Three Marys

by Glenn Cooper

  Cal scanned the arriving cars for the black Acura he’d been told to look for and at precisely the appointed time, the car came into sight and parked a couple of rows from him.

  Cal got out of his car and waved in the Acura’s direction. Through the windshield he saw that Gottlieb was a middle-aged man with sparse hair. Gottlieb waved back and opened his door.

  The amnesia was retrograde to the pizza and coffee.

  The EMTs found Cal sitting beside his car, his face and forearms peppered with small cuts from flying fragments of safety glass. When questioned, he knew who he was, the day and date, and why he was there but he had no recollection of what had happened.

  ‘I had a slice of pizza,’ he said, looking around, confused. ‘It was greasy as hell.’

  ‘Don’t you hate that?’ a medic said, checking his blood pressure. ‘It’s normal. Want to try and stand?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He got his legs under him and had a look around. The parking lot was filled with emergency vehicles. A fire truck was foaming down a twisted black car.

  ‘What happened?’ Cal asked.

  ‘There was an explosion,’ the EMT said.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Looks like there was a casualty.’

  Cal picked a tiny piece of glass out of his forearm. ‘I was supposed to meet a guy in a black Acura. Is that an Acura?’

  The EMT said, ‘Why don’t you sit back down while I get a cop to talk to you.’

  Cal waited inside his car with the AC running until a detective knocked on the glass. Cal rolled down the window.

  ‘Mr Donovan, Detective Brancatio here, Milford police. I understand you were supposed to meet the victim here. Let’s have a chat.’

  Brancatio asked for identification and Cal gave him his driver’s license and Harvard ID. The detective must have figured a Harvard professor was in a low-risk category because he climbed into the passenger side to do his interview in a cool place.

  When the detective sat down Cal got a glimpse at his clipboard: Steven J. Gottlieb, Greenwich, CT. Age 49.

  ‘So, the EMT tells me you don’t remember the incident.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Cal said. ‘Sitting here, it’s coming back to me.’

  ‘OK, what do you remember now?’

  ‘I got here early. We were supposed to meet at three. I went inside the mall and got something to eat, then I came back out to wait for him.’

  ‘For who?’

  ‘Steve Gottlieb.’

  ‘OK. Go on.’

  ‘He arrived in a black Acura. He told me that’s what he was going to be driving. It was how I was supposed to recognize him.’

  ‘You didn’t know him?’

  ‘No. We talked on the phone last night for the first time.’

  ‘OK. What happened when he pulled in?’

  ‘I got out of my car and waved. He was parked where the car is now, I guess. He saw me and waved back. I think he was getting out of his car when there was a fireball. I don’t remember the sound. The next thing I remember the EMT was standing over me. You said victim. Is he dead?’

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s most definitely dead. So, tell me why it was that you decided to drop whatever it is you do on a Monday to drive down from Massachusetts to meet a guy you don’t know in the parking lot of a mall.’

  Cal didn’t hold back. He told the detective everything Gottlieb had told him – which wasn’t much – then poured out the story of the three Marys and his involvement up to and including the 60 Minutes broadcast. Brancatio wrote a lot slower than Cal talked and the interview dragged on. The detective obviously knew about the girls (who didn’t?) but for a guy with an Italian name, he seemed to have remarkably little interest in the theological aspects of the story. He kept getting interrupted by email notifications and radio calls from his headquarters and Cal got the idea that he was jammed up with work and needed a big case like a hole in the head.

  ‘So, you have no idea how Gottlieb figures into all of this?’ the detective finally asked.

  ‘That’s why I was here. To find out.’

  ‘And I suppose you have no idea why anyone would want to put an explosive device inside his car.’

  ‘Absolutely no clue. You’re sure it was a bomb?’

  ‘I did three tours in Iraq. Trust me, it was a bomb.’

