The Angel (The Original Sinners) (2 page)

Michael gazed down at his hand. She’d touched him.

When Michael looked up, one of the married men in the
congregation who had a bad habit of flirting with Nora sat staring at him.
Staring at him with a look Michael recognized as envy. Michael stood a little
straighter and walked back to his pew. He paused a moment before changing his
mind, taking two steps forward and dropping down right next to Nora. She didn’t
look at him, just chatted with Owen about a drawing he’d done for her. But Nora
snuck her hand out again and pinched Michael hard enough on the thigh he knew
he’d have a bruise tomorrow.

Michael smiled. God, he loved Sundays.

* * *

Suzanne woke up to find Patrick’s arm across her bare
stomach and his mouth on the back of her neck.

“Patrick, seriously. I’m sleeping.” She pushed his arm off her.
“I still have jet lag.”

Laughing, Patrick nipped at her shoulder. She responded by
turning onto her side, her back away from him.

“Sex is a homeopathic cure for jet lag. I read that
somewhere.”

Suzanne closed her eyes, pulled the sheets up to her chin and
tried to remember exactly when last night she decided sleeping with an
ex-boyfriend was a good idea—probably somewhere between the fourth and sixth rum
and Coke.

“Last night wasn’t enough for you?” Suzanne vaguely recalled at
least two but possibly three encounters—once in the living room and twice in her
bed. The third one may not have counted.

“I don’t remember much of last night. Impressive ‘welcome home’
party.” Patrick nuzzled into her neck.

“Patrick, seriously,” Suzanne said when she felt his erection
pressing into her lower back. Patrick could be insatiable sometimes—one of his
better qualities in her estimation. Not that she ever told him that.

“It’s Sunday morning. Let’s fuck while all the Goody Two-shoes
are at church.”

“Mentioning church is not going to get you on my good side,
Patrick. Or on whatever side you’re interested in.”

Suzanne felt the bed shift as Patrick rolled up. Turning over
onto her back, she made herself meet his eyes. An IED had exploded not far from
a convoy she’d been riding in right outside of Kabul two weeks ago. It wasn’t
her life but Patrick’s face—his shaggy brown hair, soulful eyes and playful
smile—that had flashed before her eyes. He was an ex-boyfriend for a reason, she
told herself. Sometimes, though, she had trouble remembering what that reason
was. This morning, she remembered.

“Shit, Suz. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean… God, I was so glad you
were coming back, and I’ve fucked it up already.”

“Shut up,” she said, but not unkindly. “I think I heard my fax
machine.”

She grabbed Patrick’s shirt off the floor and pulled it on as
she left the bedroom. In the corner of her living room sat her small home
office. She dumped books and notepads onto the floor. Readers lauded her
newspaper and magazine articles for their clarity and organization. Those same
readers might be amused to see how much chaos it took to create such organized,
erudite stories.

Behind the second pile of books and notes she found her
dust-covered fax machine. A single piece of paper lay on the Out tray. Her eyes
widened as she took in the logo and the letterhead at the top.

“Patrick?”

“What’s up?” he asked, buttoning his jeans as he entered the
living room.

“Read this.” She thrust the paper into Patrick’s hands.

“Anonymous tip?”

“I think so. No cover sheet. No fax number imprint at the
bottom. Bizarre.”

Suzanne watched Patrick’s eyes scan the page. He shook his head
in either shock or confusion.

“Is this what I think it is?”

Suzanne took the sheet of paper back from him and read it
again. “Wakefield Diocese—what do you know about it?” she asked.

Patrick ran his hands through his hair and looked straight up.
She knew he always did that when thinking deeply, as if God or the ceiling would
tell him all the answers. “Wakefield…Wakefield…small diocese in Connecticut.
Safe, clean, suburban. Fairly liberal, pretty boring.”

Suzanne heard the hesitation in Patrick’s voice.

“Just spill it, Patrick. I can take it.”

“Fine,” he said, sighing. “One of their guys, Father Landon,
was supposed to take over for Bishop Leo Salter. Last minute, he gets nailed on
a thirty-year-old abuse accusation. So instead of becoming bishop, he’s getting
sent to wherever they send the sex offenders.”

