The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (15 page)

     It was then Wynton noted the truck with all the antennae and fully realized what was happening. Another vehicle, this one with the Channel 2 logo emblazoned on its side, was pulling to the curb behind the first. The news jackals, it seemed, had scented the kill.

     He pulled the door closer to being shut, leaving room between it and the frame for just himself.

     "Wynton, what's going on?"

     He turned to see Paige, wrapped in a tatty housecoat, standing in the hall.

     Linda Gravener seized the opportunity to shoulder her way almost past Wynton, microphone extended. "Mrs. Charles, when did you first realize your son had experienced a prior life?"

     Wynton lowered a shoulder and shoved the reporter back outside like an offensive tackle moving a linebacker.

     The new arrival, a man, attempted to get by. Wynton used a leg to block his path. "What other symptoms is Wynn-Three showing?"

     Finally, Wynton managed to get the door shut and locked. To his right, through the living room windows, he could see the frenzy quickly spreading alongside the house and into the back yard, trampling the short new sprouts of the jonquil bulbs Paige had spent a weekend planting.

     "Paige," Wynton shouted, "the back door, lock it!"

     The rattling of the doorknob said she had done so not a moment too soon.

     The doorbell was pealing angrily when the phone began to ring again. If the People's Right to Know could not physically get into the house, they would do so telephonically.

     By this time a crowd of media and neighbors were visible through the windows at the front of the house.

     Paige looked terrified and Wynn-Three definitely was, clutching his arms around his mother's legs, whimpering. "Wynton, what are we going to do?"

     He was wondering the same thing when the reflection of blue light caught his eye. Two police cruisers were slowly plowing through the mob on the street. A burly black cop made his way to the door while Wynton watched with much the same feeling Custer might have viewed reinforcements.

     This time he was eager to open the door.

     "You Mr. Charles?" the officer demanded.

     Wynton admitted he was.

     "Whatever you doin', you blockin, th' street."

     Wynton nodded. "It's my not my 'doin.' If you could get these people off my property, I'd be obliged."

     The officer turned to take in the scene. By now all four of Atlanta's network TV stations were represented by trucks. There was enough communication gear to cover a moon landing.

     The cop's snort said he was no fan of the press. He produced a police whistle and its shrill noise soon had everyone's attention. "Lissen up! I can't make you leave but I sure can haul in the nex' person who steps on Mr. Charles's property, you heah?" The comparative silence was followed by grumbling. "An' yo freedom o' the press don' include blockin' the street, okay? Ansley Park got permit parkin' an' I don' see no permits on them trucks. They here fifteen minutes from now, the tow trucks'll be here quicker'n you can 'splain to your boss why a million bucks of TV equipment done been impounded."

     The big cop watched with evident satisfaction as disgruntled news crews retreated to the street and began packing gear before he turned to Wynton. "I ain't overly optimistic 'bout them keeping their distance, but one o' them folks so much puts a toe on your property, you got the right to prosecute f' criminal trespass."

     "Is there any way to keep them from telephoning?" Paige asked. "The thing hasn't stopped ringing."

     The officer shook his head. "As a practical matter, I'd suggest you take it off th' hook an' use yo' cell phones. Tomorrow, get an unlisted number. Oh yeah, buy disposable, prepaid cells, too. Take 'em about a day to get the numbers you got now."

     Thirty minutes later, the crowd on the sidewalk had been reduced to three or four reporters and a couple of portable cameras. The lack of excitement had dispersed the neighbors. Wynton dared to get in his car and make a run for the office.

     He was still in the driveway that separated his lot from Lang Reilly's when his neighbor approached the car and signaled for Wynton to roll down the window.

     "Hope you don't mind," Reilly began, "but Gurt called the cops. Figured your line would be jammed."

     "Mind?" Wynton managed a chuckle. "Like I'd mind being hit in the head with a life preserver, I was drowning. Thanks. How'd you know we couldn't use the phone?"

