"No need. It's all taken care of. Financed by a third party."
Maggie was stunned. First the good news about the blackmail, and now this. But she couldn't help being a little put off that a third party was involved in this, her most private business.
"But who—?"
"Don't worry. You'll never know her and she'll never know you."
A sob burst free as tears trickled down her cheeks. What more proof did she need that God had forgiven her?
"Thank you. Thank you so much. If there's anything I can ever do for you, just say it."
"Well, there is one thing." He leaned forward. "How does such an uptight straight arrow like you let herself get involved in a situation that could ruin her life?"
Maggie hesitated, then figured, why not? Jack knew the bad part; he should know the rest of it.
She told him about the four Martinez children and how they were all going to have to leave St. Joseph's for public school by the end of the year. She explained what a tragedy she thought that would be, especially for naive little Serafina.
Without mentioning his name she told Jack about approaching Michael Metcalf for help.
"And somehow," she said, "I found myself in a physical relationship with him. But the Martinez children are the innocent, unwitting victims. The blackmailer drained away the funds that would have gone to them. But don't worry. I'll find a way."
Jack looked as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. He glanced at his watch instead.
"I've got someplace I've got to be, so…"
Maggie reached across the table and gripped both his hands. "Thank you. You've given me back my life and I'm going to do good things with it." She gave his hands a final squeeze, then rose to her feet. "Good-bye, Jack. And God bless you."
As she turned and started away she heard him say, "Did you hurt your leg?"
She stiffened. The burns on her thighs ached and stung with each step, but she offered up the pain.
"Why do you ask?"
"You're limping a little."
"It's nothing. It will pass."
Maggie stepped out into a new day, a new beginning—a redundancy she'd flag in one of her student's prose, but at this moment it seemed right and true.
Lord, don't think I'm forgetting my promise just because I'm free of my tormentor. Tomorrow, cross number six. And on Sunday, the seventh and last, just as I promised. And also as promised, I will devote every moment of the rest of my life to Your works and never stray again.
She headed for the subway, for St. Joseph's Church, to give God thanks in His house.
Life was good again.
7
Jack thought about Sister Maggie as he loitered in a doorway on Lexington Avenue and kept watch on the temple's entrance. He'd ditched Jensen's tail—he'd put two guys on him this morning—on his way to Julio's. After his meeting with the nun, he'd returned to Lexington and set up watch for Johnny Roselli.
Sister Maggie… he'd had an urge to grab her and shake her and try to convince her to get out and enjoy life. But he couldn't. It was her life, to live her way. His inability to comprehend her choices didn't invalidate them.
Still… he didn't get it. Probably never would.
His thoughts refocused on the here and now when he saw Roselli appear, pushing through the doors and then trotting down the steps of the nearby subway entrance. Jack had to do a little booking to keep from losing him.
He caught up on the downtown platform and followed him aboard a 4 train. Johnny was still in the grungy sackcloth-and-ashes mode and his mind seemed light years away as the car swayed and rattled and yawed along the tracks.
Jack's mind wasn't exactly locked onto the present either. It kept straying back to Brady's office and the hidden globe. He remembered that cold feeling in his gut as he'd stared at the red and white lights and the lines running between…
They rode the 4 down to Union Square where Johnny hopped the L to its terminus on Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth. From there Jack shadowed him into the meat-packing district.
When Jack first came to the city, this area had deserved its name—beef hindquarters and pig carcasses hanging in doorways, burly, cleaver-toting butchers in blood-stained white aprons hustling in and out, back and forth. A different kind of hustle at night: curb clingers in hot pants and microminis—not all of them women—hawking their wares to passing cars.
Creeping gentrification had wrought its predictable changes. Most of the butchers were gone now, replaced by art galleries and trendoid restaurants. He passed Hogs and Heifers, the inspiration for the bar in Coyote Ugly, a charter member of Jack's Worst Movies of All Time Club.
Johnny kept walking west. What was he going to do, jump in the Hudson?
The light was fading, the wind picked up enough to make people turn up their collars. Not the skateboarders, though. Dressed in nothing more than the de rigueur baggy shorts, T-shirt, and backward baseball cap, a bunch of them were doing kickflips and railslides as Jack passed.
Eventually Johnny stopped outside a bar called The Header on the ground floor of a ramshackle building in the far, far West Village. If it called itself a dive, it would be putting on airs. The dozen or so motorcycles lined up out front left little doubt as to the nature of the preferred clientele. A neon Budweiser sign glowed in one of the two tiny windows; a handwritten placard announcing FOOD was taped in the other.
Food? Dinner at The Header… now there was a thought. Tonight's speciaclass="underline" ebola quiche.
But Johnny didn't enter the bar. Instead he keyed open a narrow door around the side from the entrance and disappeared inside. A minute or so later Jack saw a third-floor window light up.
He didn't get it. Why a third-floor walk-up over a biker bar? According to his mother the guy was worth millions.
Maybe he'd given it all to the Dormentalists. Or maybe he still had it but had decided to live in poverty. Jack tried to care, but failed. No explaining cult members. Waste of time to try.
And anyway, his job wasn't to make sense of Johnny Roselli, it was to give him a message from his mother. The easiest way would be to knock on his door and tell him, but he didn't like the idea of letting Johnny see his face.
Why not? After delivering the message to call Mama, Jack's job was done. If he were sticking with the Jason Amurri identity, yeah, it would matter: He wouldn't want to risk Johnny spotting him and opening his yap. But Jack had no intention of ever setting foot in the temple again…
Or did he?
He had a feeling he had unfinished business there… business involving Brady's globe.
Jack noted the number on the door, then turned and headed east at a comfortable pace. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed information. They had no listing for a J. Roselli at that address.
Damn. He stopped walking. He might have to show his face after all.
On a sudden whim he called back and asked for a party named "Oroont" at that address. Bull's-eye.
He smiled and said aloud, "Am I good or am I good?"
He let the operator dial for him and a few seconds later he was listening to a phone ring, A man answered.
"Is this John Roselli?"
The tone was guarded. "It was. How did you get this number?"
"Not important. I have a message from your mother. She—"
"You what? Who are you?"
"Someone your mother hired to find you. She's been worried about you and—"
"Listen, you son of a bitch," Roselli gritted, and Jack could all but feel the steam coming through the phone. "Who put you up to this? The GP? Are you one of Jensen's drones trying to trap me?"
"No, I'm simply—"
"Or some dirty WA trying to harass me?"
Be nice if I could finish a sentence.
"Not even close. Look, just call your mother. She's worried and wants to hear from you."