St. Joseph’s parishioners will be instructed to attend services at St. Mark’s-in-the-Bowery until their own church is reopened.
The city has announced it will clear the area around St. Joseph’s in order to allow Church investigative teams to do their work without interference.
(The New York
Post
)
Emilio stood back and watched the police herd the Mary-hunters from the street in front of St. Joseph’s. The hordes of the faithful were reluctant to go and protested vociferously. Some protested with more than their voices, crying that they had driven thousands of miles to be healed and weren’t about to be turned away now.
But they were indeed turned away. And some of those who would not leave voluntarily were either dragged away or driven away in the backs of paddy wagons.
By whatever means necessary, the entire block was cleared by nightfall. The church doors were locked and a police cordon was set up across each end of the street.
Emilio shook his head in admiration. He didn’t know how he had done it, but he saw the Senador’s hand in all this. There were still roadblocks before him, but the Senador had cleared the major obstacle between Emilio and the relic.
The rest was up to him.
Already he had a plan.
IN THE PACIFIC
20o N, 128o W
The storm continues to gain in size and strength as it races along its northeasterly course. It now stretches one hundred and fifty miles across as its cumulonimbus crown reaches to forty thousand feet.
The spinning core of its heart increases its speed, and the entire storm moves with it. The swirling mass of violent weather is aimed toward northern Mexico.
TWENTY-ONE
Manhattan
Decker honked and yelled and edged the D’Agostino’s truck through the crowd until it nosed up against one of the light blue “Police Line” horses that blocked access to the street ahead. Beyond the barrier the pavement stretched dark and empty in front of St. Joseph’s, illuminated in patches by the streetlamps. An island of calm in a sea of frustrated Mary-hunters.
“You know what to say?” Emilio said.
Decker nodded. “Got it memorized.”
He jammed some gum into his mouth and slid out from behind the wheel as one of the cops approached.
Emilio watched from his spot in the middle of the front seat. Molinari slouched to his right, trying to look casual with his elbow protruding from the open passenger window. Emilio was keeping a decidedly low profile at this point in their little mission. Decker and Mol sported extra facial hair, glasses, and nostril dilators to distort their appearances, but Emilio had gone to the greatest length to disguise himself. He’d added a thick black beard to augment his mustache, a shaggy wig, and a Navy blue knitted watch cap pulled low over his forehead, almost to his eyebrows. He was often caught in the background when the Senador was photographed leaving his office or his car, and he didn’t want the slightest risk of being identified later.
“Street’s closed, buddy,” the cop said. “You gotta go down to—”
“Gotta delivery here,” Decker said, chewing noisily on the gum as he fished a slip of paper from his pocket. “The rect’ry.”
“Yeah? Nobody told me about that.”
“We deliver alla time, man. Youse guys maya shut down da choich, but dem priests still gotta eat, know’m sayin’?”
As the cop stared at Decker, Emilio winced and closed his eyes. He heard Mol groan softly. Decker was laying it on too thick.
The cop pulled a flashlight from his belt. “Let’s have a look at what you’re deliverin’. You wouldn’t be the first Mary-hunters tried to sneak by us tonight.”
Emilio nodded as Mol nudged him. They’d done this right. This was no fake D’Agostino’s truck. This was the real thing. They’d hijacked it just as it left the store. The driver was bound, gagged and unconscious in the trunk of a car Mol had stolen this afternoon. The back of the panel truck was loaded with grocery bags, all scheduled for delivery elsewhere, but Emilio had changed the addresses on half a dozen of them to read “St. Joseph’s rectory.”
Emilio heard the rear doors open, heard the rustle of paper as a few of the bags were inspected, then heard the door slam closed.
Seconds later, Decker was slipping back behind the wheel as the cop slid the barrier aside and waved them through.
“‘Choich?’“ Mol said, leaning forward and staring at Decker. “‘Choich?’“
Decker shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? I’m a Method actor.”
Mol laughed and grabbed his crotch. “Method this!”
Emilio let them blow off a little steam. They were in—past the guard house, so to speak—but they still had a long way to go.
Decker gave a friendly wave to the cop standing on the sidewalk in front of the church as he drove past, and backed the truck into the alley on the far side of the rectory. Mol and Emilio got out, opened the rear of the trunk, grabbed some bags, and left the doors open as they approached the rectory’s side door with loaded arms.
A middle-aged woman opened the door.
“A gift for Father Dan from one of his parishioners,” Emilio said. “Is he in?”
Emilio knew he was in—he’d confirmed that with a phone call.
“Why, yes,” the woman said. She let them into the foyer, then turned and called up the stairs behind her. “Father Dan! Someone here to see you!”
By the time she turned back again, Mol had put his grocery bags down and had a pistol pointing at her face.
“Not a word, or we’ll shoot Father Dan. Understand?”
Eyes wide, jaw trembling, utterly terrified, she nodded.
“Anyone else in the house besides Father Dan?” Mol said.
She shook her head.
“Good.” Mol smiled. “Now, let’s find a nice little closet so we can lock you up where you won’t get hurt.
Emilio had his own automatic—a silenced Llama compact 9mm—ready and waiting for Father Dan when he came down the stairs.
“Hello,” the priest said. “What—”
And then he saw the pistol.
“Let’s go to church, shall we, Father?” Emilio said.
The young priest looked bewildered. “But there are police all over—”
“The tunnel, Father Dan. We’ll use the tunnel.”
The priest shook his head. “Tunnel? I don’t know what you’re—”
Emilio jabbed the silencer tip against his ribs. “I’ll shoot your housekeeper in the face.”
“All right!” Father Dan said, blanching. “All right. It’s this way.”
“That’s better.
Mol rejoined them then, and gave Emilio a thumbs-up sign. The housekeeper was safely locked away. She’d keep quiet to protect her precious priest from being shot while the priest was leading them to the church in order to keep his housekeeper from being shot.
Wasn’t brotherly love wonderful?
But repeated reminders never hurt. Emilio had worked this one out and memorized it: “No heroics, please, Father. We’re not here to hurt anyone, but we’re quite willing to do so without hesitation if the need arises. Remember that.”
‡
Why are all these things happening, Mother?
Carrie sat in the front pew, staring at the Virgin where she lay upon the altar.
She could not get the sight of her father—now that he was dead, had died so horribly, it seemed all right to call him that—out of her head. The flames, the oily smoke, the smell, the obscene sizzle of burning human flesh haunted her dreams and her waking hours, stealing her appetite, chasing her sleep. That had been no ordinary fire. Only the man had burned, nothing else.
Did I do that, Mother? Did you? Or was that the work of Someone Else’s hand?
And now the church was closed, the sick and lame turned away, the building sealed, the street blocked off. What next? Tomorrow these aisles would be crowded with investigators from the Archdiocese and the Vatican, trailed by nosy, disrespectful bureaucrats from City Hall and Albany, from Washington and Israel, all poking, prodding, examining.