The Sign (44 page)

IT
WAS
A
SHORT
HOP
around the Common and past Faneuil Hall to get to the Garden. That late at night, the traffic was light, despite the holiday rush. As the cab turned to pull into the arena’s parking lot, Rydell spotted Matt across the street, leaning against a dark sedan. Rydell got the cabbie to drop him off at the gate, waited for him to drive well clear, and crossed the road to join them. He was halfway across when the rear door swung open and his daughter clambered out of the car and ran over to him.

He hugged her tight. He still couldn’t quite believe it. He looked over her shoulder. Matt was just standing there, leaning back against the car, his arms crossed, an angry look on his face. Rydell kept a firm grip on Rebecca’s hand as he went up to him.

“You did this?” Rydell said. More like a statement than a question.

“My friend’s in the hospital,” Matt told him crisply. “He’s been shot. Bad. I need you to make a call and make sure they give him everything he needs.”

Rydell nodded and reached for his phone. “Of course.”

“He’s also going to need protection,” Matt added. “Is there anyone you can call?”

“I’ve got the number of the detective who came out to the house,” he said. “I can call him.”

“Do it,” Matt said.

Rydell kept hold of Rebecca as he made the calls. It didn’t take long. His name usually helped speed things up.

They told him Jabba was in surgery, and that the prognosis was uncertain. He hung up and informed Matt.

“He’s in good hands,” Rydell told him. “He’ll get the best of care.”

“I damn well hope so.”

Rydell studied him, unsure about where they stood. “I’m sorry about your friend. I just . . . I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” he said, hesitantly.

“I just don’t like your friends,” Matt replied tersely. “They have this habit of locking people up.”

Rebecca turned to meet Rydell’s guilty look.

“And . . . ?” Rydell braced himself for more. Were they now both his prisoners?

“And nothing. My friend’s been shot and your buddies still have my brother.” Matt stared at him, hard. “I thought you might want to help me make things right.”

Rydell brought his hand up and massaged his temple. He looked at Matt, then slid his eyes over to Rebecca. She was eyeing him with a mixture of confusion, fear, and accusation.

He didn’t know what to do. But he had no one left to protect.

“They’re bringing him back,” he finally said.

“Who?” Matt asked.

“The priest. Father Jerome. He’s left Egypt. He’s on his way here.”

“Where here?”

“They’re saying Houston,” Rydell said. “It’s only just hitting the wires. Wherever it is, they’re bound to put a sign up over him, and the odds are, that’s where you’ll find Danny.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You were right,” he finally conceded. “They’re planning something. Something they needed me around for. I don’t know what it is, but what I thought the plan was, what they insisted was still their plan . . . it’s not it. It’s something else. It’s all about the priest now.”

“Who would know?” Matt asked him, fixing him squarely.

“The others.”

“I need names.”

Rydell held his gaze, then said, “You only need one name. Keenan Drucker. It’s pretty much his show. He’ll know.”

“Where do I find him?”

“D.C. The Center for American Freedom. It’s a think tank.” Just then, Rydell’s BlackBerry trilled. He fished it out of his pocket, checked its screen. And frowned at Matt.

Matt looked a question at him.

Rydell nodded. It was Drucker.

He hit the answer key.

“What are you doing? Where the hell are you?” Drucker asked sharply.

“Working late, Keenan?” He looked pointedly at Matt, holding up his free hand in a stay-put gesture.

“What are you doing, Larry?”

“Getting my daughter back.” Rydell let that one sink in for a beat. Drucker went mute. Then Rydell added, “Then I thought I might head down to the
New York Times
and have a little chat with them.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“’Cause I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with what we set out to achieve,” Rydell shot back fiercely.

Drucker let out a rueful hiss. “Look, I made a mistake, all right? Taking Rebecca was way out of line. I know that. And I’m sorry. But you didn’t leave me any choice. And we’re in this together. We want the same thing.”

“You’re not doing this to save the planet, Keenan. We both know that.”

Drucker’s voice remained even. “We want the same thing, Larry. Believe me.”

“And what is that?”

