F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (24 page)

           
 
And then Vincenzo was led around to the side
of the house to stare at the famous Weeping Virgin of Cashelbanagh on Seamus
O'Halloran's wall.

           
 
Nothing special about the painting. Rather
crude, actually. A very stiff-looking profile of the Blessed Mother in the
traditional blue robe and wimple with a halo behind her head.

           
 
And yes, there was indeed a gleaming track of
moisture running from the painting's eye.

           
 
"The tears appear every day,
Monsignor," O'Halloran said, twisting his cloth cap in his bony hands as
if there was moisture to be wrung from it.

           
 
"I can confirm that," Father
Sullivan said, his ample red cheeks aglow. "I've been watching the wall
for weeks now."

           
 
As Vincenzo continued staring at the wall,
noting the fine meshwork of cracks in the stucco finish, the chips here and
there that revealed the stonework beneath, the crowd grew silent around him.

           
 
He stepped closer and touched his finger to
the trickle, then touched the finger to his tongue. Water. A mineral flavor, but
not salty. Not tears.

           
 
"Would someone bring me a ladder,
please," he said. "One long enough to reach the roof."

           
Three men ran off immediately, and
five minutes later he was climbing to the top of the gable over the Weeping
Virgin's wall. He found wet and rotted roof wood at the point. At his request a
pry bar was brought and, with O'Halloran's permission, he knocked away some of
the soft wood.

           
Vincenzo's heart sank when he saw
it. A cuplike depression in the stones near the top of the gable, half filled
with clear liquid. It didn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that water
collected there on rainy days—rarely was there a week, even in the summer,
without at least one or two rainy days—and percolated through the stones and
grout of the wall to emerge as a trickle by the painting's eye.

           
 
The folk of Cashelbanagh were anything but
receptive to this rational explanation of their miracle.

           
 
"There may be water up there,"
O'Halloran said, his huge Adam's apple bobbing angrily, "but who's to say
that's where the tears come from? You've no proof. Prove it, Monsignor. Prove
those aren't the tears of the Blessed Virgin."

           
 
He'd hoped it wouldn't turn out like this, but
so often it did. He'd hoped discovery of the puddle would be enough, but
obviously it wasn't. And he couldn't leave these people to go on making a
shrine out of a leaky wall.

           
 
“Can someone get me a bottle of red
wine?" Vincenzo said.

           
 
“This may be
Ireland
, Monsignor," Father Sullivan said,
"but I hardly think this is time for a drink."

           
 
Amid the laughter Vincenzo said, "I'll
use it to prove my theory. But it must be red."

           
 
While someone ran to Blaney's pub for a
bottle, Vincenzo climbed the ladder again and splashed all the water out of the
depression. Then he refilled it with the wine.

           
 
By evening, when the Virgin's tears turned
red, Vincenzo felt no sense of victory. His heart went out to these crestfallen
people. He saw his driver standing nearby, looking as dejected as the rest of
them.

           
 
"Shall I call a taxi, Michael?"

           
 
"No, Monsignor." Michael sighed.
"That's all right. I'll be taking you back to
Shannon
whenever you want."

           
 
But the airport was not where Vincenzo needed
to go. He hadn't figured on this quick a resolution to the question of the
Weeping Virgin of Cashelbanagh. His flight out wasn't scheduled until tomorrow
night.

           
 
"Can you find me a hotel?"

           
 
"Sure, Monsignor. There's a lot of good
ones in
Cork
City
."

           
 
They passed Blaney's pub again on the way out
of town. The picnic tables were set and waiting. Empty. The fading sunlight
glinted off the polished flatware, the white linen tablecloths flapped gently
in the breeze.

           
 
If only he could have told them how he shared
their disappointment, how deeply he longed for one of these
"miracles" he investigated to pan out, how much he needed a miracle
for himself.

           
Cork Harbor
,
Ireland

           
 
Carrie's heart leapt as she recognized the
crate on the pallet being lifted from the aft hold of the freighter.

           
 
"There it is, Dan!" she whispered,
pointing.

           
 
"You sure?" he said, squinting
through the dusky light. "Looks like any of a couple of dozen other crates
that've come out already."

           
 
She wondered how Dan could have any doubt.
She'd known it the instant it cleared the hold.

           
 
"That's the one," she said. "No
question about it."

           
 
She locked her gaze on the crate and didn't
let it out of her sight until Bernard Kaplan's man cleared it through Irish
customs and wheeled it over to them on a dolly.