     Reilly backed away from the car. "Newsies feed like sharks: anyone in the area's likely to get bitten. Privacy, sensitivity, private property are just obstacles to getting a story. When it comes to being the first with the news, they'd sell their own mother, not to mention jamming her phone with questions."

     Wynton thought of Marcie. "Or certainly friends who trust them."

     The first reporter at their door, Linda Gravener, now stood at the end of the drive, blocking his access to the street. With the hand not holding the mike, like Reilly, she motioned for him to roll down his window. He stopped and began to inch forward. He would prefer not to run over her but she was blocking his path. As it became clear he had no intent of either stopping or rolling down his window, those pouty, Botox lips curled into a snarl. As the car pushed her aside and he eased into the street, he could see her in the rearview mirror. She held up a hand, this time with a single finger raised.

     By the end of the block, a question popped into his head. How did his next-door neighbors know so much about the manners, or lack thereof, of the Fourth Estate?

The Vatican

Monday Morning

10:04 A.M. Local Time

F
ATHER HEINZ STEINMANN KEPT A PRECISE
schedule. He arose at 5:30
A.M.
each morning, prayed kneeling at the foot of the bed in his small apartment, and then turned on the coffeemaker to let it brew while he showered. He was dressed and at mass in the Jesuit chapel near his office on the west side of the Vatican by 6:15
A.M.
He was behind his desk an hour later, poring through a selection of western European newspapers. That was his job. Father Steinmann monitored the media for signs of trends the Church might want to either discourage or stop altogether. As a young priest he could not have imagined such an atypical role, but he served in whatever capacity His Holiness asked of him. It did not hurt that Steinmann also seemed to have a knack for the work. His office was called The Office of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. Although its name and methods had changed over the years, its purpose had not.

     Until fairly recently it had been known as The Office of the Holy Inquisition.

     He had enjoyed some successes. A parish in the resort area of Spain's Costa del Sol had begun special masses for homosexuals. Father Steinmann's boss at the time, Cardinal Ratzinger, who later became Pope Benedict XVI, called on the local bishop to put a stop to that heretical practice. Another priest, at a church in Florence, had openly advocated birth control for the poor. He was now ministering to the Aborigines in northern Australia.

     Contraception, female clergy, possible reunification with Protestantism, Father Steinmann had faced them all; and, in turn, those deviations from orthodoxy had taken their toll. He kept a supply of nitroglycerin capsules near at hand. The tightness and pain in his chest, the shortness of breath could come at any time. The pills had been prescribed by a doctor outside the Vatican, one who would keep Steinmann's health problems secret. Exposure of a heart condition would likely result in the father being removed from the rigors of his post. There was far too much of God's work remaining to be done and far too few of those who would do it with Father Steinmann's zeal.

     Finished with
Le Figaro
, he picked up the
Süddeutsche Zeitung.
After scanning the headlines, he always enjoyed turning to the brief summaries of unusual stories gleaned from the world press. No reason he could not have some diversion while he worked. But halfway down today's column he stopped, one hand grasping the fourth knot of the rope he wore around his cassock, the extra knot of the Jesuit.

     He read the article a second time and then a third.

     He reached for the telephone and punched in a series of numbers that would connect him with the Vatican switchboard, probably one of the last real, old-fashioned, plug-in types left in the world.

     "I wish to speak with the bishop of the Archdiocese of Atlanta, Georgia."

     "Do you know what time it is in the Eastern United States?" the operator asked.

     He removed the phone to glare at it as though the operator could see his displeasure. "I'm fully aware of the time difference, thank you."

     For good measure, he slammed the receiver down.

     He was rereading the article yet a fourth time when the phone rang.

     "I have the bishop on the line."

     Steinmann cleared his throat and spoke in perfect English. "Good morning. I hate to disturb you at such an hour, but I have a matter of some urgency."

