The Healer, page 11
He lowered his voice even more. “Because I think I have.”
“Aye?”
“Yeah. Twice. A couple days back, at the scene of a car accident and again yesterday.”
The vicar slowly folded his arms and considered Chris silently. He nodded almost imperceptibly but never broke eye contact. The intensity of his stare made Chris squirm.
“Look, Father, I’m not here to gather dirt for a tabloid or anything. It’s just that . . . well, some strange things have happened the past couple of days, and I’d like to get some answers for my own peace of mind.”
After a moment longer, the vicar softly smiled. “I guessed as much. Very well then. It is said that St. Nicholas suddenly turned over the position of head vicar to St. Cwnbran. No warning, no fare-thee-wells or grand doos. He just up and went on a pilgrimage of healing and gift-giving, yes? That’s why he’s considered one of the possible origins of the Father Christmas you know. Before he left, though, he blessed Trellech’s own Virtuous Well so that anyone needing healing could go with faith and be healed.”
“Yes. That’s what the history books say,” Chris agreed, somewhat disappointed. “I was hoping for something more. Something to fill in the blanks . . .” His words drifted off with his thoughts.
With eyes closed, the old priest fingered the crucifix around his neck, as if in prayer. After a long pause, he met Chris’s eyes and held them. “Aye, Christian Pendragon. I believe I know what will ‘fill in the blanks,’ as you say. What’s more, I sense it’s what you need to hear, yes? All signs point to you, don’t they, my son. What you seek is the key to your future, yes?”
Chris groaned and massaged his forehead. “Now you sound just like Nicholas Tewdrig.”
The vicar grinned widely. “I thank’ee for that comparison, lad. And unless I miss my mark, folks’ll be doing the same with you too, yes? Very soon.”
“Doing what?”
“Comparing you to the beloved St. Nicholas, my son. Saying you’re the next healing saint.”
“I doubt that,” he scoffed.
“I don’t. And you won’t either, after I show you a secret something that’s truly astounding.”
Chapter 19
A knock sounded at the door.
“Father Llewellyn? Is everything okay in there?” It was Westcott’s voice.
“Yes, Detective. We’re almost finished in here,” the vicar said loudly. “Just give us a few more minutes, if you please. I’ll be sure to let you know when we’re through, now won’t I.”
Llewellyn reached over to his nightstand, picked up a cell phone, and punched in some numbers. He held up a finger, indicating Chris should wait a moment. “Hello, Michael. Listen fast, son,” he said softly. “You know the chippee by the Monnow Bridge? Aye, that’s the one. You are to leave immediately. There will be a Yank there.”
Chris flinched. What? he mouthed.
Llewellyn waved him off. “Aye, right now. You are to collect him and take him back to the rectory, do you understand? Be as obscure as possible. His name is Christian, and he has a very important mission. If anyone asks, tell them he is a ward of the church, yes? But make certain no one asks.” A few nods. “Aye. Yes, thank you, Michael.” He turned off the phone. “I just love these modern conveniences, don’t you?” he said, admiring his cellular.
“What are you doing?” Chris hissed angrily.
“You can’t possibly go with the authorities, Christian, can you now. It would be conceding they’re right—which they most assuredly are not. Do not let them treat you as a child, my son. Your calling is a much greater one now, is it not? Besides, they are wrong in their assumptions, the police. As with all things, the truth will set you free, yes?”
“Yeah. And until then, I’ll be a fugitive.”
“Nay, lad. You will be a servant of God, striving to aid your fellow man.”
“No,” he said, standing. “I have to call my embassy and clear this up before—”
“Before I identify you as the gunman?” the vicar asked. “I can do it, you know.”
Chris’s jaw dropped. He gawked in disbelief. “What?”
Llewellyn sighed. “Sometimes a parent must do what is best for their child, even if that child cannot see the sense in it, mustn’t he.”
“You’re—you’re threatening to—to lie to the police so you can get your way? Now who’s being childish?”
“You’ll thank me later, Christian. Now, go open yon window and hop out before it’s too late. I will stall the detective as long as I can, rest assured.”
