Returning to the sisters' residence one evening, they watched the Crescent City sun dip behind the administration building tower.
"I don't want it to end," Anne Marie blurted.
"Our walk? The sunset?" Javier said, puzzled.
Moments ago, they chatted freely, dissecting the movie they had seen that afternoon. Anne Marie shook her head. "Our time together." Her urgent voice trembled.
Javier flushed. This was exactly what he didn't want to happen. "'As the saying goes, 'all good things.'"
"Listen to me, Javier." She pulled him into the shadows and made him look directly into her eyes. He rarely allowed himself this pleasure, because they were of such an emerald hue he worried he might drown in their misty pools. Their lips were inches apart. "I'm in love with you. I don't know what to do about it."
"Annie, you don't love me," Javier insisted. "We've had fun. We're good friends. That can go on. We'll write."
"Don't tell me what I feel!" she snapped. The emotional outburst appeased her somewhat, and she rested her back against the dorm's gray stone wall. Her vivacious spirit relented to their larger reality. "When will we see each other again?"
"I-- I don't know." He tottered on uncertain ground with a woman for the second time in his life. With one major difference this time. As much as he enjoyed Anne Marie and found her disturbingly attractive, he wasn't in love with her. Missing was that elusive mutuality he may never have known existed had he not experienced it with Leah Sinclair.
"There's a follow-up session next summer. I'll be here. You could come back." Her mood brightened. "How about it? I'm sure your old bishop will let his favorite pastor come." This was classical Anne Marie. Hopeful, optimistic, but without the usual store of reserves to back her up.
"I can't." He made it sound as if he regretted it. "Annie--" He lacked experience in dealing with a woman's powerful emotions. He had miserably failed his only previous test and wasn't doing much better this time. He rummaged for a way to let Anne Marie down without hurting her. "Look, I love you too . . . but not in the same way."
She looked away, her damage-control mechanism kicking into gear. "Not in love. Is that it?"
Javier nodded. "It sounds cold. I don't mean it to be. You're a wonderful, beautiful person."
"'Cold'?" she repeated. "How do you tell a girl you're not in love with her and make it come out sounding like a warm fuzzy."
It hurt Javier to watch the sparkle fade from this special woman's eyes. He doubted her ability to last much longer in religious life and hoped she'd find an equally special man to be the beneficiary of the vibrancy and vitality she possessed. "Thanks for understanding . . . . Most of all, thanks for loving me."
"You give me too much credit." She rushed inside, before he could tell if she was crying.
"Damn, damn, damn!" Javier grumbled to the hissing double glass doors that led to the sisters' dorm.
The final days of summer school raced by. Anne Marie and Javier remained friends, but it wasn't the same. Their conversations became superficial, their sharing less intimate. Javier never spoke to Anne Marie about Leah. He didn't tell her that, if he could let Leah go, that must have proved once and for all time that his vocation to the priesthood was meant to last forever.
The following spring, Anne Marie wrote that she had petitioned for release from her vows. She had moved back to Columbus, Ohio, her home town, and would begin teaching in a public school in the fall. At the end of her letter, she added:
Javier, my friend, take a good look at yourself. I saw something in your eyes you haven't seen yet. It said, "There's more of me to give than I'm giving now. There's more I want than I'm getting." I'm not sure it means you don't belong in the ministry. God knows, you're a good priest, the kind a renewed Church needs, but I worry that you might never experience the joy and love you deserve--and need, whether you realize it or not. Love, Anne Marie
PS: Pray for me . . . and thanks for last summer. I'll never forget it--or you!
It was the last time Javier heard from Anne Marie Quinn. He had spent the intervening years convincing himself that both she and Leah had been wrong about him. He had no desire to stir up the ashes of a dead romance and no intention of threatening Leah's marriage, even if that were possible. He would do Montenegro's business--and his own--then start a new life, somewhere where people would accept him simply as Señor Javier de Córdova. Ideally, in Santo Sangre, but that might be wishful thinking. People knew the de Córdova name too well for him to change collars and blend into the landscape.
