CHAPTER SEVEN

 

JASON HAD only been gone an hour when the telephone rang, and Taylor answered it. Long distance from Rome. What would her sister be calling about at this hour? But perhaps Father Bartolomeo had learned something more about the scrolls.

"Mrs. Phillips?"

The man sounded businesslike and strange.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Phillips, are you alone?"

"Not exactly. Why? Who is this?"

"Mrs. Phillips, who is there with you?"

"My cleaning woman, though I can't see what business it is of—"

"Mrs. Phillips, put down the phone and go to another phone where she can't hear your conversation.”

"What is this?"

"Another room, Mrs. Phillips," the voice commanded harshly. "And quick. It's about your son."

She put the phone down fast and picked up the extension in the bedroom.

"I'm alone."

"Mrs. Phillips, I'll be brief. We have your son."

"You have my—" she echoed.

“We are decent people, Mrs. Phillips, and we will not harm him. We just want to be assured that you will work with us. It won't be long—only for the duration of Mr. Van Cleve's stay in Istanbul."

"But he's gone. He left today!"

"Where did he go, Mrs. Phillips?"

"Who are, you? Why do—"

"Remember, we have your son."

"Athens," Taylor answered, then asked, "Please, please... may I speak to my son?"

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Phillips," said the voice smoothly, "One moment...here he is."

"Mom?”

"Oh, Jonny! Is it true? Are you all right?"

The eight-year-old voice sounded strong and confident. "Sure, Mom, I'm okay. I'm in a nice place... don't know where... but the people are okay to me and nobody's hurt me or anything. Just do whatever you have to do..."

The other voice came back on the phone.

"Very good Mrs. Phillips. Now about Van Cleve—we're not asking you to do anything difficult or illegal. We just want you to keep an eye on him and tell us about his movements. I'm sure you will want to cooperate because you love your son and want to see him again." The voice sounded calm and reasonable as it asked, "And now, do you know where Mr. Van Cleve might be going in Athens?"

"Well, actually..." She hesitated.

"Yes, Mrs. Phillips, go on."

"Actually, he was going to Tinos, and I really don't know where—"

"That's very good, Mrs. Phillips. Now there are a few things I must caution you about. First, you will not call the police or your sister, or let anyone else know about our conversation. I know you can understand that police intervention would only endanger your child's life. Second—and this is very important—do not answer your phone. When we wish to contact you, we'll call, let it ring once, and hang up. We will then call back. Let it ring twice and then pick it up on the third ring. You will not speak until we have spoken first. Third, Mrs. Phillips, we would like you to go to Athens. Have you any idea where Mr. Van Cleve will be staying?

"I don't know. He didn't say."

"Well, probably the Hilton. In any case, we'd like you to check in at the Hilton, locate Van Cleve, and stay close to him, you understand?"

"Yes," Taylor said in a voice near to breaking. "May I please speak to Jonny again?”

"Why, of course, Mrs. Phillips. Jonny?"

"Mom?"

She stifled a sob. "Jonny... oh, darling! We'll, be together soon..."

Her son's voice was quavering. "Don't worry, Mom. I've got to say goodbye now, Mom."

The line went dead.

Taylor sat holding the handset and looking at it, still in shock.

The old cleaning woman peered in at her and asked in Turkish, "Something wrong, madam?

"My son," said Taylor, trying to pull herself together. "He's not well."

"Oh, I am sorry. I'll make you some coffee."

"Thank you," said Taylor, then went into the bathroom to cry.

In San Francisco, California, it was eleven-thirty in the morning. The man looked nervously out at the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel, where a twenty-year-old bovine girl was crossing the huge, plant-festooned room. She had an aloof, puckered, mouth and the largest breasts he'd ever seen in his life. She was very aware of them, and it looked as though she were leaning backwards, either to keep her balance or to make sure that no one in the world would ever miss her only distinguishing feature. She sauntered over to the elevators—glass cages that slid up and down on the outside of the walls like yo-yos. She disappeared momentarily, then reappeared inside one of the rocketlike capsules. The man's mouth opened slightly as he adjusted his weight on the chair to accommodate the tumescence the girl's appearance had caused, then the elevator stopped and she disappeared forever from his life.

McCue sighed. He would like to have known her, to have touched those incredible breasts, however briefly. Maybe even to have kissed the nipples. He would think about her, about her pouty mouth and enormous breasts; he would think many times about that woman who hadn't even known he had observed her. When he was beaten next in the Athens brothel, it would be her in his fantasy, but without a blouse.

