Entering a part of town he thought he recognized, Pearse saw her glance back again. It was clear she had meant for the man to see her looking at him. Pearse, as well. She immediately darted down another side street. Pearse watched as the man pulled a gun from his jacket and followed.
It was now or never. Still close to the buildings, he waited for the man to make the turn. He then sprinted out after him, careening around the corner.
In an instant, Pearse saw what Petra had contrived. She was standing twenty feet from the man, Ivo tucked in behind her, the box held out at arm’s length. The man had stopped, the gun aimed at her.
But it was only for an instant. Before the man could react, Pearse came crashing into his back, the collision propelling them both to the ground. Still on top of him, Pearse drove his fist into the man’s neck, rote responses from a part of his mind he hadn’t tapped into for years. With his other hand, he grabbed the man’s hair and pummeled his skull into the cobblestone, the second thrust enough to leave the body limp.
Trying to catch his breath, Pearse rolled off the man and stared up at the sky.
Only then did he hear the screams from Ivo. He immediately flipped over and saw Petra sitting up against one of the buildings, Ivo clutching at her, his face contorted in tears.
Pearse struggled to his feet. He raced toward them. Dropping down at her side, he saw her hands holding an area to the left side of her abdomen. They were stained red.
“It’s okay, Ivi. It’s okay. It’s not so bad,” she said breathing through the pain. She looked up at Pearse. “It went off when you jumped him.”
Pearse hadn’t even heard the gun discharge. All thought seemed to vanish. He pulled off his shirt and placed it over the wound. “We need to get you to-”
“I know.”
“I need to find a car.”
Petra nodded her head toward the next street. “It’s down there.”
Pearse looked up. That’s why it all looked so familiar. That’s why she had brought them back here. He jumped to his feet and started running. “Stay with Mommy, Ivo. I’ll be right back.”
He tore down the side street, the van no more than thirty yards from him. Two minutes later, he was lifting her from the pavement, laying her flat in the back of the van. Ivo climbed in by her side.
“So that’s how you take out a catcher?” she said, the look of pain no less intense on her face.
“Something like that.” He found a blanket and placed it under her head.
“Did he drop the ball?”
Pearse looked into her eyes, his hand brushing back the hair from her forehead. “Yeah. He dropped it.”
She tried to smile. “The main road. Take a right. The hospital’s about a half mile down.”
Pearse shut the back door, picked up the box, and got in behind the wheel. He slid open the partition. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
As he pulled the car around, he heard Ivo singing to her, his tiny voice echoing from the back.
No one had bothered to ask about a bullet wound. The hospital had been too overrun to quibble about the details. They had been nice enough to find him a shirt.
It was two hours since they’d taken Petra-Pearse and Ivo left to sit with the rest of the shell-shocked, waiting for word. Ivo, cradled on his lap, had alternated between sleep and tears, his first half hour without her almost frantic. He had started by punching at Pearse, blaming him for everything, until his little body had given out. The first nap, followed by complete disorientation, more hysteria, a second breaking point, then a third. Finally, he had simply sat, eyes staring out blankly. Pearse had tried to talk to him, but it had made no difference.
One constant: the ball he clutched in his hand.
From conversations around him, Pearse had discovered that the explosion hadn’t destroyed a church; it had blown up the Velika Dzamija, the Great Mosque. Unjust retribution, he had been told. Only when he’d moved to the television in the corner of the waiting area had he understood what they’d meant. The three churches yesterday had been just the beginning. News reports brought him up-to-date on the atrocities occurring across Europe and beyond. And, of course, the Vatican. The mosque had simply been one instance of Christian backlash-at least that was the way Bosnian television was interpreting it. They were expecting a good deal more. The Middle East was already up in arms about the accusations. The Vatican was calling for all Christians-all-to come together in peace. The battle lines were being drawn.
And all to bring about the one true and holy church. The thought sickened him.
A doctor approached. “You brought in the woman with the abdominal wound?” he asked.
Pearse stood, petrified by what he might hear next.
“She’ll be fine,” he said. “The bullet went straight through her side, no vital organs, but she obviously needs to stay with us for a day or so. You can see her now.”
Pearse picked up Ivo and followed the doctor along a series of corridors before coming to a room with eight beds. Petra lay in the one nearest the window. The doctor nodded toward her, then headed out. Before Pearse could take a step, Ivo had dropped down and was racing to her side. He lay his head next to hers on the pillow.
She looked remarkably serene given what she had just been through.
“Hey, Ivi,” she said, still well drugged. She brought her hand up and began to stroke his hair. “Mommy’s going to be okay.”
Pearse pulled a chair over and sat down. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve had worse,” she said, her smile weak, Ivo now clutching at her arm.
“I didn’t think the gun-”
“Neither did I,” she said. “Just unlucky.” She stared over at him. “I guess you could tell me you’re sorry.” Again the smile.
“I guess I could.”
Ivo started to cry.
“Mommy’s okay, sweet pea. We’re just going to have to be here for a few days. The doctor says you can sleep right next to me. They’re going to bring in a cot, and blankets. How about that?”
Ivo kissed her cheek. “Okay.”
She looked back at Pearse. She took his hand.
Gazing down at her, he realized how scared he had actually been. To lose her again.
“No cot for you,” she said.
“I need to stay.”
“No, you need to go.” She waited. “I want my son back, Ian. No more little shrines. If what’s in the box can do that, then you have to go and do that. Okay?”
Pearse looked into her eyes. “I need you to know-”
“I do. I know.”
For several minutes, neither said a word.
“Ivi and I will be just fine here, won’t we?”
Ivo pressed his head closer into her.
Again, Pearse said nothing. He leaned over and kissed her. Pulling back, he ran his fingers along her cheek.
Finally, he stood and looked over at Ivo, happily tucked into his mother’s neck.
“I’ll see you soon, little man.”
Without moving, Ivo looked up at him.
“Keep an eye on Mommy for me, okay?”
Ivo smiled.
What more did he need than that?
seven
The last day and a half had been nothing short of a miracle, the first bombings-including the devastation at the Vatican-merely a prelude to the madness of the past nine hours. The wave of fear, mixed with outrage, was producing a kind of support Harris had never experienced in all his years connected with mass movements. Even the millennium nuts were getting involved. Religious commitment-whose death the pundits had been tolling for years-was having a genuine rebirth. Spontaneous rallies were springing up all over the place, doctrinal defensiveness evidently inspiring action. And what had begun with groups in the hundreds-petitioners in city squares, others outside state assemblies demanding greater “spiritual” security-had grown to ten times that number in a matter of hours.