Mike was coming closer, his expression one of purest astonishment. "Don't look now, but here comes Dad."
He came rushing up to them, followed closely by the tall form of Father Goodwin, flapping like a huge old buzzard, his face gleaming with perspiration and excited tears. "Sometimes it happens at the exposure of the Blessed Sacrament! Is that when it happened?"
Mary answered. "That's when it happened. Just a few minutes ago."
Patricia recalled that the Blessed Sacrament was carried out in procession morning and evening. All the singing must have signified the morning exposure. But the miracle had happened during the night. "Mary-"
Mary's hand squeezed hers.
She saw a small, very old man watching them from the fringe of the mob.
In the crowd there were at least as many of those strangely attentive faces as she had seen on the Bernadette tour. More, in fact. Practically everybody.
When she looked directly at the old man, it was as if the light went out of the sun and the warmth left the air. He turned quickly away and was lost in the crowd.
Mr. Apple is dead, isn't he?
Mike Banion's muscular arms came around her, and she let him hug her against his damp shirt. "Glory be!"
"Thank you, Mike, and thank the Holy Namers." She was playing a part, and she knew it, but that somehow did not stop her.
"Thanks be to God," Mary added.
Father Goodwin bowed his head. The great copper doors opened and the crowd began filing into the basilica, eager to touch their wounds and agonies to the waters.
Patricia rested her head against Mike's shoulder. Jonathan joined the embrace and the three of them stood together- three common, ordinary people against the dark, the un-known, the mysteries of the night.
She wished that she could shake the feeling of dread that had been with her all these weeks. But she could not. In fact, day by day and hour by hour it was increasing.
For heaven's sake, she had been cured! cured! Shouldn't she rejoice? Shouldn't she rejoice?
8 AUGUST 1983.
MOST PRIVATE.
To: The Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for the Defense of the Faith From: The Chancellor for the Inquiry in North Amer-ica Your Eminence: It is with deepest regret that I inform you that Sister Marie-Louise has refused her commission.
When the death of Terence Quist was added to that of Brother Alexander and I could not even guarantee the loyalty of the parish priest, Sister concluded that the risk of penetrating this congregation was too high.
Theoretically, Sister is correct, but the importance of the present mission is so great that I must ask you to use your good offices with the worldwide body, and find me a warrior-priest of the old school, who will brave anything for love of Him.
If you wish to reach Sister, she will be at the Esalen Institute in California for the next two weeks,"getting her head back together," as she so aptly put it.
In addition, Sister demanded that we turn over our files on the disease vector to the secular authorities for proper action. I do not yet wish to do this. Until we are utterly and completely defeated, we must not risk the damage to Holy Faith that revelation of our existence would cause.
Your Grace, our one and only alternative remains to neutralize the bearers of the blood.
Please send me a good man! May God have mercy on us all.
Yours in Christ & for the Defense of the Faith, Brian Conlon (Msgr.) Document Class: Urgent A, most private, Swiss Guards courier Destination: Paolo Cardinal Impelliteri, the Hidden Collegium, Prefecturate for the Defense of the Faith, Vatican City.
12 AUGUSTUS 1983.
FURTIVISSIMUS.
Ad: Cancellarius Inquisitionis in Septentrionalis Americanensis Cancellarius Inquisitionis in Septentrionalis Americanensis Ex: Ex: Prefectus Congregationis Defensioni Fidei Prefectus Congregationis Defensioni Fidei We are vexed, Monsignor. If you cannot command the loyalty of your own religious, I fail to perceive any reason for you to continue in your post. Cells de-stroyed, martyrdoms, Inquisitors going to the Esalen Institute? What can be the matter over there?
You impress upon me in the same letter both your own personal helplessness and the urgency of the situation. I should remove you, but I cannot afford to spend time training a new man at such a tense mo-ment.
Monsignor, I order you to go in yourself. Work Work on that parish priest, Goodwin. Enlist his help if you can. on that parish priest, Goodwin. Enlist his help if you can.
