Virgin (39 page)

The Manhattan
madness must be highly contagious. The
senador
had caught it all the way
out in California.

"Sir . . .
how can I steal it when I can't even get close to it?"

"Yes. That
is the major problem. I'm working on this end to make that easier for you. But
you must be ready to move at a moment's notice."

Emilio's mind
raced. The
senador
was asking the impossible, yet he seemed to take it
for granted that Emilio could pull it off. Normally Emilio would be buoyed by
such absolute confidence, but not this time. He admitted limits to his
abilities, even if the
senador
did not.

"I'll . .
. I'll need help."

"Decker
and Molinari will be on their way on the jet. We'll hangar it at LaGuardia so
it will be at your disposal when you secure this relic. You've got the credit
card-- charge anything you need. And if you require cash, I can wire that within
minutes. Spare no expense, Emilio. This is more important to me than anything
else in the world. Remember that."

"Yes,
Senador,"
Emilio said.

"Madre!"
he muttered as he hung up. How in the
world was he ever going to pull this one off?

He shook himself. Why worry about it? As long as this
thing in the church
remained surrounded by a crush of people twenty-four hours a day, there was no
possible way the
senador
could expect him or anyone else to steal it.

VATICAN: THE LADY IS OURS!

ROME
(AP) The Vatican released a statement today claiming the so-called Manhattan

Madonna as
property of the Catholic Church.

"The
object was discovered on Church property and therefore must be considered

Church property
unless and until other ownership can be established," contended Cardinal

Pasanante,
spokesman for the Vatican.

"Too
much publicity attends this object already," the statement reads. "It
has become the

focus of
devotion of hysterical proportions. This is of
great
concern to the Holy Father. The

Church intends
to investigate the many claims of miracles associated with the object, and to

substantiate
the object's authenticity, if possible."

When
questioned about Israel's prior claim on the Madonna, Cardinal Pasanante
replied,

"We are
disputing that." When asked what the Church would do if the object should
be proven

to be the
remains of the Virgin Mary and if Israel's claim to ownership is upheld, the
enigmatic

cardinal replied,
"There are too many
ifs
in that question."

The
New York
Post

IN THE PACIFIC

15deg N, 136deg W

Quantas flight
902 out of Sydney encounters a massive storm along its route to Los Angeles.

Faced with a
raging front of swirling black clouds, the pilot pushes the L-1011 to another

5,000 feet in
altitude and angrily radios back to Sydney. He was told there was no weather on

this flight
path and here he is facing a monster.

The reply comes
that radar shows no sign of the slightest storm activity at flight 902's
location.

The pilot tells
Sydney to get its radar fixed because the mother of all supercells is moving

northeast along
his course.

21

Manhattan

Carrie turned
away from the steaming stove and wiped the perspiration from her face. Hot down
here. Already fall, but September was rarely a cool month in New York.

She saw Dan
sitting in the corner staring at the floor.

"Why so
glum, Father Dan?" she said.

He looked up at
her. The usual sparkle was gone from his eyes, replaced by a haunted look.

"I don't
know," he said, sighing as he leaned back in the chair. "Don't you
get the feeling that everything's spinning out of control?"

"No,"
she said, and meant it. "Just because we can't see where events are
leading doesn't mean they're out of control. We may not be in the driver's
seat, but that doesn't mean we're on a runaway bus."

"Is
anybody
in the driver's seat?"

"Always."

"I'll tell
you something," he said, jerking his thumb toward the ceiling. "No
one's in charge up there in St. Joe's. It's chaos."

"Confused,
maybe, but it's not anarchy."

"Talk to
Father Brenner about that, why don't you. He's got a slightly different take on
the situation."

They'd both
received a dressing down for opening the church to the Mary-hunters. They'd
expected that. Father Brenner had lost control of his church--he couldn't close
it at night, couldn't say Mass for his regular parishioners,
couldn't get on with the day-to-day business of the parish.
Every square inch of St. Joseph's, from the rear of the sanctuary to the
vestibule, down the front steps and into the street, was occupied by a
restless, weary mass of humanity in every imaginable state of dress and health.

Father Brenner
placed the blame on Dan and Carrie.

Carrie's order
had restricted her to the convent until proper disciplinary action could be
taken.
Carrie refused to submit to what she saw as house arrest
and, much to the dismay of Mother Superior, went about her usual duties at
Loaves and Fishes. She'd broken the vow of obedience so many times already she
couldn't see what difference it made if she kept on breaking it. Besides, she'd
made a vow to the Virgin to protect her and always stay near--that vow
superseded all others.

"Father
Brenner should be honored this is happening in his church. So should you. This
is the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to any of us. Or ever
will."

Dan shook his
head slowly and smiled. "I wish I could look at everything like you do. I
wish I could work a room like you do."

"What do
you mean?"