He glanced at his watch; it wasn't good to be late with these types, nor early either. He finished his drink and took the elevator up through the cascading greenery to the seventeenth floor. He was a short man, slightly effeminate-looking, an insurance man neatly dressed in cheaply fashionable clothes, with eyes that seemed overly moist. His nose ran continuously and he dabbed at it regularly with a folded white handkerchief. He could have been a bookie, a car salesman, or a disposer of cemetery plots.

He stepped out of the elevator with a polite "excuse me" to the other passengers, and went down the hall to room 1710. He only had to knock once before the door was opened. A robust man in his late fifties, bald on top with a halo of white hair, and a kindly round face, greeted him.

"McCue!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, sir," said the smaller man with a hint of an Irish brogue. "I'm McCue," he admitted, almost apologetically.

"Liz," said the big man to a bespectacled secretary sitting on the sofa with a pile of papers on her lap. "Same time tomorrow, eh? Want some M&Ms before you go?"

"Bad boy, sir," she said as she gathered up her things. "You know too much sugar's bad for you."

"But there are so few things left that are good for me," he laughed as he watched her go.

He took from his trousers pocket a brown and yellow paper bag of candy and offered it to McCue. "Some M&Ms?"

He was stalling for time while the secretary made her exit, and when McCue shook his head, the large man poured some of the polychrome candy pellets into his own hand and popped them into his mouth.

Then he arranged his pear-shaped bulk in his chair and said, “So, you're McCue eh?” Then pointing to another chair he said, "Sit down, sit down! So you're McCue?"

The little man sat down. Who was this fat old fart? He'd, try a joke. "Well, if not, I'm sure having a ball with his wife." There was a silence.

"I was given to understand that you were not married," the older man said, suddenly unjovial.

"That was just a little joke, sir."

"But you are McCue?"

"Oh, yes, that I am," McCue replied. Shit, the man was a mummy.

"And do you have a wife?"

"No, sir. Really. That was just part of my joke, sir."

"No relatives, children, people close to you?"

"No, sir."

"No girl, no woman you live with or take out? No one you confide in?"

McCue put his folded handkerchief to his forehead after he wiped his nose. "No, sir."

"Who knows you are here, right now, this moment?"

"No one in the "world. Except a connection in Rome—

"Yes, of course. A connection immediately forgotten, right?"

"Yes, sir, that's right." He'd play it any way the old boy wanted. "Forgotten already."

With a benign, grandfatherly smile he said, "You come highly recommended."

The younger man looked more uncomfortable. He was not used to compliments. Do the job, get paid, get lost. No compliments necessary.

"So what am I supposed to do? I mean... who?"

The big man, who was dressed in a white silk shirt, black trousers, and shiny black shoes, got up and paced as he talked.

"McCue, my friend, my new friend, you realize of course that your position is precarious from this moment on. One word to anyone about this meeting, this conversation, this assignment—one word, just one word—and you will be..." He gestured at the window and smiled genially. "You will be defenestrated."

"Don't understand," said McCue.

"You will be thrown out the window,” said the big man with a chuckle. “Oh, not literally, perhaps. But it behooves you not ever to divulge what we are going to talk about in the next few minutes. Furthermore, it will be denied and disproved that you and I ever met, much less conversed. And as for Monsignor X, who put us together, I'm sure you realize there is no such person. Understand?"

"Got it," said McCue.

The fat man beamed and held out some candy. "I am delighted that you have got it.'"

McCue took a candy and nodded. "I don't talk."

"So I've been told, my son. Most commendable. That's one of the reasons you have been chosen to handle this job. And you are reliable too, I'm told, very good at your calling. Like the proverbial Mountie, you always get your man."

The little man nodded as he took out his handkerchief and touched his nose gently.

"Now you want to know your assignment, of course. I think you will take to it willingly, more so than most of your jobs. You are, I presume, a good Catholic?"  

“Don't know how good sir but-

"But still a Catholic, yes? Any Catholic is a good Catholic to me! All right, there is a conspiracy afoot—a conspiracy designed to destroy the Catholic Church! I'll wager that your mother is a very fervent member of the Church, right? Right?"

