“Kathleen Beavier is not of God! You must destroy her. You must destroy the child. You must do it.”
Suddenly I wasn’t sure if he was the same man we’d seen in France. My vision blurred and spun. Everything was happening so quickly. I forced myself to my feet against the urging and advice of Italian policemen.
“Kathleen!” I shouted as I saw her being taken into the hospital. She called out my name and waited for me. Then the two of us hurried inside the heavy doors. We hugged each other tightly.
“I thought you were dead. Shot,” she sobbed. “Oh, Anne, I was so afraid for you.”
“I’m fine, I’m just fine,” I murmured as we held on tight. I kept thinking that this was a good girl. The Devil couldn’t be inside this young woman. Not inside Kathleen. Colleen Galaher had to be the one.
And yet, she had seemed such a good girl too.
Book Three
NATIVITY
Chapter 90
COLLEEN FELT SURPRISINGLY GOOD, considering how close she was to term. I’m going to be a real mother soon! A wee tiny baby is going to come out of me, she thought. It was still astonishing to her. It brought hope and joy that kept her going most days and then through the long nights at the cottage.
Colleen was making herb tea for herself, her mother, and Sister Katherine. She cut into a dark loaf of soda bread marked with the traditional cross.
The simple act of tea-making kept her mind off all the things that were happening now, things that didn’t make any sense to her, things that possibly never would.
How will I take care of my mother and the little one? Will I be able to go back to school? “I’m only fourteen years old,” the young girl finally whispered. Her small, freckled hands trembled so hard the lid rattled on the teapot. “Somebody please help me. I’m a good girl.”
Colleen brought the tea and steaming bread out into the tiny living room. Where was Sister Katherine? She had been sitting there only moments before.
Colleen called out inside the house. No answer. Her mother had fallen asleep again. She wouldn’t wake for hours. Colleen unlatched the front door and went outside.
Sister Katherine was nowhere to be found.
But a dark shape was making its way up the path. Colleen could see that it was a priest. Oh, God, it was Father Flannery from town. How dare he come?
Colleen crouched behind a clump of gorse, its wiry branches forming a thick barricade. Had he seen her? She thought not.
She couldn’t bear to be anywhere around him. There was something wrong with the parish priest. There had to be. Why else would he have touched and kissed her inside the rectory?
Colleen pushed herself to walk as quickly as she could the twenty or so paces to the barn. She pressed her weight against the sliding door.
Panting heavily, she slipped inside. Suddenly, she felt tired and breathless. And so, so afraid.
She heard the pathetic priest calling to her: “Colleen, I’ve come to bless you, child.”
“God help me, you won’t,” she whispered.
Colleen cast her eyes around in the gloom of the barn. The straw on the floor seemed to eddy around her feet, and a warm draft brushed her cheek. Gray Lady whickered a greeting. She felt protected by something unseen, something or someone who loved her.
There was a stall at the very back of the barn. It was dark and pungent with the scent of lanolin, occupied now by an old ewe that was kept for wool.
“Hush, Bridey,” Colleen spoke to the sheep, pushing her aside. Then Colleen squirreled herself into the farthest corner and covered herself with hay. The smell of it was thick in her nostrils and she nearly sneezed.
Outside, Father Flannery’s voice became a wheedle, a whine. “Colleeeen. Come to me, now. I am your priest.”
Then his voice sharpened with anger. “Come out, Colleen. I’m here on God’s business.”
No, I don’t believe it. God doesn’t fondle and kiss young girls. God isn’t a pig!
Colleen shut her eyes as tight as she could. Eventually, the only sounds she heard were those of the animals, stamping and chewing in the barn. It was fragrant and peaceful here. A stream of sunshine came through the hayloft, a long bright shaft of light.
It dawned on her, then. It was so fitting; it was perfect. This was where she would give birth to the child.
As it had been in Bethlehem, God had led her to a manger.
