Pierced by a Sword (4 page)

After Fenwick, George Moore got a full ride to the University of Iowa, but ironically, hurt his knee during a practice in his junior year and never amounted to
much of a player. Nathan lost track of him after that.
Wonder what the Animal's up to nowadays? He'd probably laugh if he knew they call me Feel the Pain Payne on the trading floor.

The Notre Dame exit approached.

Notre Dame it is. Why did I decide to drive Joanie home anyway? She came on the train. I could have put her on the South Shore Railway.

He looked at Joanie for a long time and almost
missed the exit.

5

Three Months Earlier
Woodland Section
Cleveland, Ohio

Lee Washington was slightly buzzed on three Colt 45s. His most distinguishing characteristic was his brown skin. Lee was neither tall nor short, thin nor heavy, handsome nor ugly–but he was surprisingly strong. He had a loaded pistol tucked under his thigh as he drove his aging Oldsmobile Cutlass down a dark side street in
one of what the white folks in the suburbs would call "a bad neighborhood."

Where is that boy? Yeah, there he is. He better have his money,
Lee thought coldly.

He pulled the Cutlass up to the curb. A black man in a tan and white t-shirt ambled up to the car after a furtive glance to check for the police. Lee powered the window down and quickly exchanged the vial with the white crystals for the
right amount of rolled up cash.

Easy does it.

Slowly, Lee pulled the car away. He was only twenty-five years old, and a small-time pusher. Lee made his money on the margins–not unlike Nathan Payne–only in a different market. A dangerous market.

Careful. Don't wanna get the big boys ticked at a small-timer like me. Get this stuff in Toledo and drive all the way back here to make a lousy fifty per
gram. Better lay off for a few days. Why blow my big deal on the odd chance of getting busted? Now, should I go see Tawana or Kristianne?

Lee couldn't keep his mind on either girl, as luscious and willing as they tended to be toward him. He was more interested in real estate. Five months earlier, half serious and half high on Colt 45s, he had called the 800 number after watching one of those late
night infomercials. He bought the whole "Make Millions Through Real Estate" home study course for a hundred bucks using a stolen credit card number. Lee had the package sent to an abandoned house in his neighborhood. He tipped the UPS driver to keep his mouth shut–the driver knew the house was abandoned.

It took him a month to listen to the course. He found he could understand the books if he
took his time and skipped over the bigger words. Lee quickly grasped the concepts–after all, he had been in business for himself since he was in grade school. From personal experience, he understood the concepts of cash flow, strategic planning, and how to get the most out of people. He had a knack for making deals. The young entrepreneur probably knew more about corporate espionage than a typical
Fortune 500 CEO.

Starting with five grand he had saved from his drug trade, Lee began to buy up distressed properties. By the end of his third month as a big time real estate dealer, as he now thought of himself, he had quietly bought and sold several properties just outside of his immediate neighborhood–some at tax delinquency auctions downtown, most with little or no money down.

He avoided buying
properties owned by the big drug dealers. Despite his efforts to hide his activities, a few of his friends reported that his name was circulating in what Lee considered the wrong circles. One of the meanest crack dealers, Elmer "Fudd" Matthews, had been asking around about him. That wasn't a good sign.

But Lee had just executed a plan that would make the downtown real estate specialists jealous.
Without a doubt, his deal would baffle the neighborhood drug dealers, who were more interested in whores and cars than houses and contracts. Tawana, who liked the milder drugs Lee supplied her, and who worked in the mayor's office downtown, had heard rumors that the Cleveland Clinic was planning a major expansion. The Clinic was a huge medical complex located in the center of the most dilapidated
part of Cleveland.

Apparently, a lot of the money was coming to the Clinic Foundation from HUD, HHS, and Federal AIDS Research Grants. The Clinic was planning to expand south toward the Woodland and Cedar sections. The deal was still in the planning stages–and not a done deal by any stretch. It was months away from any public announcement, but timed nicely to coincide with the mayor's re-election
campaign.