"What's that got to do with it?" The man seemed confused. "She died about—"

"Sed en altre mane," said the older man charmingly, not listening to McCue. '"But on the other hand, as they say in Latin. Catholics are always apologizing, have you noticed? They're always saying, 'Well, I went at Easter and I went at Christmas.' Well, if this maniac is allowed to go on, there just might be no Easter or Christmas as we've known them. You yourself may not be the best churchgoer, but people like your mother will have their worlds devastated by this maniac!"

"What maniac, sir?"

The large man popped some candy into his mouth.        

"His name is Jason Van Cleve," he said.

Placing his hands on the arms of the chair he dropped into moments before, he heaved his bulk up, went to the desk and picked up a folder from which he extracted a sheet of paper and a photograph.

"This is he, and here is where he is at this moment, and here is his dossier."

McCue took the paper and the photo and said skeptically, "How could one man destroy the Catholic Church, sir?"

"Possible," said the big man solemnly. "Not only the Cath­olic Church but every branch of the Christian religion. Two thousand years, down the drain."

"Wow... heavy."

"And time is of the essence. But understand this—do not, uh, get him immediately."

McCue shook his head. "I'm supposed to get him but not get him?"

."You are supposed to find him and stay with him! And then be ready to... to do the job at any moment!"

McCue seemed genuinely upset. "I don't... well, how do I know when and what?"

"Your instructions are in this envelope with half of your fee. I understand it is usual to give a retainer, and then when the— Let me put it this way. A long time ago my mother had a cherished parrot, and one day I stopped by, looked at the empty cage, and said, 'Mums, where's Caruso?' And she, gentle lady who could never face the truth about anything, said, 'Oh, dear, I came down yesterday and it was, well, dear Eddie, it was sort of a legg ies-up situation."

McCue nodded. "So this is—"

"Leggies up."

. "May I ask... I mean, am I allowed to know just who's giving me all this bread? The Church? The Vatican? The Pope?"

The big man looked a little hurt. "Friend McCue, you must be crazy. The Church would never condone an action like this. The Church is above this sort of thing. No! It is an agency... an agency that protects the Vatican's interests. It's a committee of anonymous devoted Catholics, laymen who have quietly realized what harm this maniac could do to our religion."

McCue shrugged. "Guess I better get going."

"One more thing," the older man said as he went again to the desk and brought back another photograph. 'Take a good look at this. This woman is a new friend of our target, Jason
Van Cleve. Now get this straight—under no circumstances this woman to be harmed. Understand?"    

McCue took the photo and studied it. "Why not?" "She is working for us."

"Oh." McCue nodded, showing no emotion. "Okay.""Good luck, and God be with you."

Half an hour later, a large man in a cardinal's robes emerged from the lobby of the Hyatt Regency. A long green limousine was waiting, and the chauffeur jumped out of the front seatand held open the door for him.

"Thank you, Fred," said the man pleasantly. "Off to the cathedral!"

As he got in, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small packet of candy, and said, "Fred, care for an M&M?"

As Jason got put of his cab at the port of Piraeus, the hot and humid day turned into a hot and humid rainstorm. It was raining hard and the water had the color of rust and was almost hot.

He had been warned that Tinos was going to be a difficult place to get to because of the important holy day tomorrow.

"The island is dominated by the Cathedral of the Virgin Mary," the cab driver had said. "They work all year toward this celebration."

Jason stood in line for three hours with a crowd of at least a thousand people. Six boats came and left, and he was still there. Then he saw a short, stocky man with a thin mustache take a couple and their child out of the line and, with authority, place them in a boat. Then he saw another man slip some money into the hand of the short, stocky clerk and get similar priority. Jason decided to do the same.

A man standing next to him on the boat hours later was blowing Turkish tobacco smoke casually, all of it wafting into Jason's face. The man flashed a smile of brown, tobacco-stained teeth. It seemed to Jason a shifty smile.

“Smoke?" he asked, offering Jason a filter less cigarette.

"No, thanks," Jason replied. Was he being followed? 

"Are you going to Tinos for the Virgin Mary's day?" 

One might say so."

“Tinos is a sacred place," the man said. His face was as brown as his teeth, his fingernails were yellow-brown, and he had myriad wrinkles in every part of his skin, although he did not seem older than fifty.

Then, after a long silence he spoke again, as if to himself. "Yes, a place for miracles." He turned to Jason and said, "See for yourself," nodding his head in the direction of the pounding rain.

