The Greater Good

by Casey Moreton

“And is she expecting you?”

  “No, no she isn’t. I visit Sister Catina every few months. She’s a family friend,” Megan said.

  “I will inform Sister Catina that you’ve come,” the nun said as she turned to go.

  Megan had been coming here to visit Sister Catina for as long as she could remember. In the past year, though, the Sister had taken ill, weakening with extreme age. On Megan’s last visit, Sister Catina had celebrated her 103rd birthday, an extraordinary feat for anyone, let alone a person who had lived a life of servitude. But the glow of life and abundant joy in her smile and crystalline blue eyes had never been extinguished.

  “Sister Catina is asleep,” Sister Rosalyn said upon her return. “But you may see her, if you like.”

  Megan stood and followed close behind down a long, poorly lit corridor. They passed by tall arched windows that let in filtered light from the courtyard.

  The door was ajar. Sister Rosalyn hesitated for a moment with her hand on the coarse wood of the door, then pushed through. Megan trailed behind in the woman’s small shadow.

  Another nun—much younger, barely out of her teens—sat stiffly in a straight-back chair between the one and only window and the one and only bed, reading quietly aloud from a leather-bound New Testament. She marked her place with a strip of crimson ribbon, smiled shyly, and ducked around Megan and Sister Rosalyn and out of the room.

  Sister Catina lay in bed, the top blanket folded down across her shoulders. Her eyes were closed.

  Megan thanked Sister Rosalyn for showing her in and found her way to the wooden chair, which was bathed by a pool of light from the window. She looked up as Sister Rosalyn left the room.

  “Sister Catina.” Megan leaned close, gently touching one of the old woman’s wrinkled hands. “It’s Megan. I’ve come to see you for a few minutes, to say hello, to see how you are feeling.”

  Bells chimed somewhere above them on the roof of the cathedral, ringing in the new hour. It was barely nine in the morning. The nun remained still.

  Megan said, “I’m getting married. His name is Olin, he’s an American, like myself. Very handsome, and quite wealthy. And I am deeply in love with him. We will marry later this week. I am meeting him in New York. I’m so excited, Sister. Olin makes me so happy. He will love me and take care of me. You would love him, Sister. His heart is made of gold. Your prayers for me have been answered. God’s given me a companion for life.”

  The wooden slats of the chair creaked as Megan shifted her weight in the seat. “Next time I visit, Olin will come with me. Then the two most important people in my life can be with me at the same time, and you can bless his life the way you’ve blessed mine.”

  She stood and tugged the blanket up a fraction until it brushed beneath the nun’s chin. She bent low and kissed her gently on the forehead. Megan said, “Sleep well, Sister.” She pressed two fingers to her lips, then touched them to the nun’s cheek.

  The younger nun appeared in the gap at the door and politely thanked Megan for the visit.

  Megan found her own way back down along the corridor to the foyer, then out into the cold where the cab was waiting.

  At that moment, in the predawn hours at Beagle Run, an FBI tech crew was digging the lead slug from the stained cedar trim that ran around the perimeter of the bathroom door. It was a large-grain bullet, long and slim, built for speed and accuracy.

  An army of federal agents pounded the snow outside, hunting for any and every detail that might lead them even one small step in the direction they needed to look.

  It was a full eight hours since the vice president had been slain. The trail was cooling by the second. A light dusting of snow had fallen in the meantime, making tracks much more difficult to detect.

  They found where the old truck had been backed to the embankment. A series of measurements were taken between the hole in the window and the bullet’s final resting place to determine the angle of entry, which led them to the narrow space between the two massive firs where the shooter had taken aim and let go of a single round. From that point they tracked the shooter’s movements by foot, snowmobile, and finally tire tracks. That led to the sloped embankment fifty feet from a gravel road, and a complete dead end.

  The agents in charge frowned and argued, looking for answers that weren’t there. The director wanted a strong lead by daybreak. He wouldn’t be getting it.