Most of Lee's properties were right smack in the middle of the expansion. Lee had already been offered $150,000 for all of his properties by a major development company, which had sent a slick, pony-tailed lawyer in a fancy suit to his mom's tenement. He didn't even shake hands with Lee. The lawyer smiled furtively at Shawna Washington, who was watching Wheel of Fortune on television.
She seemed oblivious to Lee's deal.

During the brief meeting, the lawyer had mistaken Lee's lack of social graces and ghetto vocabulary for stupidity. After a minute or two the lawyer made a lowball offer.

It's worth three times that, you ugly freak!
Lee had wanted to scream. Instead, he quietly told the lawyer that he wanted $345,000 in cash plus lawyer's fees (just like Lee's real estate books
suggested) or he would go to MBM Management, a major competitor which probably didn't even know about the Clinic Foundation's plans.

Just like a dealer, man,
Lee thought, steadying himself.
The richest–and oldest–dealers always stay cool, man. Scream inside, whisper out. Then I can take me and Mama and get out of this dump.

The Ponytail Man called up the next day with a final offer of $335,000
and half the lawyer's fees. Lee was going to roll the legal fees into the deal anyway, so it didn't matter.

After putting the phone down he took a few minutes to add and subtract the numbers.
After paying off the paper I'm holding on these properties, I'm goin' to clear over $112,000! Later, Woodland!

Elated, he tried his best to fake indifference when he called back the next day and took the
offer. Lee had gone big time.

That had all occurred three weeks ago, and now he made his drug runs more out of habit and for cash flow. The papers were signed but the lawyers were still hashing out final transfer details, tying up Lee's cash. Lee did not trust the lawyers, or anyone else for that matter. No one in the neighborhood knew about his fledgling real estate empire. If everything went
right, no one would.

Lee and his mom were planning on flying to Los Angeles in four days. Then they would spend a couple of weeks in a posh hotel while Lee bought them a nice house–with little or no money down, of course. Then he would start a new empire. The general idea was to try to forget he ever set foot in the Woodland Section of cold, stinking Cleveland, much less grew up there his whole
damn life. The legal eagles, following Lee's explicit instructions, were going to transfer all the money into a Los Angeles bank.

Screw this drug dealing from now on. It's too dangerous. Be dead before I'm thirty. Who would take care of Mama?

He pulled into the parking lot of his mom's tenement. He sighed as he got out of his car and shuffled to the back door.
I hope Mama bought the plane tickets
just like I told her,
he thought as he climbed the ratty steps of a stairway that smelled faintly of urine and marijuana.

6

Saturday Morning
7 October
Walcott, Wyoming

Manuel knew he had no business in Karl Slinger's garage. The little Mexican groundskeeper said a quick Hail Mary under his breath as he tried the door to the limo. It was open. He quickly pulled the CD on Marian apparitions out
of his coat pocket and placed it on the center of the plush passenger seat. He closed the limo door and silently padded out the back door of the big garage.

Manuel glanced over his shoulder at the huge summer residence of Karl A. Slinger, Chairman of the Board and CEO of SLG Industries, one of the two or three largest agricultural corporations in the United States.

Señor Slinger is a nice man.
He always says hello and calls me by my first name. He's even a Catholic, although he never leaves to go to church on Sundays. He'll probably just throw the CD away. I'm a fool. Will Señor Slinger guess it was me and have me fired? Who knows?

Manuel thought of Diego Baerga, who also worked on the grounds of the Slinger Ranch.
Diego didn't go to church on Sundays before hearing the talk by Professor
Wheat of Notre Dame. Now Diego goes every day–and says a daily Rosary.
It had been Diego's idea to plant the talk in Slinger's limo.

"Hey, hermano," Diego had reasoned, "just because Señor Slinger is rich doesn't mean he don't need to hear this stuff. Think of his soul, 'mano."

Aw, he'll probably just throw it away,
thought Manuel as he walked to the tool shed.
Then again, maybe he won't.

