“Yes,” said John Goodenough, a stout man with a poorly fitted toupé and practically no neck. “He makes us all look bad. He performs good works and asks for nothing.”
“Good works, hell! They look like miracles to me!” said Giddings.
“Amen, brother,” said someone.
“People are looking at us in a different light,” said John Goodenough. “Myself, I’ve tried to ignore the man. I never even mentioned him, and I think it makes me look like I’ve got my head in the sand.”
“Or up your ass…” said Samson J. Giddings with a half-kidding grin. “…’Course some of us’ve been sayin’ that for years!”
A soft, rippling chuckle pattered through the room.
“And I don’t think it’s doing us any good to bad-mouth the boy, either,” said James Lakerby. “Makes us look like we figured the grapes were sour.”
“Worse’n that,” said Bobby Lee Masters. “We look like fools! Like Philistines! People are wonderin’ how we can ignore a man who’s appeared almost exactly at the end of the millennium and might be—and I say just might be—the one we’ve all been talkin’ about.”
Someone had finally suggested what they all must be thinking. It was time to face a few facts and nobody was really in the mood.
“I don’t know about you,” said Freemason, “but I’m not prepared to believe that.”
“Some of the stuff he’s done don’t require much ‘belief,’ Mase,” said Giddings.
“So what’s the point of all this?” asked someone else. “I don’t figure you asked us here to have a theological discussion.”
“Hell no, boys. I’m here to ask you what we’re gonna do about this fella Carenza.”
“Ain’t nothing we can do, Reverend, except prove to him we can also be a force for what’s good in the world.”
“No,” said Freemason, flatly. “Has it ever occurred to you nitwits that maybe he’s not who we all think he might be?”
“No!” said Goodenough. “Right in our midst! Impossible!”
A chorus of shocked denials encircled the table. Freemason should have expected this from such a flock of quail, but he was surprised. There was no sense playing games with them. Better to get it over with.
“Gentlemen, I have reason to think we’ve been selected to perform a Divine Act…”
Jerry Goodrop stood and faced him. “Cooper, I think you’ve lost your mind…”
That single comment touched off an eruption from everyone at once. Their fears and desires and outrage poured forth like a foul-smelling stew. He tried to infect the debate with the notion they’d been picked by God to smite down the impostor, but they were buying none of it. Freemason soon knew he would not gain their seal of approval, and recognized that if he took his father’s plan any further, he would do so on his own.
Although everyone shied away from Cooper’s suggestion that Peter Carenza be “removed,” the group found itself divided on whether he was at fault for even espousing such a “solution” to their problems. Some chalked up his plan to simple religious zeal. The others’ feelings ranged from bemusement to fear to absolute outrage. That he’d overstepped the boundaries of what was proper, even for a band of thieves such as the current assembly, was evident, however.
He acceded to their veto, and wrapped things up as quickly as possible.
When the meeting ended, Freemason led most of the men down to poolside to join a platoon of young Christian women he’d invited just for this occasion. All those long legs and high breasts gave them a chance to forget their troubles for a couple of hours. But some of the more outraged members of the group had politely declined Cooper’s hospitality and took their limos out to their private jets. If he’d lost their favor, too bad. He stood to lose a lot more if he didn’t take a stand. And if they were too weak to back him, then he had no choice, really.
If the thought was really as good as the deed, then fuck it—it was as good as fuckin’ done.
He sat off to one side, watching the proceedings, and buzzed Bevins on his private intercom. The man had flown in from St. Louis for this meeting.
“You got the Fred-man, Reverend…”
“Mr. Bevins,” Freemason said softly. “You will come by for a private discussion this evening. I have a new job for you.”
FIFTY
St. Louis, Missouri—Windsor
* * *
December 13, 1999
Cold, December winds whipped up from the icy riverbanks and into the crowded streets of the city. Marion looked out her office window at the slate-colored sky and wondered if spring would ever come again. Winters in the Midwest, like the summers, were unforgiving and relentless—but that wasn’t why she was so depressed. When she was honest with herself, she knew it was Peter, and not the winter, turning her heart into stone.
It had been more than four weeks since his NewsNight appearance, and he’d spoke few words to her. Peter had been spending more and more time completely alone—either in his office in the Foundation building, or in his penthouse apartment down by River Park. By overscheduling appointments and appearances, Peter effectively insulated himself from everyone—but especially, pointedly, from Marion.
It’s my punishment, she thought calmly, turning back to a desk full of paperwork she’d been trying to ignore. The network had begun to register some displeasure with her recent work. Since her contact with “Father Peter” was now almost nonexistent, Marion had very little to tell anyone that any other reporter could not find out.
She shook her head slowly. Some super-correspondent she had turned out to be…If things didn’t improve soon, Network Chief Branford might start making real trouble, even though Marion had no contract with CBS. Well, fuck him.
No, he’d probably like that…
There was a light tap at the door; she welcomed the interruption.