  5

  UNLIKE THE REST OF THE COUNTRY AT THE MOMENT, THEweather in Miami was perfect. Temperatures hanging near seventy, and plenty of glorious sunshine. The water was still a tad cool for a dip in the ocean, but to be out lying about in the sun, you couldn’t ask for more.

  The grandchildren and great-grandchildren were in the sand just beyond the glass of the patio door. Anthony Philbrick watched them play. From where he sat on a wicker deck chair near the wet bar, he could hear them laughing and screaming. Mrs. Philbrick had taken off on a walk down the beach with their two oldest daughters, the twins. On the arm of his deck chair was his neon blue drink. He sipped from the drink as he stared at the horizon.

  Speaker of the House Philbrick, who would turn seventy-nine on New Year’s Eve, sipped from the pink straw and did his very best not to doze. The beachfront condo in Miami was among his most beloved investments. The sun coming through the patio door was warm on his bare toes. Two of his four sons-in-law had the propane grill fired up on the long deck, and Philbrick could smell the shrimp and steak sizzling on the fire. He caressed the rounded hump of his gut and wondered how much more fatty food his heart would take.

  Somewhere in another room, a phone rang. It was the synthetic beep of a cell phone. It rang twice before he heard his personal assistant answer. Twelve seconds later, she was in the room, at his side.

  “Mr. Speaker, it’s for you.” She was holding a tiny, folding cell phone, barely larger than the palm of her hand. Her face was all-business.

  “I’m on vacation.” His eyes never left the water. A two-man sailboat moved along the horizon in the distance. “Take a message. I’ll return it in a month.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s the president.”

  He put the phone to his ear.

  “Mr. President, what a pleasure!” He gave the assistant a look she was used to. It said to disappear.

  “Tony, how’s the water?”

  “Cold and blue, just like my drink.”

  “Listen, Tony, I hate to interrupt your holiday, but I’m sending a plane to pick you up in forty-five minutes. I need you in D.C. immediately.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. President. But this is highly unusual. May I ask why?”

  There was the pause. Three or four seconds of dead air. Philbrick watched the children tumble in the sand. The clouds broke, and the sun on his feet and legs and stomach spread across him like a blanket.

  “James Ettinger died late last night.”

  The tingle started at his toes and worked its way up his spine, to the hairs on the back of his neck. His mouth went dry. His lower jaw fell slack.

  “Clifton, I, uh, I…I don’t know what to say…”

  “Just be on that plane and get here.”

  “Of course.”

  “I need you to be sworn in as the new vice president as soon as possible. I know this is sudden, but it’s about to get chaotic around here. I’m asking you to become my second-in-command. Do you understand?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. President. You can count on me.”

  “Your country awaits your service.”

  Conflicting emotions stirred in Megan as her taxi rounded a corner and she was able to make out in the distance the roofline of the flat. She had been running errands all day and was anxious to spend the last few hours in London with her two roommates. The cab stunk of cheap cigarettes. She would have cracked the window a bit but the choice was to suffocate or freeze. Mercifully, the driver edged up to the curb and barked what the meter read.

  It was sad, really. One last night in the flat she’d called home for the past three y
ears. She left the cab and walked along the ancient cement path, past shrubbery and the occasional leafless tree. The apartment building was a long, brick four-storyL , topped by wood shingles and draped with ivy.

  As was almost always the case, the little things were what she suddenly found herself beginning to miss. The smell of the entryway, a rather musty odor—nothing overbearing or obvious, but distinct all the same. The well-worn oak handrail leading up the four flights of stairs. The slightly bubbled tile at each landing. All of these Megan noticed and clung to as she took her time mounting the steps.

  Melancholy swelled in her throat. She rattled her key in the lock and took a deep, sad breath before turning the knob. Many of her best memories belonged to this place, this three-bedroom unit overlooking a busy street in London. Memories she prayed she would not lose with time.

  The door creaked, hinges groaning.

  Vivian was on the couch, face buried in a magazine.

