Give it up, she thought to herself. Enjoy the morning before your parents get up. The nervous, embarrassed looks everybody gave her made her ill.
Kathleen walked away from the water and up toward the dunes. As she brushed her way through the high, yellow grass something darted out and stood directly in her path.
A red squirrel stared at her with frozen, gleaming eyes. She was certain the squirrel was staring.
“What’s up with you?” she asked it.
As she glanced up toward her elegant, white-framed Victorian home, she noticed a second red squirrel. It was staring at her from a branch of a tree.
And a big gray fellow standing upright like a tiny bear over near the stairs. Watching?
Then Kathleen heard a screeching voice above her head. Looking up, she saw flapping white wings. Six or seven circling gulls. Swooping. Kiting. Sailing over the gray beach like rudderless ships.
Were these birds keeping an eye on her too?
Watching?
Kathleen heard a whirring, the buzzing of insects, in the waving dune grass.
A cloud of blackflies appeared just above the grass.
Watching?
She started to cough; she waved both hands in front of her face.
Down the beach, two usually friendly golden retrievers began to bark.
Other neighborhood dogs took up the howling, yelping, whining, baying.
Kathleen’s heartbeat quickened.
The squirrels.
The screeching gulls.
The buzzing insects.
The thick cloud of blackflies.
The howling dogs.
They all seemed to be gathering in a tightening ring around her. They hated her, didn’t they? Am I going crazy?
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed. “Just fucking stop it!”
Cradling her swollen stomach with both hands, Kathleen hurried back to her house. Her chest heaved with great choking sobs.
She slammed the front door behind her and ran into the parlor. She was breathing heavily as she stood before the huge window and watched the morning sun continue its climb over the ocean.
She hadn’t imagined any of it. She knew that she hadn’t.
They were all watching her.
Chapter 8
THE HIGHWAY SIGN up ahead read NEWPORT, R.I. 30 MILES. I had traveled from Los Angeles to Boston, and now I was on my way to my third destination in two days.
My windshield wipers cleared a half-moon tunnel over the slick, gray interstate highway. I felt lost, a little confused, and very tired. I couldn’t stop seeing those poor children at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.
The late-afternoon rainstorm pounded ominously on the roof of my sturdy, nine-year-old BMW, but I kissed off the warning. I punched on the window defroster, then concentrated on the blurred white stripes that sliced the interstate into curving, sliding, equal parts.
I was hitting over seventy, trying to distance myself from rafts of dying young Angelenos — even as I sped toward Newport and the very strange assignment I’d recently accepted from the Archdiocese of Boston.
What could the polio epidemics in L.A. and Boston have to do with a young girl in Newport? And why had the Church taken me on to investigate? Agreed to my $300-a-day fee without any attempt at negotiating?
I couldn’t make sense of it and that bothered the hell out of me. I thought back to a conversation that morning with Cardinal Rooney. His voice on the telephone had been as persuasive as ever. “The situation is also being investigated by the Vatican,” he’d told me. “They’re sending their investigator. I don’t care, Anne. I want you in Newport.”
I liked the cardinal. Seven years before, when I’d told him why I was quitting my order and why I could no longer be a nun, he’d been sympathetic and accepting. I’d never forgotten that. I felt that I owed him.
I went to Harvard, and not long after that I picked up my master’s in psychology. My thesis, “Firewalking: The Journey from Ages Twelve to Twenty,” became a book that was credited with having an impact on the practice of adolescent psychotherapy. I’d gotten into police work to earn my way through school, and I liked it more than I could have imagined. I spent three and a half years with the Boston Police Department and enjoyed everything except the old boy network at the top. So I left the force and got a license as a private investigator. I’d done the right thing to leave the Dominican Order. I was pretty sure that once my habit was in mothballs, I would see my last of the Archdiocese of Boston.
I was wrong.
The cardinal had kept me in his active file. Very active. He sent me a note every time I was mentioned in a newspaper piece. He hired me to work on a few delicate cases. Cardinal Rooney wasn’t just smart; he was clever. I should have known that he was keeping tabs on me for a reason. Apparently, that reason had arrived.