Jason looked out and saw the island's harbor, and people swarming over the quay. They were in Tinos.

The gigantic white cathedral looked more like a threat than a haven to the thousands of crippled and suffering that crowded the streets, weeping, moaning, and praying. As soon as they got off the boat, many walked slowly, while others fell to the ground and sank their faces in the muddy waters to kiss the soil blessed by the Virgin, then knelt and crawled on their knees the one and a half kilometers to the entrance of the holy church, only vaguely visible in the torrential rain.

It was a moving sight, and the thought flashed through Jason's mind, How would these people react if they heard the story of Lael?

Jason looked around. He saw that an old man had set up shop, selling umbrellas to the less faithful, and Jason hurried over to buy one. Many of the shopkeepers spoke English and he asked them how to get to the convent.

"Not within walking distance; five kilometers uphill climb," said one.

"But how else he going to get there on a day like this?" put in another.

"Why go up there at all?" a rosary seller asked. "All the nuns will be in prayer by now."

Jason thanked them all and started up the hill. He finally arrived, staggering and wet to his skin from both the rain and his own heavy perspiration. He was pale and panting when he knocked on the tiny wooden door that was painted with white lime, as was the rest of the building. He waited for long minutes in the unrelenting rain. Finally a small porthole in the door was opened and a pair of dark, curious eyes scrutinized him. He asked for Sister Eugenia and the porthole was shut in his face without a reply. Then he heard footsteps and this time the door was opened.

"I am the mother superior," said a woman in a black nun's habit. She had an accent, which Jason sensed was not Greek.

"Looking for Sister Eugenia," he gasped.

The mother superior looked at him from head to toe, hostilely, for he was an intruder in this convent. All men were intruders.

"Sister Eugenia is at Mass," she replied. There was no touch of sympathy in her inexpressive, disciplined voice as she asked, "Are you friend or relative?"        

"Friend," he assured her, nodding his drenched head. The nun pointed to a bench, also painted with white lime on a small porch under a tin roof.

"You will have to wait for her right here," she said.

Jason thanked her and closed the umbrella. He needed nothing more than to sit down somewhere. He leaned back and wiped his forehead. The mother superior had already disappeared.         

Jason’s weary body and tired mind succumbed immediately to the sedative effect of the warm rain clattering on the roof of the little shelter as he slumped back on the wooden bench.

He didn't know how long he'd been sleeping when he was awakened by a gentle touch. He opened his eyes and saw a nun standing timidly in front of him.

"I am Sister Eugenia," she said.         l

About forty, she was quite pretty, her scrubbed face framed by a white coif and her petite body held erect. Her black habit seemed to give off a strange odor, which he could not identify. She had a nervous smile that revealed bad teeth. She spoke excellent English, but with a definite accent.

Jason told her about her father, and she sucked in her breath and made the sign of the cross, but said nothing. He did not tell her how her father had died, and he thought that since Lascaris was over ninety years old, she would assume that he'd died of natural causes.

Looking at this gentle woman, he could understand why her cousin had been reluctant to tell her of her father's death. If she had known in time, she would have wanted to come to his funeral, where she would have learned of the shocking way in which he'd died.

Jason was relieved that she asked no questions of him, but only bowed her head and closed her eyes for a few moments, as if in prayer. And then he identified the odor: camphor.

After a discreet silence, Jason cleared his throat and said, “The reason I am here, Sister Eugenia, is that your father and I were working on a book together when he died."

"A book?" she asked apprehensively.

"On the scrolls," Jason said. "The Ephesus scrolls."

Her bad teeth bit down on her lower lip. Then she gave a little laugh.

"Was he still talking about those old papyri? Of course you realize it was all fantasy. There were no scrolls... only in his imagination. He was very old, you know, and"—she tapped her head—"not quite right in his mind. Not crazy, you understand, just, how you say, senile."

"Sister Eugenia, I saw photographs of those scrolls. And read the translations. They were real. If not, how would you know they were on papyrus, not parchment? I'm not saying I necessarily believe what they said-—just that they did exist.”

She lowered her eyes guiltily. "All right. There were scrolls... those terrible things." Tears came into her eyes. “ I wish we'd never had anything to do with them."

Jason urged gently, "Would you tell me what you know about them? Please? It is very important that I know. Two people have died because of them."

"I do not choose to speak of them!"

