Three Marys

by Glenn Cooper

  ‘She still doesn’t know what it was for.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing. But you, my friend, have done your part. For you, it’s over. It’s my worry now. And, I’ve got to tell you, I’m not the least bit worried.’

  ‘I’ve got a conscience, Randy. I can’t turn it on and off.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a good man. And a good friend. People who’ve gone through what you and I went through have a bond forever.’

  It didn’t sound like Anning’s words were registering. Gottlieb sounded mournful. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  Anning clenched his free hand. ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘It means what it sounds like. I’m feeling a need to unburden myself. The publicity is through the roof. This business with the girls is turning into a very big deal.’

  ‘That’s what I envisioned.’

  ‘It’s bigger than I envisioned. And there’s been violence.’

  ‘Look, Steve, this unburdening sentiment. You’ve never expressed the need to unburden yourself about Phil Alexander.’

  Gottlieb got very angry very fast. ‘You told me he was already dead! I was half-crazy that night. We both made the decision.’

  ‘You’re the one who did it. Remember? I really want this to stay our own personal and painful memory. So please don’t talk about unburdening yourself. It’s a horrible idea.’

  Later, Anning summoned Clay Carling to his office.

  ‘Clay, you understand how much I’ve got invested in the success of the New Catholic Church.’

  Carling shifted his weight from side to side, digging his cowboy boots into the plush carpet. He nodded.

  ‘The stakes are too high to rely on verbal or even written confidentiality agreements. That’s why I had you take care of the folks who worked on the girls – the anesthetist and that gynecologist.’

  The security man nodded again. His boss wasn’t looking for a comment.

  ‘Steve Gottlieb may also require your helping hand. Before it comes to that, let’s send him a message where he lives. Something subtle but not too subtle.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It would be called the great unraveling.

  When you pull hard enough on a loose end of knitting, the sweater turns into a ball of yarn again.

  The New Mexico authorities launched an investigation into Sue Gibney’s death by shooting and called in the FBI. Their first interview subject was Cal Donovan.

  He had a lot to say.

  The first stitch to come undone was Mrs Torres.

  A team of FBI special agents from Dallas descended on the ranch. Anning and Carling weren’t there. Anning’s only senior employee on site was Mrs Torres who was fully prepared for their arrival. She had already retained a criminal lawyer from Wichita Falls who arrived within the hour to attend her interview. Her attorney announced that she was prepared to cooperate in exchange for immunity from prosecution. After a telephonic negotiation involving the Department of Justice, a proffer immunity agreement was faxed over to the ranch.

  Torres also had a lot to say.

  The next stitch to come undone was Anning’s helicopter pilot who was at home in Vernon drinking heavily when the FBI came calling that night.

  The following morning a federal judge granted a search warrant for the ranch, the Houston office and personal residence of Randall Anning, and the workplace and personal residence of Clay Carling.

  Carling was arrested on a charge of accessory to first-degree murder. The pilot had tagged him as one of the shooters the night that Sue Gibney died, although he said that Anning may have fired the fatal shot. The FBI was in the early stages of linking the security man to the bombing death of Steven Gottlieb and other capital crimes. Carling was promised some vague future sentencing concessions if he agreed to testify against Anning. He didn’t require much persuasion. He was angry as hell that he’d been forced to shoot at the RV.

  Anning was arrested the next morning in front of his wife. Before the day was out she filed for divorce. His charges included first-degree murder, international kidnapping, and wire fraud related to the public solicitation of donations to the New Catholic Church.

  Under advice of the finest counsel money could buy, Anning had nothing to say. He was remanded to federal custody and held without bail.

  Belinda Hartman was interviewed by the FBI and before long she was informed that she was not a target of the investigation.

  Amanda Pittinger, the reporter from the Houston Chronicle, got the bit between her teeth and ran hard with an evolving exposé of the New Catholic Church. A day didn’t pass without a new front-page story.

  George Pole left his regalia and vestments in the sacristy of the cathedral and returned to the Houston apartment he had rented when he resigned as cardinal. In the fine, classical tradition of Roman aristocrats he drew a hot bath and made deep slits in his wrists and ankles, turning the bath papal red.

  In Galway, the Irish authorities had enough probable cause for a judge to issue a second exhumation order for Cindy Riordan. Her repeat autopsy, this one done by the finest forensic pathologist in the country, led to the additional charge of murder to be added to Brendan Doyle’s list of pending offenses.

