with enough force to make him go numb, take all the fight out of him. He was marched to the back of the church, and that was when he saw his assailant was Father Nguyen.

  He was relieved that he wasn’t about to die, but he was angered that a priest had gotten the drop on him, was leading him along like a child grasped by his ear. Ricky pulled free as they entered the church’s vestibule.

  He turned to confront the priest, saying, “I should kill you.”

  Father Nguyen extended his hands to his sides, offering an open target.

  When no attack came, the priest told Ricky, “You are not welcome in my church, and you will never again disturb the piety of any of my parishioners.”

  “Mr. Bao wants to see you,” Ricky told the priest.

  “He, also, is not welcome here.”

  “Not here,” Ricky said.

  “Nor will I see him anywhere else.”

  The priest’s hands were still in a submissive position. The whole centerline of his body from throat to groin was available to be slashed. If Ricky was quick enough.

  “What kind of priest are you?” he asked indignantly. “How do you know Mr. Bao is not in need of your sacraments?”

  “He and you have already abused the Church’s mercy,” Father Nguyen said. “I see no sign of repentance in you; I doubt I would see any in him. If I am wrong, I will plead for forgiveness.”

  Ricky glared at the priest. “You’ll be pleading for mercy.”

  The priest didn’t respond, even when Ricky pulled his knife and flicked it open.

  But Ricky didn’t attack; he used the weapon to cover his retreat.

  Once he was gone, Father Nguyen went to see if he might be of help to the woman Ricky had been about to harass. The unfamiliar woman with the red hair. The priest wondered what the appearance of someone new among his congregation might portend.

  10

  Father Nguyen didn’t bother the woman, who was still praying. As Ricky had noticed, he also saw signs that she had been crying. In silence, he asked the Savior to comfort the woman, bring her peace. Then he moved past her, went to the altar, took a cotton cloth out of his pocket and began to dust the altar. The priest made it a point of respect to both the Almighty and his flock to keep his church immaculately clean; he made it an exercise in humility to participate in the cleaning, right down to scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees. At the moment, though, dusting was sufficient. When he turned around he saw the red-haired woman was on her feet, in an aisle, watching him.

  He walked over to her and extended his hand.

  “Hello. I am Francis Nguyen.”

  She took his hand. “I’m Kay.”

  Kira wasn’t lying. Her mother had named her, but her father had always called her Kay. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used Daddy’s pet name, hadn’t even told Welborn of its existence. But with the priest, using it felt right.

  “Is there some way I might be of help?” Father Nguyen asked.

  Kira started to cry. Father Nguyen took the dust cloth out of his pocket. He shook it and extended it to her. It was all he had to offer. Kira took it with a sad smile.

  “I could use a miracle, Father,” Kira told him drying her eyes. “You wouldn’t have one up your sleeve, would you?”

  Keeping his expression deadpan, the priest checked one sleeve and then the other.

  “Maybe later,” he said.

  Kira laughed, keeping it quiet in deference to her surroundings.

  Father Nguyen smiled.

  “Thank you, Father. You’ve already made me feel better.”

  She took another swipe at her face with the cloth and gingerly handed it back. The priest casually put it back in his pocket, not concerned with the moisture Kira had added.

  “If you’d care to join me in the rectory for a cup of tea, perhaps I might be of help. Or…”

  He nodded to the confessional booths.

  “The tea would be lovely.”

  Father Nguyen gestured to a door off the sacristy and led the young woman in that direction.

  “What’s troubling you, Kay?” he asked.

  “I’m getting married soon,” she said.

  And she told him why that was a problem.

  Washington, DC

  11

  Putnam Shady arrived at work before dawn and got his billable hours in by one p.m.; helping Sweetie was all very well, b
ut no way he could neglect his day job. A partner in his law firm, albeit the junior one, he had responsibilities to meet. But as the up and coming rainmaker in the office, his senior colleagues gave him a good deal of flexibility. As long as he got his quota of billable hours in and spent the requisite time schmoozing business prospects, they were happy.

  Just make money, baby, they’d say, paraphrasing Al Davis.

  Now, Putnam was adding Junior G-Man to his portfolio. Given his personal history, there was a rich irony. For anyone but Margaret, it would have been unthinkable. But it was for Margaret, and the way she got him to do the damnedest things, he thought he might wake up one day and not recognize himself.

