“You were all gung ho about driving through the night before.”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “The girls are right. We need a proper night’s sleep.”
“That clerk...”
“You said he didn’t recognize you.”
“Someone might recognize the car.” He pulled out the keys. “We’ll keep it parked back here while we sleep, but in the morning we gotta lose it. Get a different set of wheels.”
She grabbed the bag between her feet and set it in her lap. “Stop worrying.”
“I appreciate your faith in God and all that, but it’s only gonna get us so far.”
“Before we got on these back roads, no one spotted us on the interstate - in broad daylight. Don’t you find that...unusual?”
“Word wasn’t out yet.” He looked toward the motel. “It is now - in HD.”
“That’s not it.”
“God is great. I get it, okay? Hallelujah and praise the Lord. But doesn’t He also help those who help themselves? We gotta do something to help ourselves. We can’t sit back and let shit happen to us.”
“Letting...stuff happen isn’t our plan.”
“We have a plan? Damn. Could have fooled me.”
Adeline woke and yawned. “Are we there?”
Cecelia unbuckled. “I’m hungry.”
“What is this place?” asked Babette.
“Trey, pull this car up to our room,” said the abbess. “We’re not going to drag all our things around to the front.”
“The car stays put,” he said, and got out.
Mother Magdalen got out with her cloth tote and opened the back passenger door. “Come with me, girls. Mister Petit is going to follow us with the bags.”
Whining and complaining, the three children crawled out of the back of the Buick. “Smells like tennis shoes,” said one.
As Petit popped the trunk, he briefly considered making a break for it. He could run beyond the motel lights and disappear into the night. Get a manufacturing job. He eyed his left hand. What if they took them back? Who’d hire a factory worker with seven fingers?
Reaching under his shirt, he touched the butt of his gun. Petit contemplated taking it out of his pants and tucking it into a corner of the trunk, but decided the safest place for the revolver was on him.
Resigned, he fished the luggage out of the trunk and made his way around to the front of the motel.
Out of her bottomless tote, the abbess pulled out more bread, a box of raisins and a collection of hard, green pears. As she set the meager rations down on a small, sticky table in the corner, the triplets descended. Pigeons fighting over crumbs.
“I want raisins!”
“Me, too!”
Mother Magdalen made everyone bow their heads and pray over the food.
“Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
As all five of them finished with the Sign of the Cross, Petit found some comfort in the small act of prayer. The girls couldn’t be all bad if they said grace as nicely as that.
They all went to bed in their street clothes. The girls took one of the doubles and the abbess took the other. Petit dropped a pillow and blanket on the floor in front of the door. The thin carpet was as hard as a sidewalk and reeked of male sweat, but Petit was so tired he didn’t care.
After the lights were off, the abbess led the girls in a bedtime prayer that he remembered saying as a child:
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
After a few minutes of silence, Babette asked a question to the darkness: “What if God doesn’t want my soul?”
Mother Magdalen’s response robbed Petit of the small comfort he’d gathered around himself.
“Go to sleep.”
Petit reached under his shirt and removed the revolver from the waist of his jeans. Under the covers, he curled his body around the gun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“The planet’s savior is being pulled into this faux Armageddon,” Khoury said.
“And everyone will believe it’s happening,” said MacLeod.
As they stared at the television, a photo of the future U.S. Agriculture Secretary came up on the screen.
Rossi pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up with her cell. “I gotta call Camp.”
While she huddled in the corner with her cell pressed to her ear, MacLeod grumbled. “Bloody FBI. Who crowned them king of the world, eh?”
“What do you think we should do?”
“Get wrecked.”
“What?”
“Blootered, hammered, smashed. You recognize at least one of those terms, surely.” MacLeod opened a small refrigerator in the room and clapped his hands. The box was loaded with sweets and alcohol. Again, leave it to the Americans. He grabbed a fistful of tiny bottles. “Ask and ye shall receive.”
“What if we need to move quickly?” Khoury asked.
“It’ll take more than these to knock me on my arse, Sir Ry Guy.” He set the provisions down on his bedside table and opened one of the whiskey bottles. Chugged it and slammed down the empty. The warmth filled his bones, and he sat back on the bed. Folded his hands in his lap and sighed.
“You’re amazing, Patrick.”
“Thank you, your holiness,” said MacLeod, reaching for another.
The revelation about this American cabinet member rattled MacLeod as much as it did his partners, but he was determined to hide it. His noble people had weathered all manner of crap, and he wasn’t about to shame his race now when the world needed a calm Scotsman.
“Give me three of those,” said Rossi, closing her cell.
“Excellent,” said MacLeod opening a vodka bottle and handing it to her.
“What did your superior say?” asked Khoury.
She held up her index finger while downing the booze. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Jackson and his family are already in Washington. They had dinner tonight with the president and the first lady at the White House.”
“What if Jackson used his time alone with them to promote this faux Armageddon?” asked Khoury.
“For all we know, he may even believe it’s happening,” added MacLeod. “He may believe those girls are evil, and that his daughter was healed by Satan. A true believer would be even more dangerous, aye?”
