Blood of the Lamb (40 page)

An old Asian man sat waiting near the altar. Father Franconi called across the church to him in Japanese. The old man answered, then, at Father Franconi’s response, smiled and bowed. He headed for the door as Father Franconi said to Thomas, “We don’t have the budget for a sacristan but Kaoru’s retired and he enjoys helping. Actually he’s invaluable. I just told him to go home, though. If I can’t get out of these by myself by now, I never should have been wearing them in the first place.”

He led Thomas to a confessional to the right of the church doors. That was good: as far from the sacristy as they could get. They entered, Thomas kneeling on the penitent’s side this time, not sitting on the confessor’s.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

Thomas thought. Yesterday; but that was a lifetime ago. That was a different man. This Thomas Kelly, the one who stole books and consorted with vampires, who unsealed reliquaries and climbed Berninis, who knew his friend had been hiding a world-shattering truth from him for decades and his Church had been double-dealing for six hundred years—this Thomas Kelly had never been to confession.

“Father O’Brien?” came Father Franconi’s quiet voice through the screen.

Right. Father Kelly wasn’t confessing this afternoon. Father O’Brien was, and he could say anything he wanted. He could make stuff up. “Three days.”

Father Franconi said nothing, waiting for Thomas to explain what had driven him into the confessional at Santa Maria dell’Orto all the way from Boston.

Thomas had to speak. He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say, something to buy Livia time. What he heard, in his own voice, was, “Lust, Father. I’ve been—experiencing lust.”
Wait. This was just a diversion. Father O’Brien was supposed to be making stuff up.

“Your friend,” Father Franconi said. “
Signora
Bird.” Not phrased as a question, but not an accusation, either.

“Yes.”

“Have you acted upon these feelings?”

“No. No. I haven’t touched her. She says it’s natural, it’s not my fault, but—”
But she’s a vampire, so what does she know?

“She’s aware of your feelings for her, then?”

“I didn’t tell her, but she knows.”

“Well, she’s a wise woman. Of course it’s natural. The Lord places temptation in our path so we can have the privilege of overcoming it. If you haven’t acted on your feelings you’re well on your way to defeating them.”

“But I . . .” Thomas stopped, unclear on what he’d been about to say.

“But you still feel bad. Especially that you came all the way to Rome.”

Bad
that I came to Rome isn’t the half of it.
“Yes, Father.”

“‘I should have known better,’ you’re thinking. ‘I should have stayed home. What was I expecting?’ Is that it?”

I know what I was expecting. I was expecting to be of service to my friend and my Church.
“Pretty much.”

“But something called you here.”

A friendship based on a shocking and enormous lie.
“Yes.”

“Has it occurred to you that what you’re experiencing right now is part of God’s purpose for you?”

“I don’t see how, Father.”

“You’re doubting yourself. Your vocation. The need for priestly celibacy. You’re thinking, in a different world—perhaps a better world—you might be able to serve your Church and yield to this temptation, also.”

Actually, I’m thinking I might as well yield to it, since I don’t see any possible way—or reason—to go on serving my Church.
Thomas didn’t speak. Father Franconi waited, then went on.

“The Lord knows what you’re going through, Father O’Brien. Do you think he doesn’t see you struggle? Yes, the vows you took were written by men. Poverty, chastity, obedience. They might as easily have been self-improvement, fecundity, and silliness.” At the surprise of that, Thomas laughed. “Very good, Father O’Brien. You haven’t lost your sense of perspective. Here’s my point: they might as easily have been, but they weren’t. And when you took your vows, it wasn’t to the men who wrote them that you dedicated yourself. It was to God. You promised God you’d live your life in a certain way. He was pleased to receive your vows, and he stands ready to help you live up to them. This is not about what should be or could be. It’s about what is.”

Again, Thomas didn’t answer, this time for a completely different reason. He couldn’t. He was thinking: God knew. About the Noantri, about the Church’s perfidy. Of course he did. Some would say,
and permitted it?
but Thomas was unconcerned on that score. As Father Franconi had said, we make our own choices; God gives us that privilege. The point was, whatever God’s unknowable plan for the Universe, the Noantri were part of it. Part of it because the devil had sent them to test the faithful, or part of it for some other purpose: it didn’t matter. What the Church said and did about their existence might be at odds with reality, even at odds with God’s intentions, but if there was anything a Jesuit was prepared for it was living with, investigating, even celebrating, that very contradiction.

Another thing Father Franconi had said: Thomas’s vows had been made to God. Not to the Church. How simple. How basic. As long as he was a priest he’d keep his vows. His relationship to the Church, and therefore to the priesthood, once all this was over, was a different question. He didn’t have to negotiate that path now. That thought filled him with a relief so profound it was like the cessation of pain.

“Of course,” he said. “The struggle’s the whole point, isn’t it, Father?”

“Well, I don’t think God’s especially pleased that you’re struggling. But as long as you have something to struggle against, I’m sure he’s proud that you’re doing it. Are you ready for the Act of Contrition?”

“What’s my penance, Father?”

“None, I think.” Thomas could hear the other priest smile. “You paid this account in advance.”

“Thank you, Father,” Thomas said, and began, “My God, I am heartily sorry . . .”

75

Raffaele couldn’t believe it. He’d finally gotten a hit.

