On the Third Day Read online

  “KROK, how may I direct your call,” was the crisp, nasal response.

  Norman sat for a moment. His heartbeat sped, and he nearly froze. It had seemed a very simple thing moments ago, but the moment the woman on the other end of the line spoke, the images of Vatican “hit teams” returned, and that of Father Thomas’ blood-streaked face.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh…hi,” Norman stammered. “I … I need to talk to Mr. Hector Clearwater. You know, from ‘Clear It Up?’”

  “Please hold.”

  The line clicked and the earpiece filled with the sound of computer generated midi music. Every minute or so this was replaced by a bright-voiced announcer talking about cheap advertising rates, how many songs in a row the station played without breaks, and how to “Enter to WIN” at krok98.7.com. Norman listened impatiently. His fingers twitched, and he waffled between wanting them to pick up the phone and wanting to slam his own down and forget the whole thing while there was still time.

  The line clicked again, and an older woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Hector Clearwater’s office, this is Shirley, how can I help you?”

  “I have something I think Mr. Clearwater would be interested in,” Norman said.

  “What is the topic?”

  “Do I have to say?”

  “Mr. Clearwater receives approximately fifty phone calls a day, a hundred faxes, and a box full of letters. Each and every one of these begins, ‘I have something I think you’ll be interested in.’ Convince me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Norman paused again, then took a deep breath.

  “It’s about The Cathedral at San Marcos. About what happened last Easter.”

  The line went silent for a moment. Norman imagined the woman sitting back in surprised, excited shock. Then he heard the riffle of papers.

  “Can you be more specific?” she asked.

  Norman stared at the phone.

  “What do you mean more specific?”

  “I have a number of open files on San Marcos,” she replied, somewhat impatiently. “I need to know which of these files your information pertains to. Some are flagged for immediate attention, others are not.”

  Norman hesitated.

  “It’s about what happened to the priest.”

  More papers shuffled.

  “What is the nature of your information?”

  Norman was starting to get annoyed. He’d imagined Clearwater eager and leaping to take the bait, not some old bat giving him the third degree.

  “Classified,” he said.

  When there was no answer, fearing she was about to hang up on him, Norman went on.

  “I have some video. Something no one else has. Mr. Clearwater is going to want to see this.”

  More silence. Norman figured the woman was gearing up to give him round two about the hundreds of letters and phone calls a day that claimed Mr. Clearwater would want to see something. Instead, she said “Please hold” and the inane music and banter returned.

  A moment later the line clicked a final time, and a deep, resonant voice barked into the phone.

  “This is Hector Clearwater, how can I help you?”

  Norman didn’t give himself a chance to clam up again.

  “Mr. Clearwater, my name is Norman. I have some video clips from the Easter Mass last year out at San Marcos. You know the service I’m talking about?”

  This time the silence at the other end was satisfying. Norman imagined Clearwater staring at the phone, gears shifting and clicking into place.

  “Maybe. Where did you get these video clips? The only camera I know of belonged to the Bishop, and I can’t see him sharing his footage on my show.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Norman said. Inwardly, he cursed himself for not preparing a more complete and elaborate story. He was already regretting mentioning his name. It wouldn’t take someone like Clearwater long to find out how many Normans attended services at San Marcos, and to deduce which was likely to have called.

  “The reason I ask,” Clearwater said calmly, “Is that if you have what you say you do, I need to know what kind of legal hassles to expect if I air it. When can I see it?”

  “That depends.” Norman answered.

  “On what?”

  “On how much you’re willing to pay,” Norman said.

  “I don’t buy film I haven’t seen,” Clearwater snapped. “I also don’t deal with people who have no last names. I have a hundred shows I can do. Sure, I’d love to get something on whatever happened in that church. It’s news, and any news that people go to great lengths to keep off my show is probably exactly the story I’m after. Doesn’t change the rules.

  “You show me something I can use – something sensational, and we’ll talk.”

