On the Third Day (15 page)

            “It’s late,” Father Thomas said.  “I won’t keep the two of you.  I need to get these folders back where they belong, and then I need to get to this casserole while it’s still warm.  I could reheat it, but it’s never quite the same.”

            Gladys shook her head.  “You’re right on that, Father, you surely are.”

            She seemed distracted, and again Quentin almost asked her what was wrong.  The glance she sot sidelong at Norman stopped him.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Gladys?”

            She nodded.  “Early, Father.  Why don’t you leave those files until then?  I can help you get them sorted out, along with the others.”  She gestured at his cluttered desktop.  “The filing keeps my mind active.”

            Quentin laughed.  “If your mind gets any more active, Gladys, we’re all in trouble.”

            She brightened at this, but there was still a shadow hovering behind her smile.  Father Thomas made a note to himself that he’d look into it come morning.  Gladys had done more to make his days comfortable since the events of the past Easter than any living person.  He owed her any counsel, or assistance he could offer.

            He caught her glancing at Norman a final time, but couldn’t read the expression on her face.

            “The Father is right,” she said.  “He needs his rest, and we should be getting home.”

            Norman, looking immensely relieved, nodded and turned toward the door.

            “Good to see you both again,” Father Thomas said as they exited.  “And thank you again for the food.  It is always appreciated.”

            Neither answered as they disappeared into the hall.  Father Thomas waited until the sound of their retreating footsteps faded, then turned to his file cabinets with a sigh.  He quickly replaced the files in their proper slots, leaving the DVD alone in his hand.

            He stared down at it and frowned.  Looking more closely, he saw that what had at first appeared to be a tightly wrapped sheath of plastic, like saran wrap, had been slit down the side at some point.  It was carefully resealed with cellophane tape.

            Had it come this way?  Who would have opened it?  Quentin himself had no desire to witness the film again himself.  He only had a copy because Vatican lawyers had insisted that if the “incident” was under investigation, he should have a copy of any and all findings.

            Recent years had riddled Rome’s pocket book with scandals and lawsuits; the legal staff had gained more experience in a few years than any other group in the history of the Church, and they were very sensitive to anything that might have repercussions.

            “Repercussions,” Quentin whispered.  He shook his head and carried the DVD to his desk.  He opened the top left drawer, where he kept important correspondence and items that needed to be dealt with in the near future.  It kept them from being buried on his desk.

            He didn’t plan on doing anything with the disc any time soon, but at least it wouldn’t be lying around on his desk for anyone to see.  The resealed edge had rattled him, and this made him angry, as well.  What did he have to fear, and from whom?  The Church already had the video, and those in his parish had witnessed it all first hand.

            Shaking his head, Father Thomas took the casserole in hand, stepped to the door, and turned off the lights.  He dismissed the DVD, and headed toward the stairs leading to his rooms above.  He would have his answers soon enough, he knew.  Father Prescott was a good man, but he was also a man with an assigned mission, and Quentin had no doubt that, however things went, there would be word of some kind before much more time had passed.

            He climbed the stairs, not bothering to flick on the lights, and disappeared into the shadows.

~ Fifteen ~

            Norman stared at his computer screen. He’d been up most of the night, carefully converting the DVD video to smaller clips. The process wasn’t as much difficult as time consuming. As he worked, he ran a variety of plans through his mind, rejected most of them, and continually attacked those that remained for flaws and weaknesses.

            He knew there had to be some way to make use of the video, but he was equally aware that he needed to be careful.  Everyone from his own mother to the Pope would be ready to crucify him, pun intended, if he gave any indication of what he had.  If they knew what he planned to do with it – any of the plans, really – the danger would grow exponentially.

            He’d narrowed it down to three options.  He could contact the Church anonymously and let them know what he had.  He knew where the Bishop’s office was downtown.  If he let them know the video had leaked, and that if they didn’t meet his price he’d release it to the news, he might be able to work a deal.  The other side of the fence was more appealing, but also more dangerous.  He could contact the press first. 

            Norman was no fool.  He knew that there were certain topics that, inserted into an otherwise bland news day, would draw major attention, headlines, and ratings.  Scandal in the Catholic Church held a nice high position on that list.  This wasn’t as good as a child-molesting priest with an alcohol problem, but it had the advantage of being unique.  It had the kind of draw that would go national, maybe international.

            If Norman brought this to light, assuming he could avoid going to jail for the initial theft, and being killed by some secret sect of Jesuits sent out of Vatican City to erase him from the picture, he could be famous. It would be fleeting, but he might cadge it into enough appearances, and flash-fame to make him at least mildly wealthy.

