The Dead Saint (11 page)

President Helena Benedict arrived early in the Oval Office. she liked a head start on the day before interruptions. But before she closed the door, her secretary put through a call. She listened numbly. She continued to clutch the small, black source of horrible news long after the goodbyes. Beyond her window, pastels of pinks and violets painted the promise of sunlight in the dawn sky, a promise broken by the midnight darkness of her spirit. She finally put down the phone, still reeling from the shock of her friend's death. A sense of loss gripped her like a vise that choked off air.

She sat down at the desk to write a personal letter of condolence to Mrs. Manetti. Her heart grieved for the family. She wondered how many condolences had been written at this historic desk. Too many. She reread the heartfelt note and again lifted the old Mont Blanc pen used for years by her father. Her short dark hair fell across her cheeks as she bent to sign it. A letter for a life.

Or a life because of a letter? Fear of responsibility clotted her veins. Perhaps the reason for death had nothing to do with her. Perhaps the timing was coincidental. But deep within, where the subconscious rings true, she knew that she might as well have pulled the trigger. She had singled out Marsh. She had attempted to have a covert letter delivered to him. Her lack of prescience was no defense.

She scraped her soul from the floor and forced her tears to dam behind her eyes.
Remember the Alamo,
her father would have said. She could almost hear his voice. For him, and therefore for her, it referred to a family behavior code for standing alone: when we face overwhelming odds and no one else will come to help, we remember our roots and honor our family by standing our ground and doing what we can—without whining. For the rest of the day she went through the motions duty required, wore an emotionless mask, maintained a façade of presidential demeanor.
Remember the Alamo!

Galen unlocked the door to their hotel room. Floral duvets covered the side-by-side twin beds that dominated the small space. Large, inviting pillows beckoned them. Lynn wanted to curl up in the fluff and sleep for three days. But there wasn't time. She had to go over her keynote address before the banquet. She realized that Galen must be equally weary. "You could skip the banquet, Love, and get some rest," she told him, partly to make up for her elevator stunt.

Tenderness replaced exasperation. "Miss my favorite speaker? No way."

Steadfast Galen. They didn't talk about all that had happened since landing this morning. They were too spent to face it all again. Besides, there wasn't time. There was never time.

She showered
off
the long flight and horrible day. The water brought her to the source. To stilled waves. And the deep well. And the Living Water. She centered herself and silenced the tornado within her. She slipped into her short, silk travel kimono and draped a towel around her hair. Galen had lifted her roll-aboard to the bed. She took out lingerie and heels and shook out her black dress. She paused for a moment and watched him slide an oval gold cuff link into his shirtsleeve, twisting it to get his initials right side up. She smiled.

"What?" he asked.

"You dress as sharp on this side of the pond as the other."

He raised questioning eyebrows. "What does the ocean have to do with it? Besides," he winked at her, "a bishop's spouse has to look 'sharp' when the bishop is giving the keynote at a worldwide conference. Rule 4526 in the unwritten code."

Oh, yes! How she loved him! She donned the strand of Mardi Gras beads, confident that the dim banquet light would transform them into a string of pearls, and distance would do the same while she stood at the better-lit dais. We see what we expect to see.

They walked down the two flights of stairs to the ballroom—no mention of the elevator. As they entered the banquet hall, the aroma reminded Lynn how long it had been since she'd eaten a real meal. They nodded to Bishop Booker T. W. Phillips and his wife, Sylvia. Lynn loved them both. Two decades older, he was her unofficial mentor in the episcopacy, and Sylvia was the best friend anyone could have. The women hugged. The men shook hands.

Booker stood almost as tall as Galen. A bit of gray sprinkled his black hair and mustache. The lines in his face etched the character of one who walks the faith talk.

Lynn asked about their four sons: Cato, Plato, Prince, and Quamony, named for the courageous Revolutionary War veterans of African descent generally omitted from textbook history. To her, their names summed up the story of Booker and Sylvia's patriotism and pride.

"Did you fly in today?" asked Galen.

