“I have never seen it that way – never felt it the way you describe it,” Bishop Michaels said. His voice was deep and sad, wistful. “I’ve always suspected that others knew something I did not. When I celebrate the mass, I am cut off from everything but God. There is a flow of energy, just as you describe, but it is a closed loop. It has always felt that way.
“Now I wonder what I’ve missed, but I don’t wonder enough to seek it out. Is it pride, do you think?”
He glanced up at Donovan, who shook his head and took a slow sip of scotch.
“I don’t think so,” Donovan said. “Not completely. I think there’s a lot of fear mixed in. When you open yourself to God, you know what you’re getting. When you open yourself up to the world it’s an entirely different thing. The calling is different for each of us.”
Bishop Michaels nodded, satisfied.
“I’ll be there this year, of course,” the Bishop said thoughtfully. “God knows I’d like to attend Mass here in the city and try to ignore this, but I can’t. I have to see for myself.”
Donovan nodded. “I would never have asked you to accept my judgment on such a thing blindly. I’m sure that Father Thomas will welcome your presence as well.”
The Bishop chuckled at this and downed the last of his scotch. “I’m not as sure of that as you appear to be,” he said.
“Well, no matter how Father Thomas feels,” Donovan said, “I will be glad of your presence. I will value your insight when it is over. I am not infallible – my curse is much more subtle.”
He hesitated, smiled, then added, “I have an open mind, and I dream of miracles.”
Bishop Michaels met Father Prescott’s gaze for a long moment. “I have never said this to any other man in all the years of my life,” he said. “I hope never to be in a position where I have to say it again; but I will say it now, to you Donovan. I hope that your dreams do not come true. Not this time.”
Donovan nodded. “I understand your feelings, Tony, even if I don’t share them. I’ll see you Sunday, then, at Mass.”
Bishop Michaels sat back and turned away again, staring out at the stars. He nodded.
Father Prescott hesitated, then asked his final question. “Have you heard from that man, Clearwater? Is there any word of whether he actually has a copy of the video, or whether he intends to use it if he does?”
The Bishop shook his head.
“He calls here once or twice a week. About half the time he threatens my secretary with all the horrible publicity he’s going to bring down on our heads. The other half he’s our friend, hoping I’ll come on his show and shed some light on what happened – open our doors to the world and let them know the truth. I doubt that truth is a word he’s really familiar with, but I also doubt he’s much of a threat, at least not if it ends here. If something happens this year it will be a lot harder to keep things quiet. Probably impossible.”
“All we can do is pray, and try to keep him from interrupting the Mass,” Donovan replied with a heavy sigh. “I wish I knew how he knew about that video.”
“He may not,” the Bishop said, shrugging. “I made no secret of the camera I carried in last year, they may have just seen it and drawn their own conclusions.”
Father Prescott nodded. “I hope that’s it. Father Thomas has enough riding on his shoulders. We all do.”
Father Prescott rose, and the door clicked shut behind him. Bishop Michaels stared out into the heavens. It was a long time before he turned away.
~ Seventeen ~
Early evening gave way to darkness, and though the moon rose slowly to wash the Cathedral in her silver light, long shadows stretched from every stationary object and lent an air of mystery. Standing on a balcony outside the rectory, staring out over the ocean, Father Thomas needed nothing less than he needed more mystery. A few feet further down the wall, content with the silence, Father Prescott leaned on the balcony, lost in his own thoughts.
It was the day before Easter Mass, possibly the last absolutely solitary, silent moment either man would have for some time to come. The magic of it was lost on neither of them. Finally, Father Thomas turned and broke the silence.
“So, the Bishop agrees with you, then? We should go ahead as if it were any Easter Mass?”
Father Prescott nodded. “There is no other course open to us. Not really. We might avoid something if you don’t perform the Mass, but who is to say that what we avoid won’t come back to you another day, or another year? We have an opportunity to observe, and we should accept that blessing.”
“And Bishop Michaels?” Father Thomas asked. “He will be there, as well, I suppose. Will he bring his camera again?”
Father Prescott shook his head. “No camera, but yes – he will be there. How could he not be?”
Father Thomas turned back to watch the waves with a sigh.
“I’m not sure I have the strength for this, Donovan. I’m not sure I can go through with it all again, not knowing what will happen.”
“We very seldom know what will happen, regardless of our actions, and our faith,” Father Prescott replied. “You must pray, Quentin. That’s the strongest advice I can give you, and the most useful. I will pray, as well, and I will be close by every second, watching.”
Quentin laughed softly. “I Hope the Bishop doesn’t feel the need to be close by, as well. I’m not convinced, for one thing, that he won’t run me through with a wooden stake if it gets out of hand.”
Father Prescott didn’t laugh, but his smile was warm.
“There is only one source of strength we can turn to in such times,” He said. “You will be fine, Quentin.”
Father Thomas stared a last moment at the ocean, then turned abruptly, as if he’d either found what he’d been looking for, or given up on it.