A KLM flight attendant, a slim, blond man in his early thirties, passed out snack trays. He excused himself and leaned across Javier to serve the older couple sitting in seats A and B.
Javier waved off his own tray. "Just coffee, please. Black." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the married couple share samples from each other's trays. Is it true that everyone has a soul mate, and we roam the earth in search of that other half of our self? He wasn't sure. If there was such a thing as a soul mate, he had already found his and lost her. He had sent her away to protect a lifetime commitment, one made before he fully understood the meaning of "forever."
These thoughts still haunted Javier, when the Boeing's tires branded the tarmac with wide black streaks.
16
About the time of Javier's first contact with the mysterious Angel, Leah Barton crawled into bed in San Francisco. Her body ached with exhaustion from a grueling day. In addition to her usual round of closely-timed meetings and mothering obligations, her schedule had included a luncheon address to members of the influential Business Roundtable.
Although she often spoke to business groups, her appearances typically left audiences with severe cases of moral schizophrenia. Stories of violations of human rights fascinated the movers and shakers of Bay Area business and industry. They also threatened the see-no-evil stance most CEOs had adopted toward their foreign markets and suppliers.
Tired as Leah was, sleep didn't come easily. When it did, a cast of undesirables arrived with it.
Blackness pervaded the streets of San Francisco. No delicate chains of bridge lights linked the City with other parts of the Bay Area. No concrete and glass pyramid thrust its gleaming point into the downtown sky. The once-burgeoning downtown had become a canyon whose walls were the City's skyscrapers. Leah clutched Monica's trembling hand and dragged her down semi-deserted Market Street. With each step, Leah's feet became more leaden.
Something terrible has happened, but what caused light to vanish from the world? "Teddy!" Leah cried out. "Has anyone seen my son?"
A faceless man stepped out of the shadows. Stretching out his arms, he gestured toward Monica. "Give me the child." His manner was gentle, his voice kind. Nevertheless, Leah refused to let go.
"I've lost one child. I won't lose another."
A faint, red glow pulsed in the center of the man's chest. She touched the inviting light with the tip of her finger. Again, he gestured for her to let him carry the child.
Leah released her infant daughter to him. "You must be a good man. Yours is the only light left in the world." At that instant, a second light appeared in front of them. It began as a tiny, luminescent dot in the pavement, but quickly grew into a supernatural being. The vision rose higher, higher, until it stood as tall as the barely visible building tops. It drew a sword from its scabbard and pointed the weapon at Leah.
"Spare us, Angel of God," Leah cried. A shimmer of hope ran through her, as the light from this heavenly being spread throughout the City, illuminating her way. She was about to beseech the angel on behalf of her missing son, when Teddy appeared--impaled on the being's sword.
"Teddy!" Leah ran toward the angel which turned into a snarling demon. Teddy disappeared again.
"It's your fault!" the vision hissed.
* * *
"Mom. Mom!" Teddy shook his mother's shoulder. Leah sat upright in bed, sure the demon still lurked nearby. Teddy switched on the light. She was saf
e in the familiar stillness of her bedroom.
"It's okay. I had a nightmare."
Teddy sat beside his mother on the bed. She held him close to assure herself this vision was real. Her cheek pressed against his forehead. "Honey, you're burning up!"
"I don't feel so good."
The thermometer confirmed what Leah already knew. She kicked into nurse-mom mode and administered Tylenol and a large dose of TLC to her ailing son. She didn't have time to think about her dream until Teddy had gone to sleep. She slipped into bed again at three-thirty, determined not to reflect on the black hole from which he had rescued her.
She had experienced similar dreams since Janet Wishard's disturbing phone call. The recurring themes: impenetrable blackness and Teddy being either lost or dead.
Falling into the watchful sleep state known to all mothers of sick children, she heard the soft, clear whisper of Carmen, the "SFO in the AM" caller. "Those who desire justice, mi hermana, must pay its price."
Sunrise and the busy-ness of a new workday scattered most of the details of Leah's nightmare. Teddy's temperature returned to normal, and he insisted on going to school. The lingering survivor of Leah's dark night was Carmen, whose wisdom haunted and challenged her long into the day.
