Doyle shook his head. "You know it's a big deal, because I told you it was a big deal. His Eminence didn't want this girl mucking up the papal visit, but you thought you knew better. So now I have to clean up the mess you've made. Joe, this isn't working. Monroe ordered me to fire you, but even if he hadn't, I would've done it on my own. You had a great future in the Church, but you've chosen to boot it away, God knows why. You can stick around till the visit, but after that I want you gone. We'll find someplace that's desperate for a curate and park you there, and I hope to God you stay out of the cardinal's sight, because I don't want him complaining to me about you ever again. Clear?"
Clear enough, Hurley thought. He didn't have the strength to argue with Doyle or justify himself; in any case, he was sure it wouldn't make a difference. "What are you going to do about Erin McKee?" he asked instead.
Doyle shook his head impatiently. "Why you should care about her, I don't know. Monroe wants to try to stop the thing, but I don't imagine we'll be successful. The pope will give her communion, and life will go on. If you're going to be happy about that, I can't stop you. But breaking your vows is nothing to be proud of, even if you think it's in a good cause. I want you to think about your vocation, Joe, and make sure this is right for you. I'm beginning to worry that it isn't."
Hurley didn't feel like talking about his vocation with Doyle, any more than he felt like arguing with him. "Is that all?" he asked.
Doyle gestured for him to leave. Hurley went back to his own office and sat down. It was very late now, and the building was mostly empty. Fired, he thought. He hadn't been at headquarters long enough to really miss the place when he left. But it hurt to know that he couldn't fit in. He had worked hard to be a good priest, and now it all seemed to be slipping away from him. He had thought Larry Doyle was a reasonable man, and now every time they talked he seemed less and less reasonable.
There was one thing he could do, though, that would provide him with some solace. He called Sandra McKee and gave her the news; she was as excited as he could have imagined. "I know you wanted a private audience," he said, "but this is probably the best you can expect, given the pope's schedule. And I have to be honest, even this isn't totally certain. The archdiocese is trying to fight it."
"Will they succeed?" she asked.
"Well no, I don't think so. If the pope wants something, he's going to get it. So you'll probably be hearing from someone within a few days to make all the arrangements."
He could hear her starting to sob. "Thank you," she gasped. "Oh, thank you, Father. You don't know—" She couldn't seem to say anything more.
"You're welcome, Mrs. McKee. Now enjoy the good news, and get Erin ready for her big day."
Hurley hung up. That was something, anyway. Was it worth his career? You never can tell what God has in store for you, he supposed. He got up from his desk and headed out of the building.
* * *
Mike McKee was watching the Red Sox game in the family room when Sandra came up to him. "That was Father Hurley," she said. "The pope is going to give Erin communion at the Mass in Fenway Park."
He looked up and saw that his wife's face was streaked with tears—tears of joy, he assumed. She looked happier than he had seen her in years. "Well, that's great news," he said.
"It's all I've been thinking about," she said, standing in front of him. "I've been praying very hard." She continued to stand there, waiting.
Mike clicked the TV off. Something was happening. Sandra sat down next to him. "God answered my prayers," she went on.
"I know," he said. "That's great." What did she want from him?
She shook her head. "You don't know. I made a vow, Mike. If God would do this for us, would let Erin see the pope, I promised to devote our lives to His service. He's kept His part of the bargain, so we're going to have to honor my vow. I don't know how, exactly. But it's important."
"What do you mean, 'devote our lives to His service'?" Mike asked. He didn't like that sound of that. "You mean, start going to church or something?"
"More than that. I mean, change our lives totally. Forget about jobs and mortgages and car payments. Just live for God, in God."
His heart sank. More craziness. "And does God pay the medical bills?" he demanded. "Does He put food on the table? Not that I've noticed. Sandra, I know this is important to you, but you're going off the deep end here."