"Yesterday," said Sylvia in her Maya Angelou voice. She was aging gracefully, a striking woman with thoughtful dark eyes, a habitual smile, and a beautiful spirit.

"I wish you well tonight, Lynn," said Booker.

"Thank you. Speaking to this inordinately diverse group is no small challenge."

He smiled. "Simply getting around the title sounds like a challenge."

"
Psychoanalysis, Meditation, and Spiritual Practice.
I didn't pick it. I was assigned it."

"What title would you give it?" he asked.

"
Faith and Feelings,"
she said without forethought. "No," she reflected, wanting to take her mentor seriously. "I'd call it
Journey Toward Transformation."

He nodded. "That's what we're about, Lynn. Growing deeper, reaching broader, going higher. I'm eager to hear what you have to say."

"Please hold me in prayer, Booker." She paused and stated a deep private truth. "Knowing you're doing that will give me courage."

At that moment Bishop JeffJames and his wife, Tiffany, joined them. Lynn winced internally. She'd failed to discover an appreciation of Jeff. He had a tendency to hang mirrors where windows should be, appearing to wear his life rather than live it. She glanced from Booker to Jeff. One, a man of integrity and purpose. The other, a man of expediency and pretense.

Sylvia would have the capacity to think gracious thoughts about people like Jeff, Lynn.

Right, Ivy. All kinds of people. All kinds of bishops. Why am I so hard on him? Being judgmental of him made her feel small.

Jeff eyed her necklace in the dim light. "I hope you have the good judgment not to wear those pearls on the street, Lynn. They're an invitation to trouble."

We see what we expect to see. But not always. The man in the mist entangled himself in her thoughts like Spanish moss. Cold gray eyes stared at her from a streetcar. A red stain grew on an old friend's T-shirt. Red drops spattered on a new friend's uniform.

Turn the page, Lynn.

She tried, but the winds of fear blew it open again.

Galen took her hand. She squeezed it, knowing that he was aware of how hard she'd prepared for tonight's address and how exhausted she was from lack of sleep and today's strain. Again she realized how grateful she was for him and his loving support. A gentleman by habit, he offered his arm. She took it and leaned into him, borrowing his strength and recentering herself as they made their way to the head table.

While Lynn was being introduced, she centered herself and prayed to get her ego and vanity out of the way, to focus on the people before her, and that her words might dance into their minds and hearts. She stepped to the podium, paused a moment, and a sense of peace descended. She looked over the faces, connecting, one with the Spirit and the people.

The standing ovation when she concluded surprised her; it was a rarity for bishops. She glanced at her dual-time watch. She'd bounced out of bed Saturday morning at six o'clock and hadn't been in one since. She was operating on sheer will power. But it was another hour before she could leave the ballroom. Nearly every bishop and spouse in the room came forward to greet and commend her. Their comments tended toward appreciation that she'd invited them to consider ways to transform their own life journeys and given them ideas about paths to do so. Like the busy cobbler's neglecting his own holey soles, busy bishops could sometimes neglect their own holy souls.

The ballroom emptied, and Galen, who'd waited in the background, bowed to her and proclaimed with a grin: "Let it be known that on this Sunday night in Vienna, Austria, Bishop Lynn Prejean Peterson—beautiful and brilliant wife of Galen Peterson—reached the pinnacle of oratorical perfection, warming the audience with her
prolegomena
and showing no pusillanimity in her forthrightness." He kissed her. "Clarity. Depth. Humor. Even a bit of history. I am so proud of you."

She knew that he would never criticize her after something important like this, but neither would he lie. His affirmation always meant more to her than anyone else's. "Thank you, Love." His arm around her, they made their way up the two flights of stairs, each step taking her closer to their lovely little room and the floral duvets and a night's sleep in a real bed!

Elevator phobia trumps exhaustion, Lynn?