Chapter Two

1

Saturday Morning
7 October
Walcott, Wyoming

"Nice game, Lenny," Karl Aquinas Slinger told his tennis partner and attorney, Leonard Gold. Lenny grunted. Slinger continued, "You taking the later flight back to Salt Lake City? I'm taking the limo to the airport myself in thirty minutes."

Karl wiped what was left of the hair on his balding scalp with a towel in the opulent shower room
in the bath house near the tennis court on the Slinger Ranch.

Lenny Gold picked up his racket and waved it regally. "I'm going to sit around on my duff and relax after letting the boss beat me again at tennis. I'll take the rental car to the local airport, Karl. I have to take the corporate jet to Portland to check that new deal in Oregon you've got me working on for Monday, and I want to go over
the numbers again before I leave this hovel. You'll have to drive to the real airport in Cheyenne and fly commercial."

Lenny Gold had been Karl's lawyer for over thirty years. Lenny got a kick out of calling Karl's multimillion dollar ranch a hovel.

"Fine with me, Lenny," Karl replied cheerfully. "And what do you mean, 'letting the boss beat me'?" Karl gave Lenny his best poker face before continuing,
"I can kick your skinny little lawyer butt whenever I want. I've got an all around game."

It was a true statement.

"Come on, Karl, I was only kidding," Lenny protested mildly. "I've never met a man more focused on winning than you in my whole life. My brains and your guts. You've got to admit, it's gotten us far, hasn't it?"

Karl nodded, then smiled at his friend, "And we're just getting started,
Lenny!" Karl echoed his favorite phrase. He had said that hundreds of times to Lenny following all their deals. Most of the deals had worked out pretty well. Karl was worth hundreds of millions of dollars, not including his SLG stock and options. Lenny was worth millions.

"Indeed we are. This skinny lawyer will see you back in Salt Lake City on Tuesday." Lenny finished dressing and picked up his
bag. He headed out the door toward the guest house, which was quite spectacular, although small compared to the main ranch house. Beautiful Elk Mountain outlined the diminutive lawyer in the distance.

A few minutes later, Karl finished dressing and then walked to the garage where the limo driver already had the car warmed up. The driver jumped to open the door for him. Karl climbed in and almost
sat on the CD on the seat.

"What's this all about?" Karl asked his driver, holding it up for him to see.

"I have no idea, sir," the driver said, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice. Mr. Slinger was known for his volcanic temper, although he seldom vented it on the help.

"Hmmn. 'Marian Apparitions.' I wonder what that means?" Karl asked, holding up the CD. He hesitated, as if he was about
to hand it to the driver and tell him to throw it away.

"Are we going to the local airport or do we have to go to Cheyenne?" Karl inquired.

"Cheyenne. A little over two hours, sir," the driver responded, a slight note of relief in his voice.

"Very well. Let's go then."

Karl's tone dismissed the driver, who quickly pulled out, heading away from the mountains toward Interstate 80.

Karl looked at
the CD and thought of his mother with not a little bit of guilt. The last time he had given religion a thought was at her funeral. Karl had been devout as a boy, even entertaining thoughts about being a priest in eighth grade.

I don't know why. Our parish priest, Father Wyznieski, was a mean old coot. Why did I ever want to be like him?

Karl had stopped attending Mass during college. That had
deeply disappointed his mother. He could still remember her chiding him in her thick Polish accent from time to time, until her death ten years ago:
"I don't care how much money you make, Karl Slinkowicz, or how many houses you buy me! You are a poor man if you have no faith in Holy Mother Church. What will become of you, Karl? Look at your mama when I talk to you! What will become of you?"

All
he could ever reply was,
"It's Karl
Slinger
now, Mama, not Slinkowicz!"

It wasn't that Slinger hated the Church or the faith. He was just too damn busy.
Let Dottie go to Mass. If I don't believe, why should I go? Is it as simple as that? I don't believe in God? Well, now that I think about it...I guess not. So what?

Karl was suddenly overwhelmed with a strong urge to toss the CD out the window.
But he didn't. He hated long car rides (in fact, he hated to be silent, still, or alone) and he was big on listening to business book CD summaries during his numerous trips in cars and planes. But he didn't keep the recordings in
this
limo (SLG Industries had several limos located around the country). And there was no one to call on business on a Saturday.

