The Fifth Stone

By Baxter Mallory

In an attempt to distance himself from his devastating past, a down and out young man named Michael relocates to Brooklyn. He works doing odd jobs as he forges new relationships. He is particularly close to Danny, his boss, and Sara, his crippled daughter. While repairing a water damaged ceiling in a convent, he discovers a clue to locating a priceless artifact from Europe's Dark Ages. He experiences many harrowing twists and turns as he travels through Ireland and France culminating in Zurich. His life takes a 360 degree turn during the process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baxter Mallory
• Release date: Jun 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311437891

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Danny could see his breath in the crisp, fall morning. He rubbed his hands together and watched the young man sweeping his sidewalk. His name was Michael—and that’s pretty much all he knew. The guy had appeared from out of nowhere two years earlier, looking for odd jobs; he had been helping Danny ever since. Danny muttered under his breath, Damn, I don’t even know the guy’s last name. Regardless of how little he knew about the man, Danny trusted him implicitly, even with his daughter, Sara, who was bound to a wheelchair. Danny was especially protective of her.

It was late September; Danny’s eyes drifted toward his weathered marquee. He ran a typical mom and pop market in Brooklyn. He offered a little bit of everything—eclectic, for sure. He admired the surrounding landscape. The persimmon-colored leaves lit up the streets, their stubborn green veins resisting their inevitable demise. In a nearby schoolyard, the children’s voices seemed to have a sharp echo in the crisp air. He took solace in the familiarities of the day.

Danny called out, Hey, Michael, this job is beneath you. For Christ’s sake, get out into the real world and make a decent buck. The young man looked up at him, rolled his eyes, and kept sweeping. Danny scratched his head. He thought this young man must’ve come from good people, people who gave a good goddamn. Funny, the less you know about a guy, the more curious you get. There were two questions he couldn’t figure out: where Michael came from and where he went at night. None of his business, he figured; he just wanted to know the kid was safe, warm, and cared for. He was not sure Michael had those luxuries. There were the sisters at St. John’s Convent; Michael helped them out every week. He supposed they gave him some mothering, maybe even some of Sister Bernadette’s home cooking. He crossed his fingers and hoped for the best. This kid should have a better job; in the short time he’d been helping out at the market, he was steadfast—not one slip up. It just didn’t make sense.

Danny tried again. For God’s sake, Michael, where are you sleeping? It’s getting colder now.

With some buddies, Michael mumbled.

Danny knew the conversation was over. He raised his arms skyward. Get him—he doesn’t want to talk about it! Whenever Michael exhibited a certain body language, it was obvious the subject was getting too personal. Michael would look down at the ground and clam up.

On the other hand, Danny liked to put it across—legs spread apart with his hands clenched in a loose fist. Hey, what was the point of being Italian if you didn’t shout it out a little—give the bullies something to think about? Sure, he wasn’t the tallest tree on the block, but he could act the part. As he walked away, a smug smile emerged on his face. Danny prided himself on his ability to shelter his emotions; his beloved wife and son had been killed in a car accident. Nobody would catch him cryin’.

It was the same accident that had put his little Sara in a wheelchair, although, she really was not so little anymore. She was a young woman. Sweet Sara, Danny thought. She never complained. He was grateful that Michael, in addition to helping him out in the store, was willing to take her ‘round the neighborhood every so often, getting a cone or going shopping. Hell, when the weather was good, Michael even took her into Manhattan some Sundays. What a blessing that was! Danny’s store was open sixteen hours a day, and he wasn’t able to do those things for her.

When you’re finished, get some lunch, grunted Danny. He watched Michael stand back and admire his work, like it was some big deal. It was probably a diversion; maybe he was obsessive-compulsive or whatever they called it. There was a new rule in New York City; storeowners were responsible for sweeping the sidewalk outside their store. New York City collected a lot of cigarette butts, chicken bones, dead mice, and other questionable items. Less garbage meant fewer rats. Fortunately, it also meant a few extra bucks for this mysterious man.

Danny turned, walked back into the warmth of the store, and drew in the familiar aroma of cinnamon buns and freshly brewed coffee mingled with a faint whiff of tobacco. The dim overhead lighting disguised the original wooden floor that creaked under his shoes as he headed behind the counter. His eyes landed on the sliding top of the soft drink cooler that was cracked just an inch; he made a mental note to get it fixed. The original copper-embossed ceiling underscored the age of the store. As far as a security system went, there was a handgun beneath the register and a fake overhead camera. It was a pleasure to enter his corner of the world, where time had stood still.