My drive from Boston to Newport had already taken two hours, and during that time I went over and over everything Rooney had said to me. “There’s a sixteen-year-old girl in Newport,” he confided. “She’s a virgin, Anne. And she’s pregnant. I need for you to check her out.”
I respected the cardinal, but I couldn’t contain myself. “It’s got to be a hoax,” I sputtered. “This is the twentieth century. This is America! I doubt there are any sixteen-year-old virgins left.”
He laughed and admitted that that was his first reaction too.
“And now?” I asked.
“Anne,” the cardinal said, “humor me this one time. You know the younger generation a lot better than I do. If this girl Kathleen Beavier is on the level in any way, you’ll know. If it’s total bunk, you’ll know that too. Do what you do — investigate.”
“And let the pieces fall where they will? You have no problem with that, Eminence?”
“Absolutely none. You have free rein on this. Just make sure you don’t get hit by any falling pieces.”
It was the second time that Rooney had alluded to danger, but an excited chill came over me. I exited the highway and cruised into the town of Newport. I couldn’t wait to meet Kathleen Beavier. I was trying hard not to be biased against her, but I couldn’t help it.
The truth was, I just didn’t believe in virgin births anymore.
Chapter 9
I WAS MET at the front door by the Beavier housekeeper, who briefly introduced me to Mrs. Beavier and then showed me to my “room at the cottage.” Apparently, I would be staying the night.
It was only 62 degrees in the room, but I’d already worked up a little sweat thinking about Kathleen Beavier. I’d arrived at the large manor house called Sun Cottage at four-thirty. Now I stood at a large bay window in my bedroom suite. I was looking out at an unbeatable ocean view. I was cogitating, one of my favorite pastimes, when there was a knock at the door.
“Yes? Who is it, please?”
A soft mumble came from the hallway. “It’s Mrs. Walsh. Come to draw you a bath, Ms. Fitzgerald. Is that all right?”
“That would be . . . wonderful,” I said, trying to conceal my surprise. “Please, come in.”
Mrs. Walsh, a slight woman with a curly snow white cap of hair, stood in the doorway. She nodded, then scurried to the adjoining bathroom. I watched through the open door in mild amazement as she sprinkled bath oil under the torrent streaming from the shiny brass taps.
“Your bath is nearly ready,” the housekeeper said, ducking her head, then brushing past me. My bath is nearly ready. Wow. Okay, I can handle this. I think.
I thanked her and entered the handsome bathroom. Mrs. Walsh seemed a little strange to me, a little high-strung, but that was okay.
I drank in the stunning details of the room: the Victorian towel racks, the wood-paneled glass cabinets overflowing with thick bath sheets, the old footed tub, and a magnificent pier glass mirror.
I dropped my blouse and khaki trousers to the floor and stared at my image in the glass.
I had entered the novitiate at fourteen, before my body matured. I was a novice at the Dominican convent
in Boston. The mirrors built into the walls of St. Mary’s were blacked out with paint. My only looking glass was four inches square. For a couple of years, I wore a full habit, complete with wimple and oxford shoes. Even when I was alone, I put on and removed my plain cotton underwear under my voluminous nightgown. My hair was covered day and night. Mortification of the senses, it was called.
I understood now that I had entered St. Mary’s as an alternative to staying in our house in Dorchester. I was the next to youngest of eleven Fitzgerald children. My mother was a cleaning lady and a functioning alcoholic. My father was an insurance salesman and a functioning alcoholic also.
I learned about St. Mary’s from a sympathetic sister at my grammar school, and then I escaped to the convent. At St. Mary’s I was “the tough one from Dorchester,” which served me pretty well. The sisters were good to me, actually loved me better than my parents had, and they tried to save me. Who knows, maybe they succeeded.
I would have been shocked back then if I could’ve peeked into my future. Seen my grown-up-woman’s body. I stared into the steamy pier glass, still awed, amazed, and amused that I’d emerged from my nun-y duckling feathers with what could pass as a model’s body. Well, almost. Well, in my dreams.
