Intervention (37 page)

“Why do you think you are the last person who should be trying to influence him?” Jack questioned. “I think you are the perfect person. He knows you, trusts you, and you have probably the most clerical credibility of anyone in this country.”

“We’re too good friends,” James explained, as he exited from the West Side Highway at 96th Street. “I know he was quite besotted, but he still feels comfortable calling me lardo, which is what he used to call me in college when he was angry, which he knows I detest, probably because it is rather accurate. But such familiarity puts me at a distinct disadvantage.”

“If not you, who?” Jack asked. “I hope you’re not thinking of me, because I haven’t been any more successful than you’ve been. In fact, I’ve been completely unsuccessful.

Especially compared with you two guys, I know nothing about the Catholic Church.”

“Where is it you live again?” James asked, after reassuring Jack he didn’t intend to saddle him with the problem of Shawn and Sana. Jack gave him the street and the number.

“So if not me, who?” Jack persisted.

“That’s the problem,” James said, approaching Jack’s home. “I haven’t the faintest idea, although I’m beginning to have an idea of the qualities I’d like the person to have.”

“Like what?”

“Persuasive, of course, but more important, absolutely and completely devoted to the Blessed Virgin. I mean a young person who has totally dedicated his or her life to the study and veneration of the Virgin Mary.”

“That’s an idea,” Jack said, suddenly sitting up. “A young attractive woman! Or we could find his old friend Elaine Smith, especially if she’d maintained her figure and had become a specialist in Mariology.”

“I know you are trying to buoy my spirits by being humorous, but I’m being serious here, my friend. I need to find immediately an incredibly persuasive zealot, tell him or her the story, and force Shawn to put up with him or her for a number of days. That is my last hope. I hadn’t thought of such a plan, because I was hoping not to have to tell anyone else the story to avoid anyone besides the four of us from knowing it. Obviously, I’ve decided it is a risk we have to take.”

James pulled over to the side of the road directly opposite the stoop on the front of Jack’s house. “Thanks for coming tonight. I really appreciate it. And thank your wife for letting you come, and tell her I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

After shaking hands, Jack put his hand on the door opener, then looked back at James.

“How are you going to find this person you’ve described in time? I don’t think I’ve ever met a single person who comes close to fulfilling those narrow requirements.”

“Actually, I don’t think it will be too difficult. Christianity has never been without its share of fanatics and zealots. Luckily, the early bishops recognized these people and supported them, creating in the process the concept of monasticism, where people could go to commit themselves entirely to God, or later to the Virgin Mary. Monasticism thrived, and it still does. In my archdiocese alone there are probably a hundred or more, some of which the chancery doesn’t even know about, and some of which if we did, we would try to shut down. I’m going to start a rapid search of these institutions and find the perfect person.”

“Good luck!” Jack said, climbing down from the Range Rover’s cab and shutting the door behind him. Then he stood there in the street for a few minutes, waving and watching James’s taillights until they reached Columbus Avenue and turned left.

Heading up his front steps by twos, Jack was invigorated. He felt like he was a participant in a kind of unfolding real-life mystery-thriller, the denouement of which taxed his creativity to even imagine how it was going to play out. The only thing he sensed was that Shawn was not going to back down easily.

J
ames felt better than he had all day, and specifically better than he had all evening. Plan B had evolved out of nowhere, and he gently chided himself for not thinking of it earlier.

As the early monks had helped stabilize the early Church, particularly after Constantine had legalized Christianity and let in the masses, the monks of today would come to the Church’s aid. Somehow James was sure of it, and sure that he would find the individual who could do it.

Consciously suppressing his urge to drive too quickly in order to get to the residence, where he intended to begin plan B that very evening, James drove down Central Park West to Columbus Circle. From there he used Central Park South to cross to the East Side and drop off his vehicle at his garage. Then he walked quickly home to the residence, deliberately trying to be noisy when he entered the front door.