Jason sighed. "Sister Eugenia, I must tell you now that your father did not die a natural death. He was murdered." She slicked in her breath, then gasped, "Oh, God in Heaven!"

"I'm very sorry."

"Because of the scrolls they murdered him? Who did this?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm investigating this. That's why I'm talking to you. I want to prevent more bloodshed."

She said nothing for a long moment. Then she looked around and said in a low voice, "All right. I will tell you what I know about them."

"Thank you." And he told her how much he already knew.

"I must warn you, some of the teachings in this, not just the part about Lael, are far from traditional."

"Like the Nag Hammadi scrolls? The Gnostic Gospels?"

She shook her head. "I do not know these things."

"They were found thirty-five years ago, but just recently came to light.”

"You impress me," said Sister Eugenia. She was very pretty; only a suggestion of a mustache and her bad teeth kept her from being beautiful.

"Don't be impressed," Jason said. "I heard of them only recently, through a friend." He did not quite know how to proceed. He'd done much interviewing in his life, yet this was different. "The translator was a friend of yours, I understand."

"Yes," she said, and lowered her eyes. "Paul Krenski."

"I am curious as to why some of the translations sound more biblical than others."        

She did not look up, but a faint smile came to her lips and she answered, "My friend Paul was young then, and he found the repetitions tiresome, but my father would demand them  from time to time, so he put them in to please my father."

"And what about Mary Magdalene? For example," Jason ventured, "there are some references to Mary Lael being referred to as Mary of Magdala. You must understand that I am embarrassed about my ignorance of biblical history."

Sister Eugenia sat silently.

He was not sure she had understood him. "Sister Eugenia?" He prodded.

The silence continued.

Jason sensed that her reticence might be due to fear. "It seemed a bit extraordinary to me at the time, but I'm quite sure the Apostle John said that Lael was frequently referred to as 'she of Magdala,' and I've always been under the impression that Mary Magdalene was a woman of ill repute, as they say."

"There was a Mary of Magdala out of whom Jesus once cast seven devils..." she began.

Jason sat forward on the bench. "You mean…?”

"This woman was beautiful, and she too had red hair.

"And Lael had red hair," Jason added.

“So she was thought to be the one they called Mary of Magdala.”

Jason shook his head and smiled. "Sister, please, enough is enough. Are you trying to tell me that the one born the Messiah became a prostitute?"

"I am not trying to tell you anything, Mr. Van Cleve! You are the one who has come to me, prying!" She began to cry softly. "I only know what these scrolls say... and I should not be telling you anything at all."

He gently put his hand on her shoulder, and she blew her nose on an un-nunlike embroidered handkerchief that she had tucked into her sleeve.

"Mr. Van Cleve, John does not say that Mary Lael ever became Mary, the Magdalene. What he says is that for some reason she was mistaken for her—mistaken for a sinful woman from Magdala, and that she encouraged this misconception even to the point of almost being stoned by the Scribes and the Pharisees. It was then that Jesus stepped forward so authoritatively and commanded, 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’”

"I thought that was the story of the adulterous wife," said Jason.

"Not in the Ephesus version." "And Lael continued in the role of Mary Magdalene?" Sister Eugenia nodded. "According to the scrolls, Jesus asked why she chose to allow this mistake to soil her reputation, and she explained that many of his followers were of humble, poor, and low station, and so would find her presence as his constant companion easier to understand if they continued to think that she was the grateful woman from Magdala out of whom Jesus had once cast seven devils. After all, Lael was an unmarried woman close to thirty years of age. That in itself cast suspicion on any woman, so it was a natural assumption that was easier to go along with than to refute, especially as it was unwise to reveal her true identity."

Jason said, 'There is a poem in the Gnostic chronicles—I have it here—of a divine female power making declarations that might fit..." Jason took out his notebook and leafed to a page and recited:

                        “For I am the first and the last,

                        “I am the honored one and the scorned one,

                        “I am the whore and the holy one.

                        “I am the wife and the virgin...

                        “I am the barren one, and many are her sons.

                        “I am the silence that is incomprehensible..

                        “I am the utterance of my name.”

They sat for a moment, then Jason said, “That seems to make more sense to me now." Then he looked up at her, and said, "I must ask you something."

The nun stiffened. "You have asked me a great deal already." She made as if to leave. "I have told you too much."

"Sister Eugenia, do you believe in these scrolls? Do you believe they are authentic?"

