The wake-up

12

Missy didn't waste any time. It was barely five hours since he had told her that the Mayan king was a fake. Thorpe put away his pager, called the number on the State Department business card he had given to her, then keyed in his message code.

"Hey, Frank, this is me. Just wanted to let you know that Douglas Meachum pissed all over himself apologizing for selling me a fake, and wrote a refund check on the spot. I can't tell if he's more afraid of me or of you, but I guess it doesn't matter. Just between us, I don't think he's got any of that… provenance that you told me about. Like you thought, he doesn't want anybody to know about the fake art, either, so I guess everything has worked out. I'm still a little pissed at you for telling me you were an insurance salesman, but thanks for wising me up about the art world, and don't be a stranger. Clark says his offer to teach you how to surf still stands. Ciao!"

Thorpe sat in the last pew of Holy Innocents Church, smiling. He wished he could have seen Meachum's face when Missy told him about the federal agent who had been looking into his paperwork.

Holy Innocents was a small Catholic church in East L.A., cool and dark inside, the carpet worn, the cracked wooden pews polished to a dull sheen. A huge stained-glass window of the crucifixion loomed over the altar. Red glass blood dripped from Jesus' side and from his brow, while angels and saints watched from overhead, unwilling or unable to do anything about it. The church was empty at midafternoon except for a few Hispanic women lighting candles in the vestibule, the women keeping up a quiet conversation.

Thorpe selected a small catechism card from the back of the next pew, the image on the front of the card showing a youthful Jesus seated on the grass with two white lambs and three children. Thorpe wrote on the back: "Next time, be kind to strangers and small children, Doug. You never know who's watching." He tucked the card into his jacket. After he mailed it to Meachum, the wake-up would be complete, but Thorpe was going to give him a few more days to sweat. No permanent damage, but maybe Meachum would think twice the next time he was in a hurry. A small thing, but Thorpe found pleasure in it. He checked his watch. In a couple hours, he was going to take another step closer to finding the Engineer, but right now…

Father Esteban strode down the aisle, his cassock swirling around his knees.

Thorpe stood up, noted the priest's black high-tops. "Thanks for seeing me."

Father Esteban was wary. "Usually when I get called from my prayers on a matter of urgency, it is to give confession… or last rites." His voice was low and raspy, like a boxer who had taken too many hits to the throat.

"Right… Well, I'm good on both counts."

Father Esteban was in his early thirties, a lean, serious Hispanic. Almost as tall as Thorpe, he had smooth caramelized skin and short black hair. A scar curved from his left ear to the side of his mouth, and a drop of sweat had stained his white collar. The cross around his neck was a plain wooden one.

"I've got a bicycle outside," said Thorpe, starting for the double doors. "I'd like you to pass it on to one of your parishioners, Paulo Rodriguez."

Father Esteban walked outside with him, stood beside the bicycle. It was a good bike, not new, no flashy paint job, and a little big for Paulo, but that way he'd get some use out of it. Father Esteban looked the bicycle over. "An interesting choice, Mr…"

"Frank."

"Sometimes people who donate things to the church, people from outside the parish, they like to give the very best. A beautiful twenty-speed mountain bike thick with chrome, a backpack suitable for climbing Mount Everest, titanium running strollers. This is much better. New bicycles are stolen very quickly, or worse, taken by force. This one…" He shook Thorpe's hand, his grip strong and calloused. "Paulo will be very happy."

"One more thing…"

Father Esteban walked back inside, and Thorpe had no choice but to follow.

Thorpe stopped just inside the doorway. "A week or so ago, a man at LAX was hurrying to his ride and he struck Paulo, knocked him down. Let Paulo know that the bicycle is the man's way to tell him how sorry he is."

Father Esteban stared at Thorpe. "You weren't that man; I can see that."

"No… I'm just sort of the messenger."

Father Esteban laughed. "You're no messenger, and this fine bicycle didn't come from the man in a hurry."

Thorpe didn't answer.

"Are you uncomfortable in the house of God?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.

"I feel like I'm trespassing."

"I used to feel the same way myself." Father Esteban folded his hands in front of him. "This man who hit Paulo… you saw him do it?"

"I was too far away. The man left before I could reach him."

Father Esteban's eyes were dark and deep. "You found where Paulo prays. Did you also find the man who hit him?"

Thorpe was lost in the stillness of the priest's gaze. "Yes, I did."

"You didn't call the police, though." It was a statement, not a question.

"No."

"Did you hurt this man?"

"Not physically, but yes, I hurt him."

Father Esteban nodded. "Good."

"That's a strange attitude for a priest. I thought you were more into the 'turn the other cheek' thing."

"Turning the other cheek is a useless lesson for those without power." Father Esteban put his hand on Thorpe's shoulder, and the sleeves of his robe slid up a couple inches. Thorpe glimpsed a tiger tattoo snaking up his wrist, crude work, too, jailhouse tats done with a needle, spit and carbon from burned match heads. Father Esteban tugged his sleeve down. "I'll tell Paulo the truth. I'll tell him that you saw what happened to him and decided to do something about it. That way, he'll learn that there are good men as well as bad men."

"You don't want to get his hopes up, Padre."

Father Esteban held on to him as Thorpe started to leave. "A very wise priest brought me into the light about ten years ago. This priest, may God bless him, once told me, 'Esteban, never underestimate the positive power of guilt.' " He winked at Thorpe. "So… what in heaven's name did you do, Frank?"