From the Ashes (38 page)

The mission valiant, his resolve steeled, he was finally on a path that he felt was just. He only prayed he’d be able to see it through. Because now, the Division – comprised of the only people who knew Wayne Wilkins was still alive – had become his greatest enemy.

He smiled to himself as he started to cross the street, so caught up musing about the implications of what he was about to do that he barely avoided getting rammed full-on by the black Explorer that careened out of control and onto the sidewalk. He managed to leap out of the path of the drunkenly driven vehicle, but the left front bumper clipped him as it went past, pain shooting up and down his leg.

He cursed and limped out of the way. A woman yelped in surprise from the sidewalk. Wilkins waved her off. Told everyone in earshot he was fine as he continued on his way. He was on a tight schedule and couldn’t afford to waste any time with accident reports, emergency rooms, or half-hearted sympathy. Wayne didn’t exist, and couldn’t afford to be caught up in something like this. Especially now. His injuries were nothing life-threatening. A bruised shin, a twisted ankle, maybe. But nothing could come between him and seeing this mission through.

And then, something did.

Something hard jabbed into his ribs, but even through the clothes, he recognized it as the barrel of a Glock. Standard issue for cops, muggers... and Division agents.

“Keep walking,” came the voice at his ear. It was even, cold, and instantly recognizable.

Ramirez.

Illuminated from below with dramatically placed spotlights, the dual Gothic Revival spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral soared overhead, pointing heavenward in a city obsessed with the here and now. The glass and steel skyscrapers surrounding the Cathedral dwarfed it in size, but for sheer majesty and architectural wonder, St. Patrick’s obliterated the local competition. The Cathedral had been here decades before the business district had moved in, representing a God who had been around for eons before Man and his worldly pursuits. Its stalwart beauty in the midst of the fast-paced utilitarianism of the buildings surrounding it served as a constant reminder of the insignificant cosmic blink that was Man and his earthly kingdoms in the face of eternity.

Across Fifth Avenue, the towers of Rockefeller Center stood proudly in testament to the ability of Man to overcome in the face of adversity, to achieve beyond the limits of what could be expected, to aspire and endure. And yet, the Center’s visionary and namesake had apparently felt humbled by the presence of the Cathedral, enough to leave in its trust the final clue to the location of his most-guarded secret, his deepest shame. Abuilding on which Rockefeller – at least publicly – had not had much influence, unlike the other locations guarding his clues. He was a Baptist, not a Catholic. The Cathedral had been consecrated when he was just five years old, decades before he had inherited the fortune and power that allowed him to use philanthropy to open the doors of the city to him. But the Cathedral had somehow beckoned to him, the house of God an omnipresent reminder of the wages of sin, of guilt for wrongs he couldn’t seem to forgive himself for. And, Jon knew, he had managed to use some of his far-reaching influence to hide something very dear to his heart inside this iconic structure.

Jon had explained the couplet to Mara on the way, the “Hughes’ Folly” nickname once used for the Cathedral, the reference to the “saint of my plight” – the identity of which Mara had a hunch that she was anxious to prove. As they climbed the stairs leading to the west entrance, Jon glanced across the street.

The view would have been mutual. From the posh offices of the Center’s towers, Rockefeller would have had a grand view of the cruciform house of worship, but the Cathedral itself, through its intricately crafted yet majestically powerful stained-glass windows and the triple maws of its bronze doors, would have provided an excellent vantage for staring into the tormented soul of the billionaire scion. God Himself could stare through rose window eyes and turn away in sorrow at the sin and cowardice of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., a man to whom He had entrusted much, of whom much was expected. And in the unrelenting stare of those unblinking eyes, Rockefeller had felt unworthy, feeding his already insatiable guilt. Hence, perhaps, his entrusting his most important clue – the final pointer – to that particular church, an unholy sacrifice in an unsuccessful attempt to absolve himself of the regret that ate away at him till the end of his days.