It soon became obvious that he’d not been noisy enough, as neither Father Maloney nor Father Karlin appeared. Assuming they were already settled for the night in their small gabled rooms on the fourth floor, James climbed into the residence’s small elevator, which he rarely used, and was whisked up to the top floor. Climbing out of the car on the tiny upper hallway, James banged mercilessly on the two doors, calling out that he wanted to see both secretaries in his office ASAP.

With the surprising announcement made and without waiting for a response, James returned into the elevator and descended two floors. Once in his office, he turned on the lights and then settled back behind his desk to await the surprised secretaries. Never before had James disturbed them once they’d retired for the day.

Father Maloney was the first to arrive. He’d merely pulled on his plaid robe over pajamas and to James resembled a scarecrow because of his height, the thinness of his body, and the gauntness of his face. Even his cropped short red hair sticking out in spikes added to the impression, as it looked something like straw.

“Where’s Father Karlin?” James demanded, without giving any explanation for such an unprecedented late-night meeting.

“He called out to me through his closed door he’d be here as soon as he could manage . .

.” Father Maloney said. His voice trailed off, as he was hoping for an explanation of what was on the archbishop’s mind, but nothing was forthcoming.

James impatiently drummed his fingers on his desk. Just when he was about to pick up his phone and call Father Karlin’s room, the man walked into the office. In contrast to Father Maloney, he’d assumed the worst—namely, that he’d be up for hours—and had taken the time to fully dress, artificial white clerical collar and all.

“Sorry to interrupt your prayers,” James said to begin. He motioned for his two secretaries to sit. Tenting his fingers, he added, “We have what I consider to be an emergency. I’m not going to tell you exactly why, but you two have to find me immediately a person who is charismatic and persuasive and generally alluring in some manner. But most of all, he or she must be fanatically passionate and zealous about the Blessed Virgin Mary, the more the better, and totally committed to the Church with a sense of mission.”

The two priests glanced at each other, each hoping the other understood the assignment and how to proceed better than the other. As the senior secretary, Father Maloney spoke:

“Where would we find such a person?”

In his excitement, James had little patience for what he interpreted as negativity on his secretaries’ part. He rolled his eyes at Father Maloney’s ridiculous question. “I ask you,”

James said with uncamouflaged frustration, “where ultra-devoted followers of Mary, the Mother of God, might be found?”

“I suppose as members of Roman Catholic Marian movements and societies.”

“Very good, Father Maloney,” James said with a touch of sarcasm, acting as if he was teaching a Sunday-morning catechism class to preteens. “Starting at the crack of dawn, I want you to begin calling such institutions and talk to their abbots, mother superiors, or bishops, to let them know that I have called this an archdiocesan emergency to find the right person. Let them know it is a serious affair, as this individual will for a week or so work directly under me on a mission of high importance concerning the Blessed Virgin and the Church in general. And make it clear that this is not an award for someone’s past labors. It is for the here and now. I’m not looking for an old, distinguished Marian scholar. Actually, I’m looking for a young person filled with youthful zealous-ness who is mystically capable of expressing his or her zeal to others. Do I have full understanding here?”

Both Father Maloney and Father Karlin quickly nodded. They had never seen their usually in-control boss quite so fervid.

“Now, I would participate myself, but I have Mass to celebrate in the morning with a sermon, which I have yet to outline. I need to trust that you two will not fail me. When I return here to the residence around noon, I want there to be at least one and hopefully several candidates for me to interview. How you get them here, I do not care, nor is cost an issue. As the weather is supposed to be good, a helicopter might be necessary. Again I ask, are both of you on the same page here, or what?”

“You have not told us what this person will be actually doing,” Father Maloney said,

“and you have specifically said that you would not. But I can see that question coming up from the abbots, mother superiors, and bishops. What should we answer?”

“Answer that it is my judgment that no one, except of course the individual selected, should know the problem the archdiocese is facing.”

