The telephone rang, startling them both. It seemed to Matthew that it must be late, yet the clock indicated it was not, even if full darkness had fallen outside. The candle had burned down; for short emergencies, clearly. He knew he should simply let the phone keep ringing, but some uncontrollable urge caused him to reach back to the counter and pick it up.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Spear. I am pleased that you are finally at home.” The voice was old and unfamiliar, and Matthew felt at once that he had made a mistake in answering. “We have some time to make up, so I will come to the point. Your grandfather is in our care, and it is necessary for you to speak to me about the icon. I understand that your knowledge of its present location may be imprecise, but I do require that you tell me all you can. Are we clear so far?”
“My grandfather.” What the hell was this? A threat, certainly, but from whom?
“Yes, Andreas is with us. We are getting on famously, but such things seldom last.”
“Listen. Who are you?” No, that was stupid. “Let me speak to Andreas.”
“Of course. Briefly.”
“Paidemou.” The old man’s voice sounded sleepy. “Do nothing. I have explained to these princes that you know nothing, but they are both stubborn fellows. Tell-”
“Well,” the first voice came back on the line, “that was not very constructive, but at least you can be satisfied that he is with us, and healthy. Now, Mr. Spear, I cannot stay on this call for long. Please speak to me.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” What a mess. They really had the old man. Were these the same people who had gone after Fotis, after Ana? He squeezed the receiver hard. “We should speak in person, shouldn’t we? Someplace public. With my grandfather there.”
“A meeting is an excellent idea, when I am convinced that you have something to share. You must convince me of that first.”
“Why would I tell you anything over the phone? This has to be an exchange, right?”
“That depends upon the value of the information. Do you know where your godfather is now?”
“I have a pretty good guess. I know that’s not enough. Let me check it out and contact you again tomorrow.”
“He is within the greater New York vicinity?”
“If my guess is right. How can I reach you?”
“You cannot. I will telephone you tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here. Let me give you my cell phone number.”
Matthew carefully recited the number, the digits swimming in his panicked brain.
“Very good. I need not mention, but I will, that you must not include the authorities or anyone else in your search. I am sure you understand.”
“Look, my grandfather isn’t really involved in any of this. My godfather and I dragged him into it. You should go easy on him.”
“I have no wish to be hard. Until tomorrow, Mr. Spear.”
Father John gazed at Matthew sympathetically after the younger man hung up the receiver.
“Do you know who it is?”
“No. It could be this del Carros. South American collector, tried to grab Ana Kessler a few days ago. Or it could be someone else.”
“You should contact the police at once.”
“Yes, I should. But he made it clear they would hurt Andreas if I did.”
“They may do that anyway.”
“I know. I have to try something. I have to go speak to someone.” He struggled to assemble a map in his mind, the roads of northern Westchester, that day trip with Robin to find Fotis’ house. The Snake’s denial of purchasing the property he had coveted for so many months had not been convincing, even that day in the park; and alone in his Salonika hotel room weeks later, Matthew had guessed what the denial was all about. But could he find the house again, without Robin’s assistance? Not in the dark, but first thing in the morning he must try.
“Let me help you,” said the priest earnestly.
Matthew gave him a hard look.
“What, the kind of help you were just talking about? I can live without that, Father.”
“Who else is there? All that I said before was intended only to convince you of what I believe. I will not force your hand. I want us to be allies.”
Matthew exhaled. God knew, he needed friends. Ana had to be kept out of it. He would want Benny with him when he went up against del Carros, but Benny would be only a liability in speaking to Fotis. So he was down to the mad priest. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
24
Steam heat clamoring to life awakened him. The room was dark, the shade on the west window half-raised, and orange light had broken across the crowded trees and white stucco mansion on the opposite hillside. For the several long moments required to reach full awareness, Fotis was treated to this warm and placid vision of dawn, budding branches sketched from shadow by the rising sun, the sky shifting from deep lavender to blue, the real or imagined trill of birdsong. Dawn was primal, and he might have been a hundred different places, or a hundred different men. He might have been young.
Then the pain arrived. Radiating from his lower back up the spine to his shoulder blades, and in pulsing waves through the center of his thighs. Acute discomfort returned him to himself, drew his boundaries, and cut him off. The quality of light outside ceased being a display of beauty and became a means of determining that it was six forty-five without consulting the clock on the night table. He pressed his fists into the mattress and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He hadn’t the energy to go further right away, and fishing the square pillow from between his worn knees, he placed it behind his ruined spine and leaned back into the headboard. The pipes banged again, shaking the floor, and the valve on the bedside radiator began to hiss. The heat coming on had confused him. It was not winter but spring, early May. Yet the nights were still quite cool here, and he had set the thermostat up the previous evening. His bones had no tolerance for any cold whatsoever.
At these moments, thinking of the hot shower, the first pills after breakfast, the first drink after lunch made the pain seem bearable. When the time came that he could no longer subdue the agony by such simple means, he knew his days would begin in terror, end in despair. Perhaps it would never come to that. The degeneration had advanced quite slowly up to now. Maybe he would be carried off by something more dramatic before the illness reduced him to a groaning, bedridden ghost. Or perhaps the Mother would save him. He could not see her, but he felt her presence in the room. Yes, he felt her. The same warming, enveloping sensation of well-being that had possessed him when Tomas had arrived with the package nearly two weeks before. The very same feeling that had taken him, body and spirit, that had shaken him to the core sixty years ago, when Andreas had first shown him the work. He had not been the same man since. Certain preoccupations, certain necessities had ruled him from that time forward. Andreas had given him a great gift with that private showing in the empty, candlelit church. Yet in another sense he had troubled Fotis’ spirit, unsettled his life, and the worst part had been that Andreas himself was utterly unmoved by his prize. The icon was a curiosity that he was happy to show his friend, but it meant nothing to him. Such love for his men, and later for his wife and children, but a heart of stone for his God. Andreas. They would never choose each other’s friendship at this late date, but it was no matter; they were helplessly linked.
Fotis woke again with a start. He had sensed someone at the foot of the bed, but no, there was no one. Neither enemy nor friend. He was quite alone in the house, and had to force himself not to think about all the ways in which sick old men could die, alone in a house. Even getting out of bed was dangerous. The shower would be pure peril. Perhaps he should avoid it. The house was warm. He would dress and eat and see what strength he had after that.