Origin
Page 20
Tonight, deep inside the cathedral, a young acolyte was rushing through the hallway in a panic.
Where is Bishop Valdespino?!
Services are about to begin!
For decades, Bishop Antonio Valdespino had been head priest and overseer of this cathedral. A longtime friend and spiritual counselor to the king, Valdespino was an outspoken and devout traditionalist with almost no tolerance for modernization. Incredibly, the eighty-three-year-old bishop still donned ankle shackles during Holy Week and joined the faithful carrying icons through the city streets.
Valdespino, of all people, is never late for mass.
The acolyte had been with the bishop twenty minutes ago in the vestry, assisting him with his robes as usual. Just as they finished, the bishop had received a text and, without a word, had hurried out.
Where did he go?
Having searched the sanctuary, the vestry, and even the bishop’s private restroom, the acolyte was now running at a sprint down the hallway to the administrative section of the cathedral to check the bishop’s office.
He heard a pipe organ thunder to life in the distance.
The processional hymn is starting!
The acolyte skidded to a stop outside the bishop’s private office, startled to see a shaft of light beneath his closed door. He’s here?!
The acolyte knocked quietly. “¿Excelencia Reverendísima?”
No answer.
Knocking louder, he called out, “¡¿Su Excelencia?!”
Still nothing.
Fearing for the old man’s health, the acolyte turned the handle and pushed open the door.
¡Cielos! The acolyte gasped as he peered into the private space.
Bishop Valdespino was seated at his mahogany desk, staring into the glow of a laptop computer. His holy miter was still on his head, his chasuble wadded beneath him, and his crozier staff propped unceremoniously against the wall.
The acolyte cleared his throat. “La santa misa está—”
“Preparada,” the bishop interrupted, his eyes never moving from the screen. “Padre Derida me sustituye.”
The acolyte stared in bewilderment. Father Derida is substituting? A junior priest overseeing Saturday-night mass was highly irregular.
“¡Vete ya!” Valdespino snapped without looking up. “Y cierra la puerta.”
Fearful, the boy did as he was told, leaving immediately and closing the door as he went.
Hurrying back toward the sounds of the pipe organ, the acolyte wondered what the bishop could possibly be viewing on his computer that would pull his mind so far from his duties to God.
At that moment, Admiral Ávila was snaking through the growing crowd in the Guggenheim’s atrium, puzzled to see guests chatting with their sleek headsets. Apparently the audio tour of the museum was a two-way conversation.
He felt glad to have jettisoned the device.
No distractions tonight.
He checked his watch and eyed the elevators. They were already crowded with guests heading to the main event upstairs, so Ávila opted for the stairs. As he climbed, he felt the same tremor of incredulity he had felt last night. Have I really become a man capable of killing? The godless souls who had ripped away his wife and child had transformed him. My actions are sanctioned by a higher authority, he reminded himself. There is righteousness in what I do.
As Ávila reached the first landing, his gaze was drawn to a woman on a nearby suspended catwalk. Spain’s newest celebrity, he thought, eyeing the famous beauty.
She wore a formfitting white dress with a black diagonal stripe that ran elegantly across her torso. Her slender figure, lush dark hair, and graceful carriage were easy to admire, and Ávila noticed he was not the only one with eyes on her.
In addition to the approving glances of the other guests, the woman in white held the full attention of two sleek security officers who shadowed her closely. The men moved with the wary confidence of panthers and wore matching blue blazers with embroidered crests and the large initials GR.
Ávila was not surprised by their presence, and yet the sight of them made his pulse quicken. As a former member of the Spanish armed forces, he knew full well what GR signified. These two security escorts would be armed and as well trained as any bodyguards on earth.
If they are present, I must take every precaution, Ávila told himself.
“Hey!” a man’s voice barked, directly behind him.
Ávila spun around.
A paunchy man in a tuxedo and a black cowboy hat was smiling broadly at him. “Great costume!” the man said, pointing to Ávila’s military uniform. “Where does someone get something like that?”
Ávila stared, fists clenching reflexively. Through a lifetime of service and sacrifice, he thought. “No hablo inglés,” Ávila replied with a shrug, and continued up the stairs.
