“You mean naked?”
“That’s hardly a suitable topic for you and me to discuss.” Taking a deep breath, he folded his arms and gave her the best “stern authority figure” glare he could manage under the circumstances. “And now, young lady, if you don’t mind my asking, what is your name and what is your connection to young Samuel?”
Diana’s smile broadened. “Samuel,” she repeated under her breath. “Should’ve known better than to give out his name.” Refocusing on Father Harris—whose expression had slipped closer to “confused elder trying to make sense of the young and failing miserably”—she asked, “Did he stay here last night?”
“Yes, but he was gone this morning. Now, see here young lady…”
“May I please see where he slept?”
About to demand that she answer his earlier question concerning who she was and what she wanted, Father Harris found himself stepping back into the foyer and leading the way up the stairs.
The alleged angel had slept in a small room at the end of the hall. It held a single bed, a bedside table, a dresser, and what was probably another picture of Saint Patrick. This one was a poster, stuck to the wall with those little balls of blue sticky stuff that invariably soaked oil through the paper. The elderly saint had only two legs in this picture, was wearing church vestments, and was, once again, banishing snakes.
“I don’t know what you thought you’d find.” The priest folded his arms, determined to make a stand. This was his house and…
A phone rang.
Downstairs.
It continued to ring. And ring.
“Please, don’t mind me,” Diana told him. “I’ll just stay up here a moment longer.”
He was halfway back to his office before he wondered why Mrs. Verner hadn’t answered the phone.
Diana reached into the possibilities as she stepped up to the poster.
The saint blinked twice and focused on her face. “And what’ll it be, then, Keeper?”
“I need some information about the guy who stayed here last night.”
The lines across the saint’s forehead deepened. “Oh, and you haven’t noticed that I’m up to my ankles in snakes here; what is it that makes you think I was paying any attention?”
“Well, I…”
“You wouldn’t be having a beer on you, would you?” A short but powerful kick knocked a snake right out of the picture.
“Why would a saint want a beer?”
“I’m an Irish saint, and you can pardon me for being a stereotype, but I was originally painted five hundred years ago and I’m a wee bit dry. Now, what was your question again?”
“Do you know where the guy who stayed here last night went when he left this morning?”
“The angel?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea. But I’m telling you, Keeper, there was something funny about that boy.” He shook his head in disgust, halo wobbling a bit with the motion. “Who ever heard of a confused angel, eh? In my day, angels had no emotions, they did what they were sent down to do and then they went home. Is this like to be some New Age thing?”
“I don’t know.”
Another snake ventured too close and was punted off to the left. “There’s going to be trouble, you mark my words. An angel without a purpose is like a…a…”
“A religion with no connection to the real world?”
“Who asked you?”
“Did he use the bed?”
“Aye, he laid himself down although I can’t say I know why since he doesn’t have to sleep. Good old-fashioned angels, they didn’t lay down. Have you heard he’s got himself a…” His hand pumped the air by his crotch.…
…which wasn’t a gesture Diana thought she’d ever see a saint make. “I heard.”
“And what’s the idea behind that, I ask you? You listen to me, Keeper; angels today, they have no…”
Figuring she couldn’t really be rude to a metaphysical construct, Diana cut him off in mid rant. It looked like he was winding up for another kick, and she was starting to feel a little sorry for the snakes.
The hand of Mrs. Verner was apparent in the precision of the bed making—sheets and blankets tucked so tightly in they disdained a mere bouncing of quarters and were ready instead to host a touring company of Riverdance. Not expecting much, Diana checked for anything that might have been left behind—it was, after all, a day when miracles had already happened. Skimming the surface with her palm, she drew a two-toned hair from under the edge of the pillow but nothing else.
“Have you finished?”
The hair went into her pocket as she turned toward the priest. “Yes. Thank you. He didn’t tell you where he was heading?”
“He didn’t tell me he was going to leave,” Father Harris answered shortly. At the bottom of the stairs he turned to face her. “I want you to know that if you kids are mixed up in drugs…”
“Drugs?”
“Yes, drugs. Nothing that boy said last night made any sense.”
“Unless everything he said was the truth.” Widening her eyes and cocking her head to one side, Diana gazed up at the priest. “Don’t you believe in angels, Father Harris?”
“Angels?”
“Yes.”
“His Holiness the Pope has argued for the existence of angelic spirits, and therefore the official position of the Catholic Church is that they are insubstantial.”
“Okay. And you personally?”
“I, personally, remain uncertain. However,” he continued, cutting off her incipient protest with an upraised finger, “I am sure that young Samuel was, and is, no angel.”
“Why?”
“He had…” The priest’s gesture was considerably less explicit than the saint’s.
“An upset stomach? A basketball?”
“GENITALIA!”
Which pretty much ended the conversation.
Standing on the porch, Diana watched her breath plume out and came to a decision.
In the church, St. Margaret began singing “Climb Every Mountain.”
“Uh, Claire, your head’s kind of…”
“Pointy and striped? Don’t worry, it’s just hat head.” She tossed the toque behind the seat and ran her fingers up through her hair, dislodging most of the red and white. “When Diana was ten, she decided to make everyone’s Christmas present and this was mine. I know it looks dorky, but it’s really warm and it’s getting cold out there.”
“Getting cold?” Austin pressed against Dean’s thigh and glared up at her. “Getting? I’m warning you, don’t touch me again with any part of your body or any one of your garments.”
“Look, I’m very sorry that the edge of my jacket brushed against your ear.”
“The frozen edge of your jacket.” He flicked the ear in question. “And I accept your apology only because I seem to be getting some feeling back.”
“Did you get the hole closed okay?” Dean asked as Claire fastened her seat belt. He told himself he watched only to be sure she was secured before he began driving, that it had nothing to do with the way the belt pressed the fabric down between her breasts. Unfortunately, he was a terrible liar and he didn’t believe himself for a moment.
“No problems. It looked like one of those big off-road vehicles actually went off the road, and the driver had no idea of how to use the four-wheel drive because he’d only bought the car to prove his was bigger.”
“And you could tell that from the hole?”
She flashed him a grin. “I extrapolated a little, there really wasn’t much there. I probably only got Summoned because it was on the shoulder of a major highway and could have caused accidents. And, of course, the more accidents it caused, the bigger it’d get. You know.”
He didn’t, but he was beginning to get the idea. Shifting into first, he pulled carefully back out onto the 401. “Can I ask you something?”
“Seven. But none of them meant anything to her.”
“Austin!”
“And Jacques was dead, so maybe he shouldn’t…”