“They send the sex offenders to another church full of children
usually.” Suzanne’s hands nearly shook with barely restrained anger.

Patrick shrugged and took the fax back from her. An
investigative reporter, Patrick acted as a walking encyclopedia of every scandal
in the tristate area. They’d met two years ago when they were both working for
the same paper.

“Suzanne,” Patrick said in a warning tone, “don’t do this,
please. Let it go.”

Suzanne didn’t answer. Sitting in her swivel chair, she curled
her legs to her chest and reached for the framed photograph that sat on the
corner of her desk. Her older brother Adam smiled at her from inside the frame.
He was twenty-eight in the picture. Now she was twenty-eight and Adam was
gone.

“Suzanne,” Patrick said with quiet solemnity. For a moment she
heard the echo of her father in Patrick’s concerned tone. “This is the Catholic
Church. They are their own country with their own army and that army is mostly
lawyers. I know you hate the Church. I would too if I were you. But you need to
think about this before you dive in blindly.”

“I’m not blind. I know exactly what I’m looking at. An
anonymous tip that says something’s rotten in the state of Wakefield. And I’m
going to find what it is.”

Patrick exhaled heavily. “Okay,” he said. “But you’re going to
let me help. Right?”

Suzanne rolled her eyes and tried not to smile.

“Right. Fine. If you insist.”

“So where do we start?” he asked her.

Suzanne pointed to the one name on the fax that interested
her.

Father Marcus Stearns, Sacred Heart,
Wakefield, Connecticut.

“We start with him.”

Patrick grabbed his laptop out of his messenger bag that he’d
left on her sofa last night.

“Easy enough,” Patrick said, booting up his Mac. “What do you
want to know about him?”

Suzanne stared at the picture of Adam again. Had Adam not died,
he would have turned thirty-four this month.

“Everything.”

* * *

Nora bit back a grin as Michael, for the first time
ever, sat next to her. Poor kid—for a year now she’d been waiting for him to
work up the courage to talk to her. As young and fragile as he was, she didn’t
want to push him. Michael might be the name of God’s archangel and chief
warrior, but the Michael next to her easily qualified as the meekest young man
she’d ever encountered. Out of a mix of affection and plain heathen mischief
Nora gave Michael a quick, viciously hard pinch on the leg as Owen bestowed
another one of his drawings on her—this one a seven-armed amputee octopus. She
declared it worthy of George Condo himself as she carefully folded it and
slipped it in her purse. A good morning so far—she’d been fucked by her favorite
man, hugged by her favorite boy and silently adored by her favorite angel. But
her happiness faded when she noticed a priest she’d never seen before taking his
seat in the front pew. He glanced back at her with a disapproving glare. That
didn’t shock or surprise her. She’d received her fair share of disapproving
glares in her day from the clergy, Søren especially. But then the glare passed
from her to Michael. The mysterious priest looked at Michael with a mix of pity
and disgust. Michael noticed the look and the color drained from his already
pale complexion.

Nora’s heart pounded. Did the priest know something about her?
About how she and Søren had “helped” Michael recover from his suicide
attempt?

Before Nora could descend into a full-blown panic attack, the
bells rang, the processional music began and Søren entered behind the crucifer
and took his place at the altar.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the
fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” Søren said. The visiting priest
remained in his seat. Bad sign. A visiting priest almost always shared Mass
duties. That he simply sat and watched meant something. Something bad.

“And also with you,” Nora recited with the rest of the
congregation. Søren seemed calm and unperturbed as usual. The visiting priest
didn’t bother him at all. Seeing Søren so calm did little to comfort her. Søren
could be calm in the middle of a blitzkrieg.

Nora watched as Søren slid his fingers up the side of his
podium and tapped the corner three times. To anyone else it would have been a
mindless gesture, but Nora knew it was a signal to her. He wanted her to come to
his office after the service instead of heading straight for his bed. Something
was going on. Barring divine intervention, Søren had said. Nora hated divine
intervention.

