"Don't stop. Keep driving."
"But you said you wanted to be dropped off," protested the cabby.
The taxi had just entered the oval cobblestoned area, which served as the main entrance. There was a large lamp over the medieval doorway and the light glistened off the wet granite paving.
"Just drive around once," said Philips, as his eyes scanned the area. Two driveways led off into the darkness. Some of the interior lights of the building could be seen above. At night the complex had the threatening aura of a Crusader's castle.
The cabby cursed but followed the circular road that opened up for a view of the Hudson. Martin couldn't see the river itself, but the George Washington Bridge with its graceful parabolas of lights stood out against the sky.
Martin swiveled his head around looking for any signs of life. There were none, not even the usual lovers parked next to the river. It was either too late or too cold or both. When they came full circle to the entrance, the taxi stopped.
"All right, what the fuck do you want to do?" asked the driver, looking at Philips in the rear-view mirror. "Let's get out of here," he said.
The driver responded by spinning the wheels and accelerating away from the building.
"Wait. Stop!" yelled Martin, and the cabby jammed on the brakes. Philips had seen three tramps who'd stood and looked over the stone wall lining the entrance drive. They'd heard the screeching of the tires. By the time the taxi had stopped, they were thirty yards back.
"How much?" asked Martin, looking out the window of the cab.
"Nothing. Just get out."
Philips put a ten-dollar bill in the Plexiglas holder and got out. The taxi sped away the second the door closed. The sound of the car died away quickly in the damp night air. In its wake was a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of cars on the invisible Henry Hudson Parkway. Philips walked back in the direction of the tramps. On his right, a paved path led off the road and dipped down through the budding trees. Philips could vaguely see that the path split with one fork twisting back and running beneath the arched roadway.
He made his way down it and looked beneath the overpass. There weren't three tramps; there were four. One was passed out, lying on his back and snoring. The other three were sitting, playing cards. There was a small fire going, illuminating two empty half-gallon wine jugs. Philips watched them for a while, wanting to be certain that they were what they appeared, just vagrants. He wanted to figure out some way of using these men as a buffer between himself and Sansone. It wasn't that he expected to be arrested, but his experience with institutions motivated him to investigate and have some idea what to expect, and the use of an intermediary was the only method he could think of. After all, even if it made sense, meeting at the Cloisters in the middle of the night was hardly normal procedure.
After watching for a couple more minutes, Philips walked in under the archway acting as if he were a little drunk. The three bums eyed him for a moment and, deciding he meant no harm, went back to their cards.
"Any of you guys want to earn ten bucks?" said Martin.
For the second time, the three derelicts looked up.
"Whatta we have to do for ten bucks?" asked the youngest.
"Be me for ten minutes."
The three bums looked at one another and laughed. The younger one stood up.
"Yeah, and what do I do when I'm you?"
"You go up to the Cloisters and you walk around. If anybody asks you who you are, you say, Philips."
"Let me see the ten bucks."
Philips produced the money.
"How about me?" said one of the older men, getting to his feet with difficulty.
"Shut up, Jack," said the younger. "What's your whole name, mister?"
"Martin Philips."
"Okay, Martin, you got a deal."
Taking off his coat and his hat, Philips made the man put them on, pulling the hat well down. Then Martin took the bum's coat and reluctantly put his arms into the sleeves. It was an old shabby chesterfield with a narrow velvet lapel. In the pocket was part of a sandwich without a wrapper.
Despite Martin's objections, the other two men insisted on coming along. They laughed and joked until Philips said the whole deal was off if they didn't shut up.
"Should I walk real straight?" asked the younger fellow.
"Yes," said Martin, who was having second thoughts about the masquerade. The path approached the courtyard below the main driveway. There was a steep incline just before the cobblestoned area with a bench at the top for tired pedestrians. The stone wall bordering the entrance ended abruptly at the intersection. Directly across was the main doorway to the Cloisters itself.
"Okay," whispered Martin. "Just walk over to that door, try to open it, then walk back, and the ten spot is yours."
"How do you know I'm not going to just run away with your hat and coat," said the younger fellow.
"I'll take the chance. Besides, I'd catch you," said Philips.
"What's your name again?"
"Philips. Martin Philips."
The tramp pulled Philips' hat even lower on his forehead so that he had to tilt his head back to see. He started up the incline but lost his balance. Martin gave him a shove in the small of the back and he pitched forward and catwalked on his hands and feet up to the level of the drive.
Martin inched up the incline until his eye line was just above the stone wall. The tramp had already crossed the roadway and had reached the cobblestones, the irregular surface momentarily causing him to lose his balance, but he caught himself before he fell. He skirted the central island, which served as a bus stop, and made his way over to the wooden door. "Anybody home?" he yelled. His voice echoed in the courtyard. He stumbled out into the center of the yard and shouted: "I'm Martin Philips."
There was no sound except a light patter of rain, which had just begun. The ancient monastery, with its roughhewn ramparts, gave the scene an unreal, timeless quality. Martin wondered again if he was the victim of a giant hallucination.
Suddenly, a shot shattered the quiet. The tramp in the courtyard was lifted off his feet and dashed to the granite paving. The effect was the same as a high velocity shell hitting a ripe melon. The entrance of the bullet was a surgical incision; the exit was a horrid tearing force that took away most of the man's face and scattered it over a thirty-foot arc.
Philips and his two companions were stunned. When they realized that someone had shot the tramp, they turned and fled, falling over each other down the precipitous incline that fell away from the monastery.
Never had Martin felt such desperation. Even when he'd run from Werner's, he hadn't experienced such fear. Any second he expected to hear the rifle again and feel the searing pain of a deadly bullet. He knew that whoever was after him would check the body in the courtyard and immediately realize the mistake. He had to get away.
But the rocky hillside was a danger in itself. Philips' foot snagged and he fell headlong, just missing an outcropping. As he pulled himself up, he saw a path veering off to the right. Pushing away the underbrush, he made his way toward it.
A second shot was followed by an agonizing scream. Philips' heart leaped into his mouth. Once clear of the forest he ran as fast as possible, hurling himself down the walkway into the darkness.