But how to go about it?
Charlie was running one of his fevers again, semi-comatose most of the time, and when he was responsive he was delirious—no idea of who he was or where he was or even that he was sick. He couldn’t pray to this object, couldn’t ask it or anyone else for help.
So that left it up to Arthur to do the praying.
Maybe Charlie and the object should be closer. And since it was such a major task to move Charlie’s set-up with its IVs and oxygen tank, Arthur figured the easiest way to get the two together was to move the body.
If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain...
He turned to Emilio. “Let’s move her over by Charlie, table and all.”
Emilio held back a moment. He’d seemed to be keeping his distance from the body. Strange...Arthur had always thought of Emilio as the least superstitious man he’d ever met. When he finally approached, they each took an end of the coffee table and, carrying it like a stretcher, moved the table and its burden around the couch and set it down next to Charlie’s hospital bed.
Arthur then said a prayer, asking the Lord to forgive Charlie for his past and to allow the healing powers in this relic—be it the remains of His earthly mother or some other holy person—to drive the infection from his son’s wasted body so that he might continue his life and have an opportunity to make up for the evil ways of his past.
As he finished the prayer with a heartfelt recital of the “Our Father,” Arthur slipped Charlie’s painfully thin, limp, clammy arm through the guard rail and guided it toward the body on the table. He pressed the back of Charlie’s hand against its dry cheek and held it there.
Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he was hoping for more than what he got, which was nothing.
He swallowed his disappointment. He had to keep in mind that there’d been no pyrotechnics associated with the Manhattan healings, so the lack of them here didn’t mean that nothing had happened.
He held Charlie’s hand against the skin for a good fifteen minutes, all the while praying for mercy for his son, then he replaced the arm under the bedsheet.
He noticed Emilio standing off to the side, staring out at the darkness. He seemed preoccupied.
“Well,” Arthur said, “all we can do now is watch and wait.”
Emilio nodded but said nothing.
Arthur shrugged and turned on the TV. He felt as if he were in a vise. The destruction of the churches in the Far East, moving west, the storm in the Pacific, moving east. The Weather Channel said it was still headed for the southern part of the state. Paraiso would get only the fringe winds.
Good. In the morning he’d have some blood drawn on Charlie for a stat CD-4 count. If this relic had done its work, the count would be up and Charlie’s fever would break.
Please, God. Not for me...for Charlie.
He switched to CNN for the latest on the churches and wound up in the middle of a story about the theft of a religious object from a Manhattan church. Film showed close-ups of enraged faces and crowds tipping over police cars and smashing store windows.
Arthur’s stomach lurched and he glanced back at the body on the table next to Charlie’s bed. That was the only object they could be talking about. But why such coverage—on CNN of all places? He hadn’t expected this kind of commotion. He’d have to have Emilio drop it off someplace where it could be “discovered” tomorrow.
And then the screen showed the newswoman at a desk with the face of a young nun superimposed over her shoulder. Arthur leaned forward, straining his ears because what she was saying could not be true. The young nun had been murdered during the theft of the object.
Murdered!
Arthur swiveled in his seat and tried to rise to his feet but his legs wouldn’t support him.
“Emilio?” he gasped. “You didn’t...you couldn’t have...” But the look in Emilio’s eyes told him more than any words could say. “Dear God, Emilio! Dear God!”
‡
Manhattan
As Dan watched, a pale, dark-haired young woman in a long white coat stepped inside the rectory side door.
Dan dropped his drink. His knees buckled and he clutched the back of a chair to keep from falling. He opened his mouth to speak but his voice wasn’t there.
Carrie!
“I have to go to California, Dan,” she said evenly as she entered the front room.
He stumbled forward and threw his arms around her.
“Carrie!” he croaked. “You’re alive! Thank God, you’re—”
She stood stiff and unresponsive in his embrace; her skin was cold against his cheek. Her chill transmitted to him. Spicules of ice formed in his blood as she spoke again.
“No, Dan. I’m not.”
Dan released her and backed away. She was staring at him with her bright blue eyes, but they were her only lively feature; the rest of her face was slack, and her voice...hollow. Not movie-zombie dead and robotic. It had timbre and tone, but something was missing. Emotion. She was like some of the guests at Loaves and Fishes who came in stoned on downers.
An inane question popped out of his reeling mind: “How did you get here?”
“I walked.”
He noticed Kesev had risen and was standing beside him.
“Carrie...” Dan’s mind whirled, refusing to accept what he was seeing. “I...you...the doctors said you were dead.”
She reached forward and took his hand—her touch was so cold. She freed his index finger from the others and pulled the front of her lab coat open. She pressed the tip of Dan’s finger into the small round hole along the inner border of her left breast.
“He killed me, Dan.”
Dan cried out in anguish and revulsion as he tore his hand free. The room dipped and veered to the left, then the right. The Scotch, the concussion, seeing Carrie murdered, getting her back but not getting her back because she wasn’t really back...it was all too much. Unable to stand any longer, he sank to his knees before her.
“Oh, God, Carrie! What is this? What does it mean?”
“I have to go to California, Dan. Please help me get there.”
“Calif—?”
Kesev stepped forward. “Why California? Is that where the Mother is?”
Carrie turned and stared at Kesev as if seeing him for the first time. She took a step backward and something twitched in her expression. Dan tried to decipher it: Surprise? Wonder? Fear?
“You...I know who you are now.”
“The Mother?” Kesev said quickly. “She’s in California now?”
“Yes. I have to be with her.”
“Can you take us to her?”
“I need help. We have to hurry. We have to fly.”
“Yes, yes!” Kesev said excitedly. “We will leave immediately!”
Dan struggled back to his feet. “Now just a damn minute! We’re not going anywhere until I know—”
“The Mother is there!” Kesev’s eyes were bright as he leaned into Dan’s face. “The sister will lead us to her.”
“No! This is crazy! I’ll call the police. Detective Garner—”
As Dan turned to reach for the phone, Kesev grabbed his arm. His fingers cut into him like steel cables.
“She came to us, Father Fitzpatrick. Was sent to us. Not to the police. Us! That means that we are meant to go with her. It is not our place to involve the police. Do you understand what I am saying?”