  Cal declined to get checked out medically in Connecticut and after a headachy drive home he was hoping for some TLC. But Jessica was already in California on business and he had to settle for the tender graces of the Grey Goose. A quarter-way into a fresh bottle, his nerves were sufficiently settled to find out what he could about Steven J. Gottlieb of Greenwich.

  Gottlieb’s fingerprints were all over the Internet. It seemed he was a significant player in the world of finance and venture capital. Tilos Capital, his company, was a large technology investment firm based in Manhattan and Gottlieb was a senior partner who served on a mind-numbing number of corporate boards. Cal downloaded the list, wondering how one man had the time for all those meetings. He also seemed like a philanthropic type with multiple awards and recognitions for his charitable contributions, including a ten-million-dollar gift to his alma mater, Carnegie Mellon, where he’d gotten a degree in engineering. He and his wife belonged to a Jewish reform congregation in Greenwich where he served as a trustee. There were no links Cal could find to any Catholic groups or causes.

  Cal took a break and took stock. Nice guy, at least from what people said about him publicly, and a wealthy guy.

  After peeling off all the little Band-Aids from his face and arms he showered and freshened his drink before doing one of those Internet searches for criminal and arrest records. Without knowing Gottlieb’s social security number, he had to settle for a superficial result but it was unrevealing. Next up, he checked for postings on Twitter and Facebook. Gottlieb did operate a Twitter account but it consisted entirely of retweets of corporate news for his portfolio companies. His Facebook account was public but it had only occasional posts. There were photos of him and an attractive wife on vacation, hiking, at sporting and charity events. He had a powerboat. He looked fit. If there were kids he didn’t post about them.

  The bottle was getting light and Cal’s eyelids were getting heavy. That night he would dream of Facebook pictures of a seemingly sweet, suburban husband and successful venture capitalist, and giant orange fireballs.

  Cal waited two days. What was the decent length of time to wait to make a call like this anyway? It probably wasn’t two days but he felt he had to find out more so he rang the listed home number of Steven and Beth Gottlieb.

  ‘Hello, is this Mrs Gottlieb?’ Cal asked after a small-sounding hello.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to call at a time like this but I’m Professor Donovan from Harvard. I was there. When your husband was—’

  ‘What do you mean you were there? Sorry, who are you?’

  ‘Calvin Donovan. Your husband called me on Sunday night after he saw me on 60 Minutes. He said he wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the Catholic girls, the virgins.’

  There was a pause that left Cal hanging. ‘Steve? Catholics? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘If I could—’

  ‘Professor Donovan, you should talk to the police, not me.’

  She hung up.

  He thought about calling again but he didn’t. The woman sounded terrible and he didn’t want to make her evening any worse.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When Sunday arrived, the girls were almost unmanageable. Led by Mary Riordan, they formed a bloc and refused to put on the white outfits laid out for them by Mrs Torres. Their infants were to be dressed in white too.

  ‘First of all,’ Mary told Sue, ‘we’re not going to put on these ugly-ass dresses, and second of all we’re not dressing our boys in these poncey little suits.’

  ‘Ugly dress,’ Maria Aquino said, nodding. She seemed pleas
ed with her English and high-fived Maria Mollo.

  ‘It’s just for a couple of hours,’ Sue said. ‘It’s not negotiable, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, you’re afraid, Sue, but it’s us who’ll be mortified,’ Mary said.

  ‘Try the dresses on. I’m sure they’ll look lovely.’

  ‘Is Perfume Pope going to be there?’ Mary asked, holding her nose.

  She’d taught the phrase to the Marias and the two of them started marching around the room, holding their noses, chanting, ‘Perfume Pope, Perfume Pope.’

  ‘I’m sure he will. It’s Sunday Mass.’ But she grinned in solidarity. ‘Hopefully he’ll go easier on the aftershave.’

  ‘Will it be on TV?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  ‘Then we’re not doing it.’

  The electronic cathedral bells began to peal.

