by Glenn Cooper
Admittedly, the situation was getting out of hand. Teenage girls who vaguely resembled the photos of one of the Marys circulating on the Internet were being accosted on the streets and asked if they were them.
Maria Aquino spotted in Malaysia.
I just saw Mary Riordan in Cleveland.
Maria Mollo is definitely in El Salvador. Check out this photo.
One man who grabbed at the sleeve of a girl he thought was Maria Mollo had been stabbed by the girl’s father in Honduras.
Cal thought he’d seen every conceivable conspiracy theory but was marveling at one he hadn’t read – that followers of the anti-Christ had seized the girls to prevent a resurgence of Christianity – when his doorbell rang.
The caller at the door was from a courier service and asked him to sign for a legal-sized envelope pouch.
‘You guys deliver on Sundays?’ Cal asked.
‘Looks like we do,’ the guy said flippantly.
Cal took the pouch back to the kitchen. There was no sender label. He cut the plastic open with scissors and removed a large envelope with only his name printed on it. Inside were several stapled sheets and a typed memo.
Professor Donovan, please review and pass the enclosed expert report to your contacts in Rome. The pope may want to stick his neck in the sand but we will not. We demand that he commission the Congregation for the Causes of Saints to formally fast-track and investigate the miracle of the virgins and declare these girls living saints. If he fails to take this action with immediate effect we will rebuke the Vatican publicly, declare it irrelevant in this matter, and arrange for independent examiners to investigate the girls and share the findings at a time of our choosing.
The memo was unsigned.
Cal paged through the report to the end, slack-jawed.
‘Holy shit,’ he mumbled.
He quickly placed a call.
‘You better not be calling to cancel,’ Jessica said.
‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Cal said. ‘Perfect weather. I’m leaving in a minute but just wanted to check – is what’s-his-name, your medical director, coming with?’
‘Larry? Yeah, why?’
‘I may have something to talk to him about.’
You couldn’t ask for a better day to sail Boston Harbor. It was late-summer warm with an intensely blue sky and moderate prevailing breezes. Jessica kept her forty-five-foot Hunter at the Charlestown Marina. She’d learned her seamanship as a girl summering on Buzzard’s Bay and before becoming a scientist she’d harbored ambitions to crew on a World Cup team.
When Cal arrived the sailing party was already on board, tucking into mimosas and smoked salmon. Jessica gave him a squeeze and whispered that he would have been shark-bait if he’d been a no-show.
She asked him about the leather folio under his arm. ‘You didn’t bring work, did you?’
‘Me? Would I do that?’
Shoving off, Cal settled into a flute of champagne on one of the padded benches in the cockpit while Jessica took the wheel, pleasantly barking orders. Four of the eight people on board were experienced sailors so Cal had no responsibilities other than drinking and being witty and charming – another of Jessica’s explicit orders.
The Boston skyline began to recede as Jessica filled the sails and let the boat run fast toward the harbor islands. Cal made small talk with the passengers, a collection of professional types from Jessica’s business and financial life. Cal was the trophy boyfriend. Everyone knew it and some, especially the women, seemed to know all about him.
‘I was hoping to meet you,’ said a heavily tanned woman in a bikini.
‘Were you?’ Cal asked.
‘I’m Jessica’s corporate lawyer. When we’re not talking about deals we’re talking about you.’
‘I see,’ Cal said, clinking her glass. ‘Good things, I hope.’
‘You wish,’ the lawyer said, smiling broadly. ‘You were a shit for backing out of Iceland. A good-looking one, but a shit nonetheless.’
‘I’ll take that as half a compliment.’
Approaching Georges Island and the geometrical, gray walls of Fort Warren, Cal saw an opening to sidle up to Larry Engel, at the bow.
Engel was on the heavy side. Cal had seen him maneuvering awkwardly along the railing to find his perch.
‘I’m not much of a sailor,’ Cal said. ‘You?’
‘Hardly,’ Engel said. ‘Actually, I can’t believe I haven’t barfed yet.’
‘I understand you’re at Jessica’s company.’
‘I am. I’m in charge of medical research.’
Engel countered that he understood Cal was Jessica’s significant other.
‘I am,’ Cal said cheerfully. ‘Tough job but someone’s got to do it.’
‘She’s a demanding boss,’ Engel volunteered. ‘This cruise wasn’t all that optional, truth be told. I was hoping to go into the lab today.’
Cal asked him about his background but he already knew it. He’d looked him up before leaving the house. MD, PhD, associate professor of surgical oncology at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston before Jessica recruited him for her biotech company.
Cal went for it. ‘Actually, Larry, I was kind of hoping I could get you to look at something. It’s an interesting medical case – well, three cases really.’
‘I thought you were a historian.’
‘History of religion, yeah. This involves something that borders on science and religion. Have you heard about the three missing Marys?’
‘Who hasn’t? You involved in that?’
‘I’m doing some consulting for the Vatican. I’ve got a medical report on the girls. I’d love to hear what you think.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He grabbed at his stomach for show. ‘Beats looking at the front of the boat go up and down, up and down.’
