Lone Wolves

by Chesbro, George C. ;

  “I don’t have any training.”

  “Get some. In four years, or however long it takes you to get an appropriate degree and training, they’ll barely have scratched the surface of this world. People will want you to be a part of it. You have a franchise: a kind of spiritual survivor to religious people all over the world, of whatever faith—because I assure you there are going to be lots of folks who are going to be extremely upset by what’s been discovered down here. You can assure them that it’s not-if you’ll pardon the expression—the end of the world. You’ll be able to afford to do anything you want. There’ll be book and movie offers, and it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that some William Morris agent tries to book a dogsled team minutes after word of our return gets out. You’re going to be a very wealthy young man.”

  “What about you, Priest?”

  “I make all the money I need doing what I like to do. I don’t need the distraction. It’s your opportunities we’re talking about. You were waiting for a Second Coming, Hector; let it be yours. Be something different when you leave here.”

  The boy looked at Brendan, his dark eyes now filled with hope—but also fear. “But how do we get out? How can we get past those bats, or whatever they are?”

  “No problem.”

  “No problem?”

  “They may be a lot bigger, blinder, and meaner than your average bat, but they still must function with sonar capabilities. We’re going to scramble their screens, jam their radar. First, we’re going to load our packs with your dead batteries and lots of stones. Then we’re going to be very cautious walking back. When we get to the big dome at the cave entrance, I’m going to stay up on the ledge and throw batteries and stones all around to distract them while you climb down, scamper across the floor to the rope, and climb out. When you get to the top, you’ll return the favor. Then, when we’re out of here, you and I and a certain Alaska state trooper who’s waiting for me are going to that native village and probably spend half of your movie money for a good hot meal. Simple. You ready?”

  Hector Martinez threw back his head and laughed loudly—but there was no hysteria in the echoing sound, only excitement and joy. Finally he stopped, slowly shook his head, and put out his hand. “I hope you brought my lithium with you, Priest. I’m going to be needing a little emotional pick-me-up if I see one of those black things lumbering after me, so I may as well start taking it right now.”

  MODEL TOWN

  “Should I call you Father?”

  “No. My name is Brendan Furie.”

  Father Gary Walsh smiled shyly, shifted in the chair behind the small desk in his small, bare office, then ran his hand back through his thick brown hair, which he wore in a blow-dried pompadour that made him look even younger than his twenty-four years. “Word’s gotten around since you’ve been in town. I heard you used to be a priest, but you were excommunicated. Now you’re a private investigator working on some special assignment.”

  “I think your story is far more interesting, Father Walsh. That’s what we’re here to talk about.”

  The young curate flushed. “Of course. I didn’t mean to pry. He abruptly rose and stuck out a pink, pudgy hand, continued, “Call me Father Gary. Everybody does.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Father Gary. I appreciate your cooperation. You seem nervous. There’s no need.”

  “I’m not nervous,” the other man said quickly, dropping rather than sitting back down in his chair.

  “Okay. That’s good.”

  “I’m just kind of puzzled that Father Reilly would allow you to interview me—I mean, he made it plain that I should answer all your questions.”

  “Father Reilly was the first person I interviewed a week ago. I’ve also interviewed twenty-four of your parishioners who have seen the weeping Madonna, or had other miraculous experiences.”

  “There are a lot more than twenty-four.”

  “It’s a sufficient number for the statistical sample I need. Since all of the unusual occurrences that have happened in Craiggville in the past three months began with you, I figured I’d end with you. Why are you puzzled?”

  Again the curate shifted in his chair, fidgeted with his Roman collar. “It was Father Reilly, on the orders of the bishop, who told me to stop talking to the press. The bishop himself turned down an offer by one of those psychic researchers to come in and try to prove that the incidents were either really miracles or a hoax.”

  “It’s not my task to prove or debunk anything, Father Gary. I do field research for a group that’s studying human behavior in response to extraordinary events like the things that have happened here. I make no judgments on the events themselves, which is probably why your bishop and senior pastor agreed to cooperate. You shouldn’t take their previous actions personally. You have to understand that, from the Church’s point of view, the question of miracles puts them in a no-win situation. If the Church officially declares some incident to be a miracle and it turns out to be fake, the Church looks ridiculous; if they declare something a hoax, it discourages the faithful who may have come back to the Church because of what they perceive to be miracles. Usually the Church takes no position, which is the case here. I’m allowed to interview the people who believe, but I can make no pronouncement on the belief itself.”

