The Book of 21 (29 page)

John glanced at Amy, and found her staring directly at the cross. He then turned back to the priest, who was still staring at the statue.

“She seems to be pointing at the cross,” John offered matter-of-factly.

“Oh, yes, she does seem to be, I guess. The same shields and markings were borne by the crusaders that went off to the Holy Land in order to free Jerusalem from the Saracens. It may be a reminder by the designer of the church, perhaps, to look to Christendom for salvation.”

“Interesting connection,” John replied, while raising an eyebrow.

“Well, the beauty of the church is that so many things interact with their surroundings. In that way, the entire space becomes a work of art. For example, the first statue you passed on this side was St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, with his head bowed in prayer. That statue means to welcome the travelers entering the church, and ask them to stop and pray with us.”

“Nice touch,” John replied. He looked at the priest and decided he might have to press the issue. “I have traveled a great distance as well, but I have not come to see the statue of Christopher.”

“I am guessing that means there is a special reason why you are here. What is it?”

“This statue of Mary Magdalene is part of it.” John took a deep breath. He was raised Catholic and taught to respect priests, so it was somewhat difficult to call out Father Lamb. After a second of hesitation, he continued, “The other reason is a special key, Father.”

The priest seemed to turn slightly pale. Staring past John, he seemed to speak to Amy, “After hearing reports about the Key of David being found at the university, I assumed it would only be a matter of time until you came here.”

A mechanical clicking sound filled the hollow of the church.

Turning toward Amy, John found himself on the wrong end of a snub-nosed .38 caliber Smith & Wesson. The weapon was very much like Peluno’s sidearm, and John suspected it was the same gun. A frown of confusion spread across his forehead as he stared at the young girl who, just a second ago, was his only ally left in the world.

Amy knew that hesitation and talk were not options when handling John McDonough. She was not going to try to talk him into handing over his gun. When Mezzalura had tried that in the field last night, people were killed. Acting swiftly, she stepped forward and grabbed his Beretta before his gaping jaw could close.

She stepped back, tucked his gun in her jeans, and took out her cell phone. She eyed John’s frown and calmly breathed, “Well, sweetie, I guess we can drop all the bullshit.”

Chapter 38:
Geolocation, Geolocation

The tiny electronic tone of George Pew’s voice grated across the speaker of the cell phone and into Harry’s ear. “Why don’t you just call her?” he asked.

Harry Mulgrew rubbed his forehead as he spoke into his cell phone, “I did, George, but she didn’t answer. You know, I’m a little leery about her. She could be someone helping John, or she could have him tied up in her basement. I probably shouldn’t have called her in the first place. Just let me know when you have a fix on the number I gave you. The name listed on John’s phone is Amy Ritter, spelled A-M-Y, R-I-T-T-E-R, but who knows if she gave him a real name.”

“The number you gave me is all I need. Hopefully, it’s a cellular line. At least, it looks like it, from the exchange. If it is, I can find them.”

“Can you tell which carrier it is from the exchange?”

“Eh,” George grunted, “I know what company issues that exchange, but since numbers can follow you from carrier to carrier, it might not be the carrier she is using now. Give me a few minutes. I’ll call you as soon as I have her.”

“Thanks, George.”

Harry hung up the cell phone, turned to Fanelli, and sighed, “He thinks it is a cellular number based on the exchange, but it may take him a bit to find the phone. Until he can get a fix on her, we are dead in the water.”

“Fantastic,” Fanelli groaned. He stood up and twisted his neck to one side. After his spine let out an audible crack, he said, “I think it’s time for java.” With that, Fanelli calmly crossed the street and strolled toward the small market on the corner.

Harry knew that Fanelli’s trip for coffee was simply killing time. There was nothing left to do here. They needed to find a new lead, now that John’s cell phone was a dead end. He considered whether he should head to Shalby’s place to help the team he had working there.

The ring of Harry’s cell phone broke his trance. He expected it to be George. Upon checking the caller ID, however, he found himself happy and disappointed at the same time. He raised the phone to his ear, and said, “Hi, Kim.”

“Harry, what’s going on?”

