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It’s been four weeks since I came here to Zurich. I am beginning to get impatient, hiding out here like a scared cat. I need to get back out there and get my project moving. I want my life back.
I dial Father O'Malley's number, and my fingers tense as I press the buttons. The phone rings for a moment before he picks up.
"Hello, Liam," Father O'Malley says, his voice calm and steady.
"Father, any news from Sarah?" I ask, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Ah, yes. I was just about to call you. Sarah and her team are progressing very aggressively on this task. They are very aware of the urgency and the time constraints pertaining to work-related deadlines.
“She mentioned that Martin has been quite helpful, virtually indispensable. Because of him, Sarah and her team were able toget their hands on some very crucial documents. He suggested that there might be some external threats targeting you, Liam; he even produced some threatening letters to back up his claims."
My grip on the phone tightens as I process this information. "Threatening letters? This is news to me. Have they been verified?"
"Sarah said they're looking into their authenticity. They just got them not too long ago. Martin also provided them with information about three potential adversaries to look into, people who apparently you had some beef with? — Gregory Thorn, Alicia Hayes, and Victor Martinez. Do these names ring a bell?"
The names send a chill down my spine as I recall past confrontations and business dealings, but no. Martin and Sarah are wasting time chasing butterflies here. I had business disagreements with each of them, but taking me out? Who does business like that? These were not empty threats . . . a man died.
"Martin has also offered invaluable assistance by acting as a liaison between the investigators and those outside your circle.” Father O’Malley continues. “He facilitated interviews and shared his perspective on possible threats. I got the impression that Sarah was very impressed with the cooperation she and her office is getting from your project manager, commending him for his resourcefulness and ability to navigate this complex web."
My fingers drum against the wooden desk, the steady rhythm a feeble attempt to ground myself as I pore over Martin's list of potential threats. My heart hammers in my chest, the weight of these accusations pressing down on me like a boulder, but there is a nagging feeling in my heart that tells me something is off here.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the rising anxiety.
"Father, I appreciate Martin's help, but those threats seem a little far-fetched to me. Business disagreements don't usually escalate to murder.”
“I wouldn’t claim to know much about your world, son, but this world we live in . . . sometimes it doesn’t take much. It all depends on the value someone attaches to the thing you threaten. In my world, I have come across people who have taken a life because of a girlfriend or boyfriend. In my head, I sometimes wonder, ‘Why not just go out and meet someone else?’ Not much makes sense to me.” Father O’Malley’s voice trails off as if that was more introspection than information sharing.
“Father, I need to get back to my life. I cannot hide here forever. I need to get back into the game and oversee my project. Can we expedite this investigation?"
Father O'Malley sighs, understanding the urgency in my voice.
"Liam, I share your concerns, but Sarah insists they need more time to validate the threats and dig deeper. Rushing back might compromise the accuracy of their findings."
"I know, Father. It's just frustrating being cooped up here while my life is on hold. I'll try to be patient," I reply, though patience is a virtue wearing thin these days.
"That is what I would advise for now, son. Until we know who is trying to kill you, you stay there and stay vigilant. Your safety is paramount. Let Sarah and the team conclude their investigation thoroughly. In the meantime, try to focus on your well-being and stay low-key."
“Any other news?” I say, hoping Father O’Malley will spare me the embarrassment of spelling out loud what I am asking.
“We lost Abigail Ricardo last week. It was a terrible blow to our community. She was greatly loved. She will be missed very much.”
“Oh no. Is Tony alright?”
“She is badly shaken. She tried so much to give her more time, but it was not her time to give, and it was not God’s wish. No. Tony is not ok, but there is nothing that time won’t heal.”
“Do you think—”
“I would wait.”
“I see . . .” and we both understand perfectly well, even the unsaid words.
We exchange a few more words before ending the call, the cool wintry breeze catching me through the cracked window like a phantom on a cold December night.
Staring out of the window, I grapple with the conflicting emotions of frustration and dissolution. I want to be with her . . . I need to be with her . . . she must be devastated, but how do I do it. What reason would I give this time?
And then there is the small detail of someone trying to neutralize me. How do I navigate that? I couldn’t go to her even if I wanted to. The killer is still out there, and if we don’t know behind which bush to look at or under which rock, I will not be safe anywhere in America. My father owns half of it. He and the secret society he belongs to.
Chapter thirty-seven