            It was tempting.  The only thing that kept him from immediately putting this plan into action was his mother.  Norman and Gladys Multinerry saw eye-to-eye on almost literally nothing.  Still, she was his mother, and Norman wasn’t so far removed from the days of having his hair tousled and being given warm milk and cookies before bed that he’d forgotten he loved her.  He just didn’t
get
her, and the feeling was obviously mutual.

            Then there was the image that kept resurfacing in Norman’s mind of the sealed sleeve that had held the DVD.  The seal bore the symbol of The Vatican.  It wasn’t from Bishop Michaels, whom he remembered well enough from his own childhood of made-up confessions and fidgety mass attendance.  It was from Rome.

            Norman didn’t know much about the Roman Catholic Church, for all of his careful upbringing in the faith.  Most of what he knew of the upper ranks of the church came from movies, television, and sensationalist news feeds on the Internet.  How much of it could be believed was always in question, but Norman believed they would come after him.  He also believed that they had ways of getting to him that would – at best – stretch the limits of legality.  The Church didn’t take well to having egg smeared on its face, and Norman wasn’t sure if he wanted to be famous and slightly rich if it came with the cost of watching over his back for psychotic monks or Vatican hit men.

            Still, it wouldn’t hurt to keep his options open.  He didn’t actually have to reveal anything to find out what it might be worth.  If it looked too good to pass up, he’d move forward and take whatever consequences followed the decision.  If not, he could always withdraw his offer, sell the disc back to the church, and get on with his life.

            The question of who to contact was a simple one.  In the greater San Valencez area there was only one major local channel.  The others all came in from LA or up north, or rode the digital cable from parts unknown.  KROK ruled the TV and RADIO waves locally, and the only person on that network who’d be interested in what Norman had to offer was Hector Clearwater.

            Hector thought he was Geraldo Rivera.  He had the look, and the voice.  He went all out after local celebrities and businesses and did his best to ruin people’s lives and get it all on film, all in the hope of national syndication.  Norman didn’t watch much television, but he’d been flipping channels one night and caught the show when they were slamming a San Valencez church leader for the quality of his housing and automobile in contrast to those of his followers.  Clearwater was direct, rude as hell, and brutally efficient.

            Norman imagined Father Thomas on the panel, Clearwater firing questions and answering them himself so rapidly that the priest couldn’t get a word in edgewise.  He chuckled.  Then the image of Father Thomas from the video, dangling in the air with blood streaming down his face invaded the fantasy.  He heard that booming, powerful voice and imagined it in competition with the raspy, tinny harangue of Clearwater’s equipment.  Maybe that encounter
would
be worth seeing, and a lot less one-sided than it appeared, unless of course it leaned the other way.

            Norman had worried about the other priest, Father Prescott.  He had visited the house a few days after the two of them met in the hallway of the rectory, and for a horrible instant Norman was sure the man knew what he’d done.  He nearly broke down and confessed on the spot, but managed to get out of the room with a sweaty handshake and a scowl.  He had no doubt that his mother had spent a good deal of her talk with that priest listing Norman’s many faults and failings, and apologizing for his rudeness.  That was fine.  The less Norman had to do with anyone in a white collar just now, the better.

            Now Father Prescott was heading back to Rome, and the coast would be relatively clear for a while.  Since his mother broke in and saw the naked Solitaire on his screen, Norman had worked a little harder around the house.  He’d replaced the batteries in the garage door opener, and done the dishes a couple of times.  Never when she was home – he didn’t want her to start asking him questions.

            Either she’d get on him about confession, and finding a nice girl so he wouldn’t have to have those “disgusting pictures” on his computer, or she’d want to know what was going on with him.  She had a way of dragging the truth out of him, even when she didn’t know he was keeping it from her, and this time it was too important.

            The progress bar on the screen said he had one hour and forty-five minutes before the process of breaking up the video files would be complete.  Norman knew he’d go nuts if he sat here brooding all that time. He made his decision.  A little ground work done ahead of time couldn’t hurt.

            He rose, flicked off the power on the computer’s monitor so that the work in progress wouldn’t be visible, and left the room.  He’d dropped his mother off early that morning at San Marcos, and he wasn’t due to pick her up again until later in the afternoon.

            Norman grabbed a Pepsi from the refrigerator and headed for the living room.  There was only one phone in the house besides the one attached to his computer modem.  It sat beside Gladys’s favorite chair, which was aimed at the television and primed for Guiding Light.  There weren’t many “worldly” pleasures Gladys allowed herself, but the soap opera was one.  Norman had the VCR programmed to record the show for her each day, and she sat down, just before bed every night, to catch up on the lives and loves of her favorite stars.

            Norman usually used the phone in his bedroom, but he needed the phone book, and it was kept beneath the table where the phone sat.  He sat gingerly on the edge of Gladys’ chair and grabbed the yellow pages.  It only took a couple of moments to locate the KROK station number.  He dialed it and waited.

            “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?”