Targeno watched the show for another few minutes, finally growing bored with the unceasing hard-line delivery of Christian dogma. But just as he prepared to switch back to the football game, the image of Peter Carenza filled the screen. Suddenly, Reverend Freemason Cooper stood surrounded by triplicate effigies of Peter Carenza. The familiar newsvideo footage had been carefully edited and reassembled to march to the beat of Cooper’s speech.
Targeno leaned forward, taking in the presentation carefully. Reverend Cooper was very careful not to openly denounce the obvious good works of Peter Carenza, but he was equally careful not to praise the man either. Rather, Cooper tried to assume the role of an impartial observer, merely letting his followers know he was aware of the newcomer to the religious scene.
But there was another message being preached—one of which Cooper was probably unaware. Targeno smiled as he watched and listened.
Reverend Freemason Cooper was desperately scared of Peter Carenza. And Targeno had always been wise enough to be scared of desperate men.
Thank you, Reverend Cooper, he thought. You have just helped me make my decision.
THIRTY-FOUR
Richview, Illinois—Carenza
* * *
November 29, 1998
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
The familiar opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities had assumed a new meaning for him. He had never imagined that such a skyrocket of pure elation could be coupled with an ultimate crack-in-the-earth desperation.
Peter Carenza leaned against the railing of a pasture fence and looked up at the awesome magic of the night sky. The power and beauty of the galaxy’s rim stars fell upon him as he wrestled with his dilemma. From moment to moment, emotion and rational thought brawled for dominance. How could he have broken his vow of celibacy? Could God ever grant him forgiveness, find enough mercy to absolve him of such a terrible sin? Was it a sin at all? He’d long wondered if some of the more radical theologians who argued against celibacy might be on to something.
Total, unending sexual abstinence was unnatural, he knew, but he’d always accepted it as one of the demands of his faith. The power of the spirit was supposed to hold sway over the flesh.
And yet, when he thought of Marion, of her raw power, her femaleness, her sexual energy, the idea of remaining chaste became laughable. How could anyone share the kind of intimacy he’d experienced with her, and ever feel the same way about something as intangible as a vow? Some men might be able to withstand the emotional floods released by such an encounter, but Peter could not.
And for this, he should be damned? It seemed an unjust fate, yet if he truly believed in the laws of his Church and the dogma of his religion, then he must believe in damnation.
Damnation. Everlasting agony, and worse—the metaphysical pain of knowing you would never see God’s face.
Never. The word repeated in his thoughts until it lost all sense and became only an endless roll of linked syllables.
With a start, Peter’s mind returned to the clear night and the farm in Illinois. The real question remained: did he believe, in his heart, that he’d committed a mortal sin against God? Examining his motives at the time of his union with Marion, he could not sincerely believe he was a debased sinner. The idea of sin had never occurred to him.
Even if he hadn’t been thinking about sin, there was still the fact that he was a priest, chosen by God—and the greater question of who Peter Carenza really was. Since learning the details of his birth, Peter had carefully avoided serious consideration of his identity and origins. But everything that had happened since he’d returned to America forced him to acknowledge that he might be more than just God’s tool or His agent. Perhaps he did possess a spark of something truly Divine.
These were dangerous thoughts, he knew. Upon that path lay madness.
Looking up at the stars, Peter wondered if he was staring into God’s face. He sighed and almost spoke aloud as though in prayer.
If I could only know what all this means…If You would only tell me…
The universe stared back at him with starry indifference.
THIRTY-FIVE
St. Louis, Missouri—Ellington
* * *
April 14, 1999
It had been many months since Peter and his entourage had vacated the Affholter farm. Things had gotten so complicated so quickly that Daniel had no choice but to suggest they set up more spacious, more formal headquarters in St. Louis. Though nothing official had been said, Dan had become the de facto “manager” of their touring operation. It was a geometric progression—the media pressure, the money, the stress from Peter’s followers, everything—all seemed to become twice as difficult to manage with each passing day.
They’d accepted the invitation of a St. Louis real estate mogul to use one of his office properties to house the ever-growing organization. Daniel’s windowed office overlooked a bullpen area of twelve workstations, almost all occupied. It could have been the workplace of any small business or corporation.
His desk intercom buzzed and the newly hired receptionist told him there was another job applicant on the line.
“Put it through, thank you.” Dan sighed and stared at the phone. It finally rang and he picked up the receiver. “Carenza Foundation of Caring,” he said softly.
“Oh my gosh,” said a female voice, “is this Father Peter?!”
“Well, no, actually, it’s not,” said Dan, smiling despite his fatigue. “Father Peter” was the media-tag bestowed by a journalist, and the name had unfortunately caught on. “But I work for Father Carenza, and the Foundation uses his name.”
“Oh, I see,” said the young woman, her voice colored by disappointment. “Kind of like Calvin Klein, I guess.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
“Ma’am?” asked Dan. “Can I help you?”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry. I was calling about the ad you had in the paper for an office manager. Have you filled it yet?”
“We’re interviewing today and tomorrow.”
“I’ve got five years’ experience doing that kind of work for Mayflower Van Lines.”