Chapter 91
NICHOLAS ROSETTI HAD ARRIVED in Maam Cross, and still the dreaded, damnable Voice was constantly with him, trying to distract him from the end of his mission, trying to drive him insane. He was here ahead of Justin O’Carroll, who’d gone to meet with a doctor who had examined Colleen in Dublin.
No one has the right to ask this of you. You will damn yourself to an eternity in Hell, the Voice said into his ear. Eternity is a long, long time, Nicholas. You have no idea, but I do!
Father Rosetti struggled into the small hotel room. He noisily dropped his bag onto the sticky, thinly carpeted floor. He didn’t bother to switch on the overhead lights.
Yes, get used to the dark. You see, there are dark fires in Hell. You didn’t know that, did you? But I do.
He walked over to a water-streaked window and stood there, observing the cool, silent Irish village. He had to be close to the truth about the two virgins. And yet he feared that he was committing the sin of pride to believe so.
His night sweats were with him during the day now. His big heart seemed to seize up without warning and dance erratic cadences in his chest. But his mind was still sharp. The Beast had made use of artifice, illusion, imitation, disruption, misdirection. Nicholas Rosetti could see through it; at least he thought he could.
He was still alive, wasn’t he? He hadn’t been condemned to Hell yet.
Soon, Nick, the Voice taunted. You’re so very close to the eternal gates of doom. Be careful where you step. Careful, Nick. It’s a long, long drop.
In his briefcase were the documents revealing what he knew. Before he left to see Colleen Galaher, the papers would go into the hotel safe.
No place is safe from me, Nick. Don’t you know that yet?
A rapping sound shattered his troubled reverie. A knock at the door. It should be Justin, thank God.
But it wasn’t Justin O’Carroll standing in the hallway. There stood a gaunt man, not much more than five and a half feet in height, wearing a suit of good-quality tweed. He seemed in his mid-forties and had a professional air about him.
“I’m Dennis Murphy. Deirdre downstairs said you had arrived,” said the man at the door. “Dr. Dennis Murphy,” he added. “Fourteen years ago I brought little Colleen Galaher into the world. I’ve been thinking you should see this.” He spoke in a heavy brogue.
Rosetti stood mute in the doorway as Dr. Murphy shoved forward an aged manila envelope. It was marked in the upper-right-hand corner with a name, written in pencil, in the careful script born of a Catholic-school education.
Rosetti took the envelope and read the name written on it. Colleen Galaher.
Then he ripped open the envelope and read what was inside.
A great ringing sounded in his ears and there was a suffocating constriction in his chest. His whole world narrowed. His skin became as cold as ice. This was what he needed to know, wasn’t it? This was the sign he’d been searching for. This had to be the sign.
He looked up, but Dr. Murphy was no longer there. Rosetti ran out into the hall, but there was no one there either. He phoned downstairs, and there was a Deirdre at the front desk.
“Father, I don’t understand,” she said. “Dennis Murphy died at least ten years ago. Dr. Murphy is dead.”
Rosetti hung up the phone and heard a roar of laughter in his ears.
So where is your precious sign, Nicholas? How will you know the truth? The answer is so simple — you won’t.
Chapter 92
THAT NIGHT, ARMED GUARDS stood outside Kathleen’s door. They watched the hallway, but I scrutinized everyone who came into the
room.
There were so many strange new faces at the hospital, and every stranger was a possible threat to the baby.
There were supposedly legions of devils, so why couldn’t they simply overtake us? What was holding the Evil One at bay? There had to be a reason I didn’t understand.
I sat on a hard-backed chair beside Kathleen’s bed and we watched the news. The assassination attempt led off the newscast. A grim-faced reporter said that Kathleen Beavier had entered Salvatore Mundi Hospital, an exclusive private hospital where cardinals and even the pope went for the best medical care in Italy. A team of Italian and American doctors would be assisting the birth, which could come at any moment.
The first official report out of Salvatore Mundi came from the Italian chief surgeon himself. We watched the announcement on CNN.