“And just how am I supposed to get there?”
“You have legs, don’t you? Now listen up, lad. This facility sits on Monnow Street, yes? Go left toward the old Monnow Bridge. Just before you get there, there’s a side street—can’t recall the name of it—but just a few doors down you’ll find a chippee.”
“A what?”
“A fish and chips noshery. Go in and wait. My man Michael will be by presently. He’ll be driving an early-model Subaru wagon.”
Chris was still gawking. His mind was spinning again. Was this priest actually asking him to break the law? Well, maybe not breaking it directly, but definitely defying it. What would that get him?—except in more trouble. Wasn’t it basically resisting arrest? He couldn’t do that. He was a law-abiding citizen. He should just head to the door and turn himself in. And yet something inside held him back. It was the same feeling he got when he talked with Nicholas Tewdrig. It’s not that he couldn’t deny what Nick had told him; it was that he shouldn’t. There was a correctness to it—and to what Llewellyn told him to do. It didn’t make sense, but it was the best course of action.
“Time’s not on your side, son. It’ll be all right,” Llewellyn prompted. “You’re not guilty of anything untoward—you know it, and I know it; even God knows it. I’ll meet you tomorrow at the rectory. Just lay low, and I’ll answer all your questions in time, I promise. Now go!” He was almost yelling.
The insistence in the priest’s voice stabbed at Chris. He felt compelled to obey.
More knocking.
“Father Llewellyn? I hear shouting. Are you all right? I’m coming in.”
“Stop! Do not defile the sanctity of this confession until this man’s absolution is finished. It will only be a moment longer, I assure you.” He glared at Chris and jerked his head toward the window.
Chris cursed between closed teeth and bolted for the window. It slid open silently; he was outside with minimal effort. Closing the window, he was immediately glad the staff had not replaced his clothing with thin hospital garb. The air was deeply cold. He was also glad that night was almost upon them. The gathering shadows would help mask his escape.
Following the vicar’s directions, Chris soon found himself standing in front of a chippee called The Mermaid’s Net. Entering, he was assaulted by the heavy odor of cooking grease and fish. At first it was nauseating, but having had nothing to eat since breakfast, Chris found the odor quickly morphing into a mouthwatering scent. Just as well he didn’t have time to eat; the heavy grease would undoubtedly land in his stomach like a cannonball.
“Ay up. What’s all this? Are you hurt, sir?” asked a middle-aged clerk standing behind the counter.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re covered with blood, mate. Are you okay?”
Chris looked down at his blood-stained shirt and pants. “I, um . . . no. I’m fine. This is . . . I was fishing this afternoon, you see, and got carried away cleaning my catch.” He had no idea where that response came from, but he was happy it sounded somewhat plausible.
“Brilliant,” the clerk beamed. “Wish I had time to go cast a line, myself. On vacation then, are you, mate?”
“Yeah. From the— From Canada. Calgary.”
“Excellent.” The friendly man didn’t look twice at Chris’s blood-stained attire. “Say, if you bring your clutch in here, I can cook ’em up for you. Got my own signature batter, see. Best in the whole UK, I’ll wager. Once folks try it, they always come back for more.”
“Really? Hey, that sounds great. Maybe I’ll run back and grab them,” he said, looking out the window for any sign of Llewellyn’s assistant. “How late are you open?”
“Till midnight we are. Nothin’ beats late-night noshing, eh mate?”
“I agree,” he said as a police car zipped past with its lights flashing. Come on, Michael. Where are you?
“Would you like to sample a bit of today’s catch then, sir?”
“Um . . . sure. Thanks,” he said, accepting a shard of golden-battered fillet. It practically melted in his mouth. “Oh my gosh, this is amazing. Where do you get your fish?”
“Cold water, North Atlantic cod is all I serve, mate. None better, I promise you that.”
“I’d have to agree,” he said, again glancing out the window.
A few seconds later, an old Subaru stopped at the door. Finally.
“Gotta run,” he told the clerk. “Thanks for the sample. It was delicious.”