Nora turned to Michael and she saw her own fear reflected in
his strange silver eyes. She looked up at Søren and whispered one terrified word
to herself.

“Fuck.”

2

Returning Owen to his bemused parents delayed Nora in
the sanctuary a few minutes after Mass. By the time she made it to Søren’s
office, Michael already stood outside the door, leaning against the wall with
his arms crossed.

“He summoned you too?” she asked, sitting across from him on
the bench opposite Søren’s door.

Michael nodded.

“Kind of feels like we’re sitting outside the principal’s
office,” Nora said. “I hear you’re valedictorian this year, so you probably
never had to sit outside the principal’s office, did you?”

Nora waited and still got no reply from Michael. He smiled but
didn’t speak.

“Michael? Pussy got your tongue?”

He laughed…audibly.

“Finally,” Nora breathed, relieved to hear something from him.
“You have any idea why we’re here?”

Michael shrugged. “None. I don’t think it’s good though.”

“Michael, you didn’t talk to anyone, you know, about us, did
you?”

The look Michael gave her abounded with so much hurt that she
realized immediately she’d been an idiot to even consider that Michael would say
a word to anyone about her or Søren.

“Nora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “I don’t even talk
to myself.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Angel. I’m just being paranoid.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t say anything, promise. I never talk.”

Nora stood up and walked over to Michael. She sat beside him
and stared full-on. He started to look away, but she snapped her fingers in
front of his face and pointed right at her eyes. Immediately his silver eyes met
her green ones.

“You talked to me that night,” she breathed into his ear.

His pale face flushing, Michael whispered, “That was just a
dream.”

Nora blew air over his neck under his ear.

“We had the same dream then.”

Michael’s pupils went wide and she knew he was remembering the
night Søren had given him to her—as a gift and a test. She’d enjoyed the gift.
She’d failed the test.

“Are you doing okay?” she asked, taking a step back to give him
some breathing room.

Michael nervously rubbed his arms.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Did Søren give you that book?”

“Yeah. It helped. Thank you,” Michael said. She’d passed on her
old beat-up copy of
The Other Secret Garden
to him,
a classic work on the psychology of sexual submission.

“You’re welcome. Is our priest on the phone?”

Michael nodded.

“What language?”

“French first.” Michael leaned closer to the door. “Now
Danish.”

“Hmm…that’s good news and bad news.”

“How?”

Nora returned to the bench and crossed her legs, a move that
caught Michael’s attention.

“French is bad. French means Kingsley.”

“Who’s Kingsley?”

Nora grinned. Who was Kingsley? Kingsley Edge, the King of Kink
in New York City. Half-French, all pervert. Her occasional lover and Søren’s
best friend. Well, best friend on those occasions Søren wasn’t threatening to
kill him.

“French is bad since Kingsley gets called when anything
disreputable needs doing. But Danish is good. Søren always calls his niece in
Copenhagen on Sundays after Mass so whatever’s going on isn’t so bad it’s
upsetting the routine yet.”

“Father S has a niece?” Michael looked incredulous at the
idea.

Nora grinned at him. Søren did have an aura of having been
sprung full-formed from the head of Zeus about him. One could hardly imagine him
as a little boy or having parents, going to school and doing homework. But she
knew all about his family—the good and the evil.

“Two nieces, one nephew. And—” she held up three fingers
“—three sisters. Two American sisters, one in Denmark.”

Michael looked up at the ceiling.

“Wow.”

“Can you imagine having him—” she pointed at the closed door,
behind which stood one of the more intimidating men alive “—as your brother?
Terrifying, right?”

“I don’t envy the boyfriends.”

They laughed together even though Nora knew Søren hadn’t gotten
a chance to have any of the normal brotherly experiences with his sisters. He
and Freja had grown up in separate countries and Claire was fifteen years
younger than him. And Elizabeth…well, Elizabeth was another story.

“Come here and let me look at you,” Nora said, tearing herself
away from the dark trajectory of her thoughts. “How tall are you now?”

Just thirteen months ago he’d been only a few inches taller
than her.

“Five-ten.” Michael obediently moved to stand closer to
her.