“Well, right now, we are waiting.”

“What?”

“We found John’s cell phone in the back of a truck. We’re not sure how it wound up there. He could have ditched it there, but who knows; it could have gotten there any number of ways. Right now, it looks like it led us on a wild goose chase into south Philly.”

“That sucks,” she growled.

“Well, it looks like there were a few calls within the last twenty-four hours from a woman named Amy Ritter. I have George Pew tracking her number to see if he can locate her. Hopefully, she will give us a few answers.”

“Do you think she is with him?”

“I don’t know what to think at this point. If George can get me a fix on her number, we’ll drop in on her.”

There was a short pause, during which Harry listened to the Nissan’s engine drone across the cell phone. After a few seconds, he asked, “How far away are you right now?”

“Um, I should be coming up on the Lansdale exit soon. I would guess about thirty minutes to an hour or so. It all depends on where you need me to go.”

“OK, give me a ring when you reach Manayunk and we’ll sync up,” he replied. After glancing at his watch, he hung up the phone.

Fanelli came striding up to Harry holding a flimsy tray with three coffees. He handed one to Harry, and one to Moore.

“Drink up, gentlemen,” Fanelli commanded.

Harry opened the Styrofoam cup and drew deep. The coffee tasted like dishwater. He fought back a spit-take.

“Mmm, good coffee,” purred Fanelli, as he savored the sip.

“Yeah,” seconded Moore, “very nice. That little shop on the corner made this?”

“Yeah, buck a cup.”

Moore nodded and said, “Good deal.”

Philadelphia had many great things, but good taste in coffee was not one of them. Harry knew many people in the town that just liked weak coffee. He sighed and took another sip of the stuff.

Harry’s phone rang again. The caller ID showed the name Harry wanted to see—George Pew.

Harry flipped open the phone and barked, “Tell me you have her.”

“It’s a cell, and she’s at a church in Springfield. Actually, she just showed up on the grid in the last minute.”

Harry thought for a second, there were actually two Springfield neighborhoods in Philadelphia. “Are you talking about the Springfield out past Drexel Hill?” he asked.

“Bingo,” quipped George. “Saddle up the posse, because she just made a call. It looks like the other number is on the move and headed toward her. So, I would imagine that they are going to meet up.”

“Let’s go,” Harry chimed, summoning to the two cops. “Ritter’s in Springfield—in a church along Baltimore Ave. It looks like she just called in some friends, so something may be up.”

Moore jogged off to his car, while Fanelli and Harry slipped into theirs.

Inside the car, Harry put the phone back to his ear, and said, “George, hold on.”

He put George on hold and dialed Kim. When she answered, he said, “Kim, you are going to want to take the Blue Route.”

Chapter 39:
The Door That No Man Openeth

“We’re at the Church of St. Francis in Springfield,” Amy said into the phone. She glared at John, cracked a mocking smile, and continued the discussion with the person on the other end of the line. “Yes, this is it. It’s here.” She paused to listen to the tiny voice on the phone and then concluded the call with the words, “OK, see you in a bit.”

He tried to identify the muted voice seeping through the cell phone but could not focus; his mind was too busy fighting back his anger at the current situation. His mind bounced between Shalby’s incompetence, Amy’s betrayal, and his own stupidity. The fact that he was in this situation was his own fault; he had the chance to give the case back to Shalby and declined it out of spite. Eventually, every thought he had was consumed by a single word that finally fell from his lips and echoed off the marble walls of the church—“Fuck.”

“Oh, shut up,” Amy snarled.

John eyed the faces of both Amy and Father Lamb. Apparently, he was the only person in the church that was surprised by the current turn of events. Father Lamb stood with a calm air about him, silently waiting for the next demand to come his way. Amy turned toward the priest to provide the needed direction.

“You,” she snapped, “open the door.”

Even with everything that happened to this point, Father Lamb opted to play dumb one last time.

“I am not sure what you mean, my child, but whatever is hurting you, perhaps we can discuss—”

“Shut up, asshole.” Amy took a deep breath and pointed the gun at John while she barked at Father Lamb. “I have seen several friends die because of this fucking idiot over here, and I am in no fucking mood for your shit.”