“Very good,” Father Maloney said as he got to his feet and clasped his robe more tightly about his bony slenderness. Father Karlin stood as well.

“That will be all,” James said. “And I pray you will be successful.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence,” Father Maloney said, bowing slighting at the waist before following Father Karlin by backing out the door.

As the two priests climbed the flight of stairs from the second floor to the third, Father Karlin, who was in the lead, called down to Father Maloney, who was just starting up,

“This might be the strangest task I’ve been charged with since my arrival here five years ago.”

“I guess I’d have to agree,” Father Maloney said.

At the base of the stair run up to the fourth floor, Father Karlin hesitated and waited for his colleague. “How are we going to get the phone numbers of these Marian societies?”

“There are plenty of ways,” Father Maloney said, “especially now, with the Internet.

Besides, it was clear that the cardinal wants a particularly extreme individual. For that we go to the most radical organization. Maybe, if we’re lucky, one call may do the trick.”

“Are you aware of the most fanatical organization?”

“I believe I am,” Father Maloney said. “A friend of my family contacted me several years ago to try to get their child out of an organization called the Brotherhood of the Slaves of Mary. I had never heard of it, and it’s not that far away, literally up in the Catskill Mountains, although figuratively it’s on another planet. Apparently, it’s a modern revival of a seventeenth-century fanatical European Marian society, which the then Pope Clement the Tenth felt compelled to outlaw some of the practices of.”

“Good grief,” Father Karlin voiced. “What kind of practices?”

“Using chains and other enslavement instruments for penance for mankind’s sins.”

“Dear God,” Father Karlin added. “Did you manage to get the child out?”

“I didn’t. Multiple phone calls and even a visit were for naught. He apparently loved the place, as it was what he needed. I don’t know if he’s still there or not. I haven’t been in contact with the family, as they were disappointed in my efforts.”

“Do you still have the contact numbers?”

“I do. I’ll call first thing. Of course, if the cardinal knew the society existed and he visited it, he’d probably close it down.”

“That is an irony, especially if we find someone there who fulfills the cardinal’s needs.”

25

12:04 P.M., SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2008

NEW YORK CITY

J
ames enjoyed a heady sensation as he left the cathedral redolent with incense to make his way back to the residence. The cathedral had been packed for the High Mass, with people standing along the aisles and not a single seat available in the entire nave. The choir had done an excellent job with nary a mistake, and his sermon had gone well and had been well received. The previous evening, after the secretaries had left to return to their gabled rooms, James had decided to preach that morning about the role of Mary in the modern Church, both because it was appropriate for the feast day coming up the next day and because it had been dominating his mind for several days.

Now, with the stress of the High Mass out of the way, James was eager to get back to the Shawn, Sana, and the ossuary issue. He knew that the upcoming week was going to be critical, and he prayed that his secretaries had made some progress. As he came up the stair, the first thing he saw was that the wooden bench just outside his office was occupied by what looked like a fifteen- to sixteen-year-old towheaded boy with such a beauteous face, beatific smile, and lustrous, shoulder-length, golden hair that James did a double take, believing he could be having a vision of the Angel Gabriel. The boy was dressed in a black habit with a hood, cinched with a medium-blue cord.

Gathering his wits with some difficulty, James broke off eye contact with the youth and passed into his office. Quickly, he slipped behind his massive oak desk to catch his breath, knowing that Father Maloney would undoubtedly momentarily materialize. The big question in James’s mind was whether or not the boy was someone chosen as the possible interventionist. If so, James’s immediate impact was off the charts, which was something he was hoping for. Yet as positive as that was, there was a problem. The individual was too young, a mere boy, and James asked himself if he could possibly entrust someone so immature with such an important task.

As James expected, the door opened after a sharp knock, and in stepped the secretary.

Carrying a folder, Father Maloney quickly crossed to the desk and handed it to James.

“His name is Luke Hester, and yes, he was definitely named after the evangelist Luke.”