Papa Jim was there again, his arms enfolding her. “There, there, baby girl. Let it all out.”
“He must have thought I hated him,” she sobbed. “He never knew how much I loved him. He died without knowing!”
“He knew,” Papa Jim said firmly. “He knew.”
After a while, Sister Elena dried her eyes with a handkerchief that Papa Jim gave her and they sat down on the sofa.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral,” she said.
“It was a bit of a sideshow,” he confessed. “A media circus, frankly. But he and Glory are buried side by side. They’re together again, on Earth and in Heaven. I hope you’ll come visit one day soon. We can go there together.”
“I’d like that,” she said.
“Are you happy here, honey? Are you ready to come home?”
“This is my home now, Papa Jim.”
He sighed again. “I figured, but I had to ask. I miss you, honey.”
“I miss you too, Papa Jim.”
“You’re all I’ve got left, baby girl. You mean the world to me. You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?”
“I know,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.
CHAPTER 12
It was raining when the plane touched down at Johnson County Executive Airport. Although traveling under an assumed name and identity, the tall, clean-shaven man with the brown leather carry-on passed through security without difficulty, just as he had when boarding in San Diego; it was laughable, he thought to himself, how ineffective were the supposedly strict protocols put into place at the nation’s airports following 9/11. If he had been a terrorist, intent on killing innocent Americans, he could have racked up a body count far exceeding the number of victims in the World Trade Center attacks by now.
But of course, he wasn’t a terrorist.
He was a priest.
A man of God entrusted with a sacred mission. Like the knights of old, he was a shield and a sword in a battle as ancient as the world itself, the only battle that really mattered: the one between good and evil, God and the devil.
And here, in Olathe, Kansas, another engagement in that long battle was about to be fought. If Grand Inquisitor was correct, and in the priest’s experience it always had been, he would find a young Antichrist here, nine or ten years old, newly awakened to his powers and perhaps even his identity. The boy had foolishly drawn attention to himself by speaking out at a church service a week ago—a single slip, but enough to alert GI to his existence. It wasn’t clear yet whether Conversatio was involved, but the priest was doubtful. In his experience, Conversatio agents would have prevented a boy in their charge from revealing himself so blatantly. No, this was probably the case of a high potential who had fallen through the cracks, missed by both Conversatio and the Congregation. Such oversights were inevitable, although it was rare for a boy to remain undetected for so long. In any case, the priest thought, the boy was undetected no longer. Now, with God’s help, the abomination would be killed, even at the cost of the priest’s own life. It was a price he would willingly pay to safeguard his flock, just as Christ had paid.
Outside the airport, he hailed a taxi to drive him the four miles into Olathe proper. The Congregation had already booked him a hotel room, where he would find the tools of his trade waiting.
“What brings you to Olathe, my friend?” inquired the cabbie, a bearded, dark-skinned man with a Middle Eastern look about him and the accent to go with it. “Business or pleasure?”
“A little of both,” he replied.
“You know what you should do while you’re here?” the man asked, glancing into the rearview mirror before answering his own question. “Hot-air ballooning. Ever try it?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Best way to see the countryside,” the man affirmed. “Up there amid the clouds, it’s so peaceful. So quiet. Gives you a new perspective on things.”
“A bird’s-eye view, eh?”
The cabbie chuckled. “My friend, it is an angel’s-eye view!”
The priest blinked, startled despite himself. The cab driver had just spoken the code word to identify himself as an agent of the Congregation. Not once in his years of fieldwork had a fellow agent broken cover to contact the priest directly in this way. It was permitted only in exceptional circumstances. But he recovered quickly from his surprise and gave the required countersign.
“We’ve done some preliminary surveillance on the boy,” the cabbie said in a businesslike tone of voice, all trace of his accent vanished. “His name’s Ethan Brown. He’s under Conversatio protection.”
The priest grunted, more disappointed than surprised. “The standard complement? Two agents posing as man and wife?”
“Not posing. They are man and wife. They do that sometimes, for the most promising cases.”
“I’m aware of that.” He found it somewhat distasteful to be spoken to as if he were a greenhorn on his first assignment. “I’ve handled Conversatio agents before.”
“Not like these.”
“What do you mean?”
“The woman is a tenth-degree black belt in the Shorin-ryu style of karate. She is as deadly with her bare hands as she is with a katana or a pistol.”
“I see. And the man?”
“Even better.”
“But not good enough to stop their charge from revealing himself.”
The driver glanced again into the rearview mirror as he merged into traffic. “Don’t let that failure cause you to underestimate the Browns. They are skilled and smart. And what’s more, they truly believe that the boy is the second son. So they will fight with the zeal of true fanatics.”
“Let them. What you seem to see as a strength, I look upon as a weakness. These people are either deluded or evil. Either way, I have the one advantage that really matters.”
“Surprise?”
“No. God. ‘The Lord will provide.’ We’re doing His work, after all.”
“Yes, but the devil is strong. If this boy really is the Antichrist, you’re going to need more than faith to finish the job. That’s why I’ve been assigned to assist you.”
The priest bristled at that. “I work alone,” he growled.
