Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

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?"

Dale Bingham crashed into the right wall of the squash court, managed to dink the small black ball against the left corner. It was a kill shot, but the club pro was nimble and incredibly quick, a nationally ranked Pakistani, who tapped it up and over Bingham's head and scored. Bingham drove down his racket in frustration, stopped it an inch from the hardwood floor. He glowered at the pro, sweat dripping down his face. "Nice shot, Hassan."

"That's game, set, match, Mr. Bingham," said Hassan, not even breathing hard. He gave a curt nod, walked off the enclosed court, and closed the clear plastic door behind him.

Bingham toweled off, his movements abrupt, still talking to himself. Hassan was clearly the superior player, but Bingham hadn't given up a point without making the maximum effort, diving the boards and smashing into walls without thought of the consequences. He was thirty-two years old, tall and muscular, one of those upright Dudley Do-Rights that the FBI or Secret Service scooped up right out of Dart-mouth or Yale. Bingham had been a poor fit for an off-the-books outfit like the Engineer's old shop. His current job with the state organized crime task force suited him better, requiring fewer moral and legal compromises.

"Good game," said Thorpe as Bingham stepped out of the court.

"Not good enough." Bingham wore a soaked polo shirt, terry wrist-bands, and baggy shorts, his calves meaty and rounded-he reminded Thorpe of a draft horse, plenty of power and determination, but no speed. He was playing the wrong game, dooming himself to endless frustration. Thorpe wondered how many rackets he had broken.

"Mr. Bingham, we haven't met. My name is-"

"I know who you are." Bingham blotted his forehead with the towel, his face flushed. "Surprised? I know all about you, Frank."

Thorpe was more than surprised. He glanced around, saw only a few other jocks relaxing after their games, watching CNN from benches and chairs. "You've got the better of me here."

"That would be a first, wouldn't it?"

Thorpe had no idea where Bingham's anger came from. "Why don't we go somewhere and talk?"

"Aren't you the calm one?" Bingham laughed. "That must have taken some work… a man like you, with your inclinations." He tapped Thorpe lightly on the chest with the squash racket, like an Iroquois counting coup. "I bet you practiced not raising your pulse rate with biofeedback. Or was it meditation?"

"I just think happy thoughts."

Bingham tapped him again with the racket, his eyes like slate. "What are you thinking of now, Frank?"

Thorpe smiled. "I'm thinking you shouldn't do that again, Dale."

Bingham considered it. "How did you find me?"

"That's not important."

"To you, maybe." Bingham blotted his face again, tossed the towel aside. "You want to talk? Step into the court. I've got it reserved for another twenty minutes." He opened the door. "Come on, Frank, it's private in here. We can say anything we want."

Thorpe stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "I'm looking for the Engineer. You're the only one in the outfit who spent any time with him before he linked up with Lazurus."

Bingham kneaded the squash ball. "I don't like thinking about the Engineer."

"I think about him all the time."

Bingham glared at him. "I imagine you do."

"Did… did you know Kimberly? Is that what this is about?"

Bingham slammed the ball, sent it rocketing off the front wall. Thorpe jerked his head, the ball grazing his cheek. "One to nothing," said Bingham, picking up the ball as it dribbled toward him.

Thorpe's cheek burned. "Do I get a racket?"

Bingham hit the ball again, even harder this time. Thorpe caught it as it flew by. "Two to nothing." Bingham held his hand out. "Still my serve."

"You blame me for Kimberly's death." Thorpe held on to the ball. "See, we have something in common."

Bingham wiggled his fingers, impatient. "My serve."