Oh, what the hell,
he thought,
maybe
it will pass the time. Marian Apparitions, eh? Maybe it'll make me laugh like those money-grubbing televangelists on late night TV!

Slinger tapped the window separating him from the driver and handed the CD through.

"Play it," Slinger ordered tonelessly.

Without saying a word, the driver reached back, took the CD, and inserted the disc into the slot, adjusting the controls to send the sound into
the passenger compartment. The driver made sure he could not hear the talk. Mr. Slinger, who didn't even have a laptop computer, hadn't considered learning how to use the sound system installed in the back of his limousine. Slinger preferred to delegate such trivial matters to his driver. Karl barely knew how to use his cell phone, which was ironic because SLG Industries was one of the most technologically
advanced companies in the world.

As the first ten seconds of the talk crackled, Karl saw in his mind's eye an image of his mother in her casket. That serene look on her face had seemed just a little bit too serene to have been arranged by the body baggers at the funeral home. Mrs. Slinkowicz had her rosary beads in her hands. He looked at her face in the image and half-expected to see Mama's eyes
open.

They didn't. But the corners of her mouth seemed turned up in a little smile. Little did Karl know that in the next hour and ten minutes the eyes that would be opening were going to be his own.

2

Early Friday Morning
6 October
Amsterdam, The Netherlands

His eyes were coal black. They opened.

New York. Yes, it will be New York first.

He closed his eyes again, and smiled while he slept. His
room was exquisitely appointed. The beautiful blond woman who had slept with him had left earlier. She was the finest money could buy. No matter how much they cost, no woman could bear to sleep next to him in his cold bed. He was a prime agent of the Prince of this World. In his cobblestone drive sat a Jaguar. In the garage, a Ferrari. In the morning, he would arise and don the most finely tailored
suit of clothes that good European taste could select. He would comb his perfectly coifed hair with oil that cost over fifty dollars a bottle.

He called Amsterdam his home, but he had lived in many cities during the past five decades. He was a highly placed official in a powerful international banking institution. Although completely anonymous in a public sense, his name was well known in certain
elite, secret circles–circles of men who sat at the green, felt-topped tables of power in the purple-marbled halls of international affairs, beyond the influence of any democracy.

The dark man was handsome. He photographed extremely well. He dressed and acted European, but his sharp features and lightly tanned skin suggested a hint of his Semitic forefathers, who had migrated to the continent
before most histories were written. It was rumored that his lineage was traced to one of the finest noble families of Russia-bankers who wielded influence even before the days of Ivan the Terrible. But no one in the elite circles he now navigated seemed to be directly related to him. It was also whispered that both his parents died while he was young. His
real
parents were the headmasters of the
finest boarding schools of Europe; it was further rumored that he descended from the Czars themselves, not their bankers.

This was not true.

Actually, he was of royal lineage of a sort, from a kingdom that no longer existed except in the dry, dusty tomes of libraries. If one could–and one certainly could not, for records of this particular man's lineage were not kept, or were destroyed, or simply
didn't exist–one would trace his blood to the Kingdom of Babylon. In fact, his mother had been a whore, and he had been born in Egypt.

The dark man opened his eyes again. The room was perfectly opaque. The plush, thick curtains were drawn to seal off even a tiny beam of moonlight penetrating the murky sky of the Netherlands. His eyes were like black creatures merging with the darkness.

New York.
Gone. Just like the others–only much worse.

He had been told about Hurricane Andrew the same way in 1993. Bosnia and Rwanda in 1994. Kobe, Japan, in 1995. The Gulf Wars. The Twin Towers. 9-11. The Asian Tsunami.

His eyes closed and the smile returned. He needed to rest because he was scheduled to fly to Rome in the morning.

Over one thousand miles away, a fault that lay dormant since before science
recorded such things trembled slightly. The tremor was not strong enough to be noted by the technicians who monitored the seismic instruments.

