“Lower your voice,” Journey said.
“What?” Amelia said.
“You know what we talked about. The angry tone of voice.”
“He doesn’t get aggressive with me, Nick. He never has.”
Journey absorbed the words like a slap. Andrew was calming himself, now dancing circles around his mother. Journey took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking at Amelia. He was struck, as he always was when he saw them together, how much she and Andrew looked alike—the fair skin, the gray-green eyes, the beautiful hands with long, tapering fingers.
“What are you doing in town?” Journey finally asked.
“I’m making a swing through our branches in this area,” Amelia said. “Just came down from Oklahoma City for a breakfast meeting with my management team here, then on to Durant, McAlester, and Poteau. Arkansas after that.”
“On a Saturday? So much for bankers’ hours.”
“No such thing anymore. I was going to call you.”
Journey smiled. “No, you weren’t.”
The hard lines of her face sharpened for an instant, then melted into a soft smile. “I can never fool you, can I? No, I wasn’t. I don’t have time. I’m on a pretty tight schedule and I didn’t want to get Andrew excited.” She glanced across the square. “Still doing the Donut Chef on Saturday mornings, huh?”
Journey shrugged. “It’s routine.”
“So it is.” She looked at him. “What happened to your arm?”
“Nothing.”
The silence drew out for half a minute. “That’s the worst instance yet,” Amelia finally said. “He could have really hurt you.”
“Or himself.” Journey waved toward the street.
“You know, a place opened not long ago in Oklahoma City. It’s a specialty hospital. It’s residential, especially for kids and teens on the autism spectrum. I called and talked to the clinical director and she seems to know what she’s doing.”
How would you know? Journey thought but didn’t say. “When was this?”
“A couple of months ago, before he came for his two weeks with me.”
“You were thinking you might put him in there for those two weeks, is that it? Without consulting me?”
Amelia raised both hands, then let them drop to her sides. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t … I just wanted to ask. They do all the latest therapies, they’re ABA certified. He could get some intense testing, maybe help us … help you … to learn some more things to do with him, to get through some of these behaviors.”
“I’m not rich, Amelia.”
“They take Medicaid, and since he’s Medicaid qualified because of the disability, he could get in that way. And I could help pay for it, too. I’m doing all right.”
Andrew had taken his mother’s hand, holding her index and middle fingers with his entire hand. He rocked back and forth on his heels. Journey said nothing.
“Just give it some thought,” Amelia said.
Journey hesitated, then nodded. “I will.”
“It wouldn’t be forever, you know,” Amelia said. “But maybe they could get a handle on some of these things. A few months might do a lot of good. They’ve toilet-trained kids, some even older than Andrew. They’ve worked with aggression and kids who hurt themselves. They’ve had nonverbal kids who started talking. It couldn’t hurt to look into it.”
Journey reached out his hand toward Andrew, even though he knew what would happen.
Andrew hid behind his mother and stamped his foot.
Journey swallowed hard. “Andrew, it’s time to let your mom go. I’m glad you saw her for a minute, but she has to go, and we need to get home.”
Andrew screamed, and it almost sounded like he said “no.”
“Come on, honey,” Amelia said, and took his hand. She glanced at Journey. “Where are you parked?”
Journey pointed.
“You ever going to trade in that van?” she asked.
“Oh, I figure it has about another hundred thousand miles left in it,” Journey said.
Amelia led Andrew across the square. She had to put him in the van, and it took another couple of minutes before he let go of her hand. She finally slammed the door and began walking away. Andrew hooted after her.
Journey rolled down his window. “Hey,” he called.
Amelia turned.
“What’s the name of the place?”
“It’s called Grace. Grace of Oklahoma. They have a website.”
Journey nodded to her, then started the car and pulled away from the curb.
* * *
Sandra arrived at the house at nine o’clock sharp, carrying a plastic bag filled with puzzles. “I found a bunch of them at a garage sale,” she said, “and thought we might try to do them together this morning.” She breezed into the living room, kissing Journey on the cheek as she went by. Andrew gave her a wary look. “Some of them have fifty pieces or more. You think that’s too advanced for him?”
Journey looked at Andrew, then at Sandra, thinking of how different she was from Amelia. After a moment Sandra said, “Hello?”
“Sorry,” Journey said. “Anything that engages him is good. I bet he’ll like them.”
“We’ll give them a try, then,” Sandra said, and dropped her bag. “Morning, Andrew.”
Andrew looked away and made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“You seem distracted,” Sandra said.
“I am,” Journey said, then leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Journey was in his spot in the fourth-floor carrel of the library, armed with laptop and legal pad. He hoped the French-speaking librarian was working today, and she was.
“I need to find journals or collections of letters from chaplains who would have been attached to French military units in Mexico during the French occupation in the 1860s,” he said.
The librarian started laughing. “Could you be a little more specific, Dr. Journey?”
“What?”
The librarian, who looked young enough to be a grad student, put a hand on his arm. “I’m kidding. That’s way more specific than you need to be. In fact, I don’t know that I have anything indexed that way. This is a little outside your usual field, isn’t it? I mean, aren’t you the Civil War guy?”
