The Sign

Her internal kook-alert monitor, which had already moved up to yellow before the man had even started talking, got a slight nudge up to blue.

“And how’d you get this number?” she asked again, a slight edge to her voice now.

“I called your Cairo bureau.”

“And they gave it to you?”

Much as her vexation was clear, the man wasn’t going out of his way to placate her. Instead, he simply said, “I told them I was calling on behalf of Father Jerome.”

The name bounced around Gracie’s tired mind for a moment, before landing on the obvious association. “What, the Father Jerome?”

“Yes,” he assured her. “The very same.”

Her monitor took a step back to yellow. “And you’re calling on his behalf from Egypt? Is that where he is?”

It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t read anything about the world famous humanitarian for quite a while. Which was unusual, given his highly public, if reluctantly so, profile, and given the huge organization that he’d founded and still ran, as far as she knew.

“Yes, he’s here. He’s been here for almost a year.”

“Okay, well, now that you’ve got me on the line,” she said, “what’s this about?”

“You need to come here. To see Father Jerome.”

This surprised her. “Why?”

“We saw your broadcast. You were the one to see the sign. You brought it to the world.”

“ ‘ The sign’ ? ”

Dalton and Finch were eyeing her curiously. She gave them an I’m-not-sure-where-this-is-going shrug.

“For whatever reason,” Brother Ameen said, “divine or otherwise, you were there. It’s your story. And, of course, I’m familiar with your work. People listen to you. Your reputation is solid. Which is why I am telling this to you and you only.”

“You haven’t told me anything yet.”

Brother Ameen paused, then said, “The symbol you witnessed, there, over the ice. It’s here too.”

An altogether different alarm blared inside her, one that sent her pulse rocketing. “What, you’ve got it there too? In the sky?” Her words also visibly snagged Dalton and Finch’s attention.

“No, not in the sky.”

“Where then?”

“You need to come here. To see it for yourself.”

Gracie’s kook monitor fluttered upward again. “I’m going to need a little more than that.”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Why don’t you try.”

Brother Ameen seemed to weigh his words for a moment, then said, “Father Jerome’s not exactly here, at the monastery. He was here. He came to us several months ago. He was . . . troubled. And after a few weeks, he . . . he went up into the mountain. There’s a cave, you see. A cave that provides the basics—you know, a shelter with a bed to sleep in, a stove to cook on. Men of God go there when they’re looking for solitude, when they don’t want to be disturbed. Sometimes, they stay there for days. Sometimes, weeks. Months even.”

“And Father Jerome is there?”

“Yes.”

Gracie didn’t quite know what to make of that. “What does that have to do with me?”

The man hesitated. He seemed uncomfortable with what he was about to tell her. “He’s a changed man, Miss Logan. Something . . . something we don’t quite understand has happened to him. And since he’s been up in the cave, he’s been writing. A lot. He’s been filling one journal after another with his thoughts. And on some of their pages, there’s a drawing. A recurring drawing, one he’s painted all over the walls of the cave.”

Gracie’s skin prickled.

“It’s the sign, Miss Logan. The sign you saw over the ice.”

Gracie’s mind scrambled to process what he’d just told her. An obvious question fought its way out of the confused mire. “No offense, Brother, but—”

“I know what you’re going to say, Miss Logan.” He cut her off. “And of course, you’ve every right to be skeptical. I wouldn’t expect any less of you, of someone with your intellect. But you need to hear me out. There isn’t a television up in the cave. We don’t even have one here at the monastery, nor a radio for that matter. Father Jerome hasn’t seen your broadcast.”

Gracie’s kook-o-meter was having trouble sticking to one direction. “Well, I’m not sure your word on that’s gonna get me hopping on a plane just yet.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Brother Ameen added, the restraint in his voice struggling to contain the urgency he clearly felt. “It’s not something he only just started to do.”

An unsettling realization chilled her gut. “What are you saying? When did he start drawing this sign?”

His answer struck her like a spear.

“Seven months ago. He’s been drawing the sign over and over again for seven months.”

Chapter 18

Quincy,Massachusetts

Pure instinct took over and Matt turned in early, pulling into the lot of the 7-Eleven just before the alleyway.

Being a twenty-four-hour store, it was open, but there were no other cars outside. He flicked the Mustang’s lights off but left the engine gurgling, and just sat there for a moment, bathed by the alternating red-and-green flicker of the store’s Christmas lights, taking stock of the situation.

They were here already. Waiting for him. Had to be.

How?

He quickly segued back to Bellinger’s abduction. They must have been watching Bellinger. Maybe even listening to his calls. And if they were, they knew about his call to Matt. And if this was about Danny, then they knew all about Matt already.

And Matt had obviously become a problem for them.

Wonderful.

He gave his immediate surroundings a quick scan but didn’t notice anything that jarred. They had to be waiting for him near his garage. He put himself in their place and could almost picture the perfect spot where they’d have parked, out of sight, ready to ambush him on his return. Bastards. How could they react so quickly? It had only been, what, not even an hour since he’d leapt out of their van?

They weren’t short of resources.

Which wasn’t helping on the worrisome front.

He switched the engine off, pulled up his coat collar, and climbed out of the car, his eyes stealthily alert for any movement. He took a few quick steps over to the store and huddled under its awning, using the pause to give the area another quick once-over.

Nothing.

Just the single set of tracks headed down the alleyway to the side of the 7-Eleven, disappearing into the darkness, taunting him.

He stepped inside, triggering a two-toned electronic chime that brought him to the attention of Sanjay, the store’s congenial owner, who was busy restocking the hot dog grill.

Sanjay smiled, “Hey, Matt,” then noted the dusting of snow on Matt’s head with a bemused expression and said, “It’s really coming down, isn’t it?” In mid-sentence, his forehead crinkled with confusion as he registered