“Anytime, mate.”
Chris exited the shop. Opening the car door, he said, “Michael? I’m Christian.”
The man nodded.
Crawling in, he shut the door, turned, and flinched. Llewellyn’s assistant was huge. He sat hunched over the steering wheel as if embracing it. His knees brushed the dashboard, even though the seat looked to be all the way back. Chris wondered how he squeezed into the vehicle in the first place. He saw no distinguishing features other than the man’s size; Michael wore his hair closely cropped, his clothing simple.
Michael put the car in gear and drove back to the main road. Exiting the town as quickly as possible without drawing attention, they followed a narrow road into the countryside. Both men rode in silence. As the lights of the city faded behind them, the night closed in like a smothering fog.
Chris was a fugitive, fleeing arrest for a crime—three crimes—he didn’t commit. He should have turned himself in, but he hadn’t. He should have never gotten involved with Nicholas Tewdrig, but he had. He didn’t know what was going to happen the next week, the next day or hour or minute. The future didn’t look promising, and yet, strangely, he knew he was headed in the right direction.
Chapter 20
Even with the large man sitting next to him, Chris felt uncharacteristically alone. Normally, he relished his solitude, especially when things were bothering him. But now, strangely, he felt an overwhelming need to be around people, to be serving them. Nevertheless, being a fugitive, he knew mingling in public was the last place he should be. How long would he have to remain in hiding? How was Father Llewellyn going to help him? Could he help? He was just a priest—the churchwarden in a small country parish.
Nerves taut, feeling the need to do something, Chris cleared his throat and forced a smile. “Thanks for picking me up, Michael. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
The hiss of the tires on the wet blacktop was the only reply. The big man stared straight ahead, focusing on the winding road and deepening shadows.
“I’m sorry for what happened to Father Llewellyn. He’s a great man. I’ve only just met him, but I can tell he’s very kind and understanding.”
Michael glanced in the rearview mirror and slightly increased his speed. Chris turned but couldn’t see any car lights behind them. They rode again in silence until it became unbearable.
Guessing that talking about his boss was too sensitive a topic, Chris changed tacks. “So, Michael, are you from Trellech?”
Nothing. And it was too dark to see his face. Was he smiling, frowning, deadpan? Chris sensed he was on edge. Better to keep things light, try to alleviate the tension in the car.
“You a Monmouther then?” Chris guessed.
More nothing.
“Come on, man. Give me something. I’m dying here.”
“Porthaethwy,” the big guy finally said in a soft, deep voice.
“Porthaethwy? Where’s that?”
“Menai Bridge.”
“Oh right, right. The Isle of Anglesey. Were you born there?”
He waited for Michael to say more, but nothing came. Chris wished he’d be more loquacious or would at least respond with a nod or something. Michael was acting like a stone statue. Maybe he’s made of alabaster . . .
Chris ground his teeth and huffed softly. He was so wound up he couldn’t sit still. He hated being in this situation; his nerves were short-circuiting like crazy. He found himself talking rapidly, trying to fill the empty space with anything but silence.
“Ah yes, the Menai Bridge. It was the first solid structure to connect Anglesey Island with the mainland. Did you know it was the largest suspension bridge of its kind when it was built?”
More silence.
“This whole country is filled with ancient castles and bridges and cool old buildings. Did you know Monmouth has the last remaining gated stone portcullis bridge of its kind in the UK?”
More nothing.
“It’s true,” he continued, as if Michael was hanging on every word. “The town of Monmouth was originally a small Roman fort. Later, it became the birthplace of King Henry V. Its bridge, the Monnow Bridge, was completed in the thirteenth century. Man, that’s a long time ago. Just imagine how much history it’s seen, how many noble men and women have passed between those massive stone lintels.”
Road noise. Engine noise.
Apparently Chris’s love of history was not shared by his driver. Chris sighed again and stared out the window. It was now very dark outside and apparently very cold. The Subaru’s windshield kept fogging up. Michael turned on the noisy defroster full-blast, which would make conversation difficult without shouting. As if there was someone to converse with, Chris thought cynically.