  “Hey, Viv.” Megan tossed her keys onto the table in the entryway. She heard a muffled reply, and peeked over the magazine to find a Twinkie stuffed halfway into Vivian’s mouth. Vivian turned up her eyes and grinned guiltily.

  “Where’s Anna?”

  “On her way from Darrin’s.”

  “Good. Get dressed, the two of you are treating me to a night on the town.”

  They hit the club scene fast and furious, the three of them wanting to hold tight to what they’d shared as flatmates. The dance floor was shoulder to shoulder. Music was pulsing from speakers hidden in the walls. Vivian and Megan had a table next to the rail. Vivian had on her famous silk blouse and skirt. Megan toyed with the straw in her drink. The glass looked like a tall beaker.

  The trio danced and drank and grew steadily deaf from the music.

  They migrated to an even danker hole to eat.

  Later, outside the restaurant, Anna said, “Hey, there’s a guy from my international finance class—Mitch. He’s throwing a little shindig. We could drop by!” A quick glance at her watch. “Starts in an hour. Let’s catch a cab!”

  “What time is it now?” Megan asked.

  Vivian dug at her coat sleeve. “Little after midnight.”

  “Still early,” Anna said, arms crossed. “If I go to bed sober, I’ll forever hold this night against you.”

  The three of them exchanged a conspiratorial look.

  The corners of Megan’s mouth edged up in a slight grin. “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Later, as the sun crawled slowly above the horizon, Anna and Vivian were fast asleep beneath heavy quilts they had piled in the living room. But when the first wedge of light slanted through the window overlooking the street, Megan sensed the warmth on her face and stirred.

  She rose, holding a blanket around her, clutching it to her chest and neck.

  London was sluggishly coming to life. Delivery trucks moved about on the narrow streets. Megan plugged in the coffeemaker, pulled a straight-back chair from the kitchen, and sat before the window, pale orange light on her face. She understood the imagery very clearly. This was the sunrise of a new life. Last night had been the sunset of an innocent and carefree existence, the only existence she’d known for her twenty-two years. Was she ready? Were her feet fully planted beneath her? Was it too soon? Like smooth flat stones, the questions skipped across the placid surface of her mind.

  The aroma of coffee brewing brought about mild stirrings from one of the sleeping lumps beneath the blankets. But it was still early. And with no classes today, there was no reason to rise anytime before noon.

  Megan sighed. She loved Olin. The very thought of him forced the doubts into the background. He would make a good husband. She would make a good wife. Together, some years in the distance, they would produce beautiful children. But that was the future. He had unearthed something in her, a patch of spirit she’d been unaware of. The amazing thing was that they really hadn’t known each other very long. That fact alone made it seem reasonable to have at least a modicum of hesitancy. But she had fallen madly in love with him at first sight, and he’d done nothing but strengthen her feelings for him since.

  Her only desire now was to focus on Olin and their love for each other, and to cast off that nagging voice that produced a wrinkle of uncertainty. Olin was wealthy and successful. Should it matter that she knew so little about him?

  By the time the sun was full and bright on her face, a few pedestrians had wandered onto the sidewalks. There was a certain security in knowing that this city would remain her home; though they would marry in the United States, their life would be built in England.

  She wished London a good day and went to find her favorite mug.

  6

  Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

  ST.JOHN CAME UP ON DECK AS THE FIRST HINT OF SUNLIGHTspread out across the waves. The morning air was cool but pleasant. He wore drab olive green cargo pants and a Michigan State sweatshirt under a hooded rain jacket.

  Neither the prevailing currents nor the winds created any sort of problem for the chugging old diesel engine. The prop pushed the boat along at a steady clip.

  He stared at the horizon. It was flat and featureless. A bird with broad wings dipped to the water a half a mile to the east, then pounded toward the sky with a finned sea creature dying in the grip of its talons.

