Back Bay (63 page)

Fallon was in no mood for a sermon. His mind was racing. He didn’t know what they should try next, but he thought they should be on the road. Ferguson was sitting in the corner repeating the line to himself, looking for some significance to it. Evangeline was listening closely to the old priest.

“ ‘Some natural tears they dropp’d, but wip’d them soon,’ ” said Father Hale again. “Wonderfully epigrammatic.”

Evangeline asked the priest if he owned a copy of
Paradise Lost
. She had an idea.

“Certainly, dear.” Father Hale went to the bookcase and took down a leatherbound volume of Milton. “Read many times in a long life.”

Evangeline opened to Book XII. Fallon saw the purpose in her motion.

She read the line, but her eye did not stop at the semicolon. It traveled across the page to the line number at the outer margin. In
most editions, there are guide numbers every five lines for scholarly reference. The quotation on the chalice, the only single-line clue they had encountered, appeared on line 645 of the final book.

Evangeline tried it in her head. 645 Boylston Street. It worked. She knew where the tea set was buried.

Number 645 Boylston Street. The New Old South Church on Copley Square: completed in 1875, built of stone in the Italian Gothic style—campanile, gargoyles, stained-glass windows. Compared with the red-brick simplicity of the Old South Meeting House, the congregation’s previous home, the New Old South looked more Catholic than Congregational.

In any other part of the city, its size and beauty would have dominated everything around it. Anchored on the corner of Copley Square, it was like a bishop on a great chessboard. On the space next to it was the granite bulk of the Boston Public Library. Beside that, the Copley Plaza Hotel. And on the far side of the square, the Romanesque Trinity Church.

It was eleven-thirty, and the congregation had gathered at the New Old South.

Peter Fallon drove the rented car slowly past the church. He saw James Buckley and Henry Dill standing in the portico. He swung left onto Dartmouth Street, then left again into the service alley that ran behind the church. Geoffrey Harrison was standing at the rear entrance. Fallon backed quickly out of the alley, then drove around the block and parked on the far side of Copley Square.

He looked at Ferguson, who was sitting in the back seat. “You’ve spent almost five years of your life searching for that thing. Now that you’re about a hundred yards away from it, give or take twenty-seven feet, you got any ideas?”

Ferguson shook his head. “It looks like the Pratts beat us to the church. They may get the bride.”

“It’s not buried under the church,” said Evangeline.

“Isn’t that Number 645 Boylston Street?”

“It is, but only about two-thirds of the structure is the church. You enter the church by turning right off the campanile.”

“The what?”

“The campanile, the bell tower. If you turn left, you’re in a lovely little chapel. Walk through the chapel building, and you enter a library of religious literature which was once part of the pastor’s house. There are offices on the floors above the library and function rooms above the chapel. It’s all part of the same structure.”

“What are you saying?” asked Ferguson.

“That the tea set is buried beneath Number 645B Boylston Street. In her set of clues, Abigail says the tea set is buried ten paces east of the southwest corner of the building. I’d bet she means the whole structure. If we look at the clues again, we may find some sort of reference to a dwelling place or maybe something that pertains to the letter B.”

“There might be something we missed,” said Ferguson.

“Do you know what’s in the basement of 645B?” asked Fallon.

“They have a big seminar room in the basement. I once worked with church members who were visiting the local prisons, and we used to have our meetings there. They lend the room out to civic groups, high schools, different charitable organizations. It’s always busy.”

“We should find out if it’s busy today,” said Fallon.

“You think the Pratts are gonna let us dig a hole right next to theirs?” asked Ferguson sarcastically.

“You sound like you’re losing your nerve, Jack,” said Fallon.

Ferguson grabbed Fallon by the collar and almost pulled him into the back seat. “If it wasn’t for my nerve, you’d be stone cold dead right now, and you know it.”

Evangeline put her hand on Ferguson’s. She thought perhaps he needed a drink. She needed one herself. “Nobody’s losing his nerve, Jack. We’re all getting a little too nervous.”

Ferguson released Fallon.

“I meant nothing by it,” said Fallon unconvincingly.

Evangeline could tell that he wasn’t even thinking about Ferguson. He was staring over at the church.

“Don’t ever say it again.” Ferguson sounded more offended than angry. “Now, how do you plan to get at that tea set with Pratt men at every entrance?”

