Six Times a Charm

by Deanna Chase

  I said no.

  A dozen phone calls later I realized the magnitude of that mistake. I’d have better luck enrolling the kid in Harvard. And I knew then that the only way Timmy was getting into day care was if I latched on to any opening—no matter how inconvenient or expensive. So far, only one location had fit that description—being both inconvenient and expensive. I practically burned my fingers dialing the KidSpace lady back.

  Was the slot still available? Yes, it was, but they’d had three other inquiries. Those moms were coming by to scope the place out. But they hadn’t put down a deposit and she could still hold it for me if I wanted.

  I wanted. I whipped out a credit card so fast it would have made Stuart’s head spin. So what if I hadn’t seen the place? It was full and in demand, right? That had to say something. Besides, if it was a dump, they could keep the fifty dollars. A small price to pay for being on what I was now referring to as The List

  I told Nadine (the KidSpace assistant director, with whom I suddenly felt a close and personal bond) that Timmy and I would come by tomorrow to check the place out and meet his teacher, and that Timmy would start on Wednesday. She told us to drop by anytime, and I considered that another good sign—a toddler crack house would, after all, surely not want “anytime” visitors.

  By now it was almost lunchtime, and half of my day was already shot. Despite my looming list of tasks, I still felt an overarching sense of accomplishment. Absurd, really, when all I’d actually done was make some phone calls and spend fifty dollars against the promise of forking out eight hundred and twenty-five more every month.

  Stuart was going to kill me.

  I decided not to dwell on that little reality and instead moved on to my next most basic task—getting dressed. I hadn’t yet eaten, so I rummaged in the back of the freezer until I found a box of last year’s Thin Mints. Since I’d skipped breakfast and lunch, I took an entire sleeve out and schlepped it upstairs to the bathroom, along with a can of Diet Coke.

  The cookies thawed a bit while I was in the shower, and I snarfed down six, washing the crumbly goodness down with a swig of soda. I didn’t bother to do much with my hair, just ran a comb through it and slicked on a tiny bit of gel to keep the frizzies at bay once it air-dried. (Except for the occasional ponytail, I never do much with my hair. There’s no point. It’s dirty blond and hangs just past my shoulders. I can curl it, spray it, coax it into styles, and two hours later, it’s back to being dirty blond, straight and hanging just past my shoulders. For those special evenings out, I’ll pile it up on top of my head with a rhinestone-studded clip. Not fancy, but it works for me.)

  I pulled on jeans, a sleeveless sweater and matching cardigan, then shoved my feet into loafers. After a moment’s hesitation I changed out of the loafers and into an old pair of Reeboks. The chances of bumping into a demon today were slim considering I intended to spend most of my time in the cathedral archives, but it’s best to be prepared. If I did meet another one of Goramesh’s flunkies, I wanted traction—and lots of it.

  When I headed back downstairs, I remembered the window (the gaping hole in the kitchen jogged my memory). I glanced at my watch, made an unhappy little noise, and sat back down at the kitchen table, where the phone book was still open to the yellow page listings for Day Care Centers.

  I flipped to the G’s and scanned the pages, running my finger down the thin yellow paper until I found a display ad that seemed nicely laid out and not too cheesy. Not the most responsible method of choosing a repairman, I know, but I was in a hurry. The receptionist answered on the first ring, had a pleasant phone voice, and seemed to know what I was talking about when I described the oversize window in our breakfast area. Impressed as I was by such blatant professionalism, I asked if someone could fix it today.

  I heard the receptionist tap-tapping at a keyboard. After a moment she came back with the verdict—today was doable, but only if I could be available at four and was willing to pay the rush service charge. Sure, I said, why not? We made all the arrangements, and only then did I think to ask for a rough estimate.