“Well, you’ll have to come down to our offices and fill out an application.” Dan gave her the address.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll be down this afternoon. But listen, can you tell me something?”
“I’ll certainly try…”
“Will this job get me close to Father Peter? Will I ever see him? Talk to him?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. We’re still setting up, and I have no idea how much time Father Carenza will spend here.”
“But he might be there once in a while?”
“I would think so.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. All right, I’ll be down before noon. Thank you so much!”
Daniel thanked her and hung up. Shaking his head, he looked out onto the office floor where employees were answering phones and keying information into terminals. Mail sacks were being unloaded onto sorting tables. Letters, testimonies, requests, and lots of donations were cascading into the new headquarters at an incredible rate. Despite Peter’s frequent requests not to send money, millions of people continued to do so. The Carenza Foundation of Caring was quickly becoming a not-so-little company. It was hard to imagine how it had all happened in such a short time.
Part of this turmoil, Dan knew, was his own fault. He had suggested the need for more organization, had advised Peter to find some headquarters more permanent than a recreational vehicle, to find people other than Billy and Laureen to handle the influx and disbursement of the ever-enlarging cash flow. Now he wondered if it had been the right thing to do.
The right thing to do.
He almost laughed aloud as he considered the phrase. After all the bizarre and wonderful things he’d witnessed in recent months, starting with his own healing at Peter’s hands, and running right up to the most recent miracl
es, Dan had no idea what might be right anymore.
He suddenly realized he’d been staring off into space and he blinked himself back to full cognizance. Woolgathering, his mother used to call it.
He looked beyond the bullpen to where the flock of new employees moved about uncertainly, learning their appointed tasks. Marion Windsor entered the room, escorting a thin, fragile-looking woman who could have been the model for Norman Rockwell’s stereotypical librarian. Marion guided her to a desk near the window.
Even from a distance, Marion stood out from the others like a beacon in the night. Wearing a stylish skirt and blouse, she looked like a fashion model. Her long auburn hair fell carelessly to her shoulders. The way she smiled, the expression in her eyes, her gestures…every damned thing about her was so distinctive and appealing.
Dan rocked back in his chair, still watching Marion give instructions to Miss Librarian. What was going on here? he asked himself. He hadn’t had thoughts like that in years.
Dan had always felt the celibacy issue was more psychological than physical. One of his Jesuit professors used to say your greatest sexual organ was the one between your ears, not your legs, and Dan had agreed. Still, he was certain that young boys who vaulted into the seminary still virgins had an easier time of it than kids who’d had a few sweaty, passion-filled nights. The airy expanse of the office faded away and Dan fell down a rabbit hole of memory…
He was seventeen, stretched out on a chaise lounge with Judy Bournewell. Her parents were out at a political fundraiser; her younger brother was asleep; and Judy had decided this would be the night she became a woman.
The memory crystallized, its edges so hard and real, it could have happened only minutes before.
She took his hand, placed it on her knee and slowly traced a line up her inner thigh, up to the soft mound beneath her white, cotton panties. Despite his raging hormones and his lead-pipe erection, another part of his mind had remained cool, rational, etching the scene on a mental plate that would not be diminished by the passing years.
At the moment his fingers touched her inner softness, Judy emitted a sound half purr and half groan. The grown man remembered how he’d thought how much control women had over men, and how utterly different the genders were.
Dan also remembered feeling resentment toward Judy—because she had the power, dammit, to choose when the time would be right. But that hadn’t stopped him from plunging ahead. How fast it happened—the fumbling, awkward entry, the rush of heat. Dan’s reaction, other than the expected guilt, was embarrassment that he hadn’t done it the way it happened in books and movies. Judy’s, however, had been one of relief and good humor. She smiled, even laughed, and told him not to worry, that everything was fine.
That night he’d been confused by her cheeriness, but ensuing weeks proved her right. They soon got the knack of screwing and were going at it like they’d invented it.
Judy Bournewell.
His one and only love. His only lover. Dan often wondered what sex would be like with a woman instead of a girl…
“Dan, are you okay?”
Her musical voice so startled him, his whole body tensed and his chair pitched forward. Grabbing the edge of the desk, he looked up at Marion as though seeing her for the first time.
“Sorry,” he said, feeling his face reddening. “I was just daydreaming, I guess…”
Marion smiled and moved to one side to admit the thin, prim-looking woman. “Dan, this is Mrs. Keating. She’s been Harrison-Lloyd’s bookkeeper for as long as they’ve been in business.”
“Oh, right,” he said, standing up courteously to shake the woman’s hand. “Mr. Lloyd volunteered your services to help us grow.”
Mrs. Keating nodded, smiled widely. “Believe me, Father, it’s a pleasure to help you folks out. I worked all my life to send my boys to parochial schools. Seeing you and Father Peter out there makes it all worthwhile!”
“Well, thank you…”
“And Mr. Lloyd donating one of his office buildings like this! Don’t you just know the Lord’s going to secure his place in heaven for this!”
“Oh, yes,” said Dan. “I’m sure of it.”