Dr. Leonardo Annunziata was an elegant, dark-haired man in his early forties. He carried authority easily in his meeting with reporters in a pristine-white conference room.
“Ms. Kathleen Beavier is in excellent condition.” The doctor spoke English in a gracious tone. “The birth of the child can be anticipated in the next twelve to twenty-four hours. We are expecting no complications whatsoever.”
Kathleen and I looked at each other — and we began to laugh for the first time in days.
“Dr. Annunziata could be in for a surprise,” she said.
The news was all bad that night on CNN. The natural disasters around the globe continued and actually seemed to be getting worse.
Kathleen and I held hands as we watched. There was no way to connect the plagues and sickness and famines to events occurring in Rome and Maam Cross, Ireland, but all my instincts told me there had to be a link, and that we would soon know what it was.
“Maybe the world is going to end,” Kathleen mused. “Or maybe my baby can stop it.”
Or Colleen’s baby, I couldn’t help thinking.
Chapter 93
EACH HOUR SEEMED TO take our paranoia to a new and previously unimaginable height. I was feeling time as both too fast and too slow. The excruciating wait was almost over — but I was still unprepared for the unknown.
Kathleen had at last nodded off and I needed to take a break, to clear my head if I could. I could hardly be her Rock of Gibraltar when I was feeling so unsure and wobbly myself.
Take a little walk, I heard. You deserve it.
Had I said that? I must have.
I told the guard outside the door what I was doing. Then I walked down the deserted marble-and-stone hallway, which reeked of disinfectant. Standing within a neat line of religious statues, a young Italian policeman with a rifle watched me approach.
“Signorina,” he said. He tipped his visored hat, knowing that I was the virgin’s companion. “Is she all right? The young girl, Kathleena?”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” I reassured him. “She’s sleeping right now.”
My shoes squeaked on the spotless floor as I walked, echoing loudly in the early-morning silence. I wondered what Justin and Rosetti were doing. They would probably be at Colleen Galaher’s cottage by now.
I thought of Colleen often, and with fondness. She was younger than Kathleen and, if anything, even more innocent. I remembered her nearly transparent white skin and the pink aura that seemed to emanate from her.
Both girls seemed so perfect for the role one was destined to play. Which girl was the actor, then? Which one might be a liar?
Turning another dark stone corner, I found that I’d reached the far end of the hospital building. I’d gone too far.
Struck with sudden anxiety, I turned and practically ran back to the room where Kathleen was sleeping. Was she safe? How could I have gone so far? What was I thinking?
I burst into the small room. Kathleen was sleeping peacefully. Breathless, I stared down at her, then watched her sleep gently for a good long time.
I had read a couple of books on the subject of childbirth recently. Inside Kathleen, I thought, was an infant hanging upside down in her womb, like a circus acrobat. The baby was lightly holding the umbilical cord with one hand.
The head was wedged against her cervix. The limbs, fingers, toes, nails, eyebrows, and eyelashes were all fully developed. The heartbeat was steady and fine. The senses of sight, hearing, and touch were undeveloped but ready to blossom quickly once exposed to stimuli.
The baby was probably around twenty inches long, a little over seven pounds — quite average in that way. In each tiny brain cell there was all the love and goodness, the capacity for both happiness and sadness, the genius, the wit, the love of beauty, and the will for survival within the human race.
In all of those ways, this was a child like any other.
I prayed that Kathleen’s baby had drawn the lucky straw, because I doubted with my whole heart that even if it emerged with horns and a tail I’d be strong enough to take away its precious breath.
How could I kill an infant? Any infant? How could anyone do such a thing? But especially, how could a woman?
I sat in my chair, tipped it slightly back. I gazed out through the window in Kathleen’s room and watched a burnt-orange and crimson sun rising up above the Trastèvere.
It was a beautiful sunrise.
It was surely a sign.
Chapter 94
I MUST HAVE DOZED in my chair near her bed. Kathleen groaned loudly in pain, waking me instantly.
“It’s time, Anne,” she whispered urgently.
