The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  He parked and took the stairs to his office. Yes, deception was the name of the game. With more pride than shame, he admitted that no politico could beat him at it. At least he didn't ask anyone to vote for him. And his Holy Vision of justice was righteous, not self-serving. President Nausner's strategy of silence might slow him, but it couldn't stop him!

  49

  After Lynn's luncheon meeting and Galen's sandwich at a small café near the Stephensturm, they met in the room to get their luggage. A small rectangular package about the size of a check box, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string, lay on the floral duvet. "What's that?" asked Galen, picking it up. He looked at the note tucked on top beneath the strings. "It's from Natalia."

  "I offered to take an envelope for her to Sarajevo. Evidently the envelope she mimed had become a wrapped package." She moved beside Galen and read the note:

  To Bishop

  Ples tak to Fr. Nish. Orthdx prest, Sarajevo. He give mama. Thank U.

  Natalia

  Lynn remembered the difference in bearing between the meek maid in the room and the confident woman walking down the hall. Airport security frowned on taking aboard something received from someone else. She debated unwrapping it.

  "Bless her heart," said Galen. "I'm glad we can help her." He pulled out a large euro bill and set it on the dresser for a tip before stuffing the package in a corner of his suitcase.

  No suspicion from him. She, too, was weary of suspicion. Standing on tiptoe, she put her hands tenderly on his face. "I love you, Galen Peterson. You are a kind and honorable man. I'm blessed to be your wife."

  "And you, my darling Lynn, are a blessing."

  Chaplain Dick Osborne was right on time to return them to Flughafen Wien. They found long lines moving at a snail's pace through airport security. "We could expect this," said Dick. "A hidden sniper can't shoot a high-profile NATO aide right here and things go on as before. And the bus bombing probably compounded it. Believe it or not, Vienna is usually safe."

  Lynn and Galen glanced at each other, both thinking about the likelihood of an additional nondescript directive from President Nausner's security after the successful planting of an unsuccessful bomb at his reception. But they could never mention that.

  Officials opened each suitcase, briefcase, tote bag, package and purse, searching them like voyeurs pawing through lingerie drawers. "They'd never get the contents back inside this thing," Dick grinned, referring to Lynn's roll-aboard he carried.

  Why tote when you can roll? she wondered with an inner smile—a guy thing.

  "NASA should hire her to pack their spaceships," joked Galen. "She sets the Guinness world record for packing the most weight per cubic inch."

  Dick grinned. "I'll write a reference, Bishop Peterson." He scanned the zealous agents and lines of passengers and left levity behind. "This won't do." Avoiding the security checkpoint, he led them through a special door reserved for ranking military personnel and VIPs. He called the guard by name, returned the salute, and walked them to their gate. As he set Lynn's roll-aboard down, his eyes grew somber, his voice grave. "I'll pray for you while you're in the Balkans."

  Lynn nodded appreciatively. "And I for you. Prayer really does make a difference, you know." She shook his hand, then hugged him. Sasha came to mind, young and legless Sasha. She didn't doubt that he could live a meaningful life, but neither did she shrink the size of the challenge he would have to face. "Thank you for all you do for the soldiers."

  "I'm glad you took the time to contact me." His voice softened. "And to listen. Both of you." He turned quickly away.

  Lynn saw his shoulders sag for an instant, then straighten into military bearing. Discipline, faith, and humor would get him through. "We'll keep in touch," she called, meaning it. He was now a member of their large global family.

  While they waited for their plane to Skopje, Galen read a book about Lincoln. Lynn didn't know what to do—if anything—until she heard back from the President. She felt paralyzed as she stared out the dirty terminal window. Terminal. A thoughtless term for a place where planes departed. Departed. She lost interest in the wordplay and noticed that Galen had closed his book.

  "Lynn, I've been thinking about Skopje and what we'll find. One of Paul's visions comes to mind—when the man pleads with him: 'Come over to Macedonia and help us.' Acts 16:9."