  While his secretary was out—and all his legal colleagues had departed for business lunches, shopping for high-end indulgences, or trysts with their mistresses or boyfriends—Putnam took his personal laptop out of his briefcase and booted it up. He never used one of the firm’s computers for anything he wouldn’t want the FBI to read, another legacy from his early years. His personal machine’s files were all password protected and encrypted. No one was going to follow his footsteps across cyberspace without his permission.

  Putnam pulled up the website for the Virginia State Bar. He did a membership search for the creep Margaret had sicced him on: Horatio Bao. Found him with no trouble. He looked to see if the VSB had taken any disciplinary action against Bao. They hadn’t. But the state bar did note that Mr. Bao engaged in the private practice of law without the benefit of having malpractice insurance. Interesting. The guy must be really sure of himself. Or he was certain none of his clients was ever going to complain even if he did screw up. That, of course, would imply Bao had another type of insurance policy in force.

  Putnam looked for and found a website for lawyer Horatio Bao. A studio portrait of the esteemed attorney was front and center on his home page. Bao was late middle-aged, well groomed, conservatively dressed: just what you’d want from your legal counsel. But the guy had a merciless stare that belonged to a villain right out of Terry and the Pirates.

  Someone the previous administration might have used as its counsel on water-boarding. If that was Bao’s public image, Putnam thought, who the heck knew how he partied when the curtains were drawn?

  Putnam began to look for court filings with Bao’s name on them.

  See whom he’d had for clients the past four or five years.

  Putnam paused for a moment of reflection. He could be immersing himself in deep water here. As a favor for Margaret. So it only seemed right that if danger came calling she should stay very close to him. She might even have to move upstairs for the duration of this little adventure.

  Comfort him should he become fearful.

  Spank him should he turn naughty.

  Thinking about the possibilities made Putnam tremble in anticipation.

  Arlington, VA

  12

  Sweetie was sitting in her car and talking with Caitie McGill when her BlackBerry beeped to signal another call waiting to be answered.

  “Just a minute, Caitie. I’ve got another call coming in. Might be your dad.”

  It wasn’t. Putnam was on the line, telling her, “I just sent you an e-mail.”

  That was it. No cute comment. Not even a goodbye. Well, he could have been busy at work. Had just enough time to alert her to a waiting message. Or, Good Lord, she hadn’t put him in a bad spot, had she? She had told him — firmly — not to get anywhere near Horatio Bao, but Putnam, like any overage adolescent, might have acted impulsively. Had just enough time to phone her before he had to beat feet.

  Sweetie murmured a quick prayer before clicking back to Caitie.

  “Was it Dad?” the youngest McGill child asked.

  “No, honey. It was a business call. Remind me, why did you call?”

  “Annie said she’d talk to Dad, but she can’t reach him.”

  “And Annie is?”

  “Annie Klein. My new agent at William Norris. She got me a part in a movie, but Mom says I’ve got to get Dad’s permission. Annie said she’d give Dad all the details, but she says his phone just rings and rings and he never answers. I’m getting scared.” A tremor entered Caitie’s voice. “Sweetie, is Dad okay?”

  “Yes, I talked with him yesterday. Did your agent use her own phone to make the call?”

  “Sure, I guess. What other phone would she use?”

  “Caitie, your dad’s phone only takes calls from certain people: Patti, your mom, you, your sister and brother, and me. That way he doesn’t get bothered by other people.”

  There was a pause, and then Caitie asked, “Can I get a phone like that?”

  “Maybe when you’re president.” Sweetie was still worried about Putnam, wanted to read the e-mail he’d sent. “Tell you what. You’re worried your dad won’t let you be in this movie, right?”

  “Yeah,” Caitie said, sounding glum now.

  “You trust me?”

  “Of course, Sweetie. We were at Lafayette Square together.”

  Spoken like one Rough Rider to another, recalling the charge up San Juan Hill. But Caitie’s presence the night they confronted the Reverend Burke Godfrey and his congregants had taken no small amount of courage for a ten-year-old.

  “Then here’s what we’ll do. I’ll see if this movie’s right for you. If it is, I’ll have your dad call Annie Klein. Deal?”