  Norman thought quickly.

  “Give me your e-mail address,” he said at last.

  "Clearitup at KROK dot com," Clearwater said quickly.

  “I’ll send you a very short clip,” Norman said. “I’ll make sure it’s enough to show you I can deliver what I say I can. If you think it’s something you’d like to get your hands on, I’ll give you a way to contact me.”

  “What are you, a CIA agent?” Clearwater snapped, clearly annoyed. “Why not just bring in what you’ve got, show it to me, and be done with it?”

  “Let’s say I don’t really trust you,” Norman said. “I’ll e-mail the file this afternoon.”

  “Fine,” Clearwater hung up without another word, and Norman sat, staring at the phone in his hand and wondering what he’d done. He imagined secretaries and younger reporters scrambling out of the office and mobilizing as Hector sent them in search of “Norman,” or any information on the tape. He knew he was going to have to keep a low profile and watch the shadows for a while. Somehow, he noticed, when you were actually hiding from someone and involved in intrigue, it seemed a lot less cool than it did when you watched others do it in a movie.

  He hung up the phone and returned to his room, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

  * * *

  “What do we have on the situation at San Marcos,” Hector Clearwater snapped.

  Shirley, who was used to such outbursts after five years of working for him, ignored Hector’s tone and answered calmly.

  “The Diocese remains closed off as tight as a clam. We’ve interviewed a few of those who were present, members of the parish, but they are either hostile, or confused. The few accounts we’ve heard don’t match up well.

  “Rome sent in another priest,” Shirley turned a page in her notebook, scanned through what she’d written, then nodded, “Father Donovan Prescott. Prescott is sort of a troubleshooter, sent out to investigate things. He’s scheduled to leave tomorrow morning. We were unable to schedule an interview with him, and we got a ‘no comment’ from the Bishop on the man’s purpose in visiting. Father Prescott is due to fly out tomorrow morning for Rome.”

  Hector brooded silently for a moment, then nodded.

  “Get me a camera crew,” he said, “and get them set up inside that airport for tomorrow morning. I don’t want them visible from outside. No equipment and no trucks. I’ll see if I can’t shock something out of the good Father before he takes off.”

  It was Shirley’s turn to nod. She reached for the phone. Hector turned and was gone as suddenly as he’d arrived. The man moved like a ferret, Shirley thought, sniffing here, and there, darting from place to place like he was afraid if he lit in one place for more than a minute his Pulitzer Prize would waltz by just out of sight, and he’d miss it.

  * * *

  Father Prescott exited the taxi and stepped around to the trunk to wait for the driver to get his bags. He scanned the parking lot and the air terminal distractedly. It was still early. What traffic there was moved in and out of the airport rapidly, dropping harried travelers and their luggage in heaps along the sidewalk.

  Sunlight tipped the skyline, but hadn’t quite broken through the morning haze, and the breeze was
cool and welcome. Donovan had come to appreciate the mild, southern California weather during his stay. It was one of the things he’d miss most upon his return to Rome.

  He paid the driver and grabbed his bags. He was still traveling light, one large leather suitcase, and the bag that Father Morrigan had brought him in the jungle. He’d put the DVD player to good use in the interim, watching the video over and over. He’d committed every moment of that mass to memory, but he felt no closer to an answer.

  The files in the briefcase had grown considerably thicker during his visit to California. Donovan had spoken to Gladys Multinerry, Harry Seymour the custodian, several of the Deacons, and even an altar boy. The one consistent factor in all their stories was a variation on the statement, “I saw what I saw.”

  “Occam’s Razor,” Father Prescott said under his breath. It referred to an old maxim that stated in a question with multiple possible answers, the preferred answer was always the simplest one, that being the answer requiring the least assumptions. Unfortunately, in this case, that was also the answer that caused the most complications for Donovan, Father Thomas, and The Church.