     Mere priests did not normally go about rousting bishops from their slumbers, but those who were attached to this office were not normal priests. They were assumed to speak for the pope himself.

     The sleep was audible in the bishop's voice. "How may I be of service to the Holy Father?"

     "There was an article in your local paper yesterday, some nonsense about a small boy's supposed former life."

     "I read it." A sigh.

     Father Steinmann was touching the knot again. "I wish to know everything possible about the child and his family."

     "I can have someone check birth records, see what other public information might be available. There are some things, credit and financial data, that are not readily available."

     Father Steinmann started to remark that he was not interested in what the bishop was unable to do. The Vatican had more than ample resources to obtain whatever information it sought, but Steinmann had decided to keep the matter on a local level for now.

     Instead, he said, "That will suffice for the moment. There is one more request."

     "Anything I may do for the Holy Father."

     "I want someone keeping watch on this child."

     "Watch? As in spying?"

     "Call it what you will. It is important to be aware of any effort to spread this heresy."

     "And just how long do you want me spying?"

     "Until I have one of our own people in place."

     Steinmann stared at the phone for several seconds after he had returned it to its cradle. Reincarnation, a myth accepted by fools! At least that was the Church's position. Few, even in the Church itself, understood the potential damage the belief could do, where it could lead.

     That was a secret as old as the Church itself.

     Steinmann intended to see it stayed just that way: a secret.

480 Lafayette Drive

The Same Day

Monday Morning

P
AIGE AND WYNTON HAD AGREED TO
preserve as much normalcy as possible despite the media encamped in front of their home. The Atlanta Police had done nothing to follow up on the threat of towing the TV stations' trucks despite repeated complaints from neighbors. Property rights had, however, been observed, the various news personalities kept their vigil from the sidewalk. Had they slept in the trucks? The vehicles must have airline-type bathroom facilities on board. Peering from behind closed curtains, Paige had watched Wynton ease his car out of the drive and through a collection of reporters slightly smaller than yesterday's if no less aggressive. She was not looking forward to facing them when she took Wynn-Three to St. Philip's.

     She had just gotten him into his ski jacket when her cell phone beeped.

     Without looking at the number display, she flipped it open.

     "Hello?"

     A familiar voice. "Paige, it's Marcie."

     "Marcie!"

     The audacity of the woman to call after the problems she had caused struck Paige temporarily dumb, a silence Marcie misattributed to pleasant surprise.

     "I wonder if I can come by and chat with you and Wynn-Three."

     "For what this time, an article in
People
magazine?"

     "Well, I suppose that's possible, but I . . ."

     "Listen, Marcie," Paige growled, "you apparently didn't hear what I said when you brought my child back from that crackpot hypnotist: if I ever see you anywhere near Wynn-Three again . . ."

     This time the silence was on Marcie's end of the line. Then, "Look out of your window, Paige. You and Wynn-Three are famous. Isn't that what you really wanted, a persona of your own rather than just being Wynton's wife? How many housewives would jump at the chance? If we play this right, you can make the national talk shows, maybe even a book . . ."

     Paige took the phone from her ear long enough to stare at it, certain she had not heard correctly, before blurting out, "Are you out of your fucking mind? What you've done is turn our home into some sort of circus sideshow with Wynn-Three as freak-in-chief. Whatever you're getting out of this, money, a promotion, I hope risking ruining a child's life was worth it." She tried to bite her lip, but the last words escaped anyway. "You stupid bitch!"

     She did, however, manage to resist the impulse to throw the phone against the far wall as she hit the "end" key.

     "Momma mad at Marwie?"

     Paige squatted on her heels to hug her bewildered son. "Not so much mad as disappointed."

     "Dis-pointed like when I wet bed?"

     "Something like that."

     "Marwie wet bed?"

     Paige had to smile. "In a manner of speaking."

     The doorbell's ring made Paige frown. Leaving Wynn-Three in the hall, she marched to the door.