  He decided that he could easily have been a fisherman, riding the sea to scratch out a living. One of his great-uncles had fished the seas off Portugal. He’d been a hulking man with calloused hands and a hard wind-beaten face. But what a life—away from land for weeks or months at a time, at the mercy of the elements. A life long on punishment and endurance, and short on pleasure or reward.

  And here he was, still a young man, barely in his thirties, on his way to a life of his choosing, a life of luxury and bliss. Maybe at the end of this he would buy areal boat, with tall sails and fixtures of chrome and brass.

  The boat was equipped with reasonably modern navigational technology. He tapped a button and a small red blip that represented his humble little craft sprang onto the digital radar screen. He was right on course. A glance at his watch: nearly 7A .M.

  St. John brushed his teeth, washed his hands, and raised his face to the small round mirror fixed above the tiny sink. The beard had grown in full and curly in the short span of two weeks. It would be a pleasure to take a razor to it. But not just yet.

  On deck with the field glasses around his neck he kept watch. Around noon a handful of porpoises rose to the surface, dorsal fins slicing the water. St. John grinned as they spun and dove and crisscrossed in the boat’s path.

  The three of them—Megan, Vivian, and Anna—rushed into the back of the waiting black cab, slamming its door just as it squealed away from the curb. The drive to Heathrow took forty minutes, during which there was laughter and tears and many hugs. Her companions helped carry her bags as they hurried through the terminal.

  She would see them soon, but for some reason this was incredibly emotional, and Megan found herself clinging to them, not wanting to let go. She wore a long coat and her favorite maroon beret. Vivian and Anna each carried one of her bags. They hurried through the crowds and found seats at the British Airways gate. Nineteen minutes later, they hugged and cried again and went their separate ways as she turned and stepped in line for flight 189 from London to New York City.

  The first-class seat was like sinking into a warm bath. The deep soft leather drew her in, and for the first time all day she managed to relax and simply enjoy the thought of all that lay ahead for her. The enormous airbus taxied onto the apron and within a few minutes was above the clouds and heading west. Megan ordered pasta and wine, and ate like a bird. She skimmed a magazine from a pouch behind the seat in front of her and eventually managed a nap as they crossed high above the Atlantic. The flight was scheduled to take seven hours and fifty minutes, but the weather might have other ideas in mind. She was in no hurry though. She had several days before she was to meet Olin. Then they would
spend a couple of days in New York together before packing up and flying to Las Vegas to tie the knot.

  As she slept, the plane thumped along, hammering across pockets of turbulence. Megan was a light sleeper but didn’t seem to notice the rough texture of the flight. She was lost in sleep, floating in dreams. Dreams filled with Olin—her sweet Olin. Her prince.

  The few months they’d known each other had been a whirlwind. He’d swept her off her feet. From the beginning, she’d been impressed that he had acquired such wealth by such a young age. Megan had never dated anyone with money. He was rich and gorgeous—how could thatnot have influenced her? Such considerations disturbed her, so she simply brushed them aside.

  Darkness enveloped the flight. The pilot offered a periodic update. Nobody seemed to listen, or at least to care. Many were napping, or reading, or watching the movie and listening with their headsets. When the city of New York blinked into view through the snow and cloud cover below them, an automatic excitement charged the air. There was bustling and chatter and an increase in movement. The pilot made the announcement, and everyone buckled in. Trays were folded up, books and magazines stowed.

  Megan saw the light spread out in the distance. The city was aglow. Her heart pounded with anticipation. It would be an excruciating time waiting for Olin, but she’d make the most of it—shopping, seeing sights, dining out, taking in the galleries and museums. It would be the preamble to thereal vacation. Dropping into a city the size of New York stirred more than a little trepidation in her chest. After all, she would be alone in the city until he arrived. But she refused to fall prey to these insecurities.

  Flight 189 dropped rapidly, banking and circling, steady on its approach. The lights of the landing strip came into view, and then a slight jolt as the landing gear skipped on the pavement. They taxied up alongside the terminal at JFK, and the pilot, in his polished British accent, welcomed his passengers to the Big Apple.