  Sue was prepared for the eventuality. It was bribery time. ‘All right, ladies, if you go along like nice little soldiers I’m authorized to offer you a very special reward.’

  ‘What?’ Mary asked.

  ‘This afternoon, Pedro will take you for a trail ride into the countryside. He says you’re all good enough riders now. There’s a pond a good long way from the house and you can have a picnic there and go swimming. You can feed the babies before you go and Mrs Torres and I will look after them.’

  Mary and the Marias withdrew to a corner and after one of their pantomime conversations Mary came back.

  ‘We want one more thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We don’t want the penguins hanging about up here when we get back.’

  ‘I can make that happen. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Then please, put—’ she almost said, ‘your Virgin Mary dresses,’ but checked herself and said, ‘your pretty white dresses on. I’ll help with the boys.’

  The bells kept pealing right up to the ten a.m. service.

  Once the girls were groomed and dressed, Sue quickly got herself together. She hadn’t brought many good clothes to the ranch but she did the best she could to look smart for the occasion.

  When she came to get the girls from the lounge there was a gaggle of people in the hall, most of them unfamiliar, many in clerical dress.

  With a series of ‘excuse me and pardon me’ she wriggled herself into the lounge where the girls and the babies were surrounded by the Carmelite nuns, Mrs Torres, several priests, and three bishops one of whom was speaking to Maria Mollo in Spanish. The clerics were dressed in vestments for the service of Mass. There was also an imposing bullet-headed man in a black suit who knew her even if she didn’t know him.

  The man approached with a meaty, extended hand. ‘You must be Sue Gibney. I’m Randall Anning. This is my ranch.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, wincing at the crunching handshake. ‘I figured someone owned it.’

  ‘You figured right. According to Mrs Torres, you’ve done good things here, Sue. Of course, I saw you in action on the videos. You seem to know your birthing beans.’

  ‘Can’t complain about three healthy babies,’ she said.

  ‘Three healthy, happy, and holy babies,’ he said.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ Sue asked.

  ‘Well, these priests and bishops here have defected from the Old Church. Some of them are local, from Texas and Oklahoma, but they’re from all over the States. This bishop talking to Maria, well he’s come all the way from Peru. He’s a defector too, one of our highest-ranking fellows, along with these other bishops. I think you know the nuns.’

  ‘Yes, I know them.’

  ‘The rest of these folks work for me at my company, my senior executive team. I do energy exploration. Meeting the girls and babies is a perk for them. Gotta keep the oil and gas flowing. There’s a lot of new bills to pay around here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time we all move on down to the cathedral. Don’t want to keep our pope waiting, do we?’

  On the ground level of the house, Sue tried to walk with the girls but Mrs Torres had a particular choreography that shunted her toward the rear of the procession with Mrs Simpauco, Mrs White, the English teacher, Dr Lopez, the pediatrician, and the mansion staff of cooks and cleaners. Anning, Mrs Torres, and the bishop led the way under the watchful eye of Clay Carling, Anning’s head of security. The girls came next looking eerily similar in their white dresses, white shoes, and white hair bows, each one holding identical-looking placid, blue-eyed babies. The nuns followed them like religious ladies-in-waiting, then the bishops, the priests, Anning’s favored employees, dressed in their finest, and finally Sue and the staff.

  It was a hot, late-summer morning and the sun shone brightly. Those with sunglasses slipped them on. On the walk to the cathedral the procession passed the stables. Pedro and the other stable hands were also in suits and they waved at the girls who would have waved back if not for the infants in their arms.

  The shiny green facade of the cathedral reflected the arid landscape.

  The last time Sue had been inside the church it had been almost empty.

  ‘Do you think they’ll fill it, Sam?’ she asked Dr Lopez.

  He pointed. ‘I think so.’

