The Saint

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No, I don’t—”

He held up his hand. His palm was covered in blood.

“Jesus,” she breathed.

“Scratch on your neck.”

“Dad tried to choke me,” she said. He must have scratched her, too.

“Come with me, right now,” Kingsley said and took her upstairs to the third floor.

“Why were you going to kill my dad?” she asked as Kingsley threw open a door to a room she’d never seen. It looked like some kind of fancy office. He sat her down hard in a chair and left her there for a few seconds before returning with a first-aid kit. Kingsley knelt in front of her chair, opened the kit and told her to tilt her head to the side.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said. Her heart still pounded painfully in her chest; her lungs burned from the running and the panic. “Why were you going after my dad?”

“Because of this.” Kingsley dug something out of his pocket and handed it to her.

With an alcohol swab, Kingsley cleaned the cut on her neck as she read the note.

A hundred grand or your girlfriend’s body will be at the bottom of the Hudson by tomorrow morning.

Included was an address and a picture.

“Oh, my God,” she said, her stomach turning. “This is my sophomore-year school picture. I sent it to him in a birthday card.”

She held the photograph in her shaking hand.

“He was going to kill me?” she asked. Her father had tried so hard to get her in the car. And she’d been stupid enough to get in with him.

“He might have. He might have been testing to see if I’d pay him off. I don’t care. He threatened you.”

“He said he has pictures of me and Søren together. He’s going to send them to my mom and the bishop and maybe even the newspaper.”

Kingsley sat back.

“I was afraid something like this would happen,” he said. “What are we going to do?”

“Sit. Stay,” he said, standing up. “Don’t leave this room.”

“Okay.” She gave Kingsley a blank stare. He laid his hand gently on the side of her face. “Thank you.”

That seemed to surprise him. With his hand still on her face he sighed heavily and seemed to make a decision.

“King Louis XIII of France lost his father when he was nine years old,” Kingsley began, his face a mask of seriousness. “Too young to rule, his mother Marie de’ Medici acted as his regent. She should have ruled until he was eighteen. You see, the law said sixteen-year-old Louis was not old enough to reign. But his mother f**ked the country over, so Louis had no choice. Louis exiled his mother and executed her lover, executed her followers and restored order. He took the throne, and all of Paris rejoiced. Some children have the luxury of waiting for eighteen candles on their birthday cake to become adults. The rest of us grow up when we are left no other choice.”

Eleanor heard the meaning behind Kingsley’s words.

“If my father tries to hurt Søren, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”

Eleanor waited alone, trying to calm herself. She prayed quietly in her own mind, prayed Kingsley could help her, would help her.

A few minutes passed, then half an hour. Eleanor stared at the strange Art Deco clock hanging on the wall behind the desk until her eyes ached. This room must be Kingsley’s private office. Large wooden filing cabinets with locks on them lined one wall. A black phone—rotary style, like something out of an old detective movie—sat on the desk. She wanted to use it to call Søren, but something told her that would be a bad idea. Something told her Søren shouldn’t be involved in what she and Kingsley did tonight.

Finally Kingsley returned to the office and took a seat behind the desk.

“What’s happening?” she asked him.

“First, your father lied to you. He’s not on shock probation. He turned state’s evidence and started naming names to get out of prison early. Some of his old friends have put a large price on his head.”

“That explains why he wanted money from you.”

“He’s likely going to run tonight. Probably try to cross the border and get to Canada.”

“Do you think he’s going to tell on me and Søren?”

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “If only to punish you for choosing us over him.”

“What do we do?”

“I have someone who could help your father leave the country. He’s going to call me in five minutes. If you want him to do this, then answer the phone and tell him everything you know about your father’s whereabouts—where you last saw him, where he last lived. I promise this man will be able to find him. Or …”

“Or?”

“Or when the phone rings, you can let it ring. And the men who want to find your father will find him. And they will find him before morning.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” Eleanor asked, stunned by Kingsley’s offer of help for her father.

“You belong to le prêtre. I protect his property like my own. Your father harmed you. I would like to see him punished. But that is your decision, not mine. The phone will ring soon. Make your choice.”

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked.

“Sam is off work tonight. I have no one to answer my phone for me. And I never answer my office phone—only my secretary does. When it rings, you answer it. If you want to play my secretary, that is.”