“I knew you weren’t done growing,” she said, remembering how
she’d studied him as he slept that night. “You grew into your hands. Haven’t put
on much weight though.”

He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

“None of that teen angst now, Angel. You’re tall, thin, have
perfect porcelain skin and supermodel cheekbones. And unlike mine, your long
black hair behaves itself. You, young man, are prettier than any guy I’ve ever
seen.”

Nora studied him. Poor kid probably got ostracized at his
school for his looks. He wasn’t at all effeminate, but he had passed pretty boy
miles ago and landed straight in the middle of beautiful. The girls no doubt
envied him for waking up looking lovelier than they could after an hour of
primping, and the boys probably hated him for inspiring homoerotic thoughts in
their fevered teenage brains.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. And I’m always right about these things. Aren’t
you legal yet, jailbait?” she teased.

“Turned seventeen last month,” he said, blushing.

“That’s legal in this state,” she said and winked at him. The
blush deepened and Michael started to say something. But before he could speak,
the door to Søren’s office opened. Without a word, Søren crooked his finger at
both of them before disappearing back inside.

Nora took a deep breath.

“That’s our cue.” Standing up, she held out her hand. Michael
hesitated only a second before slipping his trembling fingers into her
grasp.

Hand in hand they entered Søren’s office. Despite knowing Søren
for almost twenty years, she’d spent relatively little time in his office. Every
member of Sacred Heart knew “Father Stearns’s Rules”—no children under sixteen
were allowed in his office without a parent present, no one was allowed alone in
his office without the door being left open, private conversations were for the
confessional alone, and no one, absolutely no one, was ever allowed at the
rectory. Ever.

Except Nora, of course.

The rules were stringent but necessary in the controversy-wary
Catholic Church. And in all his years at Sacred Heart, Søren hadn’t caused even
the barest whisper of scandal.

Nora and Michael sat in front of Søren’s desk. Glancing around,
Nora noted little had changed in the office since he took over Sacred Heart
nearly twenty years ago. His neat and elegant office was replete with books and
Bibles in nearly two dozen languages. On his huge oak desk sat a framed photo of
his beautiful niece, Laila. Laila must be Michael’s age by now. Nora hadn’t seen
her since their last trip to Denmark. Nora loved their rare excursions out of
the country together—only on another continent could she and Søren walk down the
street holding hands. But he was a priest when she gave herself to him, and he’d
warned her before she made her commitment that theirs would never be a normal
relationship. At eighteen it was nothing to promise him she didn’t care about
the sacrifices she’d have to make. At thirty-four she would still make the same
decision she had back then, but maybe she wouldn’t make it quite that
easily.

Nora turned her eyes to Søren. She still held Michael’s hand
for comfort. But whether he was comforting her or she him, she couldn’t say.

“Eleanor, Michael,” Søren began. “We have a situation.”

“Fuck, I knew it,” Nora swore and didn’t even receive the
slightest scolding from Søren. Now she knew it was bad, very bad, for Søren to
lift the “no swearing on Sundays” edict. “Someone rat us out? I swear to God,
I’ll kill them—”

“Eleanor, calm down. I said we had a situation, not a crisis.
The priest visiting today—”

“The one who gave me and Michael the stink eye?”

“That one,” Søren said with barely concealed amusement. At
least one of them could find this whole nightmare funny. “That was Father Karl
Werner—”

“God, I hate German Catholics,” Nora, born Eleanor Schreiber
and possessing not one but two German Catholic grandparents, said with
venom.

“Father Karl,” Søren continued, pretending not to hear her, “is
rather conservative. If he gave you a dark look, Eleanor, it was only because
your reputation precedes you.”

“And Michael?” she asked. Michael was only seventeen and apart
from scandalously choosing public over Catholic school, he was a model teenager
at Sacred Heart: quiet, hardworking and about to graduate at the top of his
class.

Michael sighed, flipped his palms upward and thrust his wrists
out meaningfully. She didn’t need to see his scars to know that’s what he
meant.