“It’s open…”
“Hello,” said Billy, stepping inside. “You’ll never guess who wants to see us.”
“He does? When?”
“Right now,” said Billy.
Marion pushed back from her desk, stood up and smoothed her skirt. The demands of Billy’s position in the Foundation and his responsibilities as a soon-to-be father had changed him so much. People who recently encountered him would never have believed he’d been a road-punk, a Harley-head. She’d grown to respect his ability and willingness to change, and allowed herself to become his friend. Recently, if she hadn’t had Billy to talk to, she would have started to fall apart.
“All right,” she said. “Is he upstairs?”
“His office, yeah.” Billy waited by the door. He looked nervous, and she felt uncomfortable too, but she also was curious to find out what Peter wanted.
“Have any idea what this is all about?” she asked as they passed through the office to the elevator bay.
Billy shook his head. “No. I was hoping maybe you would.”
Marion grinned. “Maybe he’s going to fire us…”
Billy laughed. “Hey, that’s weird. Really weird. I had the same thought!”
The elevator opened and they stepped in. Billy selected the next floor up.
“Well,” she said, “at least we can always get our old jobs back.”
He looked directly into her eyes, then shook his head. “Not me, Marion. I think I’d even be afraid of my motorcycle now.”
Taking his hand in hers, she squeezed lightly. “I know what you mean, Billy. We’ve all been changed by him, haven’t we?”
The doors shuddered open. They stepped out into a hallway, and Billy led the way to a large two-room suite. In the main room Peter sat behind a large desk littered with papers. A PC flanked one end; several phones the other. He wore his familiar casual clothes—a blue chambray shirt under a khaki photojournalist’s vest, faded jeans, and a pair of Reeboks. He looked up from his work as though he hadn’t been expecting them, then nodded simply without altering the totally neutral expression on his face.
“Sit down, please. I
need to talk about something.”
Marion slipped into one of the two chairs in front of the monolithic desk, Billy into the other.
There was a tone in Peter’s voice she couldn’t identify. She worried that the distance which had grown between them had destroyed her understanding of him.
“What’s up?” asked Billy, trying to sound casual and doing a very bad job of it.
“Just got this off the E-Mail,” said Peter, handing them each copies of a document.
Scanning it quickly, Marion realized it was a formal invitation to the International Convocation of Prayer in Los Angeles.
“Isn’t Freemason Cooper the driving force behind this thing?” asked Marion.
“Yes, he is,” said Peter.
“Are you going to accept?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know,” said Billy. “It sounded like some kind of a scam from the first I heard of it. Like a big huckstering job for Cooper and all his TV-buddies…”
“Yes, I thought so too. But now—it’s possible we could use the event for some essential good, don’t you think?”
“Do you want to go, Peter?” Marion looked at him intensely.
“Yes and no. The Pope has decided to come,” he said, handing them copies of another letter.
Marion read the letter. From a Father Giovanni Francesco, it expressed the Pope’s intentions to attend the Convocation and Francesco’s urging that Peter also be there. She could not help notice the personal and yet strangely respectful style of the letter.
“It sounds like you don’t have much choice,” said Billy.
“No, not really. But I always have some options.”
“I’m assuming this is the Father Francesco?” asked Marion, tapping her copy of the letter.
Peter flushed for an instant. “Oh yes, that’s him.”
“So, are you going to go?” Billy’s voice sounded stronger now.
“Despite what either of you may think, I still value your judgments and opinions,” said Peter. “What do you two think?”
“Are you planning to pull off another spectacle?” she asked.
He almost let himself grin. “What kind of spectacle? I think I’m capable of several kinds, don’t you?”
“I mean like NewsNight,” said Marion.
He shook his head. “No, not at all. Believe it or not, I didn’t really plan what happened that night. I did my homework just to be on the safe side, and then when they started to gang up on me, I guess I just let it all go.”
“What’s the connection with the Pope?” she asked.
“I think the Pope believes it is important that we present a kind of united front to the rest of the world—especially the Catholics around the globe. I mean, let’s face it, even though I am, or was, a priest, there’s never been anything said by either me or the Pope to suggest I represent the Catholic Church.”
“Do you think the Pope would want the world to perceive that as the case?” asked Marion.
“At this point, when you consider my popularity, he might.
“At any rate, I think I’ll attend. Tie it in with the Washington and Oregon tour.” Despite his earlier reassurances Peter spoke as though Marion and Billy were just a couple of working stooges. “You can put out a story detailing the itinerary if you want,” he continued, “but I’d like to keep this low-key.”
“Sure,” she said, trying to establish a friendly, informal tone. “When was anything you ever did ‘low-key’?”
Instead of laughing, or even offering a small grin, he chose to take her remark seriously. “Well, let’s see…I think our relationship was pretty ‘low-key,’ wouldn’t you say?”
Her mind snagged on the word “was”; she lost the rest of whatever he was saying. “Was?” Was it truly over between them?