“Trust me, it all comes together in the end,” Journey said. “Or at least I hope it does.”
The librarian shrugged. “This kind of stuff is usually Dr. Lashley’s business.”
“He and I may wind up working on it together.”
“Oh sure, you made that pretty clear in here last night.”
“You heard that?”
“Oh yes. About time someone told him off, too. He’s an asshole. Pardon my French.” She smiled. “That’s a joke, too.”
She brought him several books, a few ragged journals, and pointed him to a number of online sources as well. Journey read multiple accounts of the French occupation of Mexico, including the Battle of Puebla on May 5, 1862—a Mexican victory against the occupying French, leading to the modern Mexican celebration of Cinco de Mayo. He read a journal by Maximilian’s personal confessor. Lots of piety, a bit of corruption, politics, sex—all good, but nothing about expeditions across the Rio Grande.
Journey opened the poorly written Leveque book again, pestering the librarian to translate the chapters before and after the one he’d already highlighted. There was nothing.
“A greater treasure than may be believed,” Leveque had written.
And yet no one else wrote anything about this great treasure? Journey wondered.
“There has to be something,” he said, going back to the librarian’s desk after he’d been at it over an hour.
“If you’re specifically looking for writings by priests, you might try theology instead of history,” the librarian said. “I mean, a lot of theological writings turn up in history journals and texts, but the opposite is true, too: lots of history in the theological journa
ls. I know a good one, and it’s really interesting. We carry it because Dr. Stern in Humanities has contributed to it a few times. It’s called Cross Currents. But I know it has an online index.”
“Is it French?” Journey asked.
“Scottish, actually, published in Glasgow. But it has contributors from all over the world. It’s small but pretty interesting.”
Journey found the website for Cross Currents: A Multidisciplinary Journal of Theological Studies and worked his way to the index. It had been published in Glasgow since 1983, and the name was no lie: history, politics, sociology, psychology, literature, even the “harder” sciences, all viewed through a theological lens.
He entered “Napoleon III” and the index showed thirty-six entries.
He cross-indexed “Napoleon III” and “Mexico.” Four hits. The first three were dry as dust, with no relevance. The fourth article was published six years ago, and its author was Reverend Claude Michel. It was an examination of the life and work of Reverend Henri Fournier, who had served as priest of St. Pierre’s Church in Montluçon in central France from 1872 to 1901. A journal belonging to Fournier had recently been discovered and Michel—the current priest at St. Pierre’s—believed it offered a “breathtaking” glimpse into the life of the nineteenth-century clergy.
Fournier’s journal began when he volunteered to serve Emperor Napoleon III’s army in Mexico as a chaplain in 1862. Journey read the translated words:
We face many hardships. The country is dry and the heat is oppressive. The peasants here are not happy to see our soldiers, but the gentry are quite welcoming. I have served the Lord’s Supper to many here, and was even asked to baptize an infant in one village where there is no church. I was happy to oblige. I serve Christ first, the Emperor second, and finally, my comrades. Captain Prideux says we will soon undertake a new mission, with only a small force. Several men I do not know are joining us for this mission—some of them are not soldiers. Two are Mexican natives. They do not speak French, but Prideux speaks fluent Spanish, and I know a smattering of words. Prideux will not tell me what the mission is, or why we have taken on these new men, but he expects that we will be away for many months.
The entry was dated November 1, 1862.
Journey read on. A company of fifteen men, including the priest, left Sonora on December 3. They spent time in several villages along the way. Fournier met many Mexicans who wanted to make confessions to him, as they rarely saw priests along the frontier.
On Christmas Day, the French contingent camped alongside the Rio Grande. Then:
December 26, 1862
Today we will cross the great river. We are leaving Mexico to enter Texas. Texas! By Christ, I did not know that we would be crossing into the land where war rages. The Americans fight each other, and Texas is part of the faction that has withdrawn from the Union. Why are we to enter Texas?
February 22, 1863
I have not set pen to paper these many weeks. The wind here will be our destruction. God shows no mercy to His servants in this country. Every few days we camp and small parties of men go in different directions. The horses are dry, the nights cold and long, the days filled with wind and dust. We have encountered small parties of Indians. Captain Prideux has shot two of them.
April 2, 1863
We make our way north through this empty country. There are a few small settlements scattered about, and when I ask the inhabitants about the war, they say, “What war? This is Texas, not Virginia.”
April 9, 1863
We have lost a man, a foot soldier, a rifleman. His name was Marc-Andre Bernard, and he was out with one of the scouting parties today, where he fell down a ravine, breaking his neck. He is from Bayonne, and I must write to his family and tell them their beloved son lies in the desert of Texas. I do not know why we have come to this place and Prideux will not say.
April 10, 1863
Prideux says I must not tell Bernard’s family that he died in Texas. No one in France is to know we are in Texas. I am to say he died in Sonora. I do not know if I can tell them this lie. Prideux is angry with me. He threatens to leave me for the Indians and the wolves if I do not do as he says.