I gathered the hair off my neck with one hand, then slowly released the thick, glossy sheaf of it, watching as it swung gracefully around my shoulders. My post-adolescent narcissism satisfied, I smiled to myself and settled into the hot, fragrant bath.
“I could get used to this,” I muttered.
I had a moment of pure hedonistic pleasure before a chill invaded me, and I remembered exactly where I was. I wasn’t a pampered society babe at Two Bunch Palms or the Canyon Ranch spa. I was in the Beavier house in Newport, Rhode Island.
I was here to investigate a virgin birth, which seemed to me, at best, a physical impossibility.
Chapter 10
AROUND FIVE O’CLOCK, I peeked into a very large, softly sunlit library room, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s dream. I heard a woman’s voice before I saw anyone. “Good evening, Ms. Fitzgerald.”
Carolyn Beavier was standing in front of a wall of leaded, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on a lawn that rolled all the way down to the ocean. I’d met her briefly when I arrived. She’d been courteous but formal and restrained. She was in her late forties, with an elegant oval face, prominent cheekbones. Her streaked blond hair was held back by a simple velvet band. She fit very well in the world of Newport, Greenwich, and Palm Beach.
She introduced me to her husband, Charles, a silver-haired man who had the sharp, angled look of a corporate warrior. He was dressed in a charcoal gray business suit, crisp white shirt with French cuffs, gold cuff links, and a striped silk tie.
He acknowledged me politely, then bent over a handsome writing desk, snapped closed the latches of a black briefcase. Carolyn dropped into a sofa covered in a muted floral chintz, and invited me to sit in a nearby striped Regency chair.
Charles Beavier said, “You’ve got impressive credentials, Ms. Fitzgerald. Degree in adolescent psychology. Experience with disturbed children at McLean Hospital in Belmont. And of course, Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Teenage Girls but Were Afraid to Ask.”
It was a small dig but I said nothing, just gave him a steady, cordial look. Since Cardinal Rooney hadn’t included my experience in police work as part of my background, I decided not to add it to my résumé now.
“Sorry,” Charles Beavier said then. “That was uncalled-for. I’m sure that Firewalking is a valuable book.”
“We’re under a lot of stress,” Carolyn broke in.
“I understand,” I said.
“No offense, but you really can’t understand the strain,” Charles Beavier said roughly. “When we learned Kathy was pregnant, I wanted to strangle her —” His voice caught in his throat.
Carolyn finished for him. “It wasn’t just the pregnancy. It was that Kathleen hadn’t told us. Then, as you know, she tried to kill herself. I wish she’d tried to kill me instead.”
“Stop it,” Charles Beavier said. “It’s not your fault, Cee.”
But his wife continued. “I wish Kathleen and I were closer. I wish I’d made more time for her. I wish, I wish.” Her eyes slid off to the side. I sensed that Carolyn Beavier wasn’t a carpool–field hockey kind of mom. I could imagine the Newport–Boston–New York social whirl she led; the life of a society woman married to a corporate chieftain.
“Kathleen and I do love each other,” she added softly, “but we’re not close enough. Especially now. We’ve never really been friends.”
“I don’t like it when you talk this way,” Charles Beavier interrupted. “You didn’t get her pregnant, Cee. You didn’t slit her wrists in an abortion clinic in Southie.”
He sounded very tough, unpleasantly so. Then, surprisingly, he choked, and tears rolled down his face.
What a scene. I reached out a hand impulsively — and impulsively he squeezed it. Then he took his hand back from mine and pressed his eyes with a folded white handkerchief.
“Sorry,” he said. “We are under a lot of stress.”
“Will you both take it easy on yourselves,” I said. “Please. I’m not here to judge anyone. I’m not a judgmental person. I’m here to help Kathleen, if I can. And to represent the archdiocese.”
I lifted the prettiest teacup I’d ever held. Sprigs of violets danced on white porcelain banded with gold.
