F Paul Wilson - Novel 03

by Virgin (as Mary Elizabeth Murphy) (v2. 1)

  Because right now, it just didn't seem . . . right.

  "We're taking her back to the hotel with us."

  "What?" Dan said. She could see his body stiffening with tension. "You can't do that."

  "Why not? We're paying for the room and there's nothing that says we can't keep a crate in it. Besides, it's only for two nights."

  "You've got to be kidding."

  She gave him a long, level look. "I assure you, Dan, I am not kidding."

  Dan slipped his arm around her waist from behind and nuzzled her neck. Carrie felt her whole left arm break out in gooseflesh.

  "Not now, Dan," she said, pulling free and stepping away from him. She pointed to the crate. Her voice lowered to a whisper of its own accord. "Not with her here."

  Two bellmen had lugged the Virgin's crate up to their second-floor room and left it on the floor by the window. Beyond the window the River Lee made its sluggish way to the sea.

  Dan returned her whisper, Elmer Fudd style. "We'll be vewy, vewy quiet. She'll never know."

  Carrie had to laugh. "Oh, Dan. I love you, I do, but please understand. It just wouldn't be right."

  He stared at her a moment. Was that hurt in his eyes? But he seemed to understand. She prayed he did.

  He sighed. "All right, then, how about we go down to the lounge and see Hal Roach? He's only down from Dublin for one night."

  "I don't think so," she said. She wasn't really in the mood for Ireland's answer to Henry Youngman.

  "How about we just go for a walk?"

  Carrie shook her head. "I think I'd rather just stay here."

  Dan's expression tightened. "Watching over her, I suppose."

  She nodded. "In a way, yes."

  "Don't you think you might be getting just a little carried away with this, Carrie?"

  Yes, she thought. Yes, I might. But the Virgin was here, and so here is where Carrie wanted to be. Simple. She'd waited all this time on tenter hooks for the Virgin's arrival from Haifa, and she wasn't about to let her out of her sight until her crate was safely on board the ship in Dublin Harbor.

  "I just want to stay here with her, Dan. Is that so bad?"

  "Bad?" he said. "No. I can't say it's bad. But I don't think it's healthy."

  He stared again, then shrugged resignedly. "All right. This is your show. We'll do it your way." He stepped closer and kissed her forehead. "But I do need to get out of this room . . . stretch my legs . . . maybe cross the river and grab a pint. I'll be back soon."

  Before Carrie could think of anything to say, he was out the door and she was alone in the room.

  Well, not completely alone. The Virgin was here. She knelt beside the crate and rested her head on its lid. For one shocking, nerve-rattling moment she thought she heard a heartbeat, then she realized it was her own.

  "Don't worry, Mother Mary," she whispered to the crate. "I won't leave you alone here. You've given me comfort through the years when I needed it, now I'll stand by you." She patted the lid of the crate. "Till death do us part."

  The Judean Wilderness

  "Why?"

  Kesev stood atop the tav rock with the thieves' rope knotted around his neck and screamed out at the clear, pitiless night sky. "Why do You torment me like this? When will You be satisfied? Have I not been punished enough?"

  But no reply came from on high, just Sharav's ceaseless susurrance, whispering in his ears. Not that he'd expected an answer. All his countless entreaties down through the years had been ignored. Why should this one be any different?

  The Lord tormented him. Kesev was not cut out to be a Job. He was a fighter, not a victim. And so the Lord took extra pains to beleaguer him.

  Not that he was without fault in this. If he had been at his post when the errant SCUD had crashed below, he could have chased off the Bedouin boys when they wandered into the canyon, and hidden the scrolls before the government investigative teams arrived.

  And then the Mother would still be safely tucked away in the Resting Place instead of . . . where?

  Where was she?

  Gone. Gone from Israel. Kesev had exhausted all his contacts and what limited use he dared make of his Shin Bet resources, but she had slipped through his fingers. He'd sensed the Mother's slow withdrawal from their homeland. He didn't know how, or in which direction she'd been taken, but he knew in the core of his being that she was gone.

  He also knew it was inevitable that soon she would be revealed to the world and made a spectacle of, a sensational object of scientific research and religious controversy. Why else would someone steal her away?

  The Lord would not stand for that. The Lord would rain his wrath down upon the earth.

  Perhaps that was the meaning behind all this. Perhaps the theft of the Mother was the event that would precipitate the Final Days. Perhaps . . .

  Kesev sighed. It didn't matter. He'd failed in his task and now there was no need for him to prolong the agony of this life any longer. Since his usefulness on earth was at an end, surely the Lord would let him end his time on earth as well. He would not see the Final Days, and certainly he did not deserve to see the Second Coming. He did not even deserve to see tomorrow.

  He checked once more to make sure the rope was securely tied around the half-sunk boulder about thirty feet back. Then he stepped to the edge of the tav and looked down at his Jeep parked below. He'd left plenty of slack, enough to allow him to fall within a dozen feet of the ground. The end would be quick, painless. If he was especially lucky, the force of the final jolt might even decapitate him.

  Without a prayer, without a good-bye, without a single regret, Kesev stepped off the edge and into space.

  He kept his eyes open and made no sound as he hurtled feet first toward the ground. He had no fear, only grim anticipation and . . . hope.

  Cork City, Ireland

  Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio wandered through the thick, humid air near Cork City's waterfront. He'd wandered off St. Patrick's Street and was looking for a place to have a drink. His doctors had all warned him against alcohol but right now he didn't care. He'd had a long day of crushing people's hopes and fervor, and he needed something. Something Holy Mother Church could not provide. He needed a different kind of communion.