"I don't think so, Mike. We live in the presence of miracles. God has singled us out—I don't know why. And now He has answered my prayers. We can't just go on living our lives as if none of this is happening."
"Why not?" he replied, throwing up his hands. "Why the hell not? If God has a plan for us and He's all-powerful, He'll make us do it. Maybe His plan for me is to have me drink a beer and watch the Red Sox on TV. That's as good a plan as any. Maybe I should be doing that instead of talking to you. I don't know anything about any of it, and neither do you. You're guessing, you're hoping, you're fantasizing. I don't blame you, but I don't want to be dragged into it. Don't tell me how I'm supposed to change my life and devote it to the God who destroyed my little girl."
He stopped, realizing that he had gone way too far. Sandra was crying again, and these weren't tears of joy, but for once he couldn't—wouldn't—comfort her. He stood up. "Honey," he said, as gently as he could, "you're going to have to choose between me and your fantasy, because I can't go on like this." Then he went into the kitchen, grabbed his keys, and strode out into the night.
* * *
Father Hurley found out about Robert Coulter on the ten o'clock news, watching in stunned disbelief as the TV reporter stood in front of Kathleen's house and recounted the bizarre circumstances of the wanted man's death. He called and left messages on Kathleen's home phone and cell phone, then channel-surfed the local TV stations. The information they had didn't seem to make sense, though. He needed to talk to Kathleen and find out the real story. He needed to know that she was all right.
It was after midnight when she called back. "Hey, Joe," she said. She sounded exhausted. "It's nice to hear a friendly voice."
"Are you okay?" he asked. "Do you need anything?"
"No, I'm all right, everything considered. I'm staying at my mother's house, and it feels creepy." She recounted what had happened at her apartment that night. "So of course Prouse has disappeared," she concluded. "Vatican security denies anybody by that name works for them, and the FBI and everyone else who's been interrogating me don't know if I'm a hero or a murderer with a strange imagination."
"What are they going to do?"
"Well, for now the department has put me on administrative leave. They don't want me working as a police officer until they complete their investigation. I guess that's all right with me. I just want to crawl into bed and put the covers over my head."
"It sounds to me like you were incredibly brave."
"I don't know. At first I thought he was maybe going to try to rape and murder me, and then I realized he couldn't bring himself to do it. He just needed a friend, and he'd got it into his head somehow that I could be it. Very strange."
"What do you think Prouse was doing there?"
"Don't know that either, but it's almost as scary as Coulter showing up. They're not going to find Prouse, Joe. I'm sure of it. And that isn't good news for me, since you and I are the only ones who claim to have met the guy. What do you think he's up to?"
"I don't know," Hurley replied. "But I'm sure he's not working for the Vatican."
"Well, at least there's one good outcome out of all of this," she pointed out. "The pope will be safe. Coulter admitted to me he was here to assassinate him, although I still couldn't quite figure out why; that was all that was keeping him going, apparently. So we were right all along."
"You know, I'm not so sure about that," Hurley replied. "Again, not that I have a better idea."
"Well, that's encouraging. So how are you doing?"
Hurley recalled his own news, which felt trivial in comparison to K
athleen's. "I got fired today—probably around the same time you were dealing with Mr. Coulter." And he summarized that particular highlight of his day.
"They really are jerks," Kathleen said.
"I'm not in the mood to disagree," Hurley admitted. "I always thought Larry Doyle—well, anyway, it's done."
"I'm proud of you for sticking up for that little girl, though," she said.
"Thanks, I guess." He was silent for a moment, thinking about the situation, then said: "We're quite a pair, aren't we?"
"Yeah, I guess." There was another pause, and then Kathleen said, "Marry me, Joe."
"Huh?"
"You heard me. Life is too short. I've got a blouse here with a dead man's blood spattered all over it, and there's a bunch of people who think I'm a lunatic or a murderer, or both. I don't want to be with my mother right now, I want to be with you. We're both misfits, looks like. We need each other. Let's run away, start over, do it right this time. What do you say, Joe?"