Through the massive bronze doors, Jon and Mara slinked into the vast sanctuary of the largest Catholic cathedral in the United States. As visually impressive as the outside was, the interior took their breath away. The distant apse looked like some sort of frozen waterfall, the semicircular enclosure dripping its narrow windows and ribbed arches from the ceiling, a celestial cascade from the fount of heaven. The altar, though not nearly as enormous as that of St. John’s, still managed to evoke a sense of awe in believer and skeptic alike. And the high vaulted ceilings, rising more than one-hundred feet above all who visited the church, made one feel small, insignificant in the face of true might. A little like Jon and Mara were feeling now. although the higher power that was currently foremost in their minds was far less benevolent or just than the God worshipped here.

Jon glanced at his watch. 8:10. The Cathedral would soon be closing for the evening, and they needed to hurry if they wanted to finish this tonight. Which they did. More than anything.

“Let’s see if there’s an altar or something for St. Jude,” Mara whispered to Jon as they started to head to the left-hand side of the nave, the line of altars – dedicated to various saints and other important persons and events of the faith – leading from the vestibule to the transept.

“St. Jude? As in the children’s hospitals?”

“Yeah. Among other things, he’s the patron saint of things despaired of, people in desperate situations who don’t see any way out. Rockefeller would’ve definitely—” Mara stopped in front of the first altar. “Bingo.” The Altar of St. Jude.

Jon looked at her for a moment. “How did you know that? About St. Jude.”

Mara smiled. “What? I don’t ask you how you know all the random stuff you’ve known to get us this far.”

Jon continued to look at her expectantly.

She rolled her eyes. “I volunteered at one of the St. Jude’s Hospitals back in high school. They told us about the origin of the name.”

“Gotcha.” Jon turned his attention to the altar, studying its artistry and design. “He ‘eyes the way,’ huh?” The bronze statue looked up, toward heaven, to the cross that stood atop the Gothic-styled white ciborium, the ornate cover of the altar. An army of votive candles stood guard on their racks in front of the altar rail, a box for offerings positioned to one side. Jon looked up, at the archway framing the altar. No encoded symbols, no hidden chamber revealed itself to Jon’s well-trained eye. And remembering his tendency to look past the obvious, like looking across the street at Rockefeller Plaza and trying to find a hidden chamber at Riverside Church, he traced St. Jude’s sightline back to what its eyes were most immediately fixed upon.

“It’s the ciborium,” he whispered finally, pointing to the arched shelter over the statue. “On the other side, I think. Where St. Jude’s eyes are looking.”

Mara kept her voice to a low whisper as well, conscious of every footstep and word that echoed through the massive cathedral. “Okay, but Jon, how would Rockefeller write or hide something on a Catholic altar? That’d be sacrilege, wouldn’t it?”

“Not in his mind, no. This was his part of his offering to God, his penance, so to speak. Saying that, though he was but an imperfect man, he trusted that God would, in His time, do what Rockefeller could not: reveal the truth about Operation Phoenix.”

He paused while a young brunette approached the altar, lit a candle, bowed her head in a quick prayer, crossed herself, and dropped a dollar in the offering box. After she left, Jon realized he had been holding his breath, and then he continued.

“Every other place was a place that felt safe to him, right? Special in some way. This church is special because it’s so beautiful and so darned close to his greatest achievement – Rockefeller Center. And where better to place it than under the eternal gaze of the Saint who was the defender of those without hope, of those in desperate situations?”

Mara twisted her lips to the side, thinking, then inhaled.

“I guess so. But how in the world are we going to get over there?” she said, eyeing the railing and the candle rack.

“We’re not,” Jon whispered back. “I am.”

Mara raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m a head taller than you,” Jon explained, “and judging by the height of that ciborium, you won’t be able to reach it.”

“So I’ll just stand here and keep guard?”

“Close. Your job is to distract those guys.” Jon pointed a subtle finger toward the three staff members who manned the entrance area, welcoming visitors, directing them toward requested features of the cathedral, and giving any information that they may request. “And those guys,” he added, indicating a pair of security guards standing on either side of the vestibule.

Mara twisted her lips some more, scrunching up one eye as she drummed up a plan. “Okay,” she finally said. “I’ve got it. I don’t know how long I can keep them busy though, so be quick.”