  The FBI was given the DNA test results for the girls and their babies. As a special courtesy, the Dallas special agent in charge of the case gave Cal a call one day.

  ‘Professor, I wanted to give you a heads-up on something that’s going to come out publicly on the DNA soon,’ she said.

  ‘Sue Gibney was the mother,’ he said.

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘I just did. And the father?’

  ‘Randall Anning.’

  Cal was at home when he got the call, surrounded by books, working on a paper about an obscure, medieval pope. He lost all interest in his work and went to his freezer to pour himself a large tumbler of vodka as clear and viscous as tears.

  Pedro Alvarado still had a limp from the beating he took from Clay Carling. He knew he wasn’t going to get in through the front gate so he parked his truck at the closest point and cut the fence. He didn’t want any cattle or horses to get out so he twisted the cut ends back together once he was inside. Then he began the long, painful walk over the prairie.

  The stable hands all knew him, of course. He had been well-liked, one of them. But out of fear for their own jobs, no one acknowledged him. But no one stopped him either. They cast their eyes down as he went to the gas pump and filled a five-gallon can and lugged it to the cathedral.

  All the doors were locked so he kicked open one near the sacristy. Inside, the cathedral glass had turned yellow from the afternoon light, a shade of green, the color of winter grass. He placed the can on one of the front pews and splashed some gas on the old plaid shirt he’d been wearing. His bare chest and back were crisscrossed with healing scars. He stuffed the shirt into the spout hole, caught the sleeve hanging out with a pocket lighter and ran outside. He was well clear when the explosion turned the cathedral into a big, beautiful furnace.

  Hundreds of clergymen and nuns petitioned to have their resignations rescinded and be reinstated to the good graces of the Catholic Church. The Vatican was asked to provide guidance and the matter went all the way up to Pope Celestine. He decreed that all were welcome back with open arms and without recriminations.

  When the time came, Cal lobbied hard to do the honors. The request went all the way up to the FBI deputy director who signed off on it.

  He and Joe Murphy took the Delta Shuttle from Boston to Washington and were met at Reagan National Airport by a State Department people-mover van. Their first stop was the Irish Embassy where they picked up Mary Riordan and her baby whom she now just called David.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Mary,’ Murphy said.

  She hugged him. Cal got one too. He hadn’t seen her since the night Sue died.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ Cal said.

  ‘Can’t believe I’m finally going home.’


  ‘There’s going to be quite the scene at Shannon Airport, I expect,’ Murphy said.

  ‘I imagine so,’ she said.

  Cal wasn’t sure he was going to mention her but Mary went there on her own.

  ‘I miss her, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Sue would have been really happy today,’ Cal replied.

  ‘When he’s old enough maybe I’ll tell David about her, being that she’s his mum and all.’

  ‘You’re his mum,’ Murphy said.

  She smiled at him. ‘I suppose I am.’

  The next stop was the Peruvian Embassy. Maria Mollo and baby JJ – she still liked the name – piled in. She hugged Mary so hard that the Irish girl yelped in discomfort and delight.

  ‘Eeyore!’ she screeched. ‘How’s my little sister?’

  ‘I am good. JJ is good,’ she said in her best English.

  Mary tried to pantomime that she was a sight for sore eyes without luck and Cal’s limited Spanish came to the rescue.

  At the Philippines Embassy, Maria Aquino and baby Ruperto climbed in. She too had jettisoned Jesus. She had a new pair of glasses, even thicker and rounder than the last ones that had gone missing the night the RV went into a ditch.

  ‘Once a Minion, always a Minion,’ Mary said.

  ‘We going home,’ the girl said, crying happily.

  On the way to Dulles Airport, Cal sat opposite the girls and watched them try to describe to one another what had become of them since they’d been separated, awaiting repatriation. But he wasn’t watching them as much as he was watching the babies, three identical, chubby boys with Sue Gibney’s lavender eyes.

  At the airport, Cal and Murphy stayed with them until the last possible moment and waved goodbye as minders led them through security to their airline gates.

  ‘Well, that’s the end of it,’ Murphy said.

  Cal put his arm around the priest and said, ‘You think?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘There are people who believe that Elvis is still alive,’ Cal said. ‘There’s always going to be folks who believe the boys are really the sons of God.’