  “They’ve already discouraged and driven away the faithful,” Gary Walsh said, a trace of bitterness creeping into his high-pitched voice. “In the first few weeks after the miracles first began there were thousands of people flocking to Craiggville every weekend. There wasn’t enough room for everybody at each Mass, and we had to install loudspeakers on the front lawn and in the parking lot. One weekend we had more than ten thousand people come here, and there were traffic jams on every road and highway in all directions. That was when the bishop ordered the publicity blackout. Now we’re just about back to where we were before—a dying town with only maybe a quarter of the pews filled for Sunday Mass. When God shows us a sign, you’d think the Church would want the whole world to know.”

  Brendan studied the other man—who seemed to be having trouble meeting his gaze—for a few moments, and then said in a flat tone, “You do seem to be taking it personally. In the last two centuries the Church has officially recognized only a dozen weeping Madonnas and visions of Mary. New Jersey has more than that in a year.”

  Now the priest looked at Brendan out of the corner of his eye. “What did he say?”

  “Who?”

  “Father Reilly.”

  “Among other things, he said that the Madonna here in your church now weeps so much that he has to have a maintenance worker mop up the floor every morning.”

  “Did he say anything about me?”

  “What people tell me is held in strictest confidence, Father. I probably shouldn’t have shared with you what I just did.”

  “But everybody knows that that Madonna weeps all the time.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You can see for yourself.”

  “I have.”

  Father Gary Walsh swallowed hard, licked his lips, and then said, “Okay, what do you want to ask me?”

  Brendan opened the briefcase he carried, took out a small tape recorder and a five-page questionnaire, placed the items on the desk in front of the curate. “Actually, I’d prefer not to ask you much of anything. I’d like you to fill out this questionnaire, and then I’d like you to relate your story into the tape recorder. You can take as much time as you like.”

  Walsh nodded, reached out and pulled the questionnaire toward him. Brendan sat down in the only other chair in the room, leaned back, crossed his legs and waited as the other man leafed through the questionnaire.

  “Some of this stuff is really personal,” the young priest said, his face reddening. “In fact, I’d have sinned if I’d done some of these things.

  “All of us have sinned, Father, and there’s no admission you can make on that form that will threaten your mortal soul. I guarantee your privacy. You’ll be assigned a code nu
mber, and your name will not appear on any report. It’s important that you answer all the questions. If you can’t do that, I’d prefer to end the interview now”

  “I have to do it,” the other man mumbled. “Father Reilly made it clear that I should cooperate.”

  “What is said or written in this room is between you and me.”

  Walsh shook his head, then hunched his shoulders and began to rapidly check off the boxes on the questionnaire. When he had finished he shoved the form to the edge of the desk. Brendan rose, slipped the questionnaire into his briefcase, then turned on the recorder and sat back down. He waited as the priest stared at the recorder. Walsh cleared his throat several times, but said nothing.

  “Father Gary…?

  “It’s … uh … it’s kind of hard to get started.”

  Brendan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Father Gary;” he said in a neutral tone, “about three months ago you walked into this church and saw the Madonna in the apse outside the sanctuary weeping. The statue is still weeping—literally in buckets. Since that time you’ve suffered stigmata twice.

  “The Madonna in your parents’ home weeps; in fact, there are weeping Madonnas everywhere you go. Since that first incident you’ve performed dozens of healings, and dozens of others have been performed in your name. People all over town have seen visions of Mary, and two families have seen the sun begin to spin and radiate all the colors of the rainbow. There have also been six murders, three times the number Craiggville has had in the past decade, and a rash of teenage suicides. Considering—”

  “The murders and suicides can’t have anything to do with the signs from God!”

  “—all that’s happened since you saw the first weeping Madonna, I would think you could spend hours recollecting your experiences and feelings.”

  “It’s … just kind of hard. Maybe you could ask me questions?”

  “All right. Tell me how it began.”

  “I came into church one morning and saw the Madonna weeping,” the priest replied, averting his gaze.

  “And?”

  “I went to Father Reilly and brought him back to see it. He didn’t know what to make of it. Then it happened again the next day.”

  “And you began to suffer stigmata.”

  “Yes.”

  “It happened twice. The last time, your palms started bleeding when you were giving a homily before your congregation.”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  The curate shrugged. “Word got out. Reporters started showing up to interview me, and then thousands of people started coming to town to see the weeping Madonna.”

  “And then the Madonna in your parents’ home began to weep. And then there were others. It seems that everywhere you went, you would cause Madonnas to start weeping.”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Then Father Reilly told me that the bishop disapproved of all the attention we were getting, that it was unhealthy. I can’t imagine why he thought that. I was to stop giving interviews, and I was temporarily suspended from assisting in the Mass. Without the publicity, we didn’t get the same number of people coming to town and Mass.”

  “But the Madonnas continue to weep.”

  “Yes.”

  Brendan Waited, but the young priest with the pompadour continued to stare at the top of his desk in silence. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  Gary Walsh nodded.

  “All right, Father Gary;” Brendan continued as he rose, shut off the tape recorder and put it back into his briefcase. “Thank you for your time.”