  She had learned long ago to trust his photographic memory. He stored the Scriptures on his mental hard drive alongside historical facts and the name of every person he'd ever met. "I wonder how much help we can be to them," she said pensively. And how much help, if any, I can be to President Benedict. Surely Will had forwarded her email. Lynn wondered if she had it by now. Maybe she'd even read it. Would she respond? What would she say? She reminded herself that a response could take days. But on the other hand . . . "I saw a wireless area nearby, Love. I think I'll go check email."

  "I'll come get you if we start boarding."

  "Optimist! Half the passengers are probably still in the security line." She found an empty chair within wireless range and pulled out the Baby from Big-Black. One message. From: Will Whitcomb. Subject: Forwarded Letter. She felt the rise in her adrenaline.

  Lynn:

  I forwarded your note and have already received a response. The "friendship" appears to be exaggerated and a common interest in ranching a figment of imagination. You and I are aware of the human tendency to stretch things in order to feel important. A mere greeting or handshake from a prominent person can enlarge to a boastful story of a close friendship. Your kindness and good intentions, however, were appreciated.

  Will

  She reread the puzzling email, more confused now than before she received it. Will's guarded language surprised her. The President's immediate response surprised her. The lack of direct communication surprised her. She was left to assumptions about why.

  Maybe the President did write the notes to Marsh and me, and now regrets it. Maybe she's lost trust in me. Or maybe Marsh's murder alarmed her and she's protecting me by these disclaimers.

  Oh, sure, Lynn! Your safety is the number one national priority!

  If Marsh with NATO was not the President's friend and if the bit about ranching has no significance to her, what on God's precious earth is going on? Suppose the President didn't write the letter to Marsh nor the note to me requesting delivery. Who did? Suppose the Vice President misled me in the limo. Did he set me up? Did he set Marsh up through me?

  Whoa, Lynn! Don't go there!

  Another thought prowled at the edges of her mind. Suppose the email was intercepted and the reply isn't from her and she still doesn't know I have her letter.

  Nothing made sense, because one thing was clear: For whatever reason, the President lied in her email to Will. Or the Vice President lied in the limo. Or someone has obtained access to, and control of, President Benedict's communications. The implications sent fear zigzagging through Lynn like a lightning bolt.

  50

  Bubba's gaze followed the paddleboat on the Big Muddy, framed by the office window. The sun turned the wheel-rippled waves into splinters of light. His eyes roved to the nameplate on the walnut desk, Boudreau Guidry Tietje, Attorney-at-Law, and then settled on the man who sat behind it engaged in a monologue. He was in his fifties, with receding hair and a broad smile, his worries written in wrinkled calligraphy across his face. He wore a dark, tailored suit and a custom white shirt with BGT embroidered on the French cuffs. A gaudy crawfish tie bedecked his neck as incongruous as nude-show neon lights at the symphony.

  "As you know, I'm the executor for the estate of Elias Darwish."

  Bubba nodded. The secretary had told him that when she called to set up this appointment.

  "His mother is his heir. But settling a foreign estate is going to take a while—that's for sure."

  Bubba wished he'd given Lynn more than five hundred dollars for Mrs. Darwish. Boudreau Guidry Tietje, Attorneyat-Law, did not appear to be motivated by efficiency and economy
.182

  "Elias was as protective of his mother as a mama gator protecting her baby. Persuasive too. He convinced me to sign a contract setting a ceiling on my fees and expenses as executor. But it's a generous contract—that's for sure."

  Neither Elie's insistence on a contract nor his generosity surprised Bubba.

  Boudreau placed his hand on a shoebox in the center of his desk, the lid sealed with duct tape. "Elias brought this to me the day before he was killed."

  The timing startled Bubba. "Last Tuesday? Was Elie expecting . . . trouble?"

  "You know Elie. He was casual, as always. He said the contents weren't worth renting a safe deposit box, but they had sentimental value. Workers were coming to renovate his condo and he was afraid it might get lost."

  The renovation was news to Bubba.

