The Last Templar - Страница 25

And now this. An annoyance.

A distraction.

He looked at her face again. He picked up his cell phone and hit a speed-dial key. Two short rings later, a gravelly, hoarse voice answered.

"Who's this?"

"Just how many people have you given this number to, exactly?" The monsignor fired back tersely.

The man exhaled audibly. "Good to hear from you, sir."

De Angelis knew the man would now be putting out a cigarette butt, while instinctively reaching for a fresh replacement. He had always found die habit repugnant, but the man's other talents more than made up for it.

"I need your help on something." As he said it, he frowned. He had hoped he wouldn't need to involve anyone else. He stared at Tess's face again. "I need you to access the FBI's database on METRAID," then added, "discreetly."

The man's answer came quickly.

"Not a problem. It's one of the perks of die war on terror. We're all in a caring, sharing mode. Just tell me what you need."

Chapter 32

Veering away from one of the many winding roads of the cemetery, Tess was now walking along a gravel path.

It was just past eight in the morning. The spring bulbs were in bloom all around the headstones, and the nearly clipped grass around her was wet from last night's rain. The small rise in air temperature had generated a coiling mist that shrouded the tombstones and trees.

Overhead, a lone monk parakeet flew by, breaking die serene setting with a haunting call. Despite the temperature rise and the cover of her coat, Tess shivered a little as she went deeper into the cemetery. Walking through a burial ground was uncomfortable at the best of times, and being here today made her think of her father and of how long it had been since she had visited his grave.

She stopped and checked the map she had printed out in the kiosk at the huge, gothic entrance. She thought she was headed in the right direction, but now she wasn't that sure anymore. The cemetery was spread out over more than four hundred acres. It was easy to get lost, especially as she wasn't driving. She had taken the R from midtown to die Twenty-fifth Street station in Brooklyn, walked a block east, and entered die cemetery from its main gate.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings, and wondered if coming here had been such a good idea after all. It was practically a lose-lose situation. If Vance was here, she'd be barging in on a hugely private moment. And if he wasn't here, then her trip would have been a waste of time.

She pushed her doubts to the back of her mind and kept on walking. She was now in what was obviously an older part of the cemetery. As she passed an elaborate tomb topped by a reclining granite angel, she heard a sound off to one side. Startled, she peered into the mist. She could see nothing except the dark, shifting shapes of the trees. Uneasy now, she walked at a slightly brisker pace, realizing that she was plunging even deeper into the recesses of the cemetery.

Checking the map quickly, she saw that she must now be close. Convinced of her current location, she decided to take a shortcut across a small knoll and hurried over the slippery grass. She stumbled on a moldy stone surround, her fingers clutching at a crumbling marker to save herself from falling.

And then she saw him.

He was about fifty yards away, alone, standing solemnly in front of a small headstone. A bouquet of carnations, dark red and cream colored, lay before it. His head was bowed. A lone gray Volvo was parked on the drive nearby.

Tess waited a moment before deciding to approach him. She walked toward him slowly, quietly, and glanced at the headstone, spotting the words "Vance" and "Martha" on it. He still hadn't turned when she got to within ten feet of him, even though they were the only ones around.

"Professor Vance," she said hesitantly.

He stood rigid for a moment before slowly turning to face her.

She was standing before a changed man.

His hair was thick and silvery gray, his face gaunt. Although he was still slender and tall, the athletic build had receded, even displaying a slight stoop. His hands were in his coat pockets, and he wore a dark overcoat, its collar turned up. Tess noticed that it was threadbare at the cuffs and had a couple of stains on it. In fact, she was embarrassed to notice, his whole appearance was rather shabby. Whatever it was he did now, it was clearly several rungs below the position he had once enjoyed. Had she passed him in the street today, a decade after she last saw him, she doubted that she would have recognized him, but here, under the circumstances, she had no doubt.

He looked at her, his expression cautious.

"I'm really very sorry to intrude," she stumbled, "I hope you'll forgive me. I know this is an extremely personal moment for you and, believe me, if there was any other way to contact you ..."

