“Don’t worry, Mother Mary,” she whispered to the crate.  “I won’t leave you alone here.  You’ve given me comfort through the years when I needed it, now I’ll stand by you.”  She patted the lid of the crate.  “Till death do us part.”

‡

The Judean Wilderness

“Why?”

Kesev stood atop the tav rock with the thieves’ rope knotted around his neck and screamed out at the clear, pitiless night sky.  “Why do You torment me like this?  When will You be satisfied?  Have I not been punished enough?”

But no reply came from on high, just Sharav’s ceaseless susurrance, whispering in his ears.  Not that he’d expected an answer.  All his countless entreaties down through the years had been ignored.  Why should this one be any different?

The Lord tormented him.  Kesev was not cut out to be a Job.  He was a fighter, not a victim.  And so the Lord took extra pains to beleaguer him.   Not that he was without fault in this.  If he had been at his post when the errant SCUD had crashed below, he could have chased off the Bedouin boys when they wandered into the canyon, and hidden the scrolls before the government investigative teams arrived.

And then the Mother would still be safely tucked away in the Resting Place instead of...where?

Where was she?

Gone.  Gone from Israel.  Kesev had exhausted all his contacts and what limited use he dared make of his Shin Bet resources, but she had slipped through his fingers.  He’d sensed the Mother’s slow withdrawal from their homeland.  He didn’t know how, or in which direction she’d been taken, but he knew in the core of his being that she was gone.

He also knew it was inevitable that soon she would be revealed to the world and made a spectacle of, a sensational object of scientific research and religious controversy.  Why else would someone steal her away?

The Lord would not stand for that.  The Lord would rain his wrath down upon the Earth.

Perhaps that was the meaning behind all this.  Perhaps the theft of the Mother was the event that would precipitate the Final Days.  Perhaps...

Kesev sighed.  It didn’t matter.  He’d failed in his task and now he could see no need to prolong further the agony of this life.  Since his usefulness on Earth was at an end, surely the Lord would let him end his time on earth as well.  He would not see the Final Days, and certainly he did not deserve to see the Second Coming.  He did not even deserve to see tomorrow.

He checked once more to make sure the rope was securely tied around the half-sunk boulder about thirty feet back.  Then he stepped to the edge of the tav and looked down at his Jeep parked below.  He’d left plenty of slack, enough to allow him to fall within a dozen feet of the ground.  The end would be quick, painless.  If he was especially lucky, the force of the final jolt might even decapitate him.

Without a prayer, without a good bye, without a single regret, Kesev stepped off the edge and into space.

He kept his eyes open and made no sound as he hurtled feet first toward the ground.  He had no fear, only grim anticipation and...hope.

‡

Cork City, Ireland

Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio wandered through the thick, humid air near Cork City’s waterfront.  He’d turned off St. Patrick’s Street and was looking for a place to have a drink.  His doctors had all warned him against alcohol but right now he didn’t care.  He’d had a long hard day of crushing people’s hopes and fervor, and he needed something.  Something Holy Mother Church could not provide.  He needed a different kind of communion.

All the pubs on St. Patrick were crowded and he didn’t feel like standing.  He wanted a place to rest his feet.  He spotted a pair of lighted windows set in dark green wood.  “Jim Cashman’s” read the sign, and there was a Guinness harp over the slate where the dinner menu was scrawled in chalk.

Vincenzo peeked through the open door and saw empty seats.

Bono!  He’d found his place.

He made his way to the bar and squeezed into a space between two of the drinkers—a space that would have been too narrow for him just a year ago.

Amazing what cancer can do for the figure.

The bartender was pouring for someone else so Vincenzo took a look around.  A small place, this Jim Cashman’s—hardwood floor and paneling, a small bar tucked in the corner, half a dozen tables arrayed about the perimeter, a cold fireplace, and two TVs playing the same rugby match.

None of Cashman’s dozen or so patrons paid him any attention.  And why should they?  He wasn’t wearing his collar.  He’d left that and his cassock back in his hotel room; he was now a thin, sallow, balding, gray-haired man in his fifties dressed in a white shirt and black trousers.  Nothing at all priestly about him.

He turned to the solitary drinker to his left, a plump, red-faced fellow in a tour bus driver’s outfit, sipping from a glass of rich dark liquid.

“May I ask what you’re drinking, sir?”

The fellow stared at him a moment, as if to be sure this stranger with the funny accent was really speaking to him, then cleared his throat.

“‘Tis stout.  Murphy’s stout.  Made right here in Cork City.”

“Oh, yes.  I passed the brewery on the way in.”

Michael had driven him through the gauntlet of huge gleaming silver tanks towering over both sides of the road on the north end of town, and he remembered wondering who in the world drank all that brew.

Vincenzo said, “I tried a bottle of Guinness once, but didn’t care for it very much.”

The driver made a face.  “What?  From a bottle?  You’ve never had stout till you’ve drunk it straight from the tap as God intended.”

“Which would you recommend for a beginner, then?”

“I like Murphy’s.”

“What about Guinness?”

“It’s good, but it’s got a bit more bite.  Start with a Murph.”

Vincenzo slapped his hand on the bar.  “Murphy’s it is!”  He signaled the barkeep.  “A pint of Murphy’s, if you would be so kind, and another for my advisor here.”

When the pints arrived, Vincenzo brushed off the driver’s thanks and turned to find a seat.

“Stout’s food, you know,” the driver called after him as Vincenzo carried his glass to a corner table.  “A couple of those and you can skip a meal.

Good, he thought.  I can use a little extra nourishment.

He’d lost another two pounds this week.  The tumors in his liver must be working overtime.

“Good for what ails you too,” the driver added.  “Cures all ills.”

“Does it now?  I’ll hold you to that, my good man.”

He took a sip of the Murphy’s and liked it.  Liked it a lot.  Rich and malty, with a pleasant aftertaste.  Much better than that bottle of Guinness he’d once had in Rome.  One could almost believe it might cure all ills.

Vincenzo smiled to himself.  Now wouldn’t that be a miracle.

He looked at the faces around Jim Cashman’s and they reminded him of the faces he’d seen in Cashelbanagh, only these weren’t stricken with the bitter disappointment and accusation he’d left there.

It’s not my fault your miracle was nothing more than a leaky roof.

A young sandy-haired fellow came in and ordered a pint of Smithwick’s ale, then sat alone at the table next to Vincenzo’s and stared disconsolately at the rugby game.  He looked about as cheerful as the people Vincenzo had left at Cashelbanagh.

“Is your team losing?” Vincenzo said.

The man turned and offered a wan smile.  “I’m American.  Don’t know the first thing about rugby.”  He extended his hand.  “Dan Fitzpatrick.  And I can guess by your accent that you’re about as far from home as I am.”

Vincenzo shook it and offered his own name—sans the religious title.  No sense in putting the fellow off.  “I happen to be on my way to America.  I’m leaving for New York tomorrow.”

“Really?  That’s where my...home is.  Business or pleasure?”