"It is unfair of you to ask me that. All I can say is that I believed in my father... and I believed in Paul... and I believe in Jesus Christ."

"I'm sorry, I know this is an indiscreet question, but are we to believe that there was a relationship between Mary Lael and Jesus that might have been beyond that of brother and sister?”

"My opinions are of no value. I am no great biblical scholar."

"There is a passage in the Gnostic Gospels—"

"I have already told you, I do not know that book."

"But I was only wondering if this might resemble some of the ideas expressed in the scrolls," Jason explained. "It is the so-called Gospel of Philip, one of fifty-two scrolls found at Nag Hammadi, and I have made a note of some of it." He leafed through his notebook, then quoted:

"'The companion of the Savior is Mary Magdalene. But Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended and said to him, 'Why do you love her more than all of us?' The Savior answered and said to them, 'Why do I not love you as I love her’”

Jason looked up at Sister Eugenia. Finally she said, "We will speak no more on that subject."

"I'm 'sorry if I have offended you," said Jason. Then, to change the subject he asked, "What ever happened to your friend Paul? Do you ever hear from him?”

"He went back to America. He phones me sometimes."

"When was the last time you spoke to your father?"

"Last Tuesday. He called to tell me he'd met you and was I going to turn all his information over to you. I told him his life would be in danger, but he said he no longer cared. It was more important that the world should know about his scrolls."

"I'm sorry, Sister, he was killed that very night. We must stop them from killing anyone else." Then he asked, "Do the originals still exist?"

She nodded and whispered: "Yes, they still exist."

His heart gave a thump. "Would you know where? Could you tell me about them?"

She lowered her voice even more and said, "All through my father's life he was tortured by those blasphemous scrolls, and I have inherited his curse. He brought me to the Church and offered me, perhaps as a sacrifice, to atone for his failure to rid himself of his intellectual rationalizing over the heresy. First he went to Mount Athos to become a monk, hoping to strengthen his faith in the True Church. He entered the secluded monastery of Vatopedi. Finally he showed the scrolls to Abbot Constantine, hoping to be given an explanation that would allay his doubts once and for all. The abbot denounced them as blasphemy, confiscated them, and expelled my father. When he came home, my father was sick and shaken, convinced by the reaction of Abbot Constantine that he was headed for Hell. That was when he begged me to enter the Church as a nun. I did not have the vocation, but I could not refuse my father. I have since felt that he probably insisted on it for my own safety, thinking that I would not be accused of conspiracy in the blasphemy of the scrolls if I embraced the Church as a nun."

"You must have loved your father very much," Jason said.

"I shared much of his grief and much of his guilt over his findings. Paul and I discussed the translations. We—all of us who believe the teachings of the Church without question— do not quite see some things as Paul did. He was a Christian, but he did not belong to any particular church, as I understand is common in America. Paul could look at things like the scrolls with a clear conscience and an open mind; my father and I could not. Do you understand what I mean?"

Jason felt a constriction in his throat and nodded. He felt badly about his lack of trust in Nestor Lascaris. After the remarks made by Lascaris's nephew in Istanbul, Jason had

expected Sister Eugenia to be hysterically evasive, but she had told her story in the straightforward manner characteristic of her father.    

Jason delivered the message from her cousin, that her father had been given a good funeral.

Sister Eugenia thanked him and said, "Dominic is coarse and gruff, but he has a good heart. I will write to thank him for his kindness to my father.”

"It's been a privilege to meet you and talk with you, Sister," said Jason in parting. "I was much impressed by your father, and perhaps one day we will find some... some justification, so that his cross and yours will have meaning and will not have been in vain."

"God bless you, Mr. Van Cleve. I will light a candle for you."

"Better make in two” Jason said as he took her hand. As Jason left the convent  he saw mother superior watching him from the window of an alcove next to the shelter where Jason and Sister Eugenia had been talking. Her mouth was a hard slit and her eyes flinty as she turned and headed for Sister Eugenia's cell. Her footsteps echoed threateningly from the convent walls as she fiddled nervously with the thin rope that was tied around her waist.

How much had she heard of Sister Eugenia's conversation? Certainly Sister Eugenia would be in no danger in as sacred a place as this.

Yet when he started out into the dark storm, down the hill, his umbrella opened against the driving rain, he felt a terrible sense of foreboding and fear for the good woman he had just left.