  She hedged the response with the caveat that the final cost would be determined on site, then quoted me a number that had me grasping my chest. For two seconds I considered hanging up and letting my fingers do the walking a little bit longer. I nixed that idea fast enough, though. I didn’t have the time to juggle estimates, and Stuart wanted the window fixed by the cocktail party (which was scheduled for six-thirty, according to the note he’d left by the coffeemaker). If Stuart said something about the cost, I’d do a mea culpa then. At least the window would be intact.

  I relayed all the necessary info, promised to be home at four, and hung up, mentally congratulating myself for having accomplished yet another task.

  At this rate I’d have Goramesh figured out and conquered before the first guest showed up. I was, after all, on a roll.

  ***

  I arrived at the Cathedral invigorated, optimistic, and raring to go. I found Father Ben in his office reviewing his notes for that evening’s homily, and after the usual small talk—the weather, my family, the progress of the restoration project—we headed toward the cathedral.

  After a brief pause while I once again refilled my holy water vial, I followed him over the sanctuary toward the sacristy and the stairs leading to the basement archives. From the outside, the cathedral looks old but well preserved. From this new perspective, though, I could tell just how time-ravaged the building really was.

  Father twisted a large skeleton key, causing a dingy brass lock to creak. There was no doorknob, and once the lock had disengaged, he pushed on the wood—now smooth from centuries of just such pressure. The door swung inward, ornate hinges creaking with the effort. “Mind your step,” Father said, moving over the threshold.

  As I followed, he reached to his side and flipped a switch, the light from five low-watt bulbs suddenly illuminating our path. The bulbs were strung along an ancient bit of wire tacked into the stone wall that lined the staircase on one side. I looked up and could just make out a faint streak of black on the low stone roof above my head. Father had turned back to make sure I was coming, and he saw the direction of my gaze.

  “Smoke,” he said. “Before electricity, the priests lit their way down these steps with torches.”

  “Cool,” I said, then realized I sounded like my daughter. I was enjoying this, though. It reminded me of the churches and crypts that Eric and I had prowled back in our glory days.

  The stairs made a sharp turn to the right, and the temperature seemed to drop at least ten degrees. I started thinking about earthquakes, and sincerely hoped California didn’t decide to do the shaking thing now.

  “I can’t tell you how much the Church appreciates our volunteers. We’re paying an archivist to catalog the noteworthy items, of course, but having volunteers help organize the material is certainly helping to keep our budget in line.”

  “The cathedral’s well known for its holy relics,” I said. “Presumably some are already archived and cataloged?”

  “Absolutely,” Father Ben confirmed. “Although until the restoration is complete, most of the relics are packed up and stored in the basement vault.”

  “Really? Seems a shame they’re tucked away like that.” My interest was piqued and I was feeling a trifle smug. I’d get a list of the relics, then look for anything that sounded like “bones” or came from any of the ravaged locations. Easy squeezy.

  “It is a shame,” he agreed, without looking at me. The narrow stone stairs we were maneuvering weren’t exactly up to code, and he and I were both picking our way down, careful not to misstep and land in a heap at the bottom. “Of course, some are still in their display cases, and are available for viewing on a limited schedule. We simply moved the cases to the basement to keep them safe during the restoration.” He shook his head. “The collection was on display for years in the cathedral foyer. I’ve only been here a relatively short time, but even to me it seemed like the end of
an era when we moved the pieces down here.”

  My earlier smugness started to crack. “How long were the pieces on display?” If the bones Goramesh wanted were known to be in San Diablo, there was hardly any reason to rampage through Italy, Greece, and Mexico searching for them.

  “That depends on the particular relic,” Father said. “Some came with Father Aceveda when he founded the cathedral centuries ago. Others arrived as gifts over the last few centuries. The bishop has done an extraordinary job ensuring that the temporary removal of the relics isn’t felt too deeply. As soon as the restoration is complete, the items will once again be displayed upstairs. In the meantime, a few items are set out each week in the Bishop’s Hall, and the entire collection is available to view on the Internet.”