Cal asked him to keep the information confidential and passed him the report, reading it again over his shoulder. Both of them were so absorbed that they failed to notice that Jessica had handed the wheel over to a banker friend and had come forward.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ she said, startling them. ‘You guys looking at porn?’
The page Larry was reviewing contained three close-up photos of female genitalia.
Cal began to explain but Jessica scolded him mercilessly for, in fact, bringing work along.
‘At least I didn’t cancel on you,’ Cal said hopefully.
‘This is really interesting,’ Engel declared. ‘I mean really interesting.’
‘Those snatches belong to the alleged virgins?’ she asked, settling down.
‘You bet,’ Engel said. ‘This is a full work-up done by a doctor named Richard Benedict. He’s not just any Joe. He’s the president of the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology.’
‘So, he’s the snatch-whisperer?’ she said.
‘Jesus, Jessica,’ Engel said.
‘And where, pray tell, did he examine their privates?’ she asked.
‘His report doesn’t say,’ Cal said, ‘but it’s a confirmation that they’re all safe and together. I’m going to call him to see if he’ll spill the beans.’
‘So, what’s the verdict, Larry?’
‘Well, they’re virgins, all right. There’s no question in Benedict’s opinion or in mine, although his opinion counts for more. And they’re all early third trimester. He did the ultrasounds himself. All males. He also says that it would have been impossible to get an embryo-transfer catheter through the cervix and into the uterus without tearing their hymens.’
‘Well, Cal, that should make you happy as a clam,’ she said. ‘Miracles abound. Now, boys, make me happy. Put away the work and open a new bottle of bubbly.’
Cal waited until after lunch for a time when Jessica was engrossed in her skippering. She had sailed over to Quincy Bay where a similar-sized yacht had challenged her to a friendly race back to Boston and her competitive juices were flowing. Protecting his phone as best he could from the salty spray, Cal took to the bow and ca
lled the mobile phone number listed in the report.
‘Hello, is this Dr Benedict?’
The answer was gruff. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Professor Calvin Donovan from Harvard. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday but someone gave me a copy of your report on the three Marys this morning.’
‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘You’re at the medical school?’
‘Divinity School.’ There was silence on the line. Cal explained that he was a consultant to the Vatican on religious aspects of the situation and that an unknown party had asked him to pass along his report to Rome.
‘I wouldn’t know about any of that,’ Benedict said. ‘I was hired to examine the subjects, I wrote a report, end of story. Look, I’m at my club about to tee off.’
‘Could I ask you where you saw the girls?’
‘You could ask. I won’t say. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.’
‘Was it in the United States?’
‘Goodbye, Professor Donovan. I’m hanging up now.’
Cal was surprised by the lateness of the call.
It was Sunday evening in Cambridge; early Monday in Rome.
Elisabetta acknowledged that it could have waited but she volunteered that she couldn’t sleep and besides, she could fully brief the pontiff before morning Mass. When Cal returned from his harbor sail he scanned and emailed Benedict’s report to her.
‘I sent it all of ten minutes ago,’ Cal said. ‘You’re a fast reader.’
‘I’ll read it again more carefully but I understand its conclusions. You said in your cover message that you spoke with another doctor already?’
‘He’s not a gynecologist but he’s a pretty smart surgeon. He told me the evaluation was well done and that the conclusions were supported by the facts.’
‘This Dr Benedict – he’s credible?’
‘Gold-plated, apparently.’
‘And he refused to say where he saw the girls?’
‘Hung up on me when I asked.’
‘You know this request, or perhaps demand, from this unknown person or persons that the matter be taken up by the Congregation for the Causes of Saints – you know that this is impossible under Canon Law.’
‘I understand,’ Cal said, trying to uncork an ice-cold bottle of vodka one-handed. ‘An inquiry is possible only upon the death of the subject.’
‘Do you think this person wouldn’t know this? Does this imply we are not dealing with a Catholic?’
‘I’ve got no idea. Anyone can Google the canonization procedure.’
‘Why do you think they contacted you rather than the Vatican?’
‘I suppose they saw my interview and figured I’d be a good conduit.’
‘The Holy Father will surely ask me what you recommend that we do.’
‘Look, it’s entirely your call but if you want to keep a lid on this and discourage whoever they are from going down the publicity-seeking path they’ve threatened, then you could announce that you’re setting up an ad hoc investigative panel within the Vatican, separate and apart from a formal congregation proceedings. Who knows how long that would take, if you get my meaning?’
‘So, pay them lip service.’
‘Exactly.’
‘A tactic worthy of the Vatican,’ she joked.
‘Have any of the families been contacted by their daughters?’
‘As far as we know, not yet.’
‘Anything on the local investigations?’
‘Nothing. Before you received this medical report we didn’t even know they were still alive. Thank God for your news. We will make sure the parents know the girls are safe.’
THIRTEEN
When Sue asked Mary Riordan to come with her to the lounge, the girl assumed she was going to be told off for something.
‘What did I do?’ she demanded to know.