  “That’d be great, Sweetie! You want me to tell you about the movie?”

  “Not now, kiddo. What you do, have your agent send me the script.”

  That problem resolved, Sweetie picked up Putnam’s e-mail on her BlackBerry.

  Stakeouts had gone 21st century.

  13

  Sweetie’s car was a 1969 Chevy Malibu coupe with polished but faded Fathom Blue Metallic paint. She’d parked up the street from Horatio Bao’s law office in Arlington, Virginia. Stakeouts were usually a deadly dull business, but Sweetie never got antsy, never felt anything but peaceful sitting in the Malibu.

  The car had belonged to her cousin, Michael Quigley. He’d left it in her care when he went to Vietnam. She was only eight years old at the time, but she’d promised to wash and wax the car and keep it clean inside, too. When her dad had confided in her, without going into specifics, that Michael was in a dangerous situation and she should keep him in her prayers, Sweetie had hung a picture of the Sacred Heart from the Malibu’s rear view mirror. At least once a day, every day, she got into the car and prayed that Michael would come home safe and sound.

  He did. Skinnier than Sweetie remembered. Looking a lot older than a young man who’d been away for only a year. But he was able to smile when he saw her.

  “How’s my car?” Michael asked.

  Sweetie took his hand and said, “Come and see.”

  She led him out to the garage where the car had been stored.

  The Malibu gleamed like it was sitting on a showroom floor. Michael picked up Sweetie in his arms and kissed her cheek. He rocked back and forth for a moment, almost as if they were dancing, before putting her down.

  “You know, Margaret Mary, a lot of guys I was with in the army, they wanted to get home to their girls. Thinking of their sweethearts was what kept them going. But maybe half of them got the letter.”

  “What letter?” Sweetie asked.

  “The one that said their girls found other guys.”

  At nine, Sweetie could only imagine some horrible form letter that—

  “But not me,” Michael said. “What kept me going was thinking about this car. Knowing that you’d keep it sparkling, just the way it is now. I’d come home and drive down Lake Shore Drive with the radio up high, and even if it was cold as hell, I’d have the windows open.”

  Sweetie understood that perfectly, and beamed at her cousin.

  “The inside clean?” Michael asked.

  Sweetie yanked open the driver’s door.

  Michael eased inside, ran a hand over the steering wheel—and stopped short when he saw the picture of the Sac
red Heart hanging from the rear view mirror.

  “This is new,” he said, looking at his young cousin.

  Sweetie shrugged, her face turning red. “Dad said…” Another shrug. “I came here and prayed you’d be okay.”

  Michael Quigley looked at her, his eyes getting big and filling with tears. Sweetie was dismayed. She hadn’t thought she’d done anything wrong. Her eyes started to fill, too.

  But then Michael stepped out, embraced her and said, “Thank you, thank you.”

  It was several years before Michael told her in detail of his wartime experiences, but at that moment he said, “I was the luckiest damn grunt in the 25th Infantry. I should have been dead half-a-dozen times. Each time I got away clean. I thought for sure the next time I was going to die. I got more and more scared. Even when I got on the plane to come home, I was sure it would get shot down or crash. The only comfort I could find was thinking of this car. Feeling that somehow I’d get back to it.”

  Sweetie slipped past him, reached inside the Malibu. She handed him the picture of the Sacred Heart. And Michael gave her the keys to the car.

  Even as a youngster, she knew that wouldn’t be the right time to argue with Michael. She was sure the time would come when he’d ask for the keys back, and she’d wink and hand them over, letting him know she’d known all along how it would work out.

  But Michael never did ask for the keys back. He went out and bought another Malibu, a 1970 model. The picture of the Sacred Heart didn’t fit around the new rear-view mirror, so he kept it in the sun visor. All these years later, his luck still held, and he still drove that car.

  It was the experience of praying for Michael and having her prayers answered that led Sweetie to think she had a religious vocation. But it was driving, and more specifically parking, the Malibu with her one high school boyfriend, an adolescent romance she hadn’t been able to get out of her mind no matter how hard she’d prayed, that caused her to leave the convent. When she returned home from the convent, her father gave back the keys to the Malibu that she’d given him.