She strolled about halfway down the nave, turned and crossed to its south side, then walked back toward the vestibule. When a pair of pillars blocked the line of sight between her and Jon, she grabbed her leg and fell to the floor, moaning loudly in pain.

Jon winced. He could hear her groaning, and its subsequent echoes, as clear as day, and he knew that countless others, from visitors enjoying the reverent atmosphere to worshippers meeting God, were distracted by it too. But then, that seemed to be adding to the diversion, the staff trying not just to help the young lady with whatever injury she seemed to be afflicted with, but also to quiet her down so as to preserve the tranquil atmosphere of the Cathedral. Two of the staffers abandoned their posts to go offer assistance to Mara, the other staff member and the two security guards turning and watching from afar.

Jon was free to do what he needed.

He opened the gate in front of the altar and crawled under the candle rack, careful not to topple the latter over and bring down on himself a rain of molten wax, red-tinted glass, and metal bars, not to mention the inevitable cacophony that would result, thwarting his attempt to discover this last clue and likely landing himself in a cell for the night. Once through, he stood, looking behind him to see the staffers crowded around Mara, who had fallen where pillars and pews blocked any view of Jon’s trespassing. He stuck his head inside the altar, a place no one’s head had likely been since the message had been hidden some seventy years ago. He almost felt blasphemous, sticking his own head in a place of reverence, but, he told himself, it was not for his own glorification but rather that of the truth, a noble cause that Christ Himself would surely have supported. Jon’s eyes swept the inside of the front of the ciborium, where St. Jude had kept watch for these many years.

And there it was. Hard to see unless you were looking for them, but the tiny letters were unmistakable. Even with the power he normally held, Rockefeller would likely have had to befriend one of the previous archbishops to get this sort of access. Perhaps he even confessed the whole of Operation Phoenix and its cover-up to the prelate, trusting in the priestly vows to keep his secret between him and God. Jon had found Rockefeller’s final clue, but he had to hurry. He couldn’t hold his position, bending backward behind the candle rack with his head inside an altar in one of the country’s most famous churches, without being seen – and without falling over – for long. He whipped out his phone and used its camera to snap a series of photographs, checking the screen to make sure that all of the letters showed up clearly before leaving the altar. There would be no coming back.

Satisfied, Jon pulled his head out of the opening and crawled back under the candle rack, Mara’s moans still echoing across the Cathedral. Sooner or later, one of those staffers was either going to call her bluff or go elsewhere for help. Jon had to be out of there before either happened. Or before anyone
else
noticed him. Luckily, the Cathedral seemed to be somewhat empty tonight, but that luck could only last so long.

His foot snagged on the crossbar beneath the candle rack. Votive holders clinked above as his leg jostled the whole apparatus. He paused, maneuvered his foot around the bar, and scurried through, shutting the gate behind him. Safe.

Now to save Mara.

Jon walked briskly over to the south side of the nave where Mara still lay and moaned, clutching her leg as she was doted on by the embarrassed staff members.

“Donna, are you alright?” Jon said in a stage whisper as he approached where she lay.

Mara blinked in mid-moan. “Keith? It’s my leg again.”

“Can you move?” Then to the staffers, “Can you help me move her to one of the pews? It’s just a bad muscle cramp. Marathon-gone-wrong sort of thing from last month.” Jon and a man in his early thirties helped her to the nearest pew and she sat, rubbing her leg, her moans ebbing away to a gracious nothing. Jon thanked the staff members for their help and apologized profusely for all the trouble, the staffers just grateful to go back to their posts in relative peace. Mara kept breathing heavily for a few moments longer to ensure that her sudden recovery didn’t come under scrutiny, then looked at Jon.

“And?”

“Your incredible performance was well worth the trouble,” Jon whispered. He contemplated leaving the church and heading somewhere more private, but time was of the essence. Wherever they went might take them ultimately further away from wherever the clue pointed, and with each minute that ticked past, their enemies could be closing in on them. He looked around him, and satisfied that their eyes were the only ones around, showed her the images on his cell phone’s camera.