Drucker went silent for a moment, then said, “Let’s meet somewhere. Anywhere you want. Hear me out. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. After that, you decide if you still want to bring this whole thing down on top of us.”

Rydell swung his gaze around to Matt and Rebecca. Let Drucker sweat it out for a beat. He knew he needed to hear him out. Too much—his whole life, everything he’d achieved, everything he could still achieve—was at stake. “I’ll think about it,” he replied flatly, then hung up.

“What did he want?” Matt asked.

“To talk. To convince me to play ball.”

Matt nodded, then pointed at Rydell’s BlackBerry. “They might have a lock on you.”

Rydell held up the device, a curious expression on his face. “What, this?”

“They were tracking us. Through my friend’s phone. Even though we’ve been careful. We only had it on for short bursts.”

Rydell didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “We can do it in the time it takes your phone to send out a text message.”

Matt didn’t get it.

“It’s one of ours,” Rydell assured him. “A piece of spyware we developed for the
NSA
. But there’s nothing to worry about here. We’re fine. My phone’s vaccinated against it.”

Matt shrugged, looked away, then swung his gaze back at Rydell. “What are you gonna do?”

Rydell pondered his question. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t had any time to think and strategize. Not that he felt overwhelmed with options. Everything felt like it was crashing down around him. But Rebecca’s call had changed all that.

He gazed at his daughter. Her safety was paramount. “We can’t stay here,” he told Matt. “Not in Boston. Not after your little visit. There’s nowhere to lay low, not in this town. Anywhere we go will get flagged to the press—and to Maddox.”

Matt nodded, mulled it over for a moment, then said, “Don’t you want to see it?”

“What?”

“Your handiwork. In all its glory.”

Rydell thought about it for a beat, then said, “Why the hell not. Let’s get out of here.”

Houston, Texas

T
he crowds were visible from the sky. Gracie didn’t spot them at first. The jet was banking around the small airport, coming in on a low-altitude, looped approach. From a height of around a thousand feet, all she noticed was a solid mass, a dark blot staining the pale wintry scrub that surrounded the acres of gray concrete. The traffic jams gave it away. All the small roads leading to the field were clogged with cars. Vehicles were just strewn all over the place haphazardly, like Lego bricks tossed out of a box. They were all jammed up one against another on the fields on either side of the roads, and weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. The traffic was backed up all the way to the Beltway, which was choked for a couple of miles in each direction. People were just abandoning their cars and making their way to the field, following those ahead of them like groupies converging on a big open-field rock concert. They were swarming in from all corners, heading for the northwestern corner of the airport, not far from the northern tip of the runway.

Gracie wasn’t familiar with the airfield. Darby had explained to her that the chief of police had requested they avoid Hobby and Bush Intercontinental and use Ellington Field instead. For one thing, it wouldn’t disrupt the commercial flights in and out of the city. Ellington was a small, mostly military airfield. A handful of private jet operators had FBOs there, but it wasn’t used by any airlines. It didn’t even have a terminal. It was no more than a couple of runways and a row of uneven hangars that were home to the Coast Guard,
NASA
, as well as the Texas Air National Guard, where, famously, George W. Bush had been based during the Vietnam War, ready to thwart any Vietcong attack on Houston. Crowd control would also be easier there. The airfield was used to handling public events, especially since it was home to the annual Wings Over Houston air show.

Still, Gracie was willing to bet they hadn’t experienced anything like this.

The jet touched down faultlessly and veered off to the left at the end of the runway. It rolled on for a hundred yards or so before coming to a stop by a large single hangar that had its frontage wide open. A twin-jet helicopter was parked nearby, a couple of men standing beside it. The captain throttled back and killed the Gulfstream’s engines, and as they whined down, the noise from outside seeped in, an eerie wave of clapping and cheering that was loud enough to defy the air seals of the cabin and its triple-glazed windows.

Gracie looked at Father Jerome. His face was tight with anxiety and glistened with a sheen of sweat. She reached out and put her hand on his, smiling supportively.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said. “They’re here to welcome you.”

He nodded stoically, as if resigned to his new role.