It's not a phobia, Ivy! Her fingers brushed her waist wallet. First, the letter. Then, bed. The day blurred through her mind, from the night on the plane to the shooting, to the hospital bomb to retrieving the letter, to being a pastor to the chaplain to giving the banquet keynote. She hadn't had time to decide what to do with the letter, although it had hovered unceasingly in her mind. She maneuvered to be last in the bathroom, hoping Galen was asleep by the time she finished her nightly regime.

She removed the boomerang message from her waist wallet and eased herself onto the bed. Sadness seeped into her soul like mold as she held it once again in her hands and thought about Marsh with NATO lying on the gurney. Lifeless. She stared at the unsealed envelope. He had appeared confident when he winked at her after the plane landed. She held the letter reverently for a moment, willing it to transmit to her his thoughts, conclusions, plans. The moment ended as emptily as it began.

How had the bullet changed the future? What did the President have in mind? What am I supposed to do with it now? She fingered the envelope indecisively, arguing with herself one way and then the other, like a priest swinging incense from side to side. It made sense to get in touch with President Benedict. But it wasn't exactly like calling up her friend Francine Babineaux at the crime lab. Frivolous words came to her exhausted mind: "Hello, Helena. How's the first gentleman? Y'all doin' fine?" The President has gone to great lengths to keep our contact secret, she thought, and her staff wouldn't take seriously a request for her to return a call. Perhaps I should try the Vice President and ask him what to do. Same problem. Besides, how can I be sure he was privy to what was in the envelope he gave me? He might not have known that it was about Major Manetti. If he did, wouldn't he have simplified the process merely by asking me to deliver the message to Marsh? So my options are down to one: Read the message myself, without permission.

Stewing about permission is one way to continue to procrastinate, Lynn. You're good at that.

So . . . read it. The thought hiked her heartbeat. What if it's top secret? Or vague? Or misleading? But what really scared her was the tiny possibility that it would ask for something that she could actually do.

Oh sure, Lynn! You're another Major Manetti.

Unanswered questions marched toward her like foot soldiers to a drumbeat: Why was Major Manetti shot? Was it random? Was he targeted? Did someone know the President had a special assignment for him? Not on my watch, she thought. I've kept it with me at all times. And nobody else knew unless the Vice President had opened it. A scary thought.

Two people killed within a week, each by a single shot. In two different countries halfway around the world. Countries where she just happened to be. They couldn't be connected. Yet she felt like dodging bullets.

Enough, Lynn! Open the letter or tear it up!

She started to rip it into pieces. Wiser. Simpler. Maybe safer. But curiosity won. As always. She inhaled and slowly put her right thumb and forefinger into the envelope. Tentatively touched the single piece of paper. Hesitantly pulled it out. Cautiously unfolded it. And then she exhaled. No letterhead. No addressee. No signature. Not all caps like the one to her but again handwritten in a carefully drawn, unnatural style.

To Ranch Foreman:
Troublesome events on the Ponderosa. Suspect a pattern. Difficult to connect the dots. Fear ranch hand involved. Don't know who. Maybe more than one. Need your help. Vini McGragor will phone for you Wed. a.m. at 10. Have call put through. Secure line mandatory.

Four words were added at the bottom, apparently as a hurried afterthought.

Start with St. Sava.

The note made no sense—and yet it made perfect sense. Lynn understood the ranch metaphor. She could empathize with President Benedict's having reason to mistrust someone close to her and not knowing who. On a tiny scale Lynn had experienced that when she was a rookie bishop. But to be
President
and have a traitor close by when the stakes are so high! Lynn shuddered. She stared at the last line as though it would suddenly transform into some kind of sense. Start with St. Sava. She'd never heard of St. Sava—except for the saint. And she doubted that Manetti was supposed to go to church and pray to him. But it was the code name that stunned her. It rose from the page with a haunting familiarity. Vini McGragor. Was it coincidence? Could the President know of her? How?

She reread the letter, discouraged. The President should have given her a Plan B. Now she'd have to come up with her own plan—and that was beyond her knowledge and experience. But not beyond her commitment. She must communicate personally with the President of the United States. She simply had to figure out a way to do it.

Simply, Lynn?