“We do it,” said Fallon, “without going into the building at all.”

H
ow thick are the subway walls outside Copley Square Station?”

“You’re crazy, Peter.” Tom Fallon was seated at his desk in the Fallon and Son shack. Peter, Evangeline, Danny, and Ferguson were crowded into the tiny room with him, and it was stifling.

“That’s what you said yesterday morning, but we got the old lady out and the Pratts didn’t do a thing about it,” answered Peter.

Tom Fallon looked at Ferguson. “What about this guy Rule, the one you’re so afraid of?”

“Right now, I don’t think we have to worry about him. If he’s been watching the Pratts, he’s more concerned about them than he is about us. I’m not sayin’ he won’t come after us, but he can deal with us anytime.”

“Well, even if there’s nobody shootin’ at you, you can’t just start diggin’ a hole in a subway wall any damn time you please. Trolleys run through Copley Square Station every five minutes.”

“Not when I’m waiting for them,” cracked Evangeline.

“They shut down at twelve-thirty, Dad,” said Peter.

Tom laughed. “If the Pratts have started diggin’, they’ll have that thing dug up, polished, and sittin’ on the mantel by midnight.”

“They can’t start digging until the church seminar room is empty,” said Evangeline. “The room is used by a drug rehabilitation group until eleven o’clock on Sunday nights.”

“Which means they’ll only have an hour’s start,” said Danny.

“I don’t think you people should be destroying private property,” said Tom.

“C’mon, Dad. You said yourself that we need a miracle to stay afloat for the rest of the year. That tea set will pay our bills and pay for any damage we do along the way. The Lord helps those who help themselves, Dad. He’s put the tea set down there, and it’s up to us to get it.”

“What bullshit,” said Tom Fallon softly. He glanced at Evangeline.

“We’re going to end this thing tonight, Mr. Fallon. Once and for all,” she said.

“I’ll ask you again, Dad. How thick are the subway walls?” Peter’s voice offered no doubt.

“Two feet.” Tom Fallon made his decision. He would stay with his boys. “Poured concrete, steel reinforcements.”

“How long will it take to cut through it?” asked Peter.

Tom grunted. “With a jackhammer, it’ll take you half the night to make a hole big enough to stick your cock in.” He looked at Evangeline and apologized.

“I’ve heard it before.”

“If you hit one of the steel reinforcements, you’ll have to start again. Beyond that, there’s guys diggin’ down from above. After you’ve been cuttin’ for a while, the sound of two heavy hammers and a compressor will carry right through the dirt and concrete up into the basement of the church. If they haven’t already figured out our plan, that’ll give it away for sure.”

Peter leaned against a file cabinet, folded his arms, and listened. He always enjoyed hearing his father talk about construction. It was one of the few things they could easily discuss.

“What about the Pratts?” asked Evangeline. “How long will it take them?”

“How many men do they have diggin’?”

“Could be five, could be seven,” said Ferguson.

“They’ll probably have to dig a hole about five feet square, just to make room for two guys to swing a shovel at once.”

“But before they start diggin’, they’ll have to cut through the floor,” offered Peter. “They start runnin’ a compressor out in the alley, neighbors might get a little suspicious.”

“They won’t need jackhammers,” said Danny. “Most basement floors are only three or four inches thick. They’ll cut through in an hour if they have a couple of Hilti hammers.”

“What are they?” asked Evangeline.

“They’re like a small jackhammer, only you run ’em off a wall outlet. Powerful little buggers.”

“Once they’re through the floor,” said Tom, “they’ll probably have about twelve feet more to dig, because the basement and the space beneath it go down about fifteen feet into the landfill. If they have two guys workin’ shovels all night, and I mean haulin’ ass,
they’ll be lucky to hit twenty-seven feet before five in the morning. And once they get down seven feet or so into the landfill, they’ll have to start shorin’ up the sides of the hole. It’s a tall order, but they ain’t on salary and they ain’t workin’ for the city, so maybe they can pull it off.”

Tom Fallon’s mind was spinning now. He was attacking the problem. “You’ll have to do some shoring too if you try to tunnel. You’ll have to do some shoring too if you try to tunnel. You’ll also have to worry about pilings.”

“Pilings?” said Evangeline.