The microquake did nothing more than cause ripples in the several small, man-made lakes that surrounded the outskirts of a certain city in the Middle East. Ripples in the lakes–as if a huge, rough beast approached their banks. And Jerusalem slept.

3

Saturday
Morning
7 October
Interstate 80, Wyoming

The CD finished and Karl Slinger was perfectly still. The limo driver, worried when he saw the blank stare in Karl's eyes, lowered the compartment window and inquired, "Is there anything the matter, Mr. Slinger?"

Life came back into Karl's eyes so quickly the driver was reminded of the water turning hot during his morning shower when his wife turned on
the cold water in the sink.

"I'm quite all right, thank you," Karl replied distantly, then somewhat forcefully, "Play that again. I bet I can get most of it in again before we reach the airport."

Wow,
the driver thought,
the old man never listens to a talk twice. Marian Apparitions? It must be pretty hilarious. Then again, I don't recall Mr. Slinger laughing very much. He looked like he was having
a heart attack back there.

"Pretty funny talk, Mr. Slinger?"

"What? Funny you say?" Karl sounded distant again. "No, not at all. Quite the opposite."

The driver nodded. "Yes sir."

"Good. Listen, when we get to the airport, see if you can buy me one of those portable CD players, you know, the ones that kids are always glued to–"

"–a Walkman, sir?"

"Yes. A Walkman. That way I can listen again on
the plane back to Salt Lake City."

Within a few seconds, the deep-timbred tones of Professor Tom Wheat filled the passenger compartment of the limo for the second time. The driver debated turning the sound up in his own compartment. That was against the rules. One didn't become Karl Slinger's personal driver without a certain amount of discretion.

That's right, he didn't even know where the CD
came from before he got into his car. First thing I do when I get back is ask around. Maybe the old man would like to know who planted it on his seat.

4

Sunday Morning
8 October
Chicago, Illinois

Becky Macadam had a hard time sleeping after last night's party at Nathan Payne's apartment. She tossed and turned all night. Finally giving in to insomnia, she left her bed and tried to read a Clancy
novel until after the sun came up. She fell asleep on the couch at eight.

The phone rang, waking her up. She walked to the kitchen to pick up the portable phone. She wasn't in a good mood. Her eyes were bloodshot. It hadn't gone well when Sam came home last night before the party.

It's probably Sam. Calling to apologize for being such a coldhearted jerk.

She decided to answer the phone.

"Hello,
is this Becky Macadam's residence?" the friendly male voice on the other end asked.

"Yes it is," Becky replied warily. "Who are you?"

"Chet Sullivan.
Father
Chet. We met last night at Nathan Payne's party. Remember me, the priest from New Jersey?"

An image of Father Chet Sullivan surfaced from her memory.
The priest at the party!
She also remembered her vague promise to show him the Art Institute.
She had been more than a bit surprised to see a Roman collar on such a young-looking man, much less at one of Nathan Payne's parties. The young padre had been drinking liberally, although he was obviously able to control his liquor. Like many people who don't know priests personally, Becky was somewhat shocked to see a priest act like a normal person. Chet was charming and friendly. Funny, too.

"Oh, yes Father, you must be calling to take me up on my promise to show you the Art Institute."
Oh no! Why did I ever promise such a thing?
she asked herself.
Because he was so decent, despite that New Jersey accent.

"Father, listen, I never meant–"

"Look, if it's not convenient, I'll understand. You mentioned that you knew it well, and I've never been to the Art Institute in all these years.
I just thought, well–"

"No, no, it's not that, it's just that it's not a good time for me right now..." she stopped herself short of sharing details of her problem with Sam.
Don't tell him anything–don't even hint at it.
"...but I found out some very, ah, disturbing news last night before the party."
Now why did I say that?

Chet's voice changed noticeably. It became lower, almost professional.
"Look, I'm on my vacation but I'm always a priest. Actually, what I'm trying to say is, if you need to talk about something, well, I
am
a priest, and sometimes it helps to talk with someone you don't know very well. Please, if my offer isn't welcome, just say so. No big deal."