  ‘Well, as long as they don’t grow up believing it, I suppose they’ll be just fine.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘I think we should invite Father Gooseberry,’ Jessica had said.

  Cal thought it was a terrific idea.

  She was going to be attending a medical congress in Milan and Cal had the notion to piggyback on a visit to Rome. After all, Cardinal Da Silva was getting blue in the face with his repeated invitations.

  ‘Really, Cal, the Holy Father is most anxious to thank you personally,’ he had said.

  The three of them stayed in the same hotel in Rome and took a taxi together to the Vatican. Jessica was looking more decorous than Cal had ever seen her. When he emerged from the shower that morning to see her in a new blue dress that showed almost no skin, he said, ‘Who stole Jessica?’

  Murphy was dressed in crisp, clerical black and even Cal had on a dark suit and tie for the occasion.

  ‘Excited about meeting the Holy Father?’ Murphy asked Jessica.

  She faked a yawn then laughed. ‘Sure, why not? Bail me out if he asks me any religious quiz questions.’

  ‘He can smell a lapsed Catholic from a hundred paces,’ Cal said.

  ‘You leave my drinking buddy alone,’ Murphy said, ‘or I’ll thump you with a Bible.’

  Jessica had been reading the New York Times International Edition over breakfast while Cal slept. She had torn off an article from the front page and had it folded in her purse.

  ‘See this?’ she asked.

  Congress approves articles of impeachment against President Griffith – article one: Improper approval of visas for the Marys; article two: Unauthorized wiretaps against the Americans Donovan and Gibney.

  Cal grunted. ‘You won’t see me shedding any tears for him. There’s a hundred reasons that creep needed to be removed from office. This is like getting Al Capone for income-tax evasion.’

  Murphy nodded and said, ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’

  Jessica blanched. ‘He’s not going to be testing my Latin, is he?’

  ‘George Pole might have,’ Cal said. ‘Not this pope.’

  Sister Elisabetta had persuaded Pope Celestine to pull out all the stops to impress Cal’s girlfriend by receiving them in the small throne room of the Apostolic Palace rather than his modest guesthouse office.

  Jessica flawlessly pulled off the curtsy she had obsessively practiced, Murphy bowed and kissed the pope’s ring, and Cal got his customary bear hug.

  ‘What a time you had,’ Celestine told him. ‘What a drama. How many men can say they singlehandedly healed a great schism within the Church?’

  ‘I was, and will forever be, at your service, Holy Father.’

  ‘And both of you played no small role,’ the pope said. ‘Father Murphy, you went to Ireland for me. You endured a kidnapping. And Dr Nelson, your expert technical advice and analysis of DNA samples exposed the cynical plot. My profound gratitude to all of you. Now for some small gifts.’

  Sister Elisabetta retrieved them from a side table, handed them to a beaming Da Silva, who handed them to the pope.

  ‘For you, Father Murphy, please accept this signed copy of my last book of essays. They are especially helpful if you suffer from insomnia.’

  Murphy accepted the book and posed for his photograph.

  ‘For you, Dr Nelson, I would like to give you a simple silver crucifix that belonged to my mother. She received it from my grandfather in Napoli when she was a young girl.’

  Cal had never seen Jessica so overwhelmed, but back home she would take the official photograph to a studio to see if the streaks of tears running down her face could be expertly removed.

  Then the pope addressed Cal. ‘Professor, I thought long and hard about what additional gift I might give to you. You have all my books, you have unrestricted browsing rights to the Vatican Secret Archives and Library. You have papal medals. So, I’ve decided to simply give you a kiss. Is that enough?’

  ‘More than enough, Holy Father,’ he said, bending to receive a generous peck on each cheek.

  Later, as a butler was pouring glasses of sherry, Cal’s phone vibrated with a text. He discreetly glanced at his screen and saw a selfie of the reporter Amanda Pittinger, which she’d taken outside of their motel in Vernon, Texas. The message was simply, ‘Call me,’ followed by a small string of heart emojis. Cal pocketed the phone and pulled the pope aside.

  ‘The present you gave Jessica was wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘She seemed to like it,’ the pontiff replied.

  ‘You know, Holy Father, I can’t guarantee that she and I are always going to remain together. My track record in these matters is rather poor. If we break up, will I have to get it back?’ He was only half joking.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Professor,’ the pope said. ‘My mother, may the Lord bless her and keep her, had many, many crucifixes.’