  Donovan sighed. He entered the airport and spotted the few short lines of passengers checking bags and waiting for their tickets. He located the proper counter and lowered his bags behind those of a harried looking woman with three children rushing about her feet. They appeared to be playing some form of tag that involved leaping over the luggage and slipping down under the chains lined up to keep the lines orderly. The mother fought valiantly, but the three were too much for her. Donovan breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the front of the line and was called to drop her bags beside an available clerk.

  He wished he could have called Tony to have one of the jets sent in, but he couldn’t justify it. He was in no current rush. He’d done all he could do. He would have to come back in time for Easter Mass, but for now his work in San Valencez was complete, and that left him with time for a leisurely trip back to Rome. Flying coach.

  Donovan didn’t see the dark, slender man in the expensive suit slip into the room. He didn’t see the cameraman struggling to keep up with the first man, or hear the man’s soft curses as his cords tangled on one of the chain barriers for a moment. Donovan handed over his paperwork, signed where he was told to sign, and accepted his tickets. It wasn’t until he turned around and found himself face-to-face with Hector Clearwater, and had a large chrome microphone dangled in his face, that he knew anything was out of the ordinary.

  “Father Donovan Prescott?” The words were more of a statement than a question. Donovan nodded instinctively.

  Father Prescott tried vainly to skirt past the man, who stepped quickly in front of him.

  “I’m Hector Clearwater,” the man said. He gave the words an inflection clearly meant to impress. Donovan remained silent, waiting politely to pass.

  Seeing that Donovan wasn’t going to offer anything, Clearwater continued.

  “You’re here to investigate some strange occurrences at the Cathedral of San Marcos last Easter, is that correct Father?”

  Father Prescott turned and started the long way around Clearwater, who followed, unperturbed.

  “I’m told you’re sort of a Vatican Sherlock Holmes,” he offered.

  “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone,” Father Prescott said evenly. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to miss my flight.”

  Clearwater smiled. He had a mouthful of gleaming white teeth that flashed like a camera bulb.

  “I’m sorry if we’ve inconvenienced you Father, but I just have a couple of questions. There’s the matter of a certain video tape, for instance.”

  Donovan hesitated, just for a second, and Clearwater caught it.

  “You do know the video in question,” Clearwater pressed. “I’m told it’s very explicit.”

  Sweat was clearly visible on Father Prescott’s brow. He clamped his lips firmly shut and took off around Clearwater, getting out of range of the camera and heading for the escalators that would take him to his runway.

  “Thank you for your time,” Clearwater called after him. “I expect to have a copy of the video in question very soon. Can I call you once I’ve seen it? For clarification?”

  Father Prescott’s heart hammered. He took the escalator steps two at a time and nearly ran through the metal detectors on the way to his boarding ramp.

  As he handed his boarding pass to the flight attendant at the gate, who wished him a pleasant flight, Donovan glanced back the way he’d come. There was no sign of Hector Clearwater, or his camera crew. Father Prescott turned to the ramp and boarded the plane. The case in his hand, with its files, laptop, and DVD, seemed suddenly almost too much to bear.

  He thought of Father Thomas, and whispered “Be careful, Quentin. The wolves are at the gates…”

  ~ Sixteen ~

  One week before Easter…

  Father Prescott sat calmly across the desk from Bishop Michaels. It was late. The blinds were open wide, and the night sky spread out dark and glittering with stars. The Bishop stared out into that void. His fingers tapped nervously on the desk.

  The silence deepened, grew too heavy, and he turned to face Father Prescott, who was watching him thoughtfully.

  “You think we should go ahead with it, then?” Michaels said. “We should just open the doors, invite the parish in, and let whatever happens happen.”

  “What would be your justification for canceling it, Excellency?” Father Prescott asked. “With all due respect, Father Thomas hasn’t shown any lack of ability to perform Mass. He’s been presiding over it every Sunday since his recovery without incident. I’m afraid you’d have a riot on your hands if you tried to pull him out of there, not to mention the circus the media would make of it.”