  I was now pretty sure I’d find nothing of interest to Goramesh among the already cataloged items, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Frankly, I was assuming that the bones were a recent acquisition. That would explain Goramesh’s sudden interest in San Diablo. Something that had recently been donated, but had some connection to Mexico, Greece, or Italy. Or all three.

  He’d reached the bottom stair, and now he stepped onto the dingy wooden floor, stopping to wait as I continued to pick my way down. As soon as I joined Father on the floor, I immediately saw the dimly lit display cases that lined two walls of the cavernous room. I wandered to one and gazed through the glass at a row of six cloth bags, each about the size of a half-pound of coffee and labeled with calligraphy so ornate I couldn’t easily read the text. In the next case I saw two gold crucifixes and a Bible that looked as though it would fall apart if anyone dared to breathe on it. Other miscellaneous relics and artifacts filled the case, and I turned back to Father Ben, fascinated.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked.

  I agreed that it was. “Even this basement is impressive.”

  The space had rough stone walls into which metal holders protruded. Once they’d held torches; now dim electric bulbs dangled from each, filling the room with an incandescent glow that did little to penetrate the shadows.

  He laughed. “It does have a certain atmosphere.” He waved toward another wooden door—this one with a solid-looking padlock. “All the relics are noteworthy, of course, but the truly priceless pieces are locked in the vault.”

  I frowned, thinking that an ancient door and one rusty padlock wouldn’t keep out a determined thief.

  He must have read my expression, because he laughed. “We tried to maintain the character of the basement. There’s a stainless steel, alarm-rigged vault behind that door. I assure you, the treasures are quite safe.”

  “Good to know,” I said. And potentially bad for me. I said a fervent prayer that the bones weren’t locked back there. I could pick a lock (or I could at one time), but breaking into professional vaults? That was out of my bailiwick.

  Another question occurred to me, and I looked back up at Father. “Why keep the collection here and not in the Vatican?”

  Father Ben grinned, and all his youth seemed to reflect in that smile. “Would you like to hear what I was told when I came to St Mary’s? Or would you like to hear my theory?”

  “Yours, of course,” I said, liking Father Ben more and more.

  “PR,” he said, then watched, as if waiting for me to jump all over that brilliant revelation. I just shrugged, probably disappointing him mightily.

  He sighed. “Sadly, it’s all about the money. Even for a church. And that requires donations, pledges—”

  “Which flow more freely when the church has some cache,” I finished, getting the picture.

  “Exactly. And while almost all parishes possess some relics, the collection at St. Mary’s is truly extraordinary.”

  “Has it worked? The PR, I mean.”

  “Apparently so,” he said. “That’s essentially why you’re here.”

  Light dawned. “The uncataloged material.”

  “Boxes of relics, family heirlooms, old baptismal records. Correspondence between the priests who founded the California missions. Correspondence between lovers married in the church. A mishmash. All of it interesting. Only some of it worth retaining. Very little of it organized.”

  Already, I was feeling overwhelmed. “How much exactly?”

  “About three hundred bankers’ boxes of documents, and another two hundred or so crates filled with a variety of items.”

  I swallowed.

  I think a flicker of amusement flashed across his face, but I could be wrong about that. The light down there was terrible. “How much time do you have?” he asked.

  “Today?” I glanced at my watch. “Until two. Then I have to rescue my babysitter from my child.” I had more than that on my plate, but I doubted Father Ben would be interested in my rundown of errands.

  “That gives you an hour and a half to get your feet wet and get your bearings,” he said. I noticed he didn’t need to check his watch to figure that out. “Actually, that’s probably about right for your first go-round.” He glanced at me, and this time I’m certain I saw a smile. “It’s really not as bad as it sounds. There may be three hundred boxes of records, but they represent the gifts of only about thirty-five benefactors. And of those, only about ten donated major gifts.”