“Not this time,” the driver said. “My orders come from Rome, from the Holy Father himself. If you care to dispute them . . .” He let his words dangle ominously.
“Of course not,” the priest said. “It’s just . . . unusual for the Holy Father to take such a personal interest.”
“Oh, His Holiness keeps himself thoroughly informed, never fear. More so than his predecessor, in fact. Not too surprising, really. After all, he ran the Congregation himself for many years before ascending to the Throne of St. Peter.”
“I know the history,” the priest said dryly.
“But do you know the prophecy?” responded the driver. He continued without waiting for a response. “In 1148, St. Malachy of Ireland prophesied that there would be 112 more popes before the coming of the Antichrist. Pope Benedict is number 111.”
The priest snorted. “I always heard it was Nostradamus who made that particular prophecy.”
“Does it matter who made it? The important point is that it exists. And that so far it has been absolutely accurate. Each of the future popes is identified in a short Latin motto, not by name but by a defining quality or characteristic. For example, the one hundred and tenth pope in the list received the motto De labore Solis.”
“‘Of the labor of the sun,’” the priest translated.
“Karol Wojtyla, who became John Paul II, was born during one solar eclipse and buried during another.”
“Coincidence.”
“Perhaps. The motto of the one hundred and eleventh pope in the list was De Gloria Olivae.”
“‘Of the glory of the olive.’”
“The olive branch is the symbol of St. Benedict. And as we all know, Joseph Ratzinger chose the name Benedict XVI. Is that also a coincidence? No, these are not coincidences, Father.
At least, His Holiness does not believe that they are.”
“And what of the hundred and twelfth pope? The last on the list. What is his motto?”
“Ah, that’s where things get really interesting. You see, that pope is identified by name.” He cleared his throat and recited rather histrionically, ‘In persecutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit Petrus Romanus, qui pascet oves in multis tribulationibus: quibus transactis civitas septicollis diruetur, et Iu-dex tremêndus iudicabit populum suum. Finis.’ I’ll save you the trouble of translating on the fly. It means, ‘During the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church, the seat will be occupied by Peter of Rome, who will feed his sheep in many tribulations; and when these things are finished, the seven-hilled city will be destroyed, and the terrible Judge will judge his people. The End.’”
“And His Holiness believes that this . . . Peter II will succeed him?”
“What His Holiness believes is that in order for the prophecy to occur, the Antichrist must be alive right now, today. And this boy, this Ethan Brown, looks to be the most promising candidate yet.”
“Then why not bring in some really big guns?” the priest wondered aloud. “Why just the two of us? I mean, I’m good, but why leave anything to chance?”
“Perhaps if we fail, bigger guns, as you call them, will be brought in. But why risk triggering a panic now? GI has run an assessment on this one. There is a better than 85 percent chance that Ethan is the Antichrist. And a better than 90 percent chance that you and I can succeed in killing him if we act immediately. But the longer we delay, the more that percentage drops.”
The priest nodded. “That’s good enough for me,” he said. “What’s the plan?”
“I think you’re going to appreciate this,” said the driver with a grin.
This time it happened on the way back from the pool. Ethan had ridden his bike over after lunch and stayed for almost three hours. He’d splashed around halfheartedly with some friends in the crowded, lukewarm water for a while, then lay on his towel pretending to read. But really he was looking for the girl he’d met yesterday, Maggie.
She’d been coming from the pool when she’d stumbled upon Peter Wiggan and his cronies in the process of beating him up, so he figured there was a good chance that she’d come to the pool again at some point, perhaps even today. Why not? It was a hot day in the middle of a hot summer. What else was there to do?
He didn’t admit to anyone that he was looking for her. He barely even admitted it to himself. Ethan was almost ten, but though he and his friends had begun to notice girls their age, none of them had yet turned their interest into anything more than talk. But Maggie was different than the other girls Ethan knew. It wasn’t that she was prettier . . . though she was pretty in an unusual way, with her big eyes and narrow face. No, it was something else about her, some inner quality that had shone forth for Ethan to see in those moments when she had stood up to Peter and his gang.
It had been sort of like when he’d found himself looking into Peter and had seen the wrongness inside him and had fixed it. Only there was no wrongness inside Maggie. Or anyway, nothing twisted and scarred like he’d seen in Peter.
It still freaked him out, what had happened with Peter. He hadn’t mentioned it to his parents when he’d gotten home. He was pretty sure, after the talk they’d given him, that they wouldn’t be too happy if they knew what had transpired. But the thing was, Ethan himself didn’t know what had transpired. Certainly, nothing like it had ever happened to him before.
It really had been as though he could see past the surface of Peter’s skin and into some other reality beneath the skin; not in the way an X-ray could peek past the epidural layer to reveal the underlying bones and organs, but as if he had glimpsed something even more deeply buried than that, something beyond the body entirely.
The soul.
He didn’t know another word for it, so that was the one he used when he thought about it, trying to figure it all out. Not just what had happened, but why and how. What it meant. And whether it would happen again.
But he hadn’t been able to answer any of those questions.
