Nora came toward him and Michael froze. They never talked to each other—not in words anyway, not since that one night together. But as usual he gave her a little wave. Instead of waving back, Nora reached out and took his hand in hers for the whisper of a second. She squeezed his fingers and let him go, walking off as if nothing at all had passed between them.
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 C
ondo 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 land
ed 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.
The Angel (The Original Sinners) Page 2
