F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (25 page)

           
 
He sighed. "All right, then, how about we
go down to the lounge and see Hal Roach? He's only down from Dublin for one
night."

           
 
"I don't think so," she said. She
wasn't really in the mood for Ireland's answer to Henry Youngman.

           
 
"How about we just go for a walk?"

           
 
Carrie shook her head. "I think I'd
rather just stay here."

           
 
Dan's expression tightened. "Watching
over her, I suppose."

           
 
She nodded. "In a way, yes."

           
 
"Don't you think you might be getting
just a little carried away with this, Carrie?"

           
 
Yes, she thought. Yes, I might. But the Virgin
was here, and so here is where Carrie wanted to be. Simple. She'd waited all
this time on tenter hooks for the Virgin's arrival from Haifa, and she wasn't
about to let her out of her sight until her crate was safely on board the ship
in Dublin Harbor.

           
 
"I just want to stay here with her, Dan.
Is that so bad?"

           
 
"Bad?" he said. "No. I can't
say it's bad. But I don't think it's healthy."

           
 
He stared again, then shrugged resignedly.
"All right. This is your show. We'll do it your way." He stepped
closer and kissed her forehead. "But I do need to get out of this room . .
. stretch my legs . . . maybe cross the river and grab a pint. I'll be back
soon."

           
 
Before Carrie could think of anything to say,
he was out the door and she was alone in the room.

           
 
Well, not completely alone. The Virgin was
here. She knelt beside the crate and rested her head on its lid. For one
shocking, nerve-rattling moment she thought she heard a heartbeat, then she
realized it was her own.

           
 
"Don't worry, Mother Mary," she
whispered to the crate. "I won't leave you alone here. You've given me
comfort through the years when I needed it, now I'll stand by you." She
patted the lid of the crate. "Till death do us part."

           
The Judean Wilderness

           
 
"Why?"

           
 
Kesev stood atop the
tav
rock with the thieves' rope knotted around his neck and
screamed out at the clear, pitiless night sky. "Why do You torment me like
this? When will You be satisfied? Have I not been punished enough?"

           
 
But no reply came from on high, just
Sharav's
ceaseless susurrance, whispering
in his ears. Not that he'd expected an answer. All his countless entreaties
down through the years had been ignored. Why should this one be any different?

           
 
The Lord tormented him. Kesev was not cut out
to be a Job. He was a fighter, not a victim. And so the Lord took extra pains
to beleaguer him.

           
 
Not that he was without fault in this. If he
had been at his post when the errant SCUD had crashed below, he could have
chased off the Bedouin boys when they wandered into the canyon, and hidden the
scrolls before the government investigative teams arrived.

           
 
And then the Mother would still be safely
tucked away in the Resting Place instead of . . . where?

           
 
Where was she?

           
 
Gone. Gone from Israel. Kesev had exhausted
all his contacts and what limited use he dared make of his Shin Bet resources,
but she had slipped through his fingers. He'd sensed the Mother's slow
withdrawal from their homeland. He didn't know how, or in which direction she'd
been taken, but he knew in the core of his being that she was gone.

           
 
He also knew it was inevitable that soon she
would be revealed to the world and made a spectacle of, a sensational object of
scientific research and religious controversy. Why else would someone steal her
away?

           
 
The Lord would not stand for that. The Lord
would rain his wrath down upon the earth.

           
 
Perhaps that was the meaning behind all this.
Perhaps the theft of the Mother was the event that would precipitate the Final
Days. Perhaps . . .

           
 
Kesev sighed. It didn't matter. He'd failed in
his task and now there was no need for him to prolong the agony of this life
any longer. Since his usefulness on earth was at an end, surely the Lord would
let him end his time on earth as well. He would not see the Final Days, and
certainly he did not deserve to see the Second Coming. He did not even deserve
to see tomorrow.

           
 
He checked once more to make sure the rope was
securely tied around the half-sunk boulder about thirty feet back. Then he
stepped to the edge of the tav and looked down at his Jeep parked below. He'd
left plenty of slack, enough to allow him to fall within a dozen feet of the
ground. The end would be quick, painless. If he was especially lucky, the force
of the final jolt might even decapitate him.

           
 
Without a prayer, without a good-bye, without
a single regret, Kesev stepped off the edge and into space.

           
 
He kept his eyes open and made no sound as he
hurtled feet first toward the ground. He had no fear, only grim anticipation
and . . . hope.

           
Cork City, Ireland

           
 
Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio wandered through the
thick, humid air near Cork City's waterfront. He'd wandered off St. Patrick's
Street and was looking for a place to have a drink. His doctors had all warned
him against alcohol but right now he didn't care. He'd had a long day of crushing
people's hopes and fervor, and he needed something. Something Holy Mother
Church could not provide. He needed a different kind of communion.