Hey, Danny, I put the broom and stuff in the back. Michael walked over to the self-serve counter, popped the top on a can of soup, and put it in the tired little microwave.

Great, grunted Danny. With a ding, the cash register drawer opened; he pulled out a few bills and handed them to Michael.

Thanks, Danny. Michael removed his soup and pocketed a sandwich. See ya tomorrow. Say hi to Sara for me. He slowed his pace. Does she need anything? I haven’t gone up to see her in a couple of days.

Danny heaved a sigh. She’s doin’ ok, it’s her 30th birthday next week—I’m thinkin’ of a little celebration. Want to join us?

Sure, Danny. Need any help with planning?

Yah, I’ll keep you posted. It’ll be cake and ice cream. He gave Michael a wink. And a surprise for my little girl. Probably ‘round two in the afternoon—before the kids get out of school. By the way, would you mention it to Father Murphy and the sisters? And tell Mrs. De too!

Count on it, Danny. There was a familiar tinkling of the aging overhead bell as Michael left the store.

Danny heaved a sigh of relief; he had never planned a party before. Michael and the gang would certainly help him brighten the occasion. Hell, he didn’t even know how to pour coffee right, let alone set a pretty table. He was excited about his surprise for her. He had saved up big time for this one!

*******

Michael hunched his shoulders against the wind. As he walked, he thought about Danny. He was a neighborhood character for sure. The locals were fond of calling the storeowner DeVito Number Two. He had the same walk and physique as Danny De Vito, right down to his manner of speaking. He portrayed a tough exterior; however, he was a softie at heart. His gruff mask slipped now and then; close friends were aware of his gentle side. Michael found Danny’s softer demeanor most evident when he spoke of his daughter Sara.

Michael continued walking down the familiar sidewalks. He felt at home in this neighborhood. He knew all the shop owners and most of the residents. He felt he had become a necessary addition to this modest community. He filled his seven-day workweek to the brim. To him, the sense of belonging was just as important as the money. This city was expensive beyond belief. Although the seasoned panhandlers made more money, it was about his self-respect. He couldn’t take handouts with no more effort than clutching a cup in his hand.

Not that he didn’t have his moments of despair; he had been to the bottom of the barrel, but things were getting better. He averaged about six hundred a week, and he kept his expenses low. If he were forced to apply for Medicaid or food stamps, it would be the last straw. His nightly routine included the gym, stopping in at Mel’s Bar for dinner and a drink, and then his last stop of the day was the hostel, just before their curfew. No doubt, the Sally Anne—the Salvation Army—was a Godsend in his current situation. Someday, he hoped to be able to donate to their cause.

Most of his earnings were eaten up in a nanosecond. He needed a nest egg, a fallback, just in case. Even so, other than the constant financial struggle, things were good. He reminded himself of his good health and his extended family: Sara and Danny, Mrs. De, and the sisters at the convent were at the top of the list. Also, Adam, the bartender at Mel’s, could always be counted on for some intellectual sparring each evening.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the familiar face of an older woman. Her arms were crossed in front of her slim body; her graying hair was pulled back in a loose braid. The old-fashioned print dress and black oxford shoes mirrored a time gone by. He admired her firm, proud stance as she stood in the doorway to her store. The sign above her read, DeMarco’s Meats, Serving You Since 1958. She and Vinnie, her late husband, opened the store together years ago.

Hey, Mrs. De! He gingerly hugged her slender frame, planting a kiss on her cheek.

She reached up on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek in return. I’m finally ready to sell the place, Michael. An old woman like me will have to hire a realtor. An animated rebelliousness came over her face. Scalpers! Six percent, for what? She shook her head in defiance. What if it sells fast—why the same charge?

Michael smiled. He enjoyed her feisty spirit.

Come up for cookies and hot chocolate, Michael. I have a proposition for you.

Thanks, Mrs. De. Michael was curious. He loved to sit in her living room; it was like an inner sanctum—no traffic noise, no TV, no phones ringing. Although he could not identify the scent in her apartment, it reminded him of his Gramma’s home. As he climbed the stairs behind her, he noticed her pace was slower.

Mrs. De chortled, somehow knowing what he was thinking. Mind the cat, she’s getting old, too!