  A long line of people snaked from the entrance doors, down the stairs, and into the prairie. A group of security guards in blue blazers were working crowd control and informed those on the cathedral steps that they weren’t going to get in. They began instructing, then gently pushing people away from the building toward a field of giant video screens in the distance where it seemed a large crowd was already assembling.

  Someone on the stairs saw the procession coming and shouted out. Soon people were calling excitedly at the girls and, seemingly from nowhere, blue-blazered men appeared and flanked the Marys in a protective cocoon. The procession headed to a side entrance at the transept and once inside they were bathed in cool air and tranquil organ music. Every seat was filled except for the first two rows, cordoned off with a white rope that was removed as they approached. A hush fell over the crowd and all talking ceased. There were camera flashes.

  The Marys were seated front and center along with Anning, Torres, and the nuns. Sister Anika was assigned the position beside Mary Riordan who moved as far away from her as she could without sitting on Maria Aquino’s lap. The girls looked around for Sue and found her in the row behind them. She gave them a wan thumbs-up. The priests and the bishops peeled off to the sacristy to assist George Pole in his final robing. Video cameramen scanned the crowd and set up their shots from multiple positions.

  While waiting for the Mass to begin, Anning chatted amiably with Torres.

  ‘I talked to a bunch of TV executives early this morning,’ he said. ‘Guess how large an international audience they’re expecting today?’

  ‘Is it going out live?’ she asked.

  ‘You bet. Guess?’

  ‘Fifty million?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. Try half a billion. Maybe more. This is going to be the biggest TV event in history. By far.’

  ‘I had no idea. The crowds here are amazing.’

  ‘Carling tells me that we’ve got over five thousand people on the ranch now. It’s insane. I think I’ve rented every portable toilet and generator in west Texas. We’ve got the county coming to string up more utility lines coming into the property. I thought this was going to be big but not this big and not this fast.’

  ‘Well, it’s a very big miracle, Mr Anning.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Lidia. It most certainly is and I’m blessed to have the resources to make all this happen.’

  Mary Riordan flicked Maria Aquino with her finger.

  ‘Ow.’

  Though she was sitting she made her pantomime of a waddling penguin and set the Filipino girl giggling. Then Maria passed the mime down the line to Maria Mollo and the three of them were in stitches before the nuns ganged up on them and sternly whispered them to order. Mary Riordan got Sue’s attention again and
the two of them engaged in a bit of face-playing before Anning turned around. His scowl shut Sue down cold.

  Then the organ music stopped and the cathedral was deathly quiet. Even baby JJ, who’d been a little fussy, fell silent.

  A priest carrying a thurible of burning incense entered first, followed by priests carrying lighted candles. One of the American bishops bore the cross. The Peruvian bishop acted as lector, elevating the Book of the Gospels, and finally, Pope Peter, in full papal regalia took up the rear of the processional.

  There was no music, only the simple chanting of a short introit, the Gloria Patri.

  Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.

  Pole had vowed to resurrect the old religion, the Latin Mass, and this was exactly what he was doing.

  When Pope Peter had taken his place at the altar he began in a clear, proud voice:

  ‘In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti.’

  The congregation had been given the printed Order of Mass and they invoked an Amen.

  And Peter called out:

  ‘Corpus Christi, salva me. Sanguis Christi, inebria me. Aqua lateris Christi, lava me. Passio Christi, conforta me.’

  The Mass droned on in Latin for the better part of an hour and since few in the cathedral had participated in the old Tridentine Mass, the congregants, particularly the children, became restless, none more so than the Marys and their babies who fidgeted and murmured despite the best efforts of the nuns to keep them still. Throughout, a camera was trained on the girls. The production director, holed up in a small studio in the basement, was operating under Anning’s strict instructions, and chose only the most flattering shots to make the broadcast. Even Anning seemed relieved when Peter, after a brief homily laying out, in bullet-point succinctness, his objections to the current state of the Church of Rome, moved on to consume the body and blood of Christ. Putting down the chalice of Communion wine, the pope addressed the congregants in English.