Before long they were in Trellech; a few minutes later, their headlights illuminated the door of the church. Chris’s anxiety edged up when he saw yellow police tape barring the entry. If the church was still considered a crime scene, then the police would be snooping around. Did Llewellyn think of that? Was this really the best place to hide? Not knowing anyone else in the area, Chris had no choice.
Michael drove past the church, down a side street, then through an alley to the back of a small cottage. “The rectory,” the big man said plainly.
Stepping from the car, Chris felt the cold air bite his skin with icy teeth. The sky was completely clear, offering a spectacular display of northern stars; but without cloud cover, the temperature had plummeted past freezing.
Michael unlocked the cottage door and stooped to enter. Passing through, his shoulders brushed both sides of the doorframe. The man was built like a linebacker: probably around six six and at least 300 pounds—not much of it fluff. And yet, when he turned to beckon Chris inside, he did so with an innocent, childlike expression. “Please come inside, sir.”
Passing through a small kitchen with 1940s, enamel-glazed appliances, Chris followed Michael into a dining area which stood at the far end of a narrow, open-beam room. The space itself wasn’t more than six hundred square feet. Two wingback chairs, a large fieldstone fireplace, and a bookshelf lining the far wall took up most of the space.
Michael gestured to a chair in front of the hearth then set about starting a fire. The room was cold but not necessarily frigid. Still, Chris welcomed the idea of a cheerful blaze to take the chill from his mood. When the fire was crackling, Michael stood and replaced the brass fireplace implements in a rack on the hearth.
“Coffee or tea?” he asked softly.
“Nothing, thank you,” Chris said.
Michael ambled back to the kitchen, leaving Chris to enjoy the fire in the shadowy room. There was something magical about the ambience of a radiant hearth fire, he thought. The same went for the sound of a gurgling brook. Both set the mind at ease, lulling the spectator with tranquil, soothing images and music. The smell of melting pine sap soon filled the room, adding to the fragrance of the open-wood framing and old books. Even with the angst of the day still looming, Chris felt himself relax. He settled snugly into the depths of a large wingback chair and let his mind clear.
Sometime later, he felt his feet lifted onto an ottoman and his shoes removed. A heavy blanket was floated onto him, and a small pillow was guided between his head and the wing of the chair. He wanted to open his eyes to acknowledge his caretaker, but they felt too heavy. Instead, he let himself slip into the blissful embrace of slumber.
Chapter 21
When Chris opened his eyes, Father Llewellyn was sitting in the matching wingback chair, reading a book. A low fire continued to hiss and pop in the hearth, still filling the room with radiant warmth and woodsy fragrance; the brass fireplace implements reflected the dancing flames. But the room was no longer dark. The morning sunlight filtered through slatted blinds.
He wrestled himself into a more upright position and ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh. Good morning, Father,” Chris said, stifling a yawn. “I’m glad they finally let you out on parole.”
The old vicar chuckled softly, closing his book. “Good morrow to you, Christian. Not the most comfortable bed, that chair, but I trust you slept well enough. Would you like Michael to freshen your tea?”
Chris noticed a full cup of tea on an end table next to him. He hadn’t touched a drop last night. “Yeah, thanks,” Chris said, succumbing to a yawn.
Llewellyn called, “Michael, fetch us more tea, if you please.”
Chris held his hands to the fire, warming them. Within moments, Michael rolled in two cups of fragrant tea and some delicious-looking scones on a petite, silver teacart. The image of the would-be linebacker pushing a dainty trolley with tea fixings made Chris smile.
“Excellent, excellent. Thank you, Michael,” Llewellyn sang. “Help yourself, Christian. Don’t be shy.”
Chris filled a new cup and cradled it between his hands.
“Now then,” Llewellyn began. “I suspect you have a question or two for me, yes?”
“Several, actually,” Chris said with a muddled smile.
“Ask away, lad.” The vicar seemed totally at ease, as if he hadn’t been shot the day before, as if nothing was amiss.
