The Wolves of Midwinter

29

IN THE EARLY HOURS of Monday, Jim had left the hotel. The bellman remembered: about four o’clock.

Reuben had no chance to talk to him, tell him things had gone splendidly, that he had no worries now.

Better he be left in peace, Reuben thought. He went to sleep alone in the king-sized bed of the Fairmont suite.

The raid was all over the local news when he awoke.

Before noon, alerted by two different deliverymen to the matter of open doors and bloodstains in the hallway, police searched the mansion, quickly discovering the smashed drug lab on the lowest floor. Caches of cell phones and computers were removed by law enforcement, along with numerous papers and a small arsenal of weapons, including semiautomatic guns and knives. The television reporters were speculating that Fulton Blankenship and his felonious associates may have been kidnapped and murdered in an ongoing drug turf war.

Meanwhile, Jim had called Grace and Phil to let them know he was going down to Carmel for a day and night to try to clear his head. He needed a time of retreat and meditation, and had to be left entirely alone. Grace was relieved to hear it and called Reuben at once.

“Jim always goes to Carmel when he’s upset,” said Grace. “I don’t know why. He checks into some little media-free bed-and-breakfast down there and goes walking on the beach. That’s what he did before he decided to join the priesthood. He went down there for a week, and came back determined to give his life to the church.” There was something sad in Grace’s voice. “But the police are telling me there’s nothing more for him to be worried about. What do you think?”

“I think I better stay here for a while,” said Reuben. He confessed he was at the Fairmont. He wanted to wait until Jim came home.

“Thank God,” said Grace.

And thank God she didn’t insist he come the Russian Hill house.

By Tuesday, the police had publicly connected Blankenship to the murder of the young priest in the Tenderloin, based on “abundant computer evidence” and blood-spattered shoes and weapons found in Blankenship’s house. Father Jim Golding had been the intended target. There was no doubt. There was no doubt either now that the basement lab on Alamo Square had been producing the killer Super Bo which was flooding San Francisco and its upscale suburbs and accounting for so many overdoses and deaths. Meanwhile a preliminary study of the bloodstains in the mansion indicated that numerous victims had perhaps died on the premises though all bodies had been removed.

Reuben didn’t want to wait for Jim any longer. He was too worried. He drove south to Carmel. Laura would have come down from the north to go with him, but he said no, that he had to find Jim and talk to him on his own.

That afternoon and evening Reuben walked up and down Ocean Avenue, in and out of shops and restaurants, looking for his brother in vain. He visited every inn and bed-and-breakfast. He visited the Catholic church and the Mission church. No Jim. He walked up and down the cold windswept beach until dark.

As the lights of the town came on, a great white fog moved in over the white sand. Reuben felt small and cold and miserable. When he closed his eyes, he didn’t hear the wind, or the sounds of passing traffic, or the roar of the waves banging the shore. He heard only the sound of Jim crying miserably in that suite at the Fairmont before the massacre, before the Twelfth Night feast.

“Dear God, please don’t let him suffer for this, for any of it,” Reuben prayed. “Please don’t let this hurt him, his conscience, or his will to go on.”

Wednesday morning, Grace called to say no one had heard a word from Jim, and this included the parish office and the archdiocese. Everyone was being very understanding. But she was near out of her head with worry. Reuben continued his search.

Billie called that night to tell him about all the rumors that Father Jim Golding of St. Francis at Gubbio was starting a Delancey Street–style hospice and rehab program for teens. “Now you listen to me, Reuben Golding,” she said. “You may be the most brilliant informal essayist since Charles Lamb, but I want an exclusive on this. This is your brother. You get to him and find out if this is going down. I hear he’s got a million-dollar donation for this rehab center. We need a long in-depth article on the entire program.”

“Well, I’ll do that, Billie, when I find him,” said Reuben. “Right now nobody knows where Jim is. Oh, my God. Listen, I have to get off the phone.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.” He couldn’t very well tell her that he’d just remembered the drug money in the green plastic garbage bag in the trunk of his Porsche.

And all this time it had been parked here and there on the streets all over Carmel!

On Thursday morning, well before sunrise, he headed back up to San Francisco. He was at the St. Francis at Gubbio parish office when it opened. He plunked the heavy garbage bag down on the receptionist’s desk. “Miss Mollie,” he said to the elderly woman, “this is an anonymous donation for the rehab center. I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I can say.”

“And that’s all you have to say, Reuben,” she replied, not even looking up as she reached for the phone. “I’ll call the bank.”

Hell, I’m a reporter, Reuben thought as he walked out, hoping and praying he’d find Jim in the church. They can’t make me divulge my sources. Jim was nowhere to be found. And a call to Grace soon confirmed that no one had heard from Jim. She was relieved to hear that Reuben would stay at the Fairmont for now.

Sometime after noon, he was awakened in the Fairmont suite by a call from Felix.

“Listen, I know your brother’s missing, and I know how concerned you are,” Felix said. “But is it at all possible for you to come home now?”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“There’s a little girl here, Reuben. She says she’s run away from home, that she wants to see you. And she won’t talk to anyone but you.”

“Oh, my God, this is Susie Blakely!” said Reuben.

“No, it’s not Susie,” said Felix. “This little girl is about twelve. She’s English. She has a beautiful English accent, as a matter of fact. It’s just a joy to listen to this child talk. Her name is Christine. She’s quite the little lady, though she’s been crying since she arrived. She was wet through as an abandoned kitten! She took something like four buses to get to Nideck and then the Forest Gentry found her walking along the road in the rain with her backpack. And in patent leather slippers. Elthram carried her up here. We’ve been doing our best to comfort her. She was at the Winterfest, I mean the Christmas party, Reuben, and I do remember seeing her there with a schoolteacher, but this little girl will not tell us her last name.”

“Wait a minute. I know who this is. The schoolteacher, her mother—she was wearing a beautiful old-fashioned hat in the village. She’s blond, with long hair.”

“Yes, that’s the woman. Exactly. She came with a whole class of schoolchildren from San Rafael. But I don’t know the name of the school. And she was wearing the most charming vintage Chanel suit. Quite an unforgettable woman. Very pretty. Who is this girl, Reuben?”

“You tell her not to worry, you keep her there, please, Felix, take care of her, don’t let her leave. And tell her that I’m coming, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”