* * *
Carlo Pontieri's son didn't notice the drab gray Fiat gliding slowly along the curb a hundred feet behind him. He wouldn't have paid much attention had he seen it. After almost two months of first dreaming, then wishing, and finally asking, Marcello had gained Iliana Novarese's consent to walk her home from school. Not for a moment did he think she had taken his operatic threat to throw himself from a Castel Sant' Angelo parapet all that seriously, but so what? For centuries, hints of suicide had been a common ploy of love-smitten Roman teen-agers.
To be with Iliana today was worth whatever it took to pull off this coup. Tall and fashion-model slim, with eyes at once full of curiosity and mischief, Iliana carried herself with more self-possession and confidence than any sixteen-year-old Marcello knew, boy or girl. Her cropped raven hair might have given her a boyish look were it not for ample breasts bobbing hypnotically inside her sweater as she ambled beside him. Marcello found it nearly impossible to take his eyes off those womanly mounds, a major problem since he couldn't resist looking into her glistening, almond eyes either. Sweet dilemma!
Not given to excesses of humility, Marcello decided that Iliana had always liked him. She had simply played hard to get. After all, didn't everyone agree he was good-looking? Perhaps she had strung him along for weeks just to test the sincerity of his devotion.
First, she had pretended indifference. Then, some fleeting eye contact gave him hope, though she allowed no verbal exchange. By the third week, she acknowledged and returned his greetings, but refused all invitations. Every boy in his class at Academia Santa Francesca di Roma considered Iliana Novarese the most desirable catch of the year. Most of them had taken their turn at the brass ring and given up after the first, second, or third rejection.
Not Marcello.
Iliana rewarded his perseverance by agreeing to let him walk her to the gelatería across the piazza after school. And maybe then to her parents' apartment. "We'll see," was the extent of her commitment.
A bright, serious student, Marcello showed much of his father's concern for the social issues of the day. He chaired his school's POCI Junior Cell. But, today his interest did not center on freeing prisoners of conscience. Rather, under a brooding Roman sky, he basked in the sunshine of his personal triumph. In fact, as the weather worsened, Marcello remained oblivious to the change, having found in Iliana Novarese's glances a magical, sunny resort.
* * *
Juan de los Reyes pulled the Fiat ahead of Marcello and Iliana. He parked the sedan opposite a newspaper kiosk they had to pass. A light mist dampened the stone pavement.
Perfect timing.
The burly foreigner reached into the back seat for his black umbrella. He had carried out dozens of assignments for Raúl Montenegro over the years, never questioning right or wrong, good guys or bad guys. His was to do, perhaps some day to die in that doing. But this latest escapade?
"Old Raúl, you've really lost your balls," he grunted. De los Reyes had seen it coming. Maybe it was time to quit the secret agent business. His well-merited rank no longer gave him the satisfaction he had once derived from his grisly craft. Retirement beckoned him. The villa he had purchased under one of his many aliases summoned with equal insistence. For a moment, the sun-bathed citrus orchard on the outskirts of Palma de Mallorca distracted him from the cold Italian drizzle--and the business of the day.
With some difficulty, de los Reyes disengaged himself from the subcompact car. Pausing at the newsstand, he glanced with pretended interest over late-edition headlines and sexy tabloid covers. News of the day was undramatic. He took a certain pride in the fact he was about to give employment to all those idle reporters who at this very hour sat comfortably out of the rain in favorite coffee bars, talking politics and wondering what to write in tomorrow's columns.
Foot traffic along the boulevard picked up as shoppers and students scurried for shelter from the drizzle. When the youngsters approached the newsstand, the driver of the Fiat turned suddenly and bumped into Marcello, pricking the boy's thigh with the needle-sharp tip of his umbrella.
The boy grabbed at his leg and rubbed the sore spot. "Mother of God! Can't you watch where you're going?"
"So sorry!" the heavy-set stranger apologized. "I beg your pardon. I was looking at papers. I didn't see you and the young lady coming. It was stupid and clumsy of me. Did I hurt you?" With remarkable sleight of hand, he slipped a small object into the boy's jacket pocket.