           
 
All the pubs on St. Patrick were crowded and
he didn't feel like standing. He wanted a place to rest his feet. He spotted a
pair of lighted windows set in dark green wood, JIM CASHMAN'S read the sign,
and there was a Guinness harp over the slate where the dinner menu was scrawled
in chalk.

           
 
Vincenzo peeked inside the open door and saw
empty seats.

           
 
Bono!
He'd
found his place.

           
 
He made his way to the bar and squeezed into a
space between two of the drinkers—a space that would have been too narrow for
him just a year ago.

           
 
Amazing what cancer can do for the figure.

           
 
The bartender was pouring for someone else so Vincenzo
took a look around. A small place, this Jim Cashman's— hardwood floor and
paneling, a small bar tucked in the corner, half a dozen tables arrayed about
the perimeter, a cold fireplace, and two TVs playing the same rugby match.

           
None of Cashman's dozen or so
patrons paid him any attention. And why should they? He wasn't wearing his
collar. He'd left that and his cassock back in his hotel room; that left a
thin, sallow, balding, gray-haired man in his fifties dressed in a white shirt
and black trousers. Nothing at all priestly about him.

           
 
He turned to the solitary drinker to his left,
a plump, red-faced fellow in a tour bus driver's outfit, sipping from a glass
of rich dark liquid.

           
 
"May I ask what you're drinking,
sir?"

           
 
The fellow stared at him a moment, as if to be
sure this stranger with the funny accent was really speaking to him, then
cleared his throat.

           
 
"Tis stout. Murphy's stout. Made right
here in Cork City."

           
 
"Oh, yes. I passed the brewery on the way
in."

           
 
Michael had driven him through the gauntlet of
huge gleaming silver tanks towering over both sides of the road on the north
end of town, and he remembered wondering who in the world drank all that brew.

           
 
Vincenzo said, "I tried a bottle of
Guinness once, but didn't care for it very much."

           
 
The driver made a face. "What? From a
bottle? You've never had stout till you've drunk it straight from the tap as
God intended."

           
 
"Which would you recommend for a
beginner, then?"

           
 
"I like Murphy's."

           
 
"What about Guinness?"

           
 
"It's good, but it's got a bit more bite.
Start with a Murph."

           
 
Vincenzo slapped his hand on the bar.
"Murphy's it is!" He signaled the barkeep. "A pint of Murphy's,
if you would be so kind, and another for my adviser here."

           
 
When the pints arrived, Vincenzo brushed off the
driver's thanks and turned to find a seat.

           
"Stout's food, you know,"
the driver called after him as Vincenzo carried his glass to a corner table.
"A couple of those and you can skip a meal."

           
 
Good, he thought. I can use a little extra
nourishment.

           
 
He'd lost another two pounds this week. The
tumors in his liver must be working overtime.

           
 
"Good for what ails you too," the
driver added. "Cures all ills."

           
 
"Does it now? I'll hold you to that, my
good man."

           
 
He took a sip of the Murphy's and liked it. Liked
it a lot. Rich and malty, with a pleasant aftertaste. Much better than that
bottle of Guinness he'd once had in Rome. One could almost believe it might
cure all ills.

           
 
Vincenzo smiled to himself. Now wouldn't
that
be a miracle.

           
 
He looked at the faces around Jim Cashman's
and they reminded him of the faces he'd seen in Cashelbanagh, only these
weren't stricken with the bitter disappointment and accusation he'd left there.

           
 
It's not
my fault your miracle was nothing more than a leaky roof.

           
 
A young sandy-haired fellow came in and
ordered a pint of Smithwick's ale, then sat alone at the table next to
Vincenzo's and stared disconsolately at the rugby game. He looked about as
cheerful as the people Vincenzo had left at Cashelbanagh.

           
 
"Is your team losing?" Vincenzo
said.

           
 
The man turned and offered a wan smile.
"I'm American. Don't know the first thing about rugby." He extended
his hand. "Dan Fitzpatrick. And I can guess by your accent that you're
about as far from home as I am."

           
 
Vincenzo shook it and offered his own
name—sans the religious title. No sense in putting the fellow off. "I
happen to be on my way to America. I'm leaving for New York tomorrow."

           
 
"Really? That's where my . . . home is.
Business or pleasure?"

           
 
"Neither, really." Vincenzo didn't
want to get into his medical history so he shifted the subject. "I guess
something other than rugby must be giving you such a long face."

           
 
He wanted to kick himself for saying that. It
sounded too much like prying. But Dan seemed eager to talk.

           
 
"You could say that," he said with a
disarming grin. "Woman trouble."