Maybe he would have figured something out by now if he hadn’t been so distracted by thoughts of Maggie. Actually, they weren’t really thoughts. They were more basic than thoughts. Feelings. Urges. A lot of mixed-up sensations and desires that tied his stomach into knots, yet made him want nothing more than to see her again. Or talk with her . . . though when he tried to think of what he might say, he found himself growing more mixed up than ever. Maybe he wouldn’t have to say anything. Maybe he could just smile. He pictured himself standing beside her and smiling confidently. The image brought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks.
Right. She’ll think I’m some kind of idiot!
Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t smile . . .
“Boring book?”
The voice startled Ethan out of his reverie, and he looked up to see his friend Alan Brooks grinning down at him, water dripping from his chin and the ends of his brown hair to pool on the pale concrete around his bare feet.
“Huh?”
“Dude, I was watching you from the pool. You’ve been on that page for like the last ten minutes! You keep looking over toward the entrance. Are you expecting somebody?”
“Oh . . .” Ethan glanced down, feeling himself blushing again. He couldn’t recall having read a single word of the page before him. He closed the book with a sigh. “No, not really. I guess I’m just not in the mood for reading.”
“Then come back in the pool,” Alan said. “We’re getting up a game of Sharks and Minnows.”
Ethan shrugged his shoulders. “Nah, I think I’ll head home. It’s getting kind of late.”
“C’mon, man, just one game,” Alan coaxed. “It’ll be fun!”
Ethan was about to say no when he saw a flash of yellow coming out of the girl’s locker room. It was Maggie, wearing a blue one-piece bathing suit and surrounded by a gaggle of friends. Alan, seeing him look away, followed his gaze.
“Ah-ha. Not expecting anybody, eh?”
Ethan didn’t bother denying it. “Do you know her?”
“Which one?”
“The girl with the blond hair. I think her name’s Maggie.”
“You think? Dude, sometimes I think you’re from another planet or something.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s Maggie Richardson.”
Maggie and her friends had stopped to talk to one of the lifeguards, a teenage boy with tribal tattoos on one arm and leg. The girls clustered around him, giggling shrilly as he talked. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Um, yeah. Richardson, as in Mayor Richardson . . .”
He glanced at Alan in surprise. “She’s the mayor’s daughter?” Suddenly he remembered how surprised Tony and Rob had been when Peter had ordered them to grab her. Surprised . . . and frightened.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Alan answered, rolling his eyes. “Her dad’s like super rich. I mean, they’ve got their own pool and everything. But, you know, he makes her go to public pools just so he can look like a regular guy and all. Especially around election time. At least, that’s what my dad says. How lame is that?”
“How come she doesn’t go to our school?”
“I guess he doesn’t want to look like a regular guy that much! She goes to some private Catholic school. Hey, how come you’re asking all these questions, Ethan? Are you sweet on her?”
“Me? I don’t even know her!”
The girls had turned away from the lifeguard and were surveying the pool area like shoppers sizing up bargains. Ethan felt his heart skip a beat as his eyes locked with Maggie’s. She raised her hand in a wave and came striding toward him. The others followed at her heels.
“Maybe you don’t know her, but it sure looks like she knows you,” Alan observed in an undertone as Maggie came up to them.
“Hi, Ethan,” she said brightly.
“Uh, hi, Maggie,” he somehow ma
naged to get out. Although he’d been hoping and praying for just such a moment as this, now that it was here, he felt too nervous to enjoy it. “This is my friend Alan.”
“Hey, Alan,” she said, flashing them both a smile that did something peculiar to Ethan’s insides. “Wow, it’s hot, isn’t it? You guys going in?”
“Yeah, we were just getting up a game of Sharks and Minnows,” Ethan heard himself saying. “You want to play?”
“Sure!”
“Cool!” He grinned at her just as he had pictured himself doing moments earlier, but now he didn’t care if he looked like an idiot or not.
The next hour or so passed in a blissful daze. He had the pleasure of being close to Maggie, but because there were so many other kids around, he was never alone with her and consequently never had to figure out what to say. Once, when she was the shark, she even caught him, grabbing hold of his ankle as he tried to swim beneath her and hauling him up to the surface.
“Caught you!” she gasped as their heads broke the water.
He couldn’t deny that she had. Or that he’d let himself be caught.
Later, as he rode his bike home along the wooded path, Ethan couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful Maggie had looked with water sparkling on her pale skin and red hair and laughter on her lips and in her eyes. Perhaps if he’d been paying less attention to these memories and more to the bike path, he would have noticed Peter Wiggan waiting up ahead. But as it was, he didn’t spot the bigger boy until he was nearly on top of him.
Then, before he could do more than slam on his brakes, Peter had stepped fully out of the trees and onto the path. He grabbed Ethan’s handlebars. Ethan struggled to pull away, but it was useless. There was no way he could break Peter’s grip. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Look, if this is about yesterday—,” he began.
“What did you do to me?” Peter broke in. His voice wasn’t angry or demanding. He spoke softly and calmly but with an intensity that could not be ignored.
“I—I don’t know,” Ethan said. “Let me go.”
Peter’s placid blue eyes didn’t leave Ethan’s face. “Please,” he said. “I’m not going to hit you or anything. But you have to tell me.” And with that, he released the handlebars.
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