It was after five in the morning. We were alone together in suite 401 of Salvatore Mundi International Hospital, both of us terrified and pretending to each other that we believed all the assurances that we had nothing to worry about.
The hospital building was four stories high, plain straw-colored brick and large churchlike windows. It was enclosed by a high brick wall and shaded by tall umbrella pines.
I’d heard that outside that wall eighty thousand people had gathered. Hundreds of thousands more were said to be collecting in St. Peter’s Square.
I couldn’t help wondering what was happening in tiny Maam Cross, Ireland.
Beside me, in the soothing, pale blue hospital suite, Kathleen grabbed her belly. She let out a sound that was a cross between a shriek and a moan. Then she relaxed again.
“Don’t push, Kathy,” I said. “Don’t push yet.” In a way, I almost felt as if I were giving birth myself. “That’s it, breathe . . . and now, rest.”
“God, this hurts so much,” Kathleen grunted. Her long blond hair was wet and stringy. Her face was already flushed from exertion. We both knew she wasn’t ready to give birth yet. But she was getting closer.
As I placed a damp cloth on her brow I noticed that Kathleen was looking past me. I followed her gaze and saw that we were no longer alone. It scared the hell out of me.
A man was standing in the stone archway leading into the hospital room. A solemn elderly man whom I recognized immediately.
Pope Benedict XVI himself had come to see Kathleen.
The slanting rays of morning sunlight streaming through the window engulfed his narrow shoulders, making him seem as if he were an icon of pure gold. Not like a man at all.
We all stared at one another. Finally, he spoke. “Have you anything to say, Kathleen? Anything to confess?” the pope asked Kathleen in a forceful voice. “I’m here to help you.”
Kathleen paled.
Then she was struck as if by a fierce seizure. Her eyes rolled back. Her nostrils flared. She opened her mouth wider than I would have thought possible. She began to scream and scream. I had never been more surprised or more frightened at any time in my life. Suddenly, I had the feeling that I didn’t know Kathleen at all.
When I looked back to the doorway, I saw that Pope Benedict was walking away. He never looked back.
Chapter 95
A YOUNG AND HANDSOME dark-haired priest stood lookout on the grand stone terrazzo of the Apostolic Palace. More than four hundred thousand people were spread out before him, completely blanketing the maje
stic piazza of St. Peter’s Square, stretching as far as his eyes could see.
He spoke into a hand-held microphone. His rich baritone voice boomed out over the great sea of heads in St. Peter’s Square. This was why he had entered the priesthood — this glorious power, this majesty.
The crowd in Rome answered his prayer in a thunderous roar.
In Mexico City, nearly three-quarters of a million of the faithful attended an equally emotional Mass in and around the Basilica of Guadalupe, the site where the Blessed Virgin had appeared to a local Indian in the sixteenth century.
All through Spain and Holland, throughout France and Belgium, in Poland, in Germany, Ireland, and England, the great old cathedrals were beginning to fill to capacity once again. The people of Europe wanted something to believe in. Now they had it.
At sunup, long lines flowed into the churches in Amsterdam, Munich, Paris, Brussels, Frankfurt, London, Madrid, Hamburg, Warsaw, and Berlin. The strains of “Ave Maria” swelled majestically into the fall air.
In the United States, a television satellite provided instant participation from New York across the Midwest to California. Every person who was able to do so tuned in to news of the birth on television.
In Los Angeles, an emotional gathering was held in Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hollywood Bowl amphitheater. Sprawling out over fifty acres, the amphitheater accommodated more than seventy thousand people. Another fifty thousand crowded outside. Natural acoustics were supplied by the surrounding hills, making microphones unnecessary for the celebrity and religious hosts.
The service that morning was for an immense gathering of families and friends of those stricken with polio. Together they recited the rosary; they prayed for a great miracle. They prayed to the Virgin to mercifully cure their loved ones.
At St. Peter’s Basilica, the young priest’s voice continued to echo out in the colonnades and towering, ancient columns. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
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