  Suddenly Walsh looked up, and Brendan was surprised to see what looked like fear in the other man’s eyes. “Brendan?”

  “What is it, Father?”

  “Can I talk to you?”

  Brendan suppressed a smile. “Of course. That’s precisely what I’ve been trying to get you to do, Father.”

  The priest pointed to Brendan’s half-open briefcase. “Without … that.”

  “Is it personal, or does it have something to do with what’s happened in Craiggville?”

  “It’s … uh, both.”

  “Then I’d like to tape what you have to say;”

  “Do you have to?”

  “If it has to do with what are perceived as these miracles, yes? That’s why I’m here, Father. It’s my job.”

  “But you did say it would be confidential.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Like confession.

  “No, Father, not like confession. The tapes won’t have the legal shield enjoyed by confession, but I don’t see how that would be relevant. I guarantee your privacy. The tape will be transcribed into a written report that’s correlated to the answers on your questionnaire. Then your name disappears. Certain people who occasionally check the accuracy of my work may hear your voice, but they wont know who you are.”

  The young priest’s face had gone pale. He licked his lips as he thought about it, and then finally nodded. Brendan took out the tape recorder again, turned it on and put it back on the desk. Gary Walsh rose, walked to the far end of the room and bowed his head slightly. He took a deep breath, and then said to the wall, “Craiggville is very economically depressed.”

  “I know,” Brendan replied evenly;

  “Coal mining is virtually our only industry. We were doing just fine up to a couple of years ago, until new EPA laws went into effect. The coal that comes from here has too high a sulfur content to meet the new environmental standards, so the mines were shut down. Hundreds of people lost jobs. When their unemployment benefits ran out, they had to go on welfare. There was no money to support the other businesses in town, so they began to fail. People were losing their faith.”

  “So you decided to do something about it.”

  “God decided to do something about it!” Walsh said in a voice that had suddenly become clear and loud. He abruptly turned to face Brendan. His eyes had grown bright. “I had a dream, Brendan. I’ve never had a dream like it before—it was so clear, so real. God spoke to me in that dream. He told me He wanted to send a sign to the people of Craiggville to give them hope and bolster their faith, and I was to be His messenger.

  “So you faked the tears on the Madonna.”

  “No!” the curate exclaimed, shaking his head so hard that his hair fell around the sides of his face. Color rose in his cheeks. “You can’t call something which is God’s will ‘fake’!”

  “You put water in the Madonna’s eyes and on her face because God told you to.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “Only twice. After that, God provided the signs Himself”

  “What about your stigmata? Did God tell you to use phony blood?”

  “It was real blood. I cut myself with broken glass. But then other people around here began to exhibit genuine stigmata.”

  “The healings?”

  “They really happened. I know these people, and they were sick. They came to me for help. I put my hands on them, and they got better. I swear I’m telling you the truth, Brendan.”

  “I believe you, Father,” Brendan said quietly; turning off the recorder and replacing it in his briefcase, which he snapped shut.

  “Brendan …”

  “Is there something else, Father Gary?”

  The curate walked closer to Brendan, said in a small voice, “It isn’t working out like it was supposed to.”

  “How was it supposed to work out?”

  “At the beginning, things went just the way God said they would. The church was full every Sunday; People came to town and spent money; God had smiled on us. Then the bishop and Father Reilly discouraged people from thinking these were really miracles. They rejected God’s signs, and now God has turned His face from us again.”

  “I’m not the one to talk to about that, Father.”

  “You’re well known. People trust you. If you were to say
that you believed most of the miracles were real, then people would—”

  “I can’t do that, Father Gary;”

  “Why not? I swear it’s the truth. The Madonna here is still weeping. You’ve seen it.”

  “God spoke to you, Father Gary; not me. I can’t tell people what to believe or not to believe. All I can do is my job, and part of that job is not expressing opinions on the events I observe, or intervening in any other way; You have to find your own way to deal with the forces you’ve unleashed, good or bad.”

  The priest sighed, then turned and went back to his desk, where he sat and put his face in his hands. Brendan stepped forward and put his hand on the man’s shoulder, then turned and walked from the office, closing the door behind him.

  Marla was waiting for him in the sanctuary. The six-foot, statuesque blond woman with the velvety brown eyes was standing in a side aisle, head tilted back and hands clasped behind her back as she studied a stained-glass depiction of one of the Stations of the Cross. In her short, plaid skirt and yellow blouse, she looked like a college student, giving no indication of the deadly skills she possessed.

  Someone else was also waiting for him. Father John Reilly, a balding, portly; kind-faced man who was perhaps in his mid-fifties, rose from the front pew where he had been sitting as Brendan entered the sanctuary through a door next to the altar.