“Well, I guess I should get to work. I’ll be out there if you need me. Father.”
Dan nodded, smiled perfunctorily. Mrs. Keating departed and Marion sat down in the chair in front of his desk.
“Getting pretty crazy, isn’t it?”
“You betcha.” Why was he feeling so damned embarrassed? She couldn’t read his mind.
“If six months ago someone told me we’d be running a company, with accountants and bookkeepers and secretaries, I would have laughed in his face.” Marion pushed her hair away from her face, grinned self-consciously.
“We didn’t have much choice. It got so big…” Dan’s eyes met hers and, in an instant, he broke the contact. He suddenly felt as nervous as a schoolboy around her.
“I know it was necessary, but it never ends! This morning, Peter gets a call from a booking agency in L.A. Can you believe this? They want to help him schedule his ‘appearances.’”
“Oh, man, this is insane.” Dan stood up, walked to the glass window and looked out at the hivelike activity.
Why was he feeling so edgy? Was it Marion? Was it his guilt, his embarrassment because of the memories he’d been enjoying? Was it wrong to have such thoughts?
“Well, we can’t stop now. Us and the South African civil war. We continue to be news ‘staples.’ Incredible, huh?”
“Incredible. Yeah.”
Marion shifted her position in the chair, stretched out a bit. Relaxed, she looked so damned beautiful. For an instant the lunatic thought passed through his mind that he would tell her how she was affecting him, tell her he wanted her.
No. He couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure of his feelings. Maybe it was just her proximity, their daily contact, that made him feel like this.
Marion continued talking about the employees and Peter’s plans for the next week or so. Dan was half listening, and was only vaguely aware she’d asked him a question.
“Well, Dan, what do you think?”
He felt himself flush. “I’m sorry, Marion. I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately. I guess I wasn’t all there just now.”
She laughed, stood up, and moved close to him. Reaching out, she tweaked his cheek as if he were a little boy. “You know, you can be really cute sometimes,” she said.
Her words impacted on him like bullets. How did she mean that? He smiled helplessly.
“I just wanted to know if we should tell that writer from The New Yorker to call back in a month or two?”
“Yeah. Things might be a little less hectic then.”
“Okay, I’ll tell Peter your feelings.” She turned to go and, with a sudden flash of anger, Dan reached out, touched her arm to stop her. The feel of her flesh beneath her blouse, under his fingers was extremely sensual, exciting.
“You’re very close to him, aren’t you?” he asked softly, forcing himself to look into her green eyes. “You’re a buffer between him and the rest of the world. Everything passes through you before it gets to him.”
Marion smiled uneasily, as though seriously considering his words. “Is it really getting like that?”
He nodded. “You’re very protective of him, Marion.”
“Yes, I guess I am.”
“I mean, I’ve been his friend for a long, long time. I’m capable of telling him myself what I think of a damned magazine writer.”
“I know you are, Dan. I’m sorry.” She touched his hand.
The effect was galvanic. No woman had ever done such things to him. “Don’t be sorry,” he said quickly, pulling away. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought I should point it out to you. Some people might start resenting you.”
She smiled. “You’re right. I keep forgetting how smart you are, Daniel.”
He smiled, sat down behind the desk. As he put some distance between himself and Marion, he began
to think more clearly. “Where is Peter, anyway? I haven’t seen him all morning.”
“He’s upstairs in the suite—talking to the editors from Simon and Schuster. You know, the book deal.”
Dan nodded. Eight months ago, Peter was a complete unknown. Now he was getting the star treatment. Wonder when Playboy’s going to want to interview him? “Okay, I’ll try to get up there and talk to him later this afternoon.”
“See you later,” she said as she exited the office.
Yes, they’d see each other again—but Dan would never see her the way he had one night many weeks ago.
He had no idea why he’d peered out through the slats of the closed blinds of the Winnebago that night. Had his unconscious figured out what was going on? The firelight had been dim, but he’d seen more than enough of the scene.
His intercom buzzed again.
“Yes?”
“Father Ellington, there’s a Mr. Bevins here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Frederick Bevins. He says he has an appointment…”
Dan raked his fingers through his long blond hair. Bevins. Right. He was the guy with high-octane credentials who’d applied for a security job. Dan rifled through the stacks of folders on his desk, pulling out the one tabbed with Bevins’ name.
“All right,” he said. “Send him up, please.”
“Yes, Father.”
The intercom snapped off. Out in the bullpen, Marion had camped at a vacant desk and was talking on the phone. Dan stared at her, studying her every movement, her every facial expression. Marion Windsor affected everyone. Women respected her, though they didn’t often seem to like her. Most men openly leered at her, lusting after her like dogs chasing a bitch in heat. Others tried to be cool, unaffected. Like Branford, the network news anchor. But Dan was a fairly good study of body language, and he could see the tension and the desire twisting behind the flat-screen broadcaster’s facade.
He closed his eyes, gently massaged the lids with his fingertips. A part of him wished that when he opened his eyes she would be gone. Well, at least he was facing his growing obsession instead of pretending it wasn’t there.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 25