Once there was nothing more to be learned at Jorge Ocampo’s squalid flat—which was not that long after they’d gotten there—Raffaele and Giulio Aventino had hit the streets. They’d taken copies (Giulio, on paper; Raffaele, in his iPhone) of photos of Ocampo and his ladylove. She turned out to be a comparative literature student at La Sapienza by the name of Anna Jagiellon. She also turned out to be nowhere to be found, including in the Russian poetry seminar where her paper on Akhmatova was supposed to have been presented today. The two detectives went out to show the photos around, to see what they could see.

The Carabinieri had a number of uniformed officers doing the same, of course, and in the general way of things detectives were too valuable to waste on this kind of canvassing. As Giulio had pointed out, however, it was either do the photos, or go back to the station and discuss with the
maresciallo
the current situation: that Ocampo had slipped through their fingers twice already; that Livia Pietro and Thomas Kelly had completely eluded them; and that furthermore they were basing their investigation on the idea that either they had a serial anti-clerical nutcase on their hands, who might or might not be after the aforementioned elusive Pietro (who was in no way, however, a cleric); or they were chasing an international art-theft ring of which the aforementioned Pietro might or might not be a part, in a conspiracy theory promulgated by, horror of horrors, a Gendarme. Raffaele had considered the possible outcomes of such a conversation and agreed the street was preferable. They’d split up, each taking a direction out from San Francesco a Ripa, the last church where Ocampo had been seen.

The calls from churches, monasteries, and convents had been coming thick and fast. Raffaele couldn’t tell if the ordained and avowed who were burning up the tip line were worried for their own safety and that of their treasures, or were merely trying to be of service to the authorities. Whichever it was, Carabinieri officers had been crisscrossing Rome all afternoon responding to reports of collection boxes jacked open and tourists’ wallets disappearing, which were the kind of thing usually the province of the Rome
polizia
; and also, stories of strange men lurking in church doorways and loud arguments on basilica steps, which on a normal Rome day wouldn’t get reported at all.

However, the clerics, to whom Raffaele was used to turning for spiritual but never before professional help, had provided nothing. The only thing these calls had yielded was a sense, disquieting to Raffaele, that church-related disturbances were much more of a quotidian occurrence than he’d thought.

What had borne Raffaele promising fruit was exactly what, in his experience, usually did: two pretty girls drinking wine at a café table, in this case on Via della Luce. Both nodded emphatically when he showed them Ocampo’s picture.

“Half an hour, maybe?” The brunette cast a heavily made-up glance at her redheaded companion for confirmation. “He was in a hurry.”

“Running?” Raffaele asked.

“No, walking fast, and he kept looking behind him like someone was following him.”

The good Samaritan,
Raffaele thought, wishing he had a photo of that man, too. “Was anyone?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you’re sure it was him?”

“He was gross,” the redhead sniffed. “All sweaty. And some kind of awful cologne.”

“Sickening,” her friend agreed.

“And the way he looked at us when he went by. Like if he weren’t in a rush he’d sit right down and buy us a drink.”

“I guess I shouldn’t try that, huh?” Raffaele grinned.

“Don’t flirt, you’re on duty,” the girl said, but she smiled.

“Did you see where he went?”

“Seriously? I didn’t even look at him.” A toss of the red hair.

The brunette pointed north. “That way. I think he turned left a couple of blocks up.”

“You watched where he was going that far?”

She nodded, then shrugged as the redhead stared. “I don’t know, something about him—he was just
interesting
, okay?”

The redhead rolled her eyes.

“How about this woman?” Raffaele intervened, swiping to the photo of Anna Jagiellon. “Was she with him?”

Both girls leaned forward to see. Their eyes met in surprise. “Not with him,” the brunette said. “But a few minutes ago. Going the same direction. They know each other?”

“Was she who was following him?” asked the redhead. “That he was afraid of?”

Raffaele didn’t answer that, but asked, “The same direction?”

The brunette nodded. The redhead, to prove she could be as helpful to the Carabinieri as her friend—or maybe, to draw Raffaele’s attention back to herself—said, “She turned left up there, too. I don’t know if it was the same street—”

“It was,” the brunette confirmed. The redhead scowled.

“You’re sure it was this girl?” Raffaele asked.

“Absolutely. She’s, like, completely hot. I mean, not that we’re— But she—” The brunette blushed prettily. Raffaele tried not to smile.

“A girl who looks like that,” the redhead clarified, “other girls notice.”

Raffaele thanked them, walked a few paces away, and called Giulio. “Looks like we’re right. Whatever it is, she’s involved. Not only wasn’t he stalking her, right now it seems like she’s looking for him.” He boiled the conversation down.

“You’re sure they have the right people?”

“They called him gross and brought up the cologne. Her, they were checking out the competition. Girls don’t miss much when they’re doing that.”

“Good work. Keep going. I’ll join you as soon as I can get there.”

Raffaele pocketed the phone and continued up Via della Luce to the corner the girls had indicated. He stopped a few more times, showing the photos, closing in, once again, on Jorge Ocampo.

76

Livia was examining a side-chapel ceiling in Santa Maria dell’Orto when the two priests stepped from the confessional. She walked to the back of the church, where they stood talking.