At all costs, the monstrum monstrum and his mate must be rendered impotent. We simply cannot afford to face the chance of their birthing the so-called anti-man. Do what is needed in this regard, bearing our previous correspondence in mind. It has taken two thousand years of breeding to produce those two. and his mate must be rendered impotent. We simply cannot afford to face the chance of their birthing the so-called anti-man. Do what is needed in this regard, bearing our previous correspondence in mind. It has taken two thousand years of breeding to produce those two.
In two brave seconds the threat can be removed.
So I charge you: For Christ and Holy Faith, find your courage. You have done brave things in the past, Brian. You always knew that your work might expose you to the threat of martyrdom.
Accept the cup Our Lord gives into your hand. Remember His passion in the Garden of Gethsemane. Brian, I cannot compel you. But I offer my prayers for you in this difficult hour.
Bless you, my son. You yourself must be our Op-pugnatio. Op-pugnatio.
Mea Auctoritate, Paolo Cardinalis Impelliteri Document Class: Urgent A, destroy in presence of courier Destination: Monsignor Brian Conlon, Chancellor for the Inquiry, North America, 1217 Fuller Brush Build-ing, 221 E. 57th Street, New York, N.Y., 10022
Chapter Fifteen.
THE LIGHT OF evening lifted from hot Queens streets. Far below the windows of the apartment a bus roared, accelerat-ing away down Metropolitan Avenue. Jonathan wished he and Patricia were on it.
They had spent time very carefully comparing the dreams they had experienced on the night of the cure.
They were complementary in every detail, so much so that Jonathan was forced to conclude they had not notdreamed, but in fact had undergone some sort of actual experience.
The two of them were at the edge of the unknown. Jonathan wanted to get everything out in the open, unlock the secrets and damn the consequences. But how do you confront something you do not understand, which seems like a nightmare but has stunning consequences in real life?
The cure.
"Farfetched," Mike had said when Jonathan had told him about the complementary dreams. "Coincidence.
And if the cult were big enough to include Lourdes there'd be a lot of people involved. There'd be leaks, and there aren't any. I'm looking for a group that starts and stops right here in Queens. Big enough to be mean as hell, which they obvi-ously are, but small enough to stay well hidden. And as for the cure, just accept it.Thank the good Lord it happened."
Nightmares. Cleansing rivers: Cures. Jonathan accepted nothing, not even the way they had been scrutinized in the streets of Lourdes. That Mike brushed off. "The place is full of Frenchmen," seemed to him to be enough of an explana-tion.
But after listening to Jonathan's story on the way home in the plane, Mike had fallen silent, had stared a long time into the distance, had finally given them both reassuring pats and told them to relax.
Now he almost haunted them; he was either with them himself or some of his men were in evidence. The protective net around them had been strengthened.
"Patricia," Mike said around an unlit cigar, "aren't you hot?" She was sitting on the couch, her arms lying along the back, blond hair clinging to her forehead. "If you'd turn on the air conditioner we could close the windows." He dabbed a handkerchief along his neckline.
"It's worse than this with it on," Patricia replied. "Too humid. The coils freeze up."
"That what the super tells you? Bullshit! The thing's been tampered with. They don't wanna pay the bill.Effing land-lords. S'cuse me."
Music blared up from a passing car. Jonathan went to the window to see a white Lincoln convertible pause at the light, the top down, the seats filled with expensively dressed, reveling blacks. WPLJ. Silk chinos. White dust in tiny cellophane bags.
Behind him Mike breathed heavily, it seemed painfully. He stared at them out of stricken eyes.
"Have you changed your mind, Dad? Do you think this thing might actually be bigger than Queens? Is that why you hang around all the time?"
"Come on, Johnny boy, let it rest." Jonathan could hear him chewing at the cigar. On the couch Patricia stirred. She had a bowl of ice water, and she began dabbing her face with a washcloth.
"I want to know. You come here and you stare. What the hell for?"
Mike did not reply. Patricia went over to the window. "He doesn't know why he's here, do you, Mike?"
At last he cut his cigar and lit up. "I'll tell you," he said around it. "I'm here because I'm here. It doesn't hurt to be cautious."
"We're all overtired from the trip and the heat, Dad. Maybe a good night's sleep-"
"Screw that, Johnny. I was trying to reassure you two by soft-pedaling your stories about France. But there's no use in it. You're obviously not buying it. I might as well admit I think this thing is big. Very big.
