Vincenzo sighed. “As much as I hate to say it. I fear there is some truth in that. Although I prefer to think of the believers not as suckers, but as seekers. I saw a village full of seekers today.”
Vincenzo went on to relate an abbreviated version of his stop in Cashelbanagh earlier today. When he finished he found the younger man staring at him in shock.
“You’re a priest?”
“Why, yes. A monsignor, to be exact.”
“That’s great!” he snapped, quaffing the rest of his ale. “And you’re going to New York? Just great! That really caps my day! No offense, but I hope we don’t run into each other.”
Without another word he rose and strode from Jim Cashman’s pub, leaving Vincenzo Riccio to wonder what he had said or done to precipitate such a hasty departure.
Perhaps Dan Fitzpatrick was an atheist.
‡
After a second pint of Murphy’s Vincenzo decided he’d brooded enough about miracles and unfriendly Americans. He pushed himself to his feet and ambled into the night.
A thick cold fog had rolled up from the sea along the River Lee, only a block away, and was infiltrating the city. Vincenzo was about to turn toward St. Patrick Street and make his way back to his hotel when he saw her.
She stood not two dozen feet away, staring at him. At least he thought she was staring at him. He couldn’t tell for sure because the cowled robe she wore pulled up around her head cast her face in shadow, but he could feel her eyes upon him.
His first thought was that she might be a prostitute, but he immediately dismissed that because there was nothing the least bit provocative about her manner, and that robe was anything but erotic.
He wanted to turn away but he could not take his eyes off her. And then it was she who turned and began to walk away.
Vincenzo was compelled to follow her through the swirling fog that filled the open plaza leading to the river. Strange... the lights that lined the quay silhouetted her figure ahead of him but didn’t cast her shadow. Who was she? And how did she move so smoothly? She seemed to glide through the fog...toward the river...to its edge...
Vincenzo shouted as he saw her step off the bulkhead, but the cry died in his throat when he saw her continue walking with an unbroken stride...upon the fog. He stood gaping on the edge as she canted her path to the right and continued walking downstream. He watched until the fog swallowed her, then he lurched about, searching for someone, anybody to confirm what he had just seen.
But the quay was deserted. The only witnesses were the fog and the River Lee.
Vincenzo rubbed his eyes and stumbled back toward the pub. The doctors had told him to stay away from alcohol, that his liver couldn’t handle it. He should have listened. He must be drunk. That was the only explanation.
Otherwise he could have sworn he’d just seen the Virgin Mary.
‡
The Judean Wilderness
Kesev sobbed.
He was still alive.
When will this END?
He’d tried numerous times before to kill himself but had not been allowed to die. He’d hoped that this time it would work, that his miserable failure to guard the Resting Place would cause the Lord to finally despair of him and let him die. But that was not to be. So here was yet another failure—one more in a too-long list.
The jolt from the sudden shortening of the rope had knocked him unconscious but had left his vertebrae and spinal cord intact. Its constriction around his throat had failed to strangle him. So now he’d regained consciousness to find himself swinging gently in Sharav a dozen feet above the ground.
For a few moments he let tears of frustration run through the desert dust that coated his cheeks, then he reached into his pocket for his knife and began sawing at the rope above his head.
Moments later he was slumped on the ground, pounding his fists into the unyielding earth.
“Is it not over, Lord?” he rasped. “Is that what this means? Do You have more plans for me? Do You want me to search out the Mother and return her to the Resting Place? Is that what You wish?”
Kesev struggled to his feet and staggered to his Jeep. He slumped over the hood.
That had to be it. The Lord was not through with him yet. Perhaps He would never be through with him. But clearly He wanted more from him now. He wanted the Mother back where she belonged and was not about to allow Kesev to stop searching for her.
But where else could he look? She’d been smuggled out of Israel and now could be hidden anywhere in the world. He had no clues, no trail to follow...
Except the Ferris woman. Who was she? Had that strange, unsettling nun on the plane been her, or someone pretending to be her? And did it matter? All he knew was that the Explorer he’d seen in the desert that day had been rented on her card. There might be no connection at all. The Mother could have been stolen days before then.
He gazed up into the cold, unblinking eye of the night.
“All right, Lord. I’ll continue looking. But I search now on my terms, my way. I’ll find the Mother for You and bring her back where she belongs. But you may not like what I do to the ones who’ve caused me this trouble.”
FIFTEEN
Manhattan
Dan finished tightening the last screw in the swivel plate. He flipped the latch back and forth, watching with inordinate satisfaction how easily its slot slipped over the swivel eye. He fitted the shackle of the brand new combination padlock through the eye.
“We’re in business, Carrie.”
She didn’t answer. She was busy inside the coal room with the Virgin. Or maybe busy wasn’t the right word. Carrie was engrossed, preoccupied, fascinated, enraptured with the Virgin.
The Virgin...Dan had heard Carrie refer to the body or statue or whatever it was so often as “the Virgin” that he’d begun thinking of it that way himself. Certainly easier than referring to it as the Whatever.
After an uneventful transatlantic trip, the Virgin had arrived in New York late last night. He and Carrie had been on the docks first thing this morning to pick her up. After passing through customs they spirited her crate through the front door to St. Joe’s basement, through the Loaves and Fishes kitchen, and down here to the subcellar. The old coal furnace that used to rule this nether realm had been dismantled and carted off when the diocese switched the church to gas heat. That left a wide open central space and a separate coal room that used to be fed by a chute from the alley. Carrie had chosen the old coal room as the perfect hiding place. It was ten by ten, the chute had been sealed up long ago, and it had a door, although the door had no lock. Until now.
Dan opened the door and stuck his face inside. He experienced an instant of disorientation, as if he were peering into the past, intruding upon an ancient scene from the Roman catacombs. A functioning light fixture was set in the ceiling, but it was off. Instead, flickering candlelight filled the old coal room, casting wavering shadows against the walls and ceiling. A couple of days ago Dan had lugged one of the folding tables from the mission down here and placed it where Carrie had directed, and that had been just about the last he’d seen of her until this morning. She’d spent every spare moment of the interval feverishly dusting, scrubbing, and dressing up the room, draping the table with a blanket, setting up wall sconces for the candles, appropriating flowers left behind in the church after weddings or funerals, making a veritable shrine out of the coal room.
A short while ago they’d opened the crate and he’d helped her place the Virgin’s board-stiff body on the table. Carrie had been fussing with her ever since.