Missy the cat. He had never considered himself a cat person, but apparently Missy did since she ended up in his lap each time he dropped in for a visit. He wondered where the cat would go when the old lady left. He entered the cozy living room filled with family photos and took a seat on the over-stuffed sofa. A silver tea service shone brightly on the sideboard. As the grandfather clock softly ticked away the minutes, he glanced over at an old cookie tin on the kitchen counter that provided an unending supply of oatmeal or sugar cookies made with real butter.

Remembering these moments was like a warm blanket on a cold night. Missy sniffed around his legs; she stretched, catapulted up, and made a bed on his lap. It was funny about cats—ignore them, and they sought you out.

The lengthy conversation revolved around her move to Florida. After some discussion, Michael agreed to sit in on the interviews with potential realtors. He would help her with packing and keep her son Pauley (who had already moved to Florida) informed of the progress. Pauley wanted his mom with him by Christmas. Michael was astonished at her ability to cope with the move; she was almost eighty years old.

He got up to leave. Oh, by the way, there is a birthday party for Sara next week. Let Danny know if you can drop over.

Mrs. De looked concerned. How is Sara doing? That accident—so terrible. She was in the hospital for such a long time, and then to come home to such emptiness! She must be lonely with Danny down at the store all day.

It’s a tough life for sure, Mrs. De. I’m not sure how I would react if I were cooped up like that. It just goes to show; even people who have had a tough break don’t need to turn sour.

Is there any chance she will walk again?

I don’t know. I want to ask her—or Danny—although, I’m afraid of the answer. She goes to physical therapy to keep her leg muscles from withering, he paused, but that’s all I know. Michael silently scolded himself. Withering—what a dreadful word.

Tell Danny I’ll bring her favorite cake. By the way, Father Murphy said the sisters have been asking for you.

They need some gutter cleaning, Mrs. De. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Michael slowly shut the door, waiting for Missy to remove her tail. A typical cat, she always had the last say.

Michael headed home, reviewing their conversation. Mrs. De always had time to listen. These days, it was not always a person’s family who played the parental roles. Relatives were spread far and wide. He would miss the long conversations they shared. How well he knew, nothing is forever.

His thoughts jumped to the sisters; he would go over first thing tomorrow morning. He zipped up his jacket; walking in the twilight, he could see the Sally Anne Hostel looming in the distance. It was a dimly lit building with bare windows; however, the golden glow of the naked light bulbs remained a welcome sight for the homeless. Unfortunately, he could be counted as a homeless person.

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning came, and Michael headed out early. He hopped on the subway and made his way to St. John’s Convent. Subways were a great place for his incurable habit of people watching. Few adults ever made eye contact; only the little kids would give him a tentative smile. Most folks read books or listened to their iPods. Older men and women read newspapers from foreign countries.

At his stop, he stepped off the subway and hurried through the bustling crowd; the throng’s momentum ruled his pace. In the world of New York subways, the phrase seething mass of humanity was nothing short of literal. Music coming from the underground street musicians wafted down through the tunnels, adding melody to the beat of the marching feet. Moving up the steps into the sunlight, he felt an enthusiasm he couldn’t explain. He was really looking forward to seeing the sisters of St. John’s today. Somehow, he just knew it would be a good, important day, and it would start with seeing what he could do to help out the sisters.

A diminutive nun with lively eyes opened the door of the convent. A wide smile spread across his face. Morning, Sister Bernadette. Sorry I’ve taken so long.

Go on with ya lad! It’s good to see you! Bless your heart. Come and sit yourself down—would ya be wantin’ some breakfast? The petite nun gathered up her voluminous ink-black skirts and led Michael down the long hallway. We have a wee bit of leakin’ in one of the dormitory rooms. A backup of leaves in the gutters, I suppose.

Michael smiled as he followed her down the hallway, amused at how she gathered her skirts in one hand, and waved the other hand toward the heavens. She was forever in a hurry. Her head appeared to be about six inches in front of her body; her veil literally flowed in the breeze as she flew down the passage.

The little nun continued, Glorious as leaves can be, they can be troublesome. The good Lord doesn’t give us anything for free.

Her voice rose to a higher pitch on the words glorious and Lord. Michael tried to keep his face straight. If the ceiling is damp, we’ll need to check for mold or mildew.

We are so blessed to have you, Michael. The contractors in our parish take a pound of flesh when it comes to repairs. She shook her head and continued toward the kitchen.