"No!" The boy wanted the imbroglio over with, so he could return his attention and adoration to his beloved.
"It was an accident," Iliana scolded. "The old fellow meant no harm."
De los Reyes paused beside his car and waved to the youth, gesturing another apology. Marcello returned a forgiving gesture and grabbed Iliana's hand. In less than a minute, they were on their way again toward a shared gelato. The brief interruption was history.
* * *
It was the moaning that awakened Carlo Pontieri. He nudged his wife. "María, wake up!"
Their eyes locked in puzzled silence before they located the tortured sounds as coming from their son's bedroom. It sounded to Carlo like the wailing of a strong young buck felled by a hunter's shot and left cruelly to bleed to death.
"Mother of God! Can't you watch where you're going?" the boy cried to some invisible presence as Carlo led María into the room.
"Marcello!" Carlo gripped his son's convulsing shoulders and tried to shake him awake. The youth's swollen eyes opened slightly to reveal glassy pupils, blind to all but the inhabitants of the forest of his terrifying hallucinations. His flesh felt so clammy that he might have showered in his night clothes. With a contorted lunge, the boy grabbed at his thigh and shrieked again in pain.
"What is it, 'Cello mio?" María begged. Her hands clutched at the sides of her head, trying to squeeze an answer from her brain.
"We better get Dr. Forni," the frightened father suggested. Leaving mother and son alone, the elder Pontieri took the stairs two at a time, thudding heavily on the lower landing.
When Carlo returned to Marcello's room, he found his son thrashing wildly in the bed. María had difficulty holding the boy's arms down and was nearly hysterical from the sight of her son's torment.
"Poor man had just gotten home from another call," Carlo said. "He wants us to take Marcello directly to the hospital. He will meet us there. He doesn't know what it is, probably just a virus that will pass in a day or two. At worst--meningitis. He doesn't want to take a chance. Let's get a robe on him."
"Is it you, Iliana?" Marcello reached for the softness of his mother's breasts.
"No, figlio mio, it's me, your mama." María intercepted her son's hands and brought his palms to her cheeks.
Carlo wondered if his son had fondled Iliana Novarese's tempting bosom during their afternoon outing. He prayed he had not. Neither he nor María liked the girl. She was too mature for Marcello, too aware of herself. The boy had always kept himself so involved in his studies that he had no time for girls. Although sure his son would recover from whatever disease had attacked him, Carlo worried to think the boy could be this ill and possibly be in the state of mortal sin. Should he call a priest? Instead, Carlo picked Marcello's T-shirt from the floor and mopped the boy's face and neck with it. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, let him be all right."
"I'm sorry, Iliana," Marcello cried. "I wanted everything to be perfect. It was, until that bastard--"
María put her hand over her son's mouth forbidding further expletives--and any mention of the Novarese girl. "God, forgive him! He's sick. He doesn't know what he's saying."
It took fifteen minutes to get to Regina Mundi Hospital. Carlo wanted to push the car faster, but Marcello flailed his arms and writhed in pain all the way, making driving difficult and dangerous.
Dr. Forni met them at the emergency entrance and rushed his patient inside. It was he who discovered the puncture wound and inflammation at the back of the boy's thigh. Forni's brow furrowed into a deep frown that duplicated itself on the parents' brows as they watched. He probed the ugly red circle that had formed around the puncture. "How did this happen?"
"I don't know," María replied. "He said nothing about getting hurt."
"He spent the afternoon with a young girl from school," Carlo said. María shot him a disapproving glance.
At four-fifty-nine a.m., Marcello Pontieri stopped thrashing. The hallucinations ceased. He opened his eyes, which swam with questions, then fading good-byes. Carlo and María were positive he recognized them.
At five o'clock, their son died, leaving doctors, parents, and local authorities to puzzle the cause of the tragedy.
* * *
When the coroner's autopsy established the cause of death as lethal injection, the police paid a visit to Iliana Novarese. She related the incident at the kiosk.