“Yes,” Søren said with sympathy. “Father Karl is not pleased
that we are home to—”

“A walking mortal sin?” Michael completed for Søren. Nora
wrapped her fingers around Michael’s wrist. She slipped her index finger under
his wristband and lightly stroked the raised white scar she knew lurked
underneath. A little over two years ago, when Michael was only fourteen, his
conservative father had found out that Michael had a real and burgeoning
interest in BDSM. Much like her when she was a teenager, Michael often hurt
himself simply for the sexual thrill of it. Unlike her, it was his own
judgmental father, not his empathetic priest, who caught him at it. Michael’s
father had laid such shame and guilt on him that Michael had slit his wrists one
day and nearly died. Some Catholics, especially of the older generation,
considered suicide the most dire of all sins. No doubt Father Karl thought
Michael should attend another church. Preferably one that didn’t still sport
Michael’s bloodstains on the hardwood.

“Father Karl’s opinion of you both has nothing to do with his
visit today,” Søren continued, making it clear in his tone he couldn’t care less
about Father Karl’s opinion on anything. “The reason for his visit today had
only to do with me. As you both may know, Bishop Leo has colon cancer and will
soon retire.”

“And Father Landon is replacing him, right?” Nora asked.

“Father Landon
was
replacing him.
Until three days ago when certain allegations came to the fore.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Nora groaned. “Why priests can’t keep their
holy cocks inside their goddamn pants is beyond me.”

Michael inhaled sharply and Nora grimaced. She looked at Søren
and smiled apologetically. Søren arched his eyebrow at her.

“Present company excepted, of course,” she said.

“Of course.”

Søren stood up and came around the desk. Nora looked up at him
and stared at his face. Everything about him was so aristocratic and aquiline.
Even in Denmark, where pale blond hair and blue eyes were the rule and not the
exception like here in America, Søren still stood out for his height and his
undeniable male beauty.

“With Father Landon’s transfer there remains the question of
who will replace Bishop Leo.” Søren paused. The implication of his words hit
Nora harder than a rattan cane across the thighs.

“Oh, shit. Søren.” Nora covered her mouth with her hand.

“Well put,” he said, nodding.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked. “This is bad, right?”

“Very bad.” Nora turned to Michael. “Our Father Stearns might
be the next bishop of the diocese.”

Michael looked up sharply at Søren.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t disagree. That Father Karl came here in
person means I’m at the very least on the short list of candidates.”

Nora closed her eyes. Bishop…if Søren became the bishop he’d be
the priest to all the priests in the diocese. He’d have to leave the Sacred
Heart rectory where a few hundred trees gave him near-total privacy and move to
a home he’d have to share with other priests. His already busy schedule would
turn hectic and she would rarely if ever get to see him. And that’s if he got
the job. Which he would, unless they found out about her and Søren’s
extracurricular activities.

“Can’t you just tell them no?”

“Not without raising both ire and suspicion. This is supposed
to be a great honor.”

“Honor my ass,” Nora said and saw Michael suppress a laugh. “I
don’t mean that literally,” she said to him and noticed again what a gorgeous
young man he was turning into. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“Eleanor, five minutes of decorum is all I ask,” Søren
said.

“I’m sorry,” she said and meant it. “I’m just a little bit
terrified. What’s the plan?”

She knew Søren. He wouldn’t be freaking her out with something
like this unless he already had a plan.

“Usually the vetting process for a new bishop is one to two
years. With the bishop growing weaker every day, they will attempt to have a new
bishop installed by August at the latest.”

Today was May 16th.

“So what do we do for the next two and a half months?” she
asked.

“You two will do nothing.” Søren eyed her and Michael. “I will
handle this. The diocese will investigate me, of course. This is not a concern.
Even if they do discover something about our personal life, Eleanor, the Church
will do what it always does when faced with imminent scandal.”

“Hush it up,” Nora supplied, and Søren didn’t disagree.
“But?”

“But tomorrow morning an article will appear in the
Times
about Father Landon. The press will likely
descend on the diocese and involve themselves thoroughly in the
investigation.”

“The press, huh? Explains why you were on the phone with
Kingsley already today.”