Hurley closed his eyes. She wasn't exactly kidding, he supposed. So what if he said yes? Well, he wasn't going to say yes. "Get some sleep, Kathleen," he said. "Tomorrow you'll be a hero."
"Tomorrow I'll still be a misfit," she replied. "And so will you. Think about it, Joe."
He hung up and thought about it. He had certainly felt like a misfit in the amoral world of Wall Street. But in retrospect it had been a relatively easy world to inhabit, with simple rules and simple goals. You made money or you lost money. That was all there was to it. But here...
Just do what the coach says and you'll be fine. Did he really believe that? Apparently not. Life was too messy, the rules shifted and blurred. But if you didn't have a coach, if you weren't part of a team, then what? He just didn't know. And he wasn't going to figure it out tonight.
He went to sleep, nervous and unsettled.
Marry me, Joe.
Chapter 32
Donato watched Lucia enter his office. "Yes, Andrea?" she said softly.
He motioned to her to sit down.
It was all so unfair, he thought. He had done nothing but what seemed best for his Church, what high officials of the Church had told him was best. And it had come to this. He longed to have the whole thing disappear, to start over as if it had never happened. But it had happened, and now even more was required...
Well, he had made up his mind—as if he'd had any choice. Lucia sat on the other side of his desk, awaiting instructions. He gave them to her.
She seemed disconcerted. "I don't understand," she said. "I—"
"You don't need to understand," he replied severely. "This is what needs to be done."
"But what are you going to—"
"No harm will come to your friend, I assure you," he said. "But we must find out who is behind this. We can't simply let the matter drop."
"But it will be hard to explain. I mean—why?"
"I'm sure you can come up with a reason. She's your friend, you figure it out. She'll trust you."
"But that's why—I mean, she'll be expecting me to come. So why send someone else? Why can't I—"
Donato became annoyed. This was hard enough, without Lucia arguing with him. "Because that's the way it has to be," he snapped.
Lucia stared at him, and he wondered for a panicked moment if she were going to refuse. Then what would he do? He would have to go back to DiStefano and—"All right," she said finally. "If it's necessary."
"It is," he replied, with all the sternness and dignity he could muster.
Lucia waited for a moment, apparently hoping for a further explanation, one last scrap of attention, and then meekly left his office when he offered none.
If only, he thought, staring with self-pity at Lucia as she left. If only this were all that was necessary.
* * *
They met, as usual, in the Vatican gardens, and there Lucia broke the news. Miranda's reaction was exactly what she had expected.
"I don't understand," she said. "Why can't you just give me the documents?"
"I can't simply bring them back to work and drop them on your desk," Lucia explained. "I'm frightened even having them in my apartment."
"All right, but why do I need to bring... him? Why can't I just come to your apartment and pick them up?"
Lucia set her jaw as she told the lie. "Because," she said, "I want to look your lover in the eye and have him tell me that this is absolutely necessary. You can't know the consequences of what I'm doing, the lives I am endangering. All on your word."
Miranda's eyes teared up. "Don't you believe me, Lucia? Don't you see how important this is to me?"
"I do, but I have to be absolutely sure I'm doing the right thing. Tonight. Do you understand?"
Miranda nodded and clasped Lucia's hand. "We'll be there. And God bless you, Lucia."
Lucia managed to smile her thanks. She felt like crying herself, but those were tears she would have to shed in private.
* * *
Fieri was annoyed at the melodrama, but not enough to refuse Miranda's request. And he was sufficiently pleased at the prospect of success to mention it to the Holy Father. "Do you remember asking me to investigate the situation at the Vatican Bank, Holiness?" he asked.
The pope nodded. "Cardinal Riccielli," he said. "And the other man, the director. Something was... off key when they spoke to us."
"That's right. At any rate, I think I should have some information about it very soon."