  “Okay …” I trailed off, not sure what his point was. Ten was a much smaller number, yes, but those three hundred boxes were still stacked in the basement, just waiting for me to scour them, hoping some vague reference would pop out and bring the Goramesh mystery into focus.

  He took pity on me and explained. “The major donors wanted their tax write-off, so each donation was accompanied by a brief description of the items.” He held up a hand as if to ward off my (totally nonexistent) protests. “These were pious men, don’t get me wrong. The donations were made because they wanted to benefit the Church. But even while one is looking toward Heaven, one’s feet are still of this earth.”

  “Render to Caesar,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  Made perfect sense to me. At the moment, I was feeling pretty charitable toward the IRS myself. I’d change my tune come April 15, but in the meantime, I was perfectly happy to settle down in front of each benefactor’s tax records and see if I could discern any sort of relic that seemed even remotely connected to my purpose. Who knows, maybe the first item on my list would be a big box of bones.

  Father Ben explained that the boxes were already somewhat organized. Anything of obvious value—including first-class relics like bones—had been set aside and locked in the vault for the archivist to review. The remaining boxes—filled with miscellaneous papers that, presumably, would include a reference to any relics that had been pulled and locked away—were stacked in this basement area, pending review, sorting, and transfer of the delicate items to a more paper-friendly environment I felt a twinge of guilt. This really was an important project and I fully intended to abandon it as soon as I learned what I came for.

  The boxes lined the far wall of the cavernous basement The other walls were lined with either the display cabinets or what appeared to be relatively modern card catalogs alternating with deep wooden shelves on which rested oversize leather-bound books, each about four inches thick, and which may have dated back to the Middle Ages—though I’m not a historian, so I could be way off base with that. The room sported a rough-hewn wooden floor topped with five long wooden tables. I imagined monks sitting there, clad in brown robes and sipping soup from carved wooden bowls. Today, I’d sit, clad in denim, riffling through boxes of papers, and hoping for a reference to bones that was somehow tied to Greece, Mexico, or Italy.

  The boxes were numbered and lettered, each letter representing a benefactor, and each number representing a box in that donor’s collection. The paperwork for each donation should (and Father Ben stressed the should) be in the first box of each letter set.

  He hauled Box A-l to the middle table for me, made sure I was settled, then headed back up the stairs. Without Father, the room seemed even more dark a
nd shadowy. Were this not part of the church and were I not a Demon Hunter, I’d probably have been spooked. As it was, I made a concerted effort to ignore the heebie-jeebies as I pulled the lid off the box, then groaned in frustration when I realized the entire box was packed tight with manila folders, each of which was, in turn, packed full of paper.

  I tugged the first folder out, laid it on the table, opened it, then yelped as a dozen multilegged critters scattered. I was on my feet in an instant, patting myself down vigorously. Yuck, yuck, yuck! Demons, dirty diapers, even last-minute dinner parties I could handle. But bugs? I don’t think so.

  I tapped the folder a few times with the edge of the notepad Father Ben had lent me. When nothing else living emerged, I decided it was safe to resume working. I sat back down and skimmed the first page. The Last Will and Testament of Cecil Curtis. I carefully flipped the pages, kicking up dust as I did so, but couldn’t find any itemized list of the bequest to the Church.

  My eyes itched, and I let out a violent succession of sneezes. Gee, this was fun.

  I shoved the folder back into the box, sneezed again, then pulled out the next dusty collection of papers. I held the sheath at arm’s length and shook it. No bugs. I decided it was clean and plunked it on the table. I checked my watch. Exactly seven minutes had elapsed since Father Ben had left me.

  With a sigh of resignation, I opened the folder. It was filled with onionskin paper covered in fragile-looking type, as if each page were the third sheet of a carbon produced on an ancient manual typewriter. Each and every page was full of single-spaced print, and—since Larson would never let me live it down if I missed a clue—I squinted to read every word. After about ten sheets my eyes burned and my head ached, and for the first time in my life, I actually wished I wore reading glasses.