“I’m sure you’re right, Donovan,” he said. “For now, though, I think I’m all talked out. I’m tired, and tomorrow will be a long, trying day, no matter what happens. I think I’d better spend an hour or so alone, preparing, and then get some rest if I can manage it.”
Father Prescott nodded in understanding. He clapped a hand on Father Thomas’ shoulder and gripped gently. Without a word, he released that grip, turned, and made his way through the glass doors into the rectory. He hesitated for a second on the threshold and turned back, but Father Thomas was staring out over the ocean again, and Donovan left in silence.
* * *
The altar in the Cathedral was imposing enough by day. At night, the huge crucified figure leaned out from the wall ominously. It seemed to be pressing itself free of the plaster and stucco. Shadows obscured the point where wall ended and art began, strengthening the illusion, and the shadow of the great cross spread across the pews and stretched to the furthest corners of the building.
Moonlight filtered in through stained glass, but it was muted, and all the colors drained to gray. On the carpet at the base of the cross, Father Thomas knelt. His head was bent low, and his hands rested on his knees. His lips moved in silent prayer, and his shoulders shook slightly. From a distance it might have looked as though Christ were tearing himself from the wall to fall and crush his supplicant, but if Father Thomas felt that weight, it didn’t show.
Soft, shuffling steps broke the silence, which had been complete. They moved very slowly, and after a moment heavy, labored breathing joined the footsteps. Father Thomas shook himself and raised his head slowly. He didn’t rise, but he did turn, curious to see who else might be in the Cathedral at such a late hour. The doors were always unlocked, and it wasn’t unheard of that they would have to chase a passing vagrant out who’d wandered in to nap in a pew, or look for food.
The heavy form of Gladys Multinerry shuffled from the shadows. She held a candle on a silver dish with a ring for her finger. The flickering light danced over her features and blended them with the eerily lit walls, a reddish wash against the gray backdrop. Father Thomas squinted at her, recognized her, and smiled.
Gladys’s features were a mask o
f concern.
“It’s very late, Father. Shouldn’t you be resting, tomorrow being what it is?”
Father Thomas didn’t answer immediately. He turned his gaze back to the altar, whispered a few more words under his breath, and crossed himself. Then, with a quick, very low bow, he pressed his hands into the carpet and rose. He turned to face Gladys with a warm smile.
“I could say the same to you Gladys. What brings you so far from home so late at night? Still looking out for me after all this time, I suppose?”
“The Lord knows someone has to, Father,” Gladys replied. “It’s a certain thing you won’t look after yourself.”
Father Thomas laughed. He stepped closer and put his arm around her shoulder, standing beside her and gazing up at the crucified figure of Christ above them.
“You may be right,” he said. “I am tired, and I’ll be retiring for the night in just a few moments. I just wanted a few moments alone here, some time to sort it all out in my head – and to think.”
Gladys snorted. This caused her prodigious body to shake and sent flickers of candlelight dancing over the walls.
“If you ask me,” she said, “you spend a sight more time thinking than is healthy, and not near enough time believing in yourself – and in God.”
Thomas shook his head ruefully. “You are probably right again,” he said. He chuckled and gave her a quick hug. “I can’t help but worry, though. It isn’t like other days – not even like other Sundays. I can’t just ignore what happened to me last year, and the year before, and I can’t help wondering if I’m right to give it the chance to repeat itself.”
“We’ll all be there for you, Father,” Gladys said. “We always have been. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”
Father Thomas patted her on the shoulder again, and smiled. “I know you will, Gladys. If it weren’t for you and the rest of the parish I‘d have slunk off and hidden under a stone the first time something happened.
“Now,” he added, “you’d better get on home. Your son will be worried, and I have to go and try to get some rest.”
He turned toward the back of the church and the hallway leading to the rectory. Gladys clutched her candle so tightly her hand shook. She watched his retreating back grow dim and finally fall to shadow.
She called after him.
“You do as I say, Father, and get some sleep. What will come will come, and no amount of thinking about or fussing over it will change a thing.”
Father Thomas called back over his shoulder.
“I’ll try, Gladys. I will surely try. I’ll see you in the morning.”
When Father Thomas was out of sight, Gladys stepped closer to the altar. It wasn’t easy for her. Her knees were old and tired, and her bulk made the thought of rising again when she was through almost more than she could bear, but she knelt where he had knelt, gazed up at the statue of Christ, and then lowered her head.
“You watch over Father Thomas for me, Lord. He’s one of Your good ones; make no mistake about that. Give him strength, and keep him safe...”
She knelt and prayed for another ten minutes, until her knees shook and she was afraid that if she didn’t stand right at that moment, she would be kneeling there still when the doors opened in the morning and the church began to fill. It was going to be a long, slow trek to her car, and by the time she got home, made her way inside, explained her absence to Norman, and got into bed it would be nearly dawn – time to make the entire journey again. It didn’t matter. She would have made that journey every day of every week for Father Thomas.
Gladys walked slowly back toward the front of the cathedral and the parking lot beyond. Behind her, the huge dangling Christ watched with sad, pain-soaked eyes. She felt the weight of it as the huge old wooden doors snapped closed behind her, leaving the carving to its silent vigil.
