Relic of Time by Ralph McInerny Page B

long since you’ve been in El Paso?”
    â€œThat question occurs to me every time I’m there.”
    â€œWhat was your idea?”
    â€œFollowing you.”
    â€œAnd before you accidentally saw me in the Amtrak station?”
    â€œI was still pondering possibilities. We’ll do better pooling resources.”
    Outside, Traeger told Crosby that he would follow him. Crosby shook his head.
    â€œNo, I’ll follow you. You have seniority.”
    â€œHow much is Hannan paying you?”
    â€œI’ll split it with you.”
    â€œThat’s fair enough.”
    Crosby was driving a Toyota. Well, he was too young to remember Pearl Harbor. First chance he got, Traeger turned off the freeway and headed south on a good state road. The problem he now faced was how to get rid of Crosby.
    The solution proved to be the human bladder: Crosby’s. Traeger pulled off at Crosby’s signal and accompanied him inside the oasis. They exchanged ignition keys as a precaution. As soon as Crosby was comfortable in a stall, Traeger left, transferred his things, let the air out of two tires of the car he was leaving for Crosby, and was on his way.

VIII
“I need your advice.”
    â€œYou won’t remember me,” the caller said to Clare. “My name is Miguel Arroyo and we met—”
    â€œOf course I remember you.”
    â€œGeorge Worth introduced us. Are you on leave or what?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI thought you were his assistant. George’s.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œJust a volunteer?”
    â€œWhy are you calling?”
    There was no accusation in Miguel’s voice, but, reminded of what she now considered her desertion of George, Clare felt riddled with guilt. She had tried to tell herself that it was only her attraction to George, but of course that was not all of it. How was it possible to agree so completely with the principles that drove George’s life and then, in effect, reject them? There was no way she could have lived the life he lived, in those conditions, with those people. How shallow that made her feel.
    â€œCould we get together?”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œNot ten miles away.”
    â€œHow did you know I was here?”
    â€œI didn’t. I called your cell phone number.”
    â€œWhere did you get that?”
    A pause. “George.”
    â€œSo how would you know where I answered my cell phone?”
    He laughed, and she remembered his face, his eyes, his teeth. He seemed summed up by his accidents. No, that wasn’t fair. In his way, Miguel was as much a zealot as George. She couldn’t believe that George would give him her number. She had seen his reaction to Miguel’s performance when the founder of Justicia y Paz came on to her at the house. She told Miguel so.
    â€œI couldn’t lie to you.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œLowry gave me your number.”
    Lowry! How had he gotten hold of it? Clare was certain she had never given it to the cook at the Catholic Worker house in Palo Alto. She could hardly accuse Arroyo of lying. But he had already admitted to lying once. Someone, obviously Lowry, must have told him that she was no longer working with George.
    â€œWhy should we get together?”
    â€œI need your advice.”
    Who can resist such a claim? His statement put her on a pedestal of authority, someone who could give sage advice, someone he needed. And so she agreed to meet him in Pinata.
    â€œI could come there.”
    â€œI’ll meet you.”
    Imagine inviting Miguel Arroyo into her father’s home. Don Ibanez looked with utter contempt on Justicia y Paz, considering it a mere instrument of Miguel Arroyo’s ambition. What hurt the most was that Don Ibanez had known Miguel’s grandfather.
    â€œA saint, Clare,” her father had whispered, “and I mean that. When he was in a room it was charged with his presence. He made a holy hour before the