  All the pubs on St. Patrick were crowded and he didn't feel like standing. He wanted a place to rest his feet. He spotted a pair of lighted windows set in dark green wood, JIM CASHMAN'S read the sign, and there was a Guinness harp over the slate where the dinner menu was scrawled in chalk.

  Vincenzo peeked inside the open door and saw empty seats.

  Bono! He'd found his place.

  He made his way to the bar and squeezed into a space between two of the drinkers—a space that would have been too narrow for him just a year ago.

  Amazing what cancer can do for the figure.

  The bartender was pouring for someone else so Vincenzo took a look around. A small place, this Jim Cashman's— hardwood floor and paneling, a small bar tucked in the corner, half a dozen tables arrayed about the perimeter, a cold fireplace, and two TVs playing the same rugby match.

  None of Cashman's dozen or so patrons paid him any attention. And why should they? He wasn't wearing his collar. He'd left that and his cassock back in his hotel room; that left a thin, sallow, balding, gray-haired man in his fifties dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. Nothing at all priestly about him.

  He turned to the solitary drinker to his left, a plump, red-faced fellow in a tour bus driver's outfit, sipping from a glass of rich dark liquid.

  "May I ask what you're drinking, sir?"

  The fellow stared at him a moment, as if to be sure this stranger with the funny accent was really speaking to him, then cleared his throat.

  "Tis stout. Murphy's stout. Made right here in Cork City."

  "Oh, yes. I passed the brewery on the way in."

  Michael had driven him through the gauntlet of huge gleaming silver tanks towering over both sides of the road on the north end of town, and he remem
bered wondering who in the world drank all that brew.

  Vincenzo said, "I tried a bottle of Guinness once, but didn't care for it very much."

  The driver made a face. "What? From a bottle? You've never had stout till you've drunk it straight from the tap as God intended."

  "Which would you recommend for a beginner, then?"

  "I like Murphy's."

  "What about Guinness?"

  "It's good, but it's got a bit more bite. Start with a Murph."

  Vincenzo slapped his hand on the bar. "Murphy's it is!" He signaled the barkeep. "A pint of Murphy's, if you would be so kind, and another for my adviser here."

  When the pints arrived, Vincenzo brushed off the driver's thanks and turned to find a seat.

  "Stout's food, you know," the driver called after him as Vincenzo carried his glass to a corner table. "A couple of those and you can skip a meal."

  Good, he thought. I can use a little extra nourishment.

  He'd lost another two pounds this week. The tumors in his liver must be working overtime.

  "Good for what ails you too," the driver added. "Cures all ills."

  "Does it now? I'll hold you to that, my good man."

  He took a sip of the Murphy's and liked it. Liked it a lot. Rich and malty, with a pleasant aftertaste. Much better than that bottle of Guinness he'd once had in Rome. One could almost believe it might cure all ills.

  Vincenzo smiled to himself. Now wouldn't that be a miracle.

  He looked at the faces around Jim Cashman's and they reminded him of the faces he'd seen in Cashelbanagh, only these weren't stricken with the bitter disappointment and accusation he'd left there.

  It's not my fault your miracle was nothing more than a leaky roof.

  A young sandy-haired fellow came in and ordered a pint of Smithwick's ale, then sat alone at the table next to Vincenzo's and stared disconsolately at the rugby game. He looked about as cheerful as the people Vincenzo had left at Cashelbanagh.

  "Is your team losing?" Vincenzo said.

  The man turned and offered a wan smile. "I'm American. Don't know the first thing about rugby." He extended his hand. "Dan Fitzpatrick. And I can guess by your accent that you're about as far from home as I am."

  Vincenzo shook it and offered his own name—sans the religious title. No sense in putting the fellow off. "I happen to be on my way to America. I'm leaving for New York tomorrow."

  "Really? That's where my . . . home is. Business or pleasure?"

  "Neither, really." Vincenzo didn't want to get into his medical history so he shifted the subject. "I guess something other than rugby must be giving you such a long face."

  He wanted to kick himself for saying that. It sounded too much like prying. But Dan seemed eager to talk.

  "You could say that," he said with a disarming grin. "Woman trouble."

  "Ah," Vincenzo said, and left it at that. What did he know about women?

  "A unique and wonderful woman," Dan went on, sipping his ale, "with a unique and wonderful problem."

  "Oh?" Through decades of hearing confessions, Vincenzo had become the Michelangelo of the monosyllable.

  "Yeah. The woman I love is looking for a miracle."

  "Aren't we all?" Myself most of all.

  "Not all of us. Trouble is, mine really thinks she's going to find one, and she seems to be forgetting the real world while she's looking for it."

  "And you don't think she'll find it?"

  "Miracles are sucker bait."

  "As much as I hate to say it"—Vincenzo sighed—"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!” Dan said.

  "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 greatThat 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.

  It was after a second pint of Murphy's that Vincenzo decided he'd brooded enough about miracles and unfriendly Americans. He pushed himself to his feet and ambled into the night.

  It was cool out on the street. A thick 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 out 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 would 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 of failures.

  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 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. There were 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."

  Part III

  Miracles

  16

  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 trans-Atlantic trip, the Virgin had arrived in New York late last night. He and Carrie were on the docks first thing this morning to pick her up. She breezed through customs and together 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.