Amy’s stare cut into Father Lamb. The priest fell silent, looked down at the floor, and blinked. Amy stared at him for a moment, then walked over to the tile with the red cross, pointed her gun at its center, and squeezed off a round.

John flinched at the muzzle blast and realized a few things. First, Amy was quite comfortable with firing a gun; she handled the weapon fluidly, and her face remained calm as the shot rang into the church. Second, she showed that she was actually very decisive; her reaction to Lamb’s stalling was swift. Adding these two things up meant that any move he made against her needed to be quick and deadly; there would be no forgiveness—no second chances.

Looking at the tile, John saw that a crack had formed across its center. There seemed to be a small hole in the cross. The black void beyond the hole told him that there was nothing beneath that tile.

Amy flapped the gun in John’s direction, to indicate she was talking to him, and growled, “Let’s go, gimpy. Grab that iron candlestick next to you and get over here before I squeeze one into the priest’s skull.”

John realized she meant a six-foot tall candelabrum just to his right. There was a second of hesitation, during which John debated whether he wanted to comply with her command or tell her to go fuck herself. He opted for the former, deciding that he needed to remain calm and wait for the opportunity that would let him end this whole game. He limped over to the candelabrum and hoisted the heavy iron device, causing several unlit candles to drop to the floor.

After getting past the visceral reaction to her words, he recognized her “gimpy” remark was well played. It angered him enough to stop thinking, while it reminded him that he was not fast enough to run out the front door without catching at least one bullet. He wondered whether she planned its use or just lucked into it.

Either way, the barb also told him to start working his way closer; he was too far away from her for a quick strike, especially with her holding the gun. He had to close that distance. Moving too quickly would get him shot. Not moving at all would let her remain in control, which would eventually get him shot as well. Transitioning the distance had to be done slowly and carefully; one mistake meant that she would end all of his effort with the squeeze of a trigger.

He raised the iron candelabrum and smashed its heavy circular base onto the fractured tile with an echoing boom. The tile cracked in a few more directions, and all the remaining candles fell from their holders. One more blow left a visible chasm between two halves of the tile and exposed the darkness below.

“Very nice, Johnny,” she said with a smile. “Now use it just like a giant crowbar to pry this thing up for me.”

“There’s a crowbar in the truck, you know.”

“Fuck off and start prying,” she snapped.

John turned the candelabrum over and jammed one of the three fat branches, which had held candles a few seconds ago, into the tiny schism. He found it simple to lift one side of the marble slab a few inches, but the awkwardness of the iron implement kept him from going any further. Instead of acting like a counter-balance to lift the slab, the heavy iron base torqued the candelabrum laterally. Holding the device in place while he bent over to lift the slab was too difficult.

The situation made him think about whether there was an easier way to open the hole. In his notes, Hallman wrote something about the second symbol that John could not bring to mind. He thought it best not to draw out the papers and start rifling through them. It would remind her of them and effectively give her all the information he had. That would make him irrelevant. He decided to see where this went.

He looked at Amy, and sighed, “I need another set of hands.”

Amy kept the gun trained on him with one hand, while she reached out and grabbed the iron pole of the candelabrum with the other. She then said, “Let’s go, lift it up.”

John bent down and grabbed the half of the slab that Amy kept elevated with the candelabrum. Though the marble tile was less than half an inch thick, it was heavier than he expected. He slowly swung the slab as if it were sitting on a hinge. After the slab was finally at a vertical state, he let it fall to the floor with a deafening crack and then repeated the task with the other side.

Beneath the tile, something that looked like a dirty chimney led downward into the darkness. The faint smell of ash touched John’s nostrils and caused them to flare. Finally, he noticed metal rungs along one side of the shaft.

“Go on, see what’s down there,” she barked.

He looked up at her, and protested, “Those are three-hundred-year-old metal rungs that have been kept in a dark shaft. If they are not rusted through, they probably aren’t too secure in that stone wall.” He looked around the church and grumbled, “We need some rope.”