“Damn right. That’s not the most stable land in the world, even today. Look what happened when they started building that big skyscraper over there. Buildings all around it started to settle. Back in 1875, it was even less stable. You don’t build in fresh landfill and mud unless you sink pilings. Almost every building in the Back Bay sits on pilings. Pilings every four or five feet, granite capstones on top of the pilings, and the foundations poured on top of the capstones. If there’s a piling in your way, you’ll have to go around it.”

“This is sounding more discouraging all the time.” Evangeline looked toward Peter.

“You want to solve a problem, honey, you’ve got to know what it is,” said Tom. “And you’d better hope that the old lady was on the money when she said the strongbox was buried right beneath the outer wall. If she’s four or five feet off in the wrong direction, a steam shovel dug that thing up sixty-five years ago.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ferguson.

“Along Boylston, there’s only a few feet of play between the outer walls of the subway and the foundation walls of the buildings above. You’ve got the foundations going down ten feet. The dome of the tunnel is about four feet beneath the street, and the tunnel floor is about thirty feet underground. If you dropped a line from the outer wall of the foundation, you’d see that you only have about five feet of earth between the foundation and the tunnel wall.”

“You sure know your stuff.” Jack Ferguson laughed. He had forgotten his anger at Peter. He felt comfortable with all these people. He trusted them.

“Fallon and Son used to do a lot of work in the subways,” said Danny.

“If the tea set is right where you think it is,” continued Tom, “then you’ll have to tunnel in about three feet, which you should be able to do pretty quickly, once you’re through the wall. If it’s in any farther, you’ll be in trouble. Tunneling takes time, and you won’t have very much if you’re in a race with the Pratts.” Fallon paused. “On the other hand, if the old lady was off by a foot or two, the strongbox may be starin’ you right in the face when you get through the wall.”

“But how in hell do we get through two feet of concrete if a heavy hammer won’t do it?” asked Peter.

Tom looked at Danny. “Remember the time we did a job for a guy down near the Blue Hills? We had to move a lot of rock out of the way before we poured the foundation?”

Danny smiled.

Jack Ferguson was right. For the moment, William Rule had stopped thinking about the Fallons and Ferguson. They had lost the race. They might have all the clues, but the Pratts had the strategic advantage.

At four o’clock, Rule’s Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud skimmed down Boylston Street, past the New Old South, and parked on the opposite side of Copley Square. Rule got out and sat on a concrete bench. A troupe of Russian folk dancers were performing for a Sunday crowd on the sunken plaza, and the sound of balalaikas reverberated off the surrounding buildings. A little girl just out of the stroller jumped about in imitation of the dancers while her parents shared a joint that smelled sweet and inviting. College kids reclined in the sun and sipped beer. The winos clustered at the southeast corner of the square. A pleasant summer Sunday, despite the heat.

Edward’s report had been accurate. There were Pratt men all around the church. Apparently, they had found the tea set.

William Rule gazed at the church and thought about Billy Rulick, the little boy who had refused to give in until he had what he wanted. He thought about Philip and Calvin Pratt, men born into a world where there was no struggle and no hardship. He had
frightened the Pratts. He had made them squirm. He had brought them to the brink, and with a little luck, he would push them over.

But William Rule preferred not to rely on luck. He had the proxies he needed to take over chairmanship of Pratt Industries. He had, for years, been trying to tie up loose ends, to track down distant Pratt relations and destroy the handful of missing clues. His first mistake had been in leaving the Korbel woman alone. He had decided that an obscure woman on the West Coast would present no problems. When he learned of Pratt’s most recent trip to Los Angeles, he decided, a few hours too late, to eliminate Sally Korbel.

On a tombstone in South Boston, Rule’s genealogist—Rule had hired him at an enormous salary to track down all Pratt descendants—read an inscription: “Sean Mannion, December 9, 1806, to October 10, 1863; Beloved Husband of Lillian; Beloved Father of Joseph; Beloved Servant and Friend of Abigail Pratt Bentley.” The genealogist had found the inscription most unusual. He had investigated the cause of Mannion’s death and traced Mannion’s descent. When the Pratts had begun to close on the tea set, Rule had killed Mannion’s last descendant. In the long run, a needless death. He wondered briefly if he could have taken control of Pratt Industries without the tea set. Of course not. The tea set had been the key to landing the Hannaford block of stock. A hundred-thousand-dollar forgery for two million dollars’ worth. An excellent deal.