Khoury nodded. “As agriculture secretary, he’d have a major say in how this new flu is being fought, and how the United States handles it determines how the rest of the planet reacts. Under the guise of protecting agriculture interests...”
“He could slow or stop the slaughter of infected cattle,” finished MacLeod. ‘He’d insure the spread of the disease, and make Armageddon happen.”
“Or he could go the other way,” said Khoury. “He could advocate the butchering of every cow on your soil. If other countries follow suit, imagine the economic impact on the planet.”
MacLeod: “Grain sales would plummet and...”
“Stop,” said Rossi, holding up her hands.
“What?” asked MacLeod.
“Everybody calm down. Relax. Let’s go over what we know – or think we know.” Rossi took another drink and coughed. “The girls were supposed to impress the world with their powers. That was Plan A.”
Khoury nodded. “ ‘The whole world was astonished and followed the beast.’ ”
“But it didn’t work,” Rossi continued. “People got in the way, as they tend to do. Poor old Sister Rose wised up to them and started making trouble. Forced their hand early. We got there. That mob turned up before they were ready to unveil their power. Plan A started circling the drain. Could be this ag guy is the fallback, somehow. He’s part of Plan B. Or maybe not. What if it’s a coincidence that his daughter had something to do with the girls?”
A brief silence.
“Yeah, right,” said MacLeod. The news report had shifted to the weather. He
shut off the set and threw down the remote. “Who are we after, then? The ankle biters or Lord of the cows?”
“Before he’s confirmed, Jackson’s got to go through hell and back,” said Rossi.
MacLeod snorted a laugh.
“Background checks, senate hearings,” said Rossi. “We’ve got time before he’s in a position of authority. In the meantime, Camp is going to call the Secret Service with a story about Jackson. The guy’s got a stalker or received death threats. They’ll beef up security around him and he won’t even notice. A few more men in suits, talking into their shirt cuffs.”
“This should keep him from being confirmed,” said Khoury. “After all, if he really believes the devil...”
“We don’t know what he does and doesn’t believe about this satanic stuff,” said Rossi. “Camp will deal with him for the time being. The three girls are our immediate problem. We take care of them...”
“Take care of,” MacLeod repeated, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe they were hunting down three infants.
Rossi continued. “We take care of them, that should mess up Plan B, too.”
“What do we do with them after we find them?” asked Khoury. “What happens to them?”
“Let’s pry them out of Xavier’s mitts and then worry about that,” said Rossi.
“What about the she devil, then?” asked MacLeod. “Where’d the abbess take them all?”
“It’s gotta be in those files.” As Rossi went back to pecking at her laptop, her cell rang. She checked the number. “Finally.”
“The Vatican?” asked Macleod, getting up off the bed.
She handed the phone off to the Scot. “Ask Nardini where the hell he’s been.”
As soon as MacLeod took the cell, he knew it was bad news. He felt an icy chill travel up his arm to his heart. As if it were a hot coal, he tossed the cell to the priest. “They’re your people.”
“Father Rayyan Khoury here.” He listened for a minute, inhaled sharply and sat down on the end of the bed. “When was he last seen? Who was with him?”
Rossi turned in her chair and stared at the priest.
“What do they think happened? I understand...No, no. I realize that...But you must have some idea. A man of his rank doesn’t just...Then let me talk to someone who does.”
Rossi dropped her forehead in her hand. “This can’t be happening.”
Khoury had another person on the line, and was firing off questions in Italian. “Cosa e successo a lui?...Quando?...Perche no? ”
“What’s happening?” MacLeod rasped.
After a dozen more questions, Khoury stood up and announced to his partners: “Cardinal Nardini is missing. The details are sketchy, but...”
“Sketchy my ass.” Rossi got up from the desk, snatched her cell from Khoury and snapped into the phone. “This is Agent Samantha Rossi with the FBI...Tough. You have to tell me. When did Nardini go missing?...Answer my question, please! Mi risponda, per favore!...What? Slow down. I don’t understand what you’re saying. Parli lentamente. Non capisco. What about English? Can you speak English? Parla inglese?”
“His English isn’t good,” Khoury warned.
“Does somebody nearby speak English? C’e qualcuno qui che parla inglese?” Rossi held the phone out to Khoury. “Ryan. You get back on.”
Khoury took it. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, where does this leave us?”
While Rossi and Khoury danced around with the phone, MacLeod opened another bottle of whiskey and took a long drink. Stepping over to the windows, he parted the plush drapes.
Lake Michigan at night. City lights illuminated the edges, and then the dark water melted into infinity. He could also see a slice of the city. Even this late, there was traffic. So many headlights. So many cars filled with so many people, all of them busy and self-involved. Scrambling to get ahead. Worried about minutia. A sense of hopelessness washed over MacLeod. Humans. Helpless, pitiful creatures. They were going to swallow this Armageddon crap without question, and an army of brave Scots wouldn’t be able to save the planet from the resulting chaos. He put the bottle to his lips, tipped it back and emptied it. Closed the drapes and went back to the table for another drink. Good night to get blootered, hammered and otherwise smashed.