Somethin' was going on over there. You're not crazy, neither am I. Right? That is is right, isn't it?" right, isn't it?"
"Of course it's right," Jonathan replied.
Patricia put her hand out, tried to touch Mike's shoulder. He recoiled, then looked at the hand. "I mean, were you paralyzed or weren't you? Was it some kind of a joke or what the hell was it?"
"Mike, I was paralyzed! Oh, I was certainly that!"
"Okay. I'm sorry." He shook his head, then rummaged in the top pocket of his suit, drawing out a sheaf of thin paper. Third copies of some kind of police report, Jonathan saw. "This is a return on the surveillance of Holy Spirit Church over the past three weeks." He opened it. "The goddamn thing is clear."
"They moved to another church."
Mike smiled slightly. "Why should they do that? I'm beginning to think the three of us are the only people any of us know who aren't aren't in on this thing. Your guards are now from the 107th, not the 112th," he added with venom in his voice. "Maybe it's safer that way." in on this thing. Your guards are now from the 107th, not the 112th," he added with venom in his voice. "Maybe it's safer that way."
Jonathan heard the rage in him. No wonder Mike was scared. He was saying he felt he could no longer trust his own men. "You want some gin, Dad?"
He stared, wordless, his papers on his lap. Patricia went to the kitchen and brought back glasses of ice.
She made three healthy gin and tonics.
Mike smiled. "Seein' you walk, darlin'-oh, Christ, I get soupy. I'm gonna be such a sentimental old fart one of these days." He sipped the drink she gave him. "When you two went out the night before the cure, where did you go?"
Patricia's eyes widened. "You're definitely sure we did go out?"
"Not only you. Mary was gone when you woke me up leaving. Frankly I thought you two had personal business that was none of mine so I stayed in bed. Where did you go?"
"I told you on the plane I thought we were dreaming." Jonathan's mouth was so dry he had to sip his drink before he could speak.
"You weren't. You really went out, both of you. Surely you remember carrying her."
"This is definite confirmation," Jonathan said, almost hating to hear the words. "Why didn't you say this before? Why did you doubt me on the plane?"
"It's a technique. Sometimes it leaches out a few more facts. I mean, if you went out, you must know where you went and what you did. Stands to reason."
"Mike," Jonathan said, "I don't think you understand even yet. I've believed for some weeks that I'm under some form of hypnosis. Now it seems obvious to me that Patricia is too. The story I told you on the plane stands. We may have gone out in the real, flesh-and-blood world, but we both remember it as if it were a dream."
For better or worse, he was going to have to try to work with Patricia on his instruments. Otherwise this mystery was going to keep getting bigger and bigger until it consumed them both.
The evening had turned to night. Now the room was lit from below by harsh sodium-vapor streetlamps.
Some kids had opened up a hydrant and were shrilling gaily in its illicit spray. Jonathan envied them. A feeling of almost unimagina-ble menace seemed to fill the air in this place.
In the secrecy of conclave that lovers have, Patricia touched Jonathan's shoulder. The damp, warm flesh of her arm came into contact with his own. He knew just what was on her mind. The marriage. She was now ready to tell Mike of their marriage plans.
"You two keep the alarms on every minute you're in here. And if you go out, we'll be with you."
"We've asked Father to marry us," Patricia said quietly but quite firmly, "on Saturday night. The banns are waived." She smiled. "In view of our eagerness and the unusual circumstances of our situation."
Mike pulled his cigar out of his mouth. His face burst in an instant from shadows to smiles. "He-e-y! This is good! This is so good! Tell me sometime, eh?"
"It was her, Dad. She didn't want to say it on the plane."
"They were already celebrating the cure. I didn't want to make more of a fuss."
"People kept kissing her on the plane. I think she was embarrassed."
"Awful fast." Mike got a canny look in his eyes. "Not gonna have a miracle seven-month baby, are you?"
Patricia blushed.
"Come on, Dad, no way. We're just two eager kids."
"Oh, sure. Eager to share your first kiss. I'm sorry you've decided to do it so soon, no chance to plan, but I accept that if it makes you happy."
"We want it private."