"I mean I
wish I could get people to respond to me like you do. You move through those
people upstairs like an angel. They're hot, tired, sick, irritable, and
hurting. Yet you squeeze by, say a few words as you pass, and suddenly they
love you."

Carrie felt her
cheeks reddening. "Come on . . ."

"I'm
serious. I watch you, Carrie. And believe me, you leave a sea of happiness in
your wake. Sounds corny, I know, but I see the smiles that follow you. I see
the love in their eyes, and they don't even know you. You have that effect on
people."

Carrie
hesitated, trying to frame a reply, and then the phone rang. Dan picked it up.

"Hello?
... Hi, Brad. Fine. Yeah, she's right here. Hang on."

He passed the
phone over to Carrie, then waved as he took the tunnel back to the rectory.

"Hi,
Brad," Carrie said. "What's up?"

"It's
Dad."

Carrie groaned.
"Now what?"

"He could
be on his way out."

I've heard
that before.
"What is it this time?"

"They were
just getting ready to send him back to the nursing home when he had another
heart attack. A bad one. They've moved him into the coronary care unit."

Carrie said
nothing, felt nothing.

"He's
asking for you," Brad said.

"What else
is new?"

"The
doctors say he's not going to make it this time. He's on a respirator, Car. He
looks like hell . . ."

That's where
he's going.

". . . and
I just wish, before he dies, you could find some way to forgive--"

"How can I
forgive what he did to me?" she said in a fierce whisper.
"How?"

"God
forgave--"

"I'm not
God!"

"At least
give him a chance to say he's sorry."

"Nothing
he can say--"

Brad's voice
rose. "You're better than he is, Carrie! Act like it!"

And then he
hung up.

Carrie stared
at the receiver, stunned. Brad had never yelled at her before. Never lost his
temper.

She replaced
the receiver on the cradle and shoved her hands into her pockets.

Poor Brad.
Always the peacemaker--first between that man and Mom, now between that man and
her. But how could he think she could ever . . .

Carrie's right
hand pressed against the two little Ziploc bags in her pocket. The powdered
nail clippings and the ground-up hair . . .

The stuff
of miracles.

She decided to
make a pilgrimage to the hospital.

Carrie stood
outside the door to C.C.U. and trembled like one of her homeless guests in the
throes of DTs.

How bad could
this be?

She didn't
know. And that was what terrified her. Fourteen years since she'd last seen
that man. Half her life. Sixteen years since he'd started sneaking into her
bedroom at night . . .

And Brad . . .
how much had her older brother known?

He'd never
said. They'd never discussed it, never laid it out on the table between them
and stared at it. He always referred to it as "the trouble" between
her and that man. Brad could have been discussing wrecking the family car or
getting sick drunk. "The trouble" . . .

Some
trouble.

At first, as a
child, Carrie had been afraid Brad would hate her if he found out, hate her as
much as she hated herself. And then she'd thought, he
has
to know. How
can he
not
know?

And if he knew, why didn't he say something? Why didn't he help
her? Why didn't he do something to stop that man?

Carrie was
pretty sure Brad had spent the years since she ran away asking himself those
same questions. She wondered what answers he came up with. She wondered if he'd
ever really faced what that man he called Dad had done to his younger sister.
Probably hadn't. Probably had it hidden in some dark corner of his mind, buried
under a pile of other childhood and teenage memories where he couldn't see it.

But he could
smell it. Carrie knew the stink of those two hideous years had affected the
rest of Brad's life. Incessant work ... a life so filled with deadlines and
meetings and shuttling between coasts that there was no room for old memories
to surface ... a life alone, without a wife or even a steady live-in, because a
lasting relationship might lead to children and God knows what he might do if
he ever fathered a little girl. . . .

Carrie half
turned away from the CCU door, ready to
leave,
then turned back as Brad's final words echoed through her brain.

You're
better than he is, Carrie. Act like it!

She set her
jaw, numbed her feelings, and forced herself to push through into the CCU.

White . . .
white walls, white curtains between the white-sheeted beds, white-clad nurses
gliding from bed to bed, bright white sunlight streaming through the southern
windows . . . flashing monitors, hissing respirators, murmuring voices . . .

Carrie turned
to flee. She couldn't do this.

"Can I
help you, Sister?" said a young nurse with a clipboard.

Carrie
mechanically handed her the visitor pass. "W-Walter Ferris?"

A smile.
"Bed Two." She pointed to the far end of the unit. "He's stable
now, but please limit your visit to no more than ten minutes."

Ten minutes? Might as well say ten eternities.

The air become
gelatinous and Carrie had to force her way through it toward Bed Two. She
couldn't breathe, her knees wobbled, her hands shook, her intestines knotted,
she had to go to the bathroom, but she kept pushing forward. Finally she was
standing at the foot of the bed. She compelled her eyes to look down at its
occupant.