Peter looked at her with virtually no expression; his dark features were a mask of perfect placidity, as though he could wait forever for her reply.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I guess it is, or was…”
He nodded.
Billy cleared his throat as tension filled the room like a sudden draft. “Hey, listen, guys, is this really necessary?”
Peter glanced at him and almost smiled. “No, you’re right. I suppose it’s not. I’m sorry, Marion.”
He shifted his attention to the papers on his desk, shuffling through them. Billy and Marion were dismissed; it was that simple.
You bastard! Marion thought, glaring at him. Why are you treating me like this? Can’t you see what I’m going through?
She stood up, continuing to look at him with all the wrath and indignation she could muster. Peter didn’t even look up.
“See you guys later,” he said casually, swiveling his chair to face his computer station and picking up his wireless mouse. “And let me know how that story comes along, okay, Marion?”
“Sure, Peter. I’ll let you know.”
She walked from the office as briskly as she could without actually stomping. She wanted him to know how pissed she was, but he didn’t seem to give a damn.
Billy followed her, silently until they reached the elevator bay.
“You shouldn’t let him upset you so much,” he said.
Marion felt a single tear burning its way down her cheek. She was hurting so bad and no one could ever know how much.
“Things will work themselves out,” Billy was saying.
Marion began to weep in earnest, her self-control fragmenting. “I’m sorry, Billy, I’m really sorry,” she said, feeling angry and frustrated and ashamed.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she said. “Billy, he’s turning into something scary. He’s turning into a fucking monster.”
The moon burned a hard yellow light through the lens of her bedroom window. Marion lay in bed alone. She and Peter hadn’t made love since before Daniel’s death. Marion’s feelings about Peter were so confused that she couldn’t yet even begin to think about closing the books on that relationship and looking for another. Even masturbation didn’t bring total release from the sexual tension that seemed to increase in her with every passing day.
Tonight a new desperation added urgency to her movements. She needed to escape, even for a little while, from her memories of Daniel. From her attachment to Peter. From her worries about the changes she saw in a man she thought she loved. From her guilt and her desires. But though small spikes of pleasure had begun to radiate from her core, her vagina remained dry, the touch of her own fingers harsh and stimulating at the same time.
Each caress, each stroke pushed her a little closer to the cresting edge, but sluggishly. It was like a wave that never breaks, a beach that never runs out of sand.
Sometimes this exquisite balance point made sex exhilarating, an exercise in maintaining a perfect pitch of tension, but tonight she wanted to push through it, to tip the balance and reach the heights.
Abruptly she tripped through the relays and whited-out her thoughts for an instant of clean pure joy.
But even that moment was tainted. A presence loomed in her mind. It was tall and faceless, yet she knew it was Peter.
The moonlight darkened as clouds occluded the orb, and for the first time, Marion believed she could fear him.
FIFTY-ONE
St. Louis, Missouri—Clemmons
* * *
December 14, 1999
Clear winter sunlight poured through the window of the second bedroom, the one she and Billy had fixed up as a nursery for the baby. Laureen sat in a rocker, hands resting on her distended abdomen, looking at the new crib and the diaper-changing table both trimmed with ruffles. The tabletop was littered with brightly colored accessories. Billy had bought all the stuff with his first paycheck as Father Peter’s new assistant.
Laureen smiled when she thought about Billy. He’d become so much closer to Father Peter since Father Dan had died—it made
Laureen real proud of him. Not that she was glad Father Dan was dead or anything like that, but what the hey, it was good to see her Billy doing so well and dressing in fine suits and turning into a regular gentleman.
A gentleman. The idea of Billy being talked about like that almost made her giggle out loud. So much had happened to them in the last year or so—all of it good, and most of it because of Father Peter. What a great guy he was. She and Billy used to sit up late, talking about whether or not he was really the Lord. And that was really funny, because before they met Father Peter, neither one of them gave a snot for religion. But now they were deep into God’s work and Peter’s work.
When she thought about it, it seemed like her and Billy running away on a motorcycle was a dumb, bad dream. Had they really tried to rob that grocery store? She giggled thinking about that day…suddenly she got a really funny feeling at the bottom of her belly.
Standing up, she took a step toward the bathroom; she felt a soft pop! and then there was water all down her legs and feet. Laureen started giggling again as understanding flooded her. It was time! It was finally time! She didn’t know what to do first—pack some clothes for the hospital, change into something dry, call the doctor, call Billy…
Twenty hours.
That’s what one of the nurses told her. Twenty hours since she’d dilated completely. The contractions felt like they were coming every ten seconds.
“Billy, this is killing me!” she screamed.
“Just hang on, babe,” he said, squeezing her hand. Though he was clearly worried, he tried to smile reassuringly. He was so handsome he could have been a doctor, especially since he was wearing green surgical scrubs.
“Did you…call…Father Peter?!” she grunted.
“Long time ago. He’s on his way.”
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