‘This isn’t about your behavior, although it could be,’ Sue said. She handed her a mobile phone. ‘Here. Call your mother. The number’s in the favorites list. We gave her a phone too.’
‘It’s about bloody time,’ Mary said.
Sue went across the room – far enough to give a semblance of privacy, close enough to listen in. The phones, Sue was told, were untraceable in case anyone tried to get a bead on their location.
‘Mum, it’s me,’ Mary said.
Cindy Riordan was talking too loudly, as if trying to compensate for the distance between them. ‘They told me you’d be calling. How are you? I’ve been worried sick.’
‘So worried you sold me off?’
‘Now, don’t be that way. They told us they’d be caring for you better than we could.’ Then she lowered her voice to foil any eavesdroppers, ‘They told me not to ask where you were.’
‘Wouldn’t matter if you did. I haven’t a clue. Stopped at the Boston airport and then went on to somewhere else.’
‘Are they treating you well, like they said they would?’
‘Place is dripping with money. Big-ass mansion but there’s nothing near it. Just miles and miles of what looks like a desert or some such thing. Everything’s the color of corn flakes. You go outside and it’s so bloody hot you want to pass out. They got horses though. There’s a cook and they clean and wash up for us. They gave me new clothes, some of them are rubbish, some quite nice. They’re making me do school lessons on a computer which is pathetic, really.’
‘Who’s there with you, love?’
‘I’ve got a minder named Sue who’s snooping on me right now. Then there’s the one who came to the house. Mrs Torres.’
‘She seemed nice.’
‘She’s not. She’s a cow. The other girls are here too.’
‘I figured you’d be all together but I didn’t know, did I? They’re going on and on about the three missing Marys on the telly and all. I’m glad you’re all safe and sound. They nice?’
‘They’re annoying, really. They don’t speak English and one of them is a real whinger.’
‘Still, three peas in a pod, right? Dearie me, you’ll be a mother before long and I’ll be a gran.’
‘They had a fancy doctor come and examine us.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Surprise! I’m pregnant.’
‘Is the baby all right?’
‘Guess so. Still got a willy.’
‘You’ll need to be thinking of a name for him.’
She blurted out, ‘I don’t want a kid! This wasn’t my bloody choice.’
‘I know, love. You were chosen, just like the voice told you. Voice of God, I reckon.’
‘More like the cock of God.’
Sue shook her head and looked out the window at the endless, dry pastures that merged a long way off with a colorless sky. The windows were double-glazed but she could hear the machinery and clanging noises that were non-stop during the daytime, seven days a week.
‘Don’t blaspheme,’ her mother scolded.
When the call was over Sue took her back to the communal bedroom and, one after the other, brought the Marias to the lounge to speak with their families too. Neither girl had ever used a phone before and their conversations were brief but emotional. By the time Maria Mollo had finished, Sue was also in tears. She hugged the clingy, small girl and decided to carry her back to her bed.
‘Joyful reunion, was it?’ Mary said. ‘Mucho crying.’
‘Give everyone a break and zip it,’ Sue said. ‘The girls have another English lesson and you’ve got two more hours of coursework to do. Before supper we’ve got a treat for all of you.’
‘Treat?’ Mary said. ‘You gonna hang yourself?’
The sun was closer to the horizon and the blistering heat was done for the day but it was still uncomfortably warm. Sue gave each girl a bottle of cold water for the walk to the stables. Mrs Simpauco came along to translate for Maria Aquino. The stable hands were Mexican so the other Maria was covered.
‘We going to see the hor
ses?’ Mary asked, skipping along.
‘We are,’ Sue said.
‘Can we ride them.’
‘That’s not on the agenda.’
The stables was a large, low-slung building with a metal roof, but a quarter-mile behind it, the skeleton of a steel-framed structure was rising from the dry earth.
‘Is that what’s been responsible for all the racket?’
Sue said it was.
‘What’s it going to be?’
‘I wasn’t told,’ Sue said. ‘I really don’t know.’
The girls were delighted to see the magnificent beasts. Even Maria Mollo was joyful. She immediately bonded with a stable hand named Pedro Alvarado, a small man with a winning smile, and he held her hand as they went from stall to stall introducing her to each horse by name. But it was Mary who was the most excited, asking detailed questions about the ages of the horses, their diets, their exercise regimens.
‘You know a lot about horses, señorita,’ the ranch foreman said.
‘There’s a horse farm just down the road from us. I used to help out there.’
‘Maybe they will let you help here too,’ he said.
‘Could I?’ Mary asked Sue.
It seemed like a damned good idea but Sue said she’d have to check with Mrs Torres.
After they’d gone down the row of stalls feeding the horses from a bucket of carrot chunks, the foreman said that each girl could choose her favorite and they would take them outside to a paddock to watch them run around. Maria Aquino chose a tawny mare, Maria Mollo picked a black stallion, and Mary chose a pinto mare named Sally. Pedro bridled them and led them out. The two Marias held on to the fencing, looking through the slats while Mary insisted on climbing up and sitting on the top rail.