Rossi was back on the cell. MacLeod listened to her grill one Vatican official in her shaky Italian, get transferred to another unfortunate soul, and scream at him in two languages. “How long will it take? Si. How long? Quanto ci vuole? Don’t say that. I know for a fact you can understand me.”
She finally flung the phone on the table.
“What’s going on?” asked MacLeod.
“Nardini was on his way to say evening mass at a church outside Vatican City,” she said. “He never got there.”
“I understood that part,” said Khoury. “But his driver and car...”
“They found the car on the street, halfway between Vatican City and this church. They fished the driver out of the Tiber.” She ran a hand through her hair. “The police are going over the car. Who knows how long that will take and whether they’ll find anything. Ditto on the driver’s autopsy.”
“When did all this happen, lass? When did they find the car?”
She checked her watch. “Would have been middle of the afternoon our time. Two o’clock or so.”
“Who do they think is responsible?” asked MacLeod.
“We know who did it,” said Rossi.
“The same people who attacked your first Vatican contact, and Patrick.”
MacLeod wasn’t so sure. His psychic and corporeal guts both told him there was more to this, but he said nothing. No reason to give his partners additional reason to question him.
“They’ll flag us if they find Nardini,” she said. “Find his body.”
“What about us?” asked Khoury.
“They’re giving us to a different cardinal. He’s getting up to speed.”
Khoury lowered himself onto the end of his bed and hung his head. “Terrible.”
Rossi sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. Looked up at MacLeod, standing over them with a bottle in each hand. “We’ve got to keep working it.”
MacLeod extended one of the drinks to the priest, but Khoury shook his head.
“Take it, man. It’ll do you a world of good.”
Khoury relented, and examined the label. “Gin.”
“Apologies. I’m afraid I’ve exhausted the supply of brown spirits. We are now relegated to the whites.”
The priest took off the cap and sipped. Shuddered. Put the bottle to his mouth and drained it.
Offering a fresh perspective, MacLeod took over Rossi’s laptop to study the girls’ files. Working her cell, Rossi checked with assorted constables to see whether any tips had surfaced through the AMBER alert.
Watching the fiery redhead march back and forth across the floor with the phone plastered to her ear, listening to her bark orders, MacLeod felt a little better about their situation. About the world’s future. Surely the lass had some Scottish blood flowing through her veins.
Then there was the priest.
Clearly devastated by the loss of the cardinal, Khoury slouched in a chair off in the corner, reading from the Bible. Every so often, he took his eyes off the pages and stared into space.
When things got bad – and MacLeod was certain they’d yet to see the worst of it – would Khoury be of use? What about his promise to be the triggerman? Could he kill the abbess?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Flashing white light woke the abbess, and she bolted upright in bed.
One of the girls had turned on the television and was standing with her nose inches from the set, a black cube propped atop a long dresser at the foot of the beds.
“Turn it off,” croaked the nun, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand.
“No.”
“Babette...”
“No,” she repeated without turning around.
The television’s volume was turned low and the girl’s body was blocking the mother superior’s view. “What have you got on so early?”
Rather than answer, the girl extended her right hand and put it on the glowing screen. “It’s me.”
The abbess threw her legs over the side of the bed and pressed her hand against the aching small of her back. Miserably soft mattress. Miserable night’s sleep. In the middle of it, she’d woken with her face buried in a pillow that smelled of other people’s perspiration. She’d flipped to stare at the ceiling. Question after question had run through her mind, the same doubts that had tormented her even while she prodded Petit to keep driving. Keep going.
Why did my convent have to suffer and my sisters have to die? Are the triplets evil in the guise of childhood innocence, or are they what heavenly righteousness looks like when it’s on a holy rampage? Where are the others and why haven’t they contacted me? Are they going to punish me or reward me? Where is Jehu? Do I need any of them anymore, or will the groundwork I’ve laid through the Jackson girl’s healing elevate me above all of them? Is this truly according to God’s plan, or did I have a choice?
Ignoring the child planted in front of the television, the abbess kneeled by the side of her bed and rested her folded hands against the edge of the mattress. Closed her eyes and tipped her head down. As she moved the rosary through her fingers, she found she couldn’t recite the prayers that accompanied the beads. Her lips refused to part and her mind stayed blank. She blamed it on exhaustion. After a mechanical Sign of the Cross, she put away the rosary and stood up.
Dawn seeped through the edges of the drapes, but the other girls and Petit were asleep. Before waking them, she’d shower. As she walked toward the bathroom, she was able to see around Babette’s frozen figure.
Lined up in a straight row on the television screen were photos of the girls, three round faces surrounded by a halo of curls. Police mug shots of cherubim. The nun put her hand on Babette’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be...”
The child shrugged off the woman’s touch. “They said you’re selling us for money.”
“What?” asked the abbess. The sleeping girls stirred under their covers and the nun lowered her voice. “Who said that?”
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