Carolyn Beavier smiled weakly. “I’m certain you’ll get along with her. She’s considerate and loving. She’s a very nice young woman.”
I nodded. “I’m sure she is.”
Charles sat down beside his wife on the sofa and took her hand. “I’ll start at the beginning. As much as we know about the beginning,” he said in a grave tone.
Stopping and starting as he sorted through the details, Charles Beavier tried to explain. The first days had been incredibly difficult for the family. That had been the worst time. They had always trusted Kathleen. The pregnancy had been a jolting surprise, the dramatic, nearly tragic kicker of her attempted suicide. It was when they were nursing their daughter back to health that Kathleen revealed that she was still a virgin.
“A virgin birth? Give me a break. How were we supposed to believe that?” Charles Beavier asked. “If she was lying, it was a scandal that would stain her reputation forever. If she was telling the truth, then she was a medical freak —”
“— or the mother of our Savior,” Carolyn said softly.
Her words hung in the air as I turned the concept around in my mind.
The silence was broken by another voice that came from behind us, in the doorway to the library.
“I’d like to try and answer Ms. Fitzgerald’s questions.”
Chapter 11
A TEENAGE GIRL stood beside a huge glass-fronted bookcase overflowing with jacketless hardback novels and histories of another age.
She was blond and unusually pretty, her long hair hanging in a thick braid down the middle of her back. She wore a long plaid dress that reminded me of the singer Sarah McLachlan, and high-top sneakers. She had a henna tattoo on one arm. She was thin-featured, except for the shockingly swollen belly of a woman eight months pregnant.
I knew, of course, that this had to be Kathleen.
I searched her face for signs of depression, worry, fear, but couldn’t find any of that. Not at first glance, anyway. She was spanking-clean, and her clothes were chosen not just to contain her shape, but because they looked good. She sure didn’t appear to be a troubled kid who’d tried to kill herself a few months back.
“I was told you were coming.” She smiled quite wonderfully, and bravely, I couldn’t help thinking. “I’m Kathleen, as you can probably tell by this.” She patted her huge stomach.
“Hello, Kathleen,” I said.
I was clutching the arms of the chair so hard I was sure I was leaving nail marks. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the young girl’s face.
>
The lovely face of Kathleen Beavier reminded me of the Blessed Virgin Mary. There was no mistaking it.
Chapter 12
Maam Cross, Ireland.
A WEEK HAD PASSED since the brutal and mysterious attack on Nicholas Rosetti in Rome, just outside the Vatican gates. He looked so much older now; he felt so much older.
He felt . . . that someone was watching him, and he thought he knew who it was, and what it wanted. His only defense was his iron will to serve his Church at any cost to himself.
His recent affliction had frightened and frustrated him, and the doctors who attended his mysterious illness had no explanation. Tests revealed nothing. Nothing! Meaning what? That the attack had all been in his mind? He’d been deathly ill for five days. Then the shooting pains and high fever, the blackouts, left him as quickly as they had appeared.
So am I well now?
Am I cured?
Am I sane?
Father Rosetti drove his small rented car over the Irish hills, around sudden twists in the roads, with grave determination. He hardly noticed the beauty of the furrowed fields and pastures that flanked the country roads, nor their curious emptiness now that the spring lambs had been sent to slaughter.
His 225-kilometer trek from Dublin’s O’Connell Street to Maam Cross in Galway was ending. But he knew his real journey had only just begun.
As he got closer to Maam Cross, his fear and anxiety about another physical attack increased. He desperately wanted to control the fears but found that he couldn’t.
Why did he feel he was being watched? He could see no one on the roads.
And he hadn’t heard the deep, terrifying voice in a couple of days.
He asked directions at the petrol station just inside the almost-medieval village of Maam Cross. A toothless mechanic in a greasy cap and blackened workman’s clothes directed him farther west. He proceeded in that direction.
Stone gateposts marked the beginning of a long curving drive. Elm branches moved overhead, sending shifting shadows across the car’s windscreen. The parkland on both sides of the drive looked lonely, unnaturally so.
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