~ Eighteen ~
Hector was in a quandary. It was perhaps the first time in his career that the word fit so neatly, and so completely. He sat alone in his office, staring at his computer screen. There were several files open on his desk, the papers strewn about in a state of disarray that would normally have sent him into a frenzy of filing.
Hector’s world was ordered. There was a file for anything and everything that influenced his life. In particular, he kept other peoples lives in his files. He kept their stories in neat rows in deep metal drawers. He cross-indexed the files, linking one to another in cascades of scandal and entertainment. It was what he did, what he’d always done. Hector’s ability and propensity for finding the darker, seedier side of every story was what had kept him out of a regular news anchorman’s seat, and launched him on the career that won him his own show.
One aspect of his talent was the uncanny ability to see through the fluff to the cutting edge of a matter. He always knew when to bring someone on the show. He always knew the point of sharpest impact for the blade that would eviscerate a local politician, or expose the long-term affair of some hot-shot business executive. The most important aspect of work like his was to catch the story at the proper moment.
What was spread out before him was something he couldn’t quite grasp. He’d managed to get a lot of it into folders, which was a start, but glancing down at the jumbled mess those folders had become, he realized that what he was seeing exemplified the entire situation. He just didn’t know how to proceed.
He’d had the video clips from Norman Multinerry for months. It had taken some time, but he’d managed both to uncover Norman’s name without the guy knowing it, but he’d also, for a ridiculously small sum, all things considered, bought all of the video clips. A little time in the photo lab – longer than it would have taken one of his techs, but he didn’t want to share just yet – and he had the entire movie. His copy was sort of jerky, and the images had been a little grainy to start with, not having come from a professional camera, but this had never stopped him before.
What he had seemed to be incontrovertible proof of something; but there was the rub. Was it the stigmata? Did Father Thomas experience some strange religious phenomena that brought him, and those who followed him, closer to God? Why had the bishop filmed this? How had Norman gotten his hands on it, and what would be the repercussions, if any, were Hector to put it on the air? More importantly, what was the hook?
It all hinged on what exactly it was that he’d seen in the videos. The fact that the Vatican had sent the investigator, Father Prescott, to check the situation out was significant. It meant that they were taking it seriously, though from what angle Hector could only imagine.
There were only a few ways to go about this, but all of them were dangerous. If he attacked Father Thomas openly, he risked the ire of the parish, the church, and exposing his lack of actual knowledge on the event. The video was solid evidence, but without someone associated with the event to comment on it, it would remain suspect. The church could even come along later and say Hector had doctored the files – that no such event had occurred, and that he was fabricating sensational stories to further his career, at the expense of a beloved local priest.
That much Hector had ascertained – Father Thomas was well liked, even loved, by his parish. Talks with Norman Multinerry had filled in the blanks that Hector’s staff hadn’t been able to. Norman’s mother, Gladys, had been present for the Easter Mass. She wouldn’t even talk to Norman about it, despite several attempts to draw her onto the topic.
It would have been perfect if Norman himself had attended mass. He didn’t care one way or the other about Father Thomas, and he could have been led, or directed, in any direction that Hector was willing to pay for. One good witness, one person willing to be interviewed, one priest disgruntled with the situation, and Hector was in business. He didn’t want to run such a potentially powerful story in an abbreviated manor, doing the commentary himself and filling in the blanks with speculation. While that would make a good story – hell, even a tiny portion of the video he’d watched a thousand times on the screen of his computer would
make killer copy – it wouldn’t be the strongest story it could be. Not only that, but it would leave Hector himself liable to repercussions if he missed something, or interpreted it wrongly and got caught.
His files were filled with such stories, though few with as much potential. Hector believed in patience as a fundamental virtue. Once he was in gear and had a story in his sights, he would plow straight through it to the end, but if there was more to it when he reached that end, if he could find some thread that indicated his was only tugging the loose material off a much larger tapestry, he would wait.
Now he’d waited so long that Easter Mass loomed once more, and he had decisions to make. All of the requests had been made for access to the Cathedral. They had been denied. The very polite response from Bishop Michaels’ office had explained that, while they were sympathetic to the desire of the press to record such an important spiritual event as the celebration of the Mass on the day the savior rose from his grave, they could not allow such an intrusion into the intimate, private worship of their parish. He, Hector, was welcome, as on any Sunday, to attend and to join in their worship, but there would be no cameras, no interviews, and no news crews within the walls of San Marcos.
Nothing the church could do would prevent Hector from coming as close as possible without entering. Probably they wouldn’t try too hard to keep him out of the parking lot, or even off the front steps of the Cathedral.
He had to follow through. He would be there with all the equipment the station could muster, and when they chased him off the steps of the church, as they inevitably would, he would enter with Shirley and see what happened next. He had a very small video camera, one he’d bought from a site on the Internet geared toward equipment used to record movies in movie theatres and make them available in bootleg formats. He didn’t intend to steal any movies, but Hector had seen the potential in the tiny hand-held camera immediately. He owned two.
On the Third Day Page 13