"Is there a problem at the bank?"
"I can't say for sure yet, but it seems likely there may be criminal activity taking place."
Pope John shook his head sadly. "We always hope for the best in people, but our faith is not always rewarded."
"This world holds many temptations, Holiness. Not everyone is strong enough to resist them."
"None of us is, all the time. Let me know what you find out, Paolo, and then we'll figure out what to do."
Fieri bowed obediently.
We'll figure out what to do, he repeated to himself. That was not necessarily the papal we. Fieri allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. He had made himself indispensable yet again. There were many people struggling for the pope's attention—Cardinal Valli, foremost among them. But none had succeeded more than he. Pope John had found his right-hand man.
It was rainy that night. Good weather for an assignation, he thought with a smile. He would have to find a suitable way to reward Miranda Cromwell when this was over. Perhaps a papal audience would be sufficient—that would cause her to faint with awe. Well, she deserved it; he could not have asked for more from her.
Fieri put on his trench coat, grabbed his umbrella, and headed out into the steamy Roman night.
* * *
Miranda could scarcely breathe, she was so excited. She stood on the bridge in the warm summer rain, waiting for Fieri. Below her the Tiber flowed by, rank and sluggish. She had been put off at first by Lucia's request, but since then she had changed her mind; she liked the drama and mystery and romance of it—waiting in the dark of night for your lover, knowing that you have saved him, and that at any moment he will sweep you into his arms and...
She saw the dark-coated man approach and knew it was him. He stopped next to her on the bridge. "Are you sure this is necessary?" Fieri demanded.
Hardly romantic. But he wasn't really the one she was waiting for, the one she held in her heart. "I'm sorry, Monsignor," she replied. "These were the instructions I was given."
"She had better come," he said, "before we both catch cold in this rain."
"I'm sure she'll be here. She just wants to meet you before handing over the documents, to make sure you're legitimate. You recall the story. You are—"
"Yes, yes. I'm your lover and I'm being blackmailed for information about the bank by my evil superiors. And she believes this nonsense?"
"She has an evil superior herself," Miranda explained. "And she's been in love. She is deeply sympathetic to our plight."
Fieri shook his head and
laughed. "You're amazing, Miranda."
Miranda was glad he couldn't see her blush in the darkness. Traffic hissed by. They waited, two lovers alone in the rain. She imagined his soulful eyes gazing into hers. You have saved me, darling, he murmured. How can I show my gratitude?
To serve you is all I ask, she replied. Your happiness is all I seek.
And he smiled down at her—a warm smile that understood all, encompassed all. She could spend her life basking in the light of that smile, worshipping the man who bestowed it upon her.
"Is that her?" Fieri asked.
A lone figure walked towards them on the bridge.
To Miranda, the figure looked like an angel bringing a blessing from God. "Lucia?" she whispered.
But the figure merely laughed, and went about his business.
* * *
The two lovers ran towards each other along the beach as the music swelled and the surf pounded behind them. The man took the woman in his arms and swung her around as they kissed passionately, heedless of the world around them. The music climaxed as "Fini" appeared on the screen and the scene faded to the credits. The lovers had found each other at last—what more did we need to know?
Lucia switched off the television and poured herself another glass of wine. Stupid movies. There are no happy endings, she thought, only happy moments, strung like beads along the line of disappointment and heartache that is everyone's life. There are never enough beads.
The apartment was silent. Her cat snoozed by her feet. Outside she could hear the patter of summer rain, welcome in the stifling city. She stared into her tiny fireplace, at the ashes of the documents she had burned there.
She had done her best to make things right, but that didn't make her happy. She didn't know how she could expect to be happy now, but obviously happiness was not her destiny. It was better not to even consider the possibility. Just go on buying confirmation presents for ungrateful nieces and nephews and consider yourself lucky that it wasn't any worse.
The phone rang. She considered ignoring it, but finally reached over and picked up the receiver.
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