May 23, 1863
This country is rugged, more so than Mexico. Still, we press on, searching, searching! This is madness! I have prayed to know God’s mission in this wilderness. The men occasionally act excited, as if they have discovered something of great importance, but I am privy to nothing.
May 31, 1863
One of the men, who had gone with a scouting party to the east today, returned and gave something to Prideux. I could not see it, as they were on the other side of the wagon and horses and there were men between us. They were all excited, more so than usual. I ventured to ask Prideux the source of this excitement and he said, “Tend to your rosary, priest, and leave the rest to me. Tomorrow we start for Mexico.”
Later that night, I encountered two of the men from the party and asked them what had happened. I bribed them with whiskey from the last settlement we passed. “You should be grateful, Father,” said the one. “We have seen the Silver Cross.” Then he laughed as if he had made a joke.
Journey was sweating. A contingent of French troops was in Texas for several months in 1862–63, and there found something called the Silver Cross.
“Texas,” Journey whispered.
June 1, 1863
We turned back today, as Prideux had said. We are returning to Mexico. At dinner all the men were drunk on whiskey and a bottle of wine Prideux had brought from Sonora. In their drunkenness, they fell asleep around the wagon. I made my way stealthily to Prideux’s horse, a fine gray with a calm temperament. I spoke softly to the animal and gave him a cube of sugar from the cook’s supply. I opened Prideux’s saddlebag, as this is where I saw the man give Prideux the mysterious item. But there was nothing there, only maps and other papers. I looked at them quickly, but it was dark and the fire was dying. There was nothing. The Silver Cross?
What is this Silver Cross? Is it a crucifix of our Lord’s Passion? If so, it should rightly be in my possession. I searched all of Prideux’s things, until I heard men stirring and ceased my efforts lest I be found out.
But there is nothing. For what have we come?
Michel’s narrative spent a few paragraphs in conjecture about what the Silver Cross could be, while praising Fournier’s rare glimpse inside a French military unit in the western hemisphere. Michel then skipped to Fournier’s time in Veracruz and Mexico City, his return trip to France, and his time in Paris before settling as priest of St. Pierre’s in Montluçon.
“Texas,” Journey said.
But if French soldiers had already found the Silver Cross and removed it from Texas, why would Napoleon need to make a bargain with Jefferson Davis?
Questions inside of questions, Journey thought.
He looked at his watch. Three hours had passed. He called Sandra quickly.
“Any luck?” she said.
“Yes,” Journey said. “I found some things, but they raise more questions. Look, I’m sorry about the time—”
“It’s okay,” Sandra said. “We’ve had a great time with the puzzles and going for a walk by the lake.”
“I’ll be home soon.”
As he hung up with Sandra, his phone vibrated. Meg Tolman.
“Do you know the city of Norman?” Tolman asked without preamble.
“What? Norman, Oklahoma?”
“Yes, Norman, Oklahoma! What other Norman would I be asking you about?”
“I know it a little. I used to know someone who taught at OU. Why?”
“We’re going there.”
“We?”
“I’m about to get on a plane for Oklahoma City. I’ll be getting in around four o’clock. Pick me up, then we’re going to Norman.”
“Why?”
“To visit Jim Cable’s ex-wife, and hopefully to get inside his house. Anything happening on your end?”
“Oh, yes,” Journey said
. “But Meg … it’s Saturday.”
“I know what day it is, Nick. What’s your point?”
“Andrew. During the week he’s in day camp.”
“So?”
“I would have to bring him along, and I—” Journey walked out of the library and into the sun. He stopped, looking out at the college common, thinking of the bullet hole in Tolman’s bag.
“Oh, hell,” Tolman said. “Now I see where you’re going. Someone took a shot at me.” She waited a moment. “You know, it would be much more convenient for me at times if you weren’t so damn conscientious.”
Journey started toward the parking lot. “But you understand.”
“Yeah, I understand. And you couldn’t ask—”
“Sandra’s already watched Andrew this morning while I was doing this research for you. I don’t want to ask too much of her.”
“And his mother?”
“His mother’s unavailable,” Journey said, thinking of Amelia and the tour of all “her” banks.
“Look, Nick … I need you on this. I like to bounce ideas off you, even the nonhistorical parts. Don’t you do anything for self-protection?”
“In Carpenter Center? No, but I do have a baseball bat.”
“Put it in your van. I’ll have my SIG, and this time it’s not getting out of my reach. As federal law enforcement, I even get to carry it onto the plane. All I have to do is identify myself to the air marshals.”
Journey reached the van and leaned against it, feeling the hot metal against his back. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to Andrew either. And I’m a pretty good shot when I have to be. I need you, Nick.”
“All right, we’ll pick you up. I’ll keep Andrew nearby while we’re talking to the ex-wife.”
“Don’t forget the bat.”
“I won’t.”
“Something’s happening. Both Jim and Dana thought so. They were right.”
Journey thought of the young priest Fournier in the wilderness of Texas. “Yes, they were,” he said.
CHAPTER
19
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