  Bishop Michaels shook his head, started to speak, and then turned away again.

  “I’ve been to the Cathedral,” Father Prescott said softly. “His parish believes in him. Their faith is astonishing in the face of all they saw last year. Can we do any less than match that faith?”

  “If our faith was the only thing in question,” Bishop Michaels said, “I would have pulled him out of there long ago. I’m well aware of the sway he holds over those in his parish. I was there last year – or did you forget that?”

  The Bishop swung back to face Father Prescott once more. His eyes were bright, intense, but for the first time since Donovan had met him, there was no arrogance.

  “I was there, and I don’t begin to understand what it was that I saw, or what I experienced. The year before -- the first time it happened – it was a much weaker phenomenon. Last year there was almost a riot, and Father Thomas nearly died. What if it strengthens again, Donovan? What if we go in hoping to find a miracle, and what we get is a disaster we can neither control, nor explain?”

  Father Prescott met the Bishop’s gaze calmly. “I’m not trivializing what you’ve been through, Tony, but my orders are very explicit. Pulling Father Thomas out and returning to Rome without an answer, one way or the other, was never an option. If he’s drawn the proverbial wool over all our eyes, we have to know that. We can’t leave a potentially unbalanced leader in charge of that parish.”

  Bishop Michaels nodded. “They were my parish once,” he said softly. “I celebrated the Mass with them, listened to their confessions, and watched them pour in and out the doors every week. I thought I knew them.

  “Then Rome sent me Father Thomas. I put him up in front of them, green and untested, and expected them to – I don’t know – eat him alive, I suppose. I wanted it to be hard. I wanted him to work for their trust and support the way I tried, and apparently failed, to do.

  “Do you know how long it took him to win them over, Donovan?”

  Father Prescott didn’t answer.

  “They loved him from the moment he stepped in front of them. I introduced him, moved aside, and I might as well have ceased to exist. He smiled and started talking. By the time the Mass had end
ed and he stood by the door, shaking their hands and hearing their voices for the first time, he was part of their lives. I should envy that – but I don’t.”

  Father Prescott raised an eyebrow, but he still held his silence.

  The Bishop fell silent for a moment. He reached down, opened the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out two tumblers and the decanter of Scotch. He poured two fingers into one and glanced up at Father Prescott, who nodded gently. The Bishop poured the second drink, slid the decanter back into its place in the drawer, and wrapped long, slender fingers around the glittering crystal.

  “I used to believe that when the Mass was celebrated, everyone present felt the same thing. When I was very young I closed my eyes and drowned in that experience, wishing the world away with all the strength of a young mind and heart. Those were the purest moments of pleasure I’ve ever experienced.”

  Father Prescott took a sip of scotch and listened.

  “Arrogantly, I thought when I became a Priest – when it was my voice they heard pouring those beautiful words into the world, that they would stand, close their eyes, and share those moments with me. I wanted to bring the sensation that was so important to me to others, but I didn’t understand that it wasn’t something that could simply be given. It has to be accepted. It has to be desired. There was so much more to the calling, and I was so ill-equipped to help with the problems that plagued their lives.”

  Father Prescott waited a moment, and then spoke.

  “Have you seen paintings, Tony, where Christ is kneeling in prayer, and the light – the wonder of his communion with God – shines out from him like the rays of a sun?”

  Bishop Michaels nodded, though his eyes stared over Donovan’s shoulder and off into some unseen distance.

  “I used to think,” Father Prescott said, “that the rays moved only one way. When you’re a child, that’s how you learn to draw such a thing. Sometimes they even have arrow tips on the ends to make sure whoever sees them knows the direction.

  “Mass is like that for me. There is a sharing with God, and a sharing with the world. The two in harmony is a blessed sensation, a moment of clarity that supercedes the physical and provides those small flashes of perfection upon which we build faith.”