  "Workers'll do that—that's for sure," said Boudreau. "Strew everything like a rainstorm scatters pine needles. Anyway, I told him I'd keep it here in my safe until he returned. He thanked me and then jokingly said, 'Give it to Bubba Broussard if something happens to me.' He was always joking." Boudreau glanced out the window at the river, losing his flamboyance. "Not anymore."

  No, thought Bubba. No more serious talks. No more jokes. He would miss both.

  "It was such a casual remark that if he'd said any name but yours, Bubba, I probably wouldn't even have remembered it." He picked up the shoebox and gave it to him.

  Bubba held it with reverence. Elie had touched it, taped it, thought of him. Boudreau eyed the shoebox, curious—"that's for sure." But Bubba wanted to open it in private. He stood and extended his hand across the desk. "Thank you. I hope your meeting with the crawfish farmers goes well."

  The lawyer looked surprised, then glanced down at his tie and laughed. "The tie stands out like a sucked thumb on a dirty baby."

  The secretary opened the door. "The crawfish farmers are here."

  Bubba threw his legs over the door of his silver customized Corvette and looked at the empty passenger seat. "Oh God! I miss the best friend I ever had!" The meeting with Elie's lawyer brought another reminder that death terminated everything but memories. He put the shoebox in the empty seat and headed for the Superdome. It was the place he felt closest to his friend. It was closed when he arrived, but a security guard let him in. He could always get in anywhere in New Orleans. He loved this city. And this place, he thought, walking out on the field, shoebox in hand, memories vivid. He sat down at the fifty-yard line, feeling Elie's presence and seeing again that magic foot kick field goals from this very spot—sometimes even farther from the goal. He pulled the duct tape from around the shoebox and slowly removed the lid, not knowing what to expect. He smiled at what he saw. Sentimental value, indeed—a stack of photos. They'd had many good times together. Victory celebrations. Football signings. Benefits. Parties. He sat there a long time. Looking at each picture. Remembering. Reliving. With gratitude he realized how vividly the mind stores memories—sights, sounds, smells. All there. But no new ones with Elie. Never again. He would give anything for them to have been anywhere but Jackson Square last Wednesday morning.

  In a few of the photos they wore their Saints uniforms. In some there were groups of people. He and Elie were in all of them. Except one. He held a picture of an older woman standing beside a wall shelf that held framed pictures too small to make out. He wondered if Elie had included it by mistake. She must be his mother. He turned it over to see.

  Instead of a name there was a small white sticky-note in Elie's handwriting: "Clean out that locker, Bubba!" He chuckled, fondly remembering the silly joke between them—our lockers are so messy we'd make our mamas ashamed. A thought about Elie's personality broke the laugh: his tendency to say in a joking way the things he felt most serious about. His words echoed: "No one could find anything in your locker, Bubba! If I had something important, I wouldn't put it in a safe deposit box. I'd just hide it in your locker." He'd said it jokingly a couple of weeks ago. "Give it to Bubba Broussard if something happens to me," he'd told his attorney, also jokingly, the day before he was killed. Bubba shuffled through the stack of photos again. Something in that stack had to be significant enough for Elie to deliver it to his attorney for safekeeping and to concoct a story about condo renovation. All the photos were four-by-six. All in color. All included the two of them. All but one—a three-by-five, black-and-white picture of an elderly woman. It just didn't fit, like finding the Queen Mother added to the face cards in a poker game. And it was the only photo with a note on the back. "Clean out that locker, Bubba!"

  He gathered up the photos and headed to his locker.

  51

  The agent announced the flight to Skopje, and the boarding line moved slowly forward. He methodically matched Lynn's name on her ticket to her passport and her photo to her face. He glanced down at the roll-aboard, scanned it, froze for a moment, and looked up, glowering. Fear shot through her. But there couldn't be a problem—she didn't have the President's letter anymore.

  With a suspicious glint in his eye he scrutinized her passport again. Then he eyed Galen's suitcase and didn't bother with his passport. He muttered words she didn't understand and thrust a whistle between his lips. It reverberated shrilly against the concrete and steel of the airport.

