Clandestine

by George, and it was George by me, but the padres didn't know! They didn't care!'

'Care about what, George?'

'I don't know! I used to know, when I was George, but I don't know anymore!'

I knelt beside the old man and placed an arm around his shoulders. 'Do you remember Johnny DeVries, George?'

The old Gluebird began to tremble, and his face went red—even the white scar tissue. 'Big John, Big John, squarehead krauteater. Big John, he could recite the table of elements backwards! He had a prick the size of a bratwurst! Eight foot four in his stocking feet, Big John. Big John!'

'Was he your friend?'

'Dead friend! Dead man! Guy Fawkes. Welcome back, Amelia Earhart! Redevivus Big John! Big John Redux! Didn't know a bunsen burner from a bratwurst, but I taught him, by George, I taught him!'

'Where did he get his morphine, George?'

'The nigger had the dope—Johnny just got the cat's bones. The nigger got the pie and Johnny got the crust!'

I shook the Gluebird's bony shoulders. 'Who killed Johnny, George?'

'The nigger had the pie, Johnny had the crumbs! Johnny Crumbum! Johnny said the slicer paid the piper, the slicer's gonna get me, but I got my memoirs at the monastery! Buddha's gonna get the slicer! And make my book a best-seller!'

I shook the Gluebird even harder, until his glue-streaked beard was in my face. 'Who's the slicer, goddamnit?'

'Ain't no god. Johnny-boy. The Buddhist's got the Book and they don't believe in Jesus. Turnabout's fair play, Jesus don't believe in Buddha! George don't believe in George, by George, and that's George!'

I let go of the Gluebird. He caw-cawed at the seagulls flying above the lakefront, and flapped his emaciated arms in longing to join them. On the extreme off chance that God existed I said a silent prayer for him. I walked back to my car knowing I had gleaned enough from his ravaged mind to take me at least as far as Fond Du Lac.

22

I got a room in a motor court on Blue Mound Road and slept for sixteen hours straight, dreaming of Michael and Lorna floating on life rafts in a sea of airplane glue. It was just before dawn when I awoke and called Will Berglund in Tunnel City. Did the Clandestine Heart have a monastery near Fond Du Lac? Yes, he said, his voice blurred by sleep, it did. Did it have an orphanage? No, it didn't. Before I hung up I got explicit directions on the shortest route to the order. Will Berglund came awake as he sensed the anxiety in my voice, and he said he would call the prelate at the monastery and tell him I was coming.

I stopped for gas and a quick breakfast, then swung north in the direction of the lake country, certain that what awaited me at the Clandestine Heart Monastery would not be dull.

Two hours later I was skirting a crystal blue lake dotted with small pleasure craft. Sunbathers were jammed together on the narrow sandy lakefront, and the pine forests that surrounded Fond Du Lac were alive with camera- toting tourist families.

I checked the directions Will Berglund had given me: edge of lake through mountains to farmland, past three farmhouses, one mile to the road with the sign depicting major faiths.

I found the mountain road, then the flat grazing land and the three farmhouses. It was sweltering, close to one hundred degrees, but I was sweating more from nervous anticipation as I turned onto the road. It cut through a half mile of sandy-soil pine forest before ending at a clearing where a plain whitewashed cement building stood, three stories high without ornamentation or architectural style or signs of welcome. A parking area had been created next to the building. The cars that were parked there were spare, too: World War II vintage jeeps and a prewar Willys sedan. They looked well kept up.

I stared at the large wooden door as if expecting an austere miracle. Gradually I realized I was scared and didn't want to enter the monastery. This surprised me; and by reflex I got out of my car and ran to the door and banged on it as hard as I could.

The man who answered had a fresh, well-scrubbed look. He was small and refined looking, yet I got a distinct impression that he had known protracted bad times and had surmounted them. He nodded demurely and bade me enter into a long corridor of the same whitewashed cement as the exterior of the building.

At the end of the hallway I could see a meeting or worship hall of some kind.

The man, who could have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five, told me that the prelate was with his wife and would see me in a few minutes.

'You guys can get married?' I asked.

He didn't answer me, just shoved open a small wooden door in the corridor wall and pointed me inside. 'Please wait here,' he said, shutting the door behind me. The room was a monk's cell, with few furnishings and no adornment. I checked the door. It was unlocked. In fact, it held no locking mechanism—I was free to leave if I chose. There was one unbarred window, at about the eye level of a tall man. I peeked out and saw a garden behind the monastery. A man in dirty farmer's overalls was hoeing a row of radishes. I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled at him. He turned his head in my direction, smiled broadly, waved, and went back to his work.

For five minutes I stared in eerie silence at the naked lightbulb that illuminated the cell. Then my escort returned, telling me that the prelate had been contacted by Will Berglund and was anxious to give me all the help he could. He went on to add that although members of the Clandestine Heart Order eschewed the trappings of the world, they recognized their duty to participate in the world's urgent matters. In fact, it was in many ways the basic tenet of their faith. The whole spiel was as ambiguous as the rest of the religious rebop I had heard in my life, but I didn't tell the man that, I just nodded mutely and hoped I looked properly reverent. He led me past a main worship room and into a small room about double the size of the monk's cell, this one furnished with two metal folding chairs stenciled 'Milwaukee General Hospital' on the back. He told me the prelate would join me momentarily, then padded out the door, which he left ajar.

The prelate showed up a minute later. He was a robust, stocky man with jet black hair and a very dark, rough-looking razor stubble. He was probably somewhere in his forties, but again, his age was hard to discern. I stood as he entered the room. We shook hands, and as he motioned me back to the chair he gave me a look that said he was all business. He sat down and let loose with a startling belch. It was a superb icebreaker.

'Jesus,' I said spontaneously.

The man laughed. 'No, I'm Andrew. He wasn't even one of the apostles. Are you versed in the scriptures, Mr. Underhill?'

'I used to be. I was forced into it. But I'm not what you'd call a believer.'

'And your family?'

'I don't have a family. My wife is Jewish.'

'I see. How did Will Berglund impress you?'

'As a guilt-ridden man. A decent, gentle man. Possibly an enlightened man.'

Andrew smiled at me. 'What did Will tell you about our order?' he asked.

'Nothing,' I said. 'Although I admit it must have some appeal to the intellect or an intelligent man like Berglund wouldn't have been so hopped up on it. What interests me, though, is why John DeVries—'

'We'll talk about John later,' Andrew said, interrupting me. 'What I am interested in is what you will do with any information I give you.'

The ascetic surroundings and Andrew's patient voice started to irritate me and I felt the periphery of my vision begin to blacken. 'Look, goddamn you,' I said harshly, 'John DeVries was murdered. So was his sister. These are lives we're talking about, not biblical homilies. I . . .' I stopped.

Andrew had gone pale beneath his dark stubble, and his huge brown eyes were clouding over with grief. 'Oh, God, Marcella,' he whispered.

'You knew her?'

'Then it was true . . .'

'Then what was true, goddamnit?!'