His look brought back the same unease she’d felt on the roof of the keep, and she wondered why she wasn’t feeling any relief at being back on safe and solid ground. She glanced over at Dalton. He was already getting his camera ready and turning on the Began to set up a live feed.

“You ready for this?” he asked her.

“No,” she said with an uncertain smile.

NELSON
DARBY
WAITED
by the empty tarmac and drank in the clamor rising up from the mass of onlookers. He was used to big crowds. His megachurch welcomed over ten thousand people every Sunday, and over fifteen thousand on special occasions. This was different. Normally, he was the one providing the fire. He was the catalyst. The crowd would soak up his energy and respond when prompted. He wasn’t used to being a passive observer, but the crowd behind the barriers at the edge of the airfield were providing the fireworks themselves. They were clapping and whooping as if they were waiting for Bono to come out for an encore. A large group to the left were singing “I’ve Been Redeemed” and swaying back and forth with each line. And Father Jerome hadn’t even stepped off the plane yet.

The pastor glanced over to his left, where the governor was standing stiffly by his side. He gave the silver-haired politician as genuine a smile as he could muster and swiveled his gaze over to his right. Roy Buscema met his gaze and nodded solemnly.

Darby leaned closer to him and said, “Good call, Amigo,” in a low voice.

Buscema just nodded again and kept his eyes fixed on the plane’s cabin door as it cracked open.

The crowd roared as the door swung outward. Its retractable stairs slid down and touched the ground, and three of Darby’s people rolled a red carpet out to meet it in preparation for Father Jerome’s descent.

Without inviting any of his guests to join him, Reverend Darby strode up to the plane, turning briefly to acknowledge the crowd with a regal wave and his signature megawatt smile. The hordes, pressed against the fences that the police had barely managed to put up, roared back their appreciation as the preacher positioned himself at the base of the steps. The governor followed, mimicking Darby’s nod to the crowd, but he’d missed the moment and failed to generate the same response.

INSIDE
THE
PLANE
, Father Jerome straightened his cassock and padded to the front of the cabin. He seemed lost and confused, a stranger in a strange land. He turned to Gracie, the same anxious look darkening his face. Brother Ameen stepped closer to him and took his hand, cupping it with both of his.

“It’s going to be fine,” he told the older priest.

Gracie watched, anxious, waiting for him to settle down. Father Jerome sucked in a deep breath, then straightened up, nodding with renewed resolve.

“Is it okay if we start rolling?” she asked, pointing at Dalton and his camera. Brother Ameen studied Father Jerome, then turned to Gracie and gave her a nod. Gracie pressed the earpiece into place, lifted her BlackBerry up to her mouth, and gave Roxberry a low-voiced go signal. They were going out live, as planned—an exclusive for the network.

Father Jerome stooped slightly to pass through the cabin door’s low opening and stepped onto the landing at the top of the retractable stairs. Gracie and Dalton were inside the cabin, filming him from behind. The crowd’s reaction was thunderous. A tsunami of adulation came barreling over them from all sides. Father Jerome froze and stood there and let it roll over him, his eyes swimming across the sea of faces spread out before him. Gracie craned her neck to get a better look. There were people stretching back as far as she could see. Some carried banners, others had their arms raised. There were cries and wails and tears of joy, a torrent of religious fervor barely held back by the barricades. Television cameras and mobile broadcasting vans were everywhere, their oversized satellite dishes dotted around and giving the airfield the look of a
SETI
installation. A couple of news choppers circled overhead, their cameras rolling.

Father Jerome raised one hand, then another, an open embrace that spoke of humility, not of showmanship. The crowd went ballistic, clapping and screaming expectantly, their eyes scanning the sky anxiously, wondering if they’d be seeing the miracle for themselves. Father Jerome himself tilted his head up slightly, sliding a glance upward, also wondering if anything was going to appear, but he didn’t wait for it. He glanced back at Brother Ameen and at Gracie and climbed down the stairs, straight into Reverend Darby’s welcoming embrace.

Gracie and Dalton followed him down and hovered discreetly to one side.