The old nun’s Irish brogue tickled Michael. He hoped one day to travel to Ireland; it would be a kick. His Irish mother had the same sense of humor and occasional remnants of a similar accent.

Sister, did you know Mrs. De is selling her home and moving in with Pauley?

Aye lad, we heard—Father thinks ‘tis best. ‘Twill be mighty hard to see her leave. She’ll be missed at our quilting sessions. The younger members are busy holding down two jobs to keep the family afloat. Perhaps a slight exaggeration to be sure, but times are a-changin’. She paused to catch her breath. Many of our Italian convents are now offering board and room for travelers. Men, women, and children—can you imagine! She lowered her voice as if to tell a secret. It keeps the convents out of the red. I never thought I would see the day. Pope Pius will be a turnin’ in his grave!" She appeared to be muttering to herself, rather than to Michael.

They finally arrived at the fifty-year-old kitchen, which remained unchanged. Remodeling would destroy the charm in here! Michael took a seat at the sturdy wooden table. He looked out over the sparkling white enamel counter. The utensils were kept in an old milk pitcher. An oversized stainless steel sink held an assortment of rinsed carrots and beans. There was no dishwasher or garbage disposal in this kitchen. The white cotton curtains trimmed in blue bric-a-brac softened the room. A fresh bouquet of pussy willows and dried orange jack-o-lantern flowers adorned the window.

Here, Michael. Warm tea, eggs, and toast—and Sister Olivia’s homemade jam.

The joy in her voice was palpable. She sat down beside him with a cup of tea.

And how are ya doin’, lad? There was something about the old nun; every time she asked him a question, it seemed like she looked straight into his soul. It was not a piercing stare; nevertheless, it was powerful.

He felt obliged to respond with depth and clarity. "You know, Sister, I must figure out a way to stand on my own two feet. I need to get a room of my own somewhere, even if it means leaving the city.

Now, my boy, we will pray for you. You’ll soon be on your way to a better place in life. But we’re sure hopin’ you won’t be leaving our borough.

The little nun spoke with such authority, it raised his spirits. I’ll keep trying. I do believe in a higher power.

Sister Bernadette nodded and winked; The good Lord has a plan. You’ll see.

Michael wolfed down the breakfast. Thanks, Sister, for your good thoughts. I hope I didn’t eat too fast.

Nonsense, lad—not at all!

Michael loved that she called him lad. She was a matriarchal figure in his life. I’m off for the ladder, Sister.

*******

A little while later, Michael returned to the kitchen. Sister, are you there?

Sister Bernadette leaned around the corner and asked, How did the gutters look? Did ya find anything?

I cleared out a lot of wet leaves; they are some of your problem. Let’s look at the room you mentioned.

They headed down the hall, the little nun wiping her hands on her apron as they went. She explained the room had belonged to Sister Abreanne, who passed away some time ago. It was no longer occupied. Here we are. She stopped by a door and gestured for him to enter. You can see the ceiling looks damp. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.

Michael nodded and entered the empty room; he felt compelled to sit for a moment. There was a spiritual aura present, although, the room was quite austere. Perhaps it was the profound silence and the knowledge that its last occupant was no longer on this earth. A simple wooden cross adorned the wall over the bed. The ivory-colored chenille bedspread camouflaged the lumpy mattress; a small bathroom mirror over the medicine cabinet reflected the unassuming scene. He gazed over to the little bathroom; glossy, white tiles stretched from floor to ceiling.

He brought himself back to the moment, crossed himself almost unconsciously, and pulled the chair to rest under the designated wet spot on the ceiling. Climbing up and pulling the trowel out of his pocket, he began removing the damp area on the ceiling. He mindlessly chipped away, thinking about Sara’s upcoming birthday. He really needed to find her a gift.

Suddenly, the ceiling began crumbling and caving in. He was startled as a huge chunk fell to the floor. Damn! He reached in, pulling out chunks of damp wallboard. There was mold, and not just a little. Double damn! He pulled away all the damaged drywall and part of the adjoining wall. The ceiling’s vent cover hung by a thread. As he scraped the last bits away, his trowel bumped the vent, and a rattling sound of metal came from within—perhaps a carpenter forgot some tools; it wouldn’t be the first time.

He peered down the duct and paused; a rush of curiosity came over him. A red metal tin was sitting in the vent, just within reach. The