           
 
"Are you quite sure you'll be wanting to
take it from here yourself?" he said. He was a plump little fellow with
curly brown hair, a handlebar mustache, and a Barry Fitzgerald brogue.

           
 
Dan glanced at her. "Well . . ."

           
 
"Quite sure, Mr. Cassidy," Carrie
said, extending her hand. "Thank you for your assistance."

           
 
"Not at all, Mrs. Ferris. Just remember, your
crate's got to be at
Dublin
Harbor
the morning after tomorrow, six sharp or,
believe me youse, she'll miss the loading and then God knows when she'll get to
New York
."

           
 
"We'll be there," Carrie said.

           
 
"I hope so, 'cause I'm washing me hands
of it now." He glanced at his watch. "You've got turty-four hours.
Plenty of time. Just don't you be getting yourself lost along the way."

           
 
He waved and walked off.

           
 
"Now that we've got her," Dan said,
tapping the top of the crate, "what do we do with her? We've got to find a
place to store her overnight."

           
 
"Store her?" Carrie said.
"We're not sticking her in some smelly old warehouse full of rats."

           
 
"What do you think crawls around the hold
of the
Greenbriar,
my dear?"

           
 
There was an edge to his voice. Not sharp
enough to cut, but enough for Carrie to notice.

           
Things hadn't been quite the same
between them since finding the Virgin. They'd had some moments of closeness on
the plane to Heathrow after outfoxing that Israeli intelligence man, or whoever
he was, and some of that had lingered during the whirl of booking the shuttle
to
Shannon
and finding a hotel room in
Cork
City
. But once they were settled in, a distance
began to reopen between them.

           
 
It's me, she thought. I know it's me.

           
 
She couldn't help it. All she could think
about since they'd set their bags down in the Drury Hotel was that crate and
its precious contents. They'd had days to kill and Dan wanted to see some of
the countryside. Carrie had gone along, but she hadn't been much company. One
day they drove north through the rocky and forbidding Burren to Galway Bay; on
another he took her down to Kinsale, but the quaint little harbor there only
made her think about the
Greenbriar
and
worry about its voyage. She fought visions of rough seas capsizing her, of her
running aground and tearing open her hull, seawater gushing into the cargo hold
and submerging the Virgin's crate, the
Mediterranean
swallowing the
Greenbriar
and everything aboard. She spent every spare minute
hovering over the radio, dissecting every weather report from the
Mediterranean
.

           
 
Obsessed.

           
 
She knew that. And she knew her obsession was
coming between her and Dan. But as much as she valued their love, it had to
take a backseat for now. Just for a while. Until they got to
New York
.

           
 
After all, what could be more important than
seeing the Blessed Virgin safely to her new
Resting Place
—wherever that may be?

           
 
They hadn't made love since finding the
Virgin, and she sensed that was what was really bothering Dan the most. In
New York
they suffered through much, much longer
intervals without so much as touching hands, but that was different. Here
they'd been sleeping in the same bed every night and Carrie had put him off
again and again. She wasn't sure why.

           
 
After they were resettled in
New York
, Carrie was sure things would get back to
normal. At least she hoped they would. She couldn't put her finger on it, but
she didn't feel quite the same about Dan. She still loved him fiercely, but she
didn't
want
him as she had two weeks
ago when they'd left
New York
for
Israel
.

           
 
Because right now, it just didn't seem . . .
right.

           
 
"We're taking her back to the hotel with
us."

           
 
"What?"
Dan said. She could see his body stiffening with tension. "You can't
do that."

           
 
"Why not? We're paying for the room and
there's nothing that says we can't keep a crate in it. Besides, it's only for
two nights."

           
 
"You've got to be kidding."

           
 
She gave him a long, level look. "I
assure you, Dan, I am not kidding."

           
 
Dan slipped his arm around her waist from
behind and nuzzled her neck. Carrie felt her whole left arm break out in
gooseflesh.

           
 
"Not now, Dan," she said, pulling
free and stepping away from him. She pointed to the crate. Her voice lowered to
a whisper of its own accord. "Not with
her
here."

           
 
Two bellmen had lugged the Virgin's crate up
to their second-floor room and left it on the floor by the window. Beyond the
window the River Lee made its sluggish way to the sea.

           
 
Dan returned her whisper, Elmer Fudd style.
"We'll be vewy, vewy quiet. She'll never know."

           
 
Carrie had to laugh. "Oh, Dan. I love
you, I do, but please understand. It just wouldn't be right."

           
 
He stared at her a moment. Was that hurt in
his eyes? But he seemed to understand. She prayed he did.