She stopped, noting that his face seemed to brighten ever so slightly with what seemed like recognition.

"Tess. Tess Chaykin. Oliver's daughter."

She breathed in deeply and let out a low sigh of relief. As his face relaxed, his piercing gray eyes brightened, and she saw hints of the charismatic force he had been when they'd last met, all those years ago. There was clearly nothing wrong with his memory, because he said, "Now I know why you look different. You were pregnant when we met. I remember thinking that the Turkish wilderness wasn't a good place for you then."

"Yes." She relaxed. "I have a daughter. Kim."

"She must be . . ." He was working out how long it had been.

"She's nine," she offered helpfully, then her eyes darted away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I ... I really shouldn't be here."

She felt a sudden urge to retreat and slip away when she noticed that his smile faded. His whole face seemed to darken as he glanced toward die headstone. His voice soft, he said, "My daughter Annie would have been five years old today."

Daughter? Tess looked at him, thrown, and turned to the headstone. It was elegant in its simplicity, white, witxi the inscription carved out in letters that were maybe two inches high:

Martha & Annie Vance

May their smiles brighten up

A better world- than this

She didn't understand at first. Then it hit her. His wife must have died in childbirth.

Tess felt her face flush, deeply embarrassed now at her thoughtlessness in tracking this man down to his wife and daughter's graveside. She looked up at Vance and saw that he was looking at her, the sadness etching deep lines into his face. Her heart sank. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, "I didn't know."

"We had already chosen names, you see. Matthew if it had been a boy, and Annie, of course. We chose them the night we were married."

"What . . . how did they . . ." She couldn't finish her question.

"It happened just over halfway into her pregnancy. She'd been under close observation from the start. She was—well, we both were—rather old to be having our first child. And her family had a history of high blood pressure. Anyway, she developed something called preeclampsia. They don't know why it happens. I was told it was pretty common, but it can be devastating. Which it was in Martha's case." He stopped and took a deep breath, looking away. It was clearly painful for him to talk about it, and Tess wanted him to stop, she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her and avoid having him relive it through her selfish presence. But it was too late.

"The doctors said there was nothing they could do," he continued mournfully. "They told us Martha would have to have an abortion. Annie was too young to have any hope of surviving in an incubator, and Martha's chances of surviving the pregnancy herself were getting slimmer with each passing day."

"The abortion didn't ..."

His gaze turned inward. "Normally, it wouldn't even have been an option for us. But this was different. Martha's life was at risk. So we did what we'd always done." His expression hardened perceptibly. "We asked our parish priest, Father McKay, what we should do."

Tess cringed as she guessed what had happened.

Vance's face tightened up. "His position, the Church's position, was very clear. He said it would be murder. Not just any murder, you understand, but the most heinous of all murders. An unspeakable crime. Oh, he was very eloquent about it. He said we'd be violating the written word of God. 'Thou shalt not kill.' He said this was a human life we were talking about. We'd be killing a human being at the very beginning of its life, the most innocent murder victim possible. A victim who doesn't understand, a victim who can't argue, who can't plead for its life. He asked us if we would do it if we could hear its cries, if we could see its tears. And if that wasn't enough, his closing argument clinched it. 'If you had a one-year-old baby, would you kill it, would you sacrifice it to save your own life? No. Of course you wouldn't. What if it was one month old? What if it was just one day old? When does the clock really start ticking for a life?' " He paused, shaking his head at the memory. "We heeded his advice. No abortion. We put our faith in God."

Vance looked at the grave, a cocktail of grief and anger visibly swirling in his veins. "Martha held on until she went into convulsions. She died of a brain hemorrhage. And Annie, well . . . her little lungs never even got a chance to breathe our filthy air."

"I'm so, so sorry." Tess could barely speak. But it didn't really matter. Vance seemed to be in a world of his own. As she looked into his eyes, she could see that any sadness had now been overwhelmed by a fury that was rising from deep within.