  Terror seized Lynn. A security guard advanced on them. "I don't understand," she told him. "Ich verstehe nicht." But she did understand, all too well. Somehow they knew she'd given a secret letter to Major Manetti and then stolen it back.

  The guard didn't bother to explain. His face and body language declared "no nonsense"! He marched them back to the security checkpoint that Dick had avoided earlier. With great flare that entertained the bored passengers, No-Nonsense deposited them at the end of the line. He pointed to their bags. "No security stickers!" he said in heavily accented English.

  "Security stickers?" Relief washed over Lynn. "Security stickers!" she repeated with the titter of a teenager.

  Galen was anything but elated. He had spent his life as the quarterback, whatever the playing field. He pointed to an empty security station and rose to his full height. "Take us there," he ordered in his most authoritative manner, "and get someone immediately to do the security check!"

  No-Nonsense glared at him like he hoped Galen would bolt so he'd have an excuse to shoot.

  "We cannot miss that plane!" Galen's tone was close to the edge. Lynn knew that partly he was concerned about her itinerary, but mostly he rebelled against being ordered around.

  "The U. S. Empire might rule the world. But when I am on duty, it does not rule this airport!"

  Lynn decided to try a softer strategic approach. "Please, sir, we don't have security stickers because we were escorted directly through the private entry."

  No-Nonsense looked skeptical.

  "I'm sure you know that Major Marshall Manetti was . . ." she swallowed, finding it hard to say the word, ". . . killed by a sniper Sunday."

  He nodded.

  "You probably know that Major Manetti was the chief aide to the NATO general in charge of Balkan strategy."

  He looked surprised but nodded again as though he knew everything of significance.

  "It is a terrible loss," she said. "More complicated than I can explain." You wouldn't believe!

  No-Nonsense scrutinized her eyes and face.

  "We flew to Vienna with him Sunday."

  He leaned forward slightly, totally attentive.

  "You see, my husband has a high position and is known for his international work." With studied innuendo, she added, "If you know what I mean."

  He took new measure of Galen's authority. For a moment Lynn thought he was going to salute.

  "We exchanged vital information with the major." Poor Galen thinks I'm exaggerating. "And it is essential that we get to Skopje tonight." A blatant non sequitur, but maybe it would work.

  "I understand." He drew to attention and hoisted her suitcase, escorting them back to the gate in double time, clearing the crowd like a tank. The boarding
door had closed. He zeroed in on the agent who'd called security. Lynn couldn't understand his ensuing diatribe, but it vanquished everyone at the counter, reopened the boarding door, and halted the pilot's preparation for takeoff. Satisfied, No-Nonsense escorted them onto the plane.

  "Vielen Dank," Lynn said, meaning her thanks. He nodded, clicked his heels, and marched off the plane. With a relieved sigh she settled into her seat. "For a few minutes, Love, it looked like you and the security guard were about to play High Noon. And you didn't have a gun."

  "That man doesn't need a gun! His words alone left a bloodbath at the boarding counter." Galen paused, eyeing her. "Speaking of words, I'm going to have to start watching yours more carefully. You told him the truth—mostly—and managed to leave a completely false impression."

  Lynn felt no pride in this new skill she'd developed as a courier. Deep inside she wondered if it was leading her down a path toward becoming less than she was.

  52

  Bubba Broussard entered the locker room to an eerie silence. The contrast to the normal motion, muscle, and mockery unsettled him. The stillness shouted Elie's absence. His locker stood open and empty. The police—or someone more menacing—had already cleaned it out, seeking clues, he supposed, but it seemed invasive. The dead are helpless, their privacy no longer honored.

  Clean out that locker, Bubba! He opened his, beside Elie's, and began taking everything out, examining one item at a time. Clutter encircled his feet by the time he reached the bottom. Bubba grinned. "OK, Elie. You get the last laugh. My locker's clean."