On the second floor, Ávila found a long hallway and followed signs to a remote restroom at the far end. He was about to enter when the lights throughout the museum faded off and on—the first gentle nudge urging guests to start heading upstairs for the presentation.
Ávila entered the deserted restroom, chose the last stall, and locked himself inside. Alone now, he felt the familiar demons trying to surface within him, threatening to drag him back into the abyss.
Five years, and the memories still haunt me.
Angrily, Ávila pushed the horrors from his mind and retrieved the rosary beads from his pocket. Gently, he looped them over the coat hook on the door. As the beads and crucifix swung peacefully before him, he admired his handiwork. The devout might be horrified that anyone could defile the rosary by creating an object like this. Even so, Ávila had been assured by the Regent that desperate times afforded a certain flexibility in the rules of absolution.
Where is Bishop Valdespino?!
Services are about to begin!
For decades, Bishop Antonio Valdespino had been head priest and overseer of this cathedral. A longtime friend and spiritual counselor to the king, Valdespino was an outspoken and devout traditionalist with almost no tolerance for modernization. Incredibly, the eighty-three-year-old bishop still donned ankle shackles during Holy Week and joined the faithful carrying icons through the city streets.
Valdespino, of all people, is never late for mass.
The acolyte had been with the bishop twenty minutes ago in the vestry, assisting him with his robes as usual. Just as they finished, the bishop had received a text and, without a word, had hurried out.
Where did he go?
Having searched the sanctuary, the vestry, and even the bishop’s private restroom, the acolyte was now running at a sprint down the hallway to the administrative section of the cathedral to check the bishop’s office.
He heard a pipe organ thunder to life in the distance.
The processional hymn is starting!
The acolyte skidded to a stop outside the bishop’s private office, startled to see a shaft of light beneath his closed door. He’s here?!
The acolyte knocked quietly. “¿Excelencia Reverendísima?”
No answer.
Knocking louder, he called out, “¡¿Su Excelencia?!”
Still nothing.
Fearing for the old man’s health, the acolyte turned the handle and pushed open the door.
¡Cielos! The acolyte gasped as he peered into the private space.
Bishop Valdespino was seated at his mahogany desk, staring into the glow of a laptop computer. His holy miter was still on his head, his chasuble wadded beneath him, and his crozier staff propped unceremoniously against the wall.
The acolyte cleared his throat. “La santa misa está—”
“Preparada,” the bishop interrupted, his eyes never moving from the screen. “Padre Derida me sustituye.”
The acolyte stared in bewilderment. Father Derida is substituting? A junior priest overseeing Saturday-night mass was highly irregular.
“¡Vete ya!” Valdespino snapped without looking up. “Y cierra la puerta.”
Fearful, the boy did as he was told, leaving immediately and closing the door as he went.
Hurrying back toward the sounds of the pipe organ, the acolyte wondered what the bishop could possibly be viewing on his computer that would pull his mind so far from his duties to God.
At that moment, Admiral Ávila was snaking through the growing crowd in the Guggenheim’s atrium, puzzled to see guests chatting with their sleek headsets. Apparently the audio tour of the museum was a two-way conversation.
He felt glad to have jettisoned the device.
No distractions tonight.
He checked his watch and eyed the elevators. They were already crowded with guests heading to the main event upstairs, so Ávila opted for the stairs. As he climbed, he felt the same tremor of incredulity he had felt last night. Have I really become a man capable of killing? The godless souls who had ripped away his wife and child had transformed him. My actions are sanctioned by a higher authority, he reminded himself. There is righteousness in what I do.
As Ávila reached the first landing, his gaze was drawn to a woman on a nearby suspended catwalk. Spain’s newest celebrity, he thought, eyeing the famous beauty.
She wore a formfitting white dress with a black diagonal stripe that ran elegantly across her torso. Her slender figure, lush dark hair, and graceful carriage were easy to admire, and Ávila noticed he was not the only one with eyes on her.
In addition to the approving glances of the other guests, the woman in white held the full attention of two sleek security officers who shadowed her closely. The men moved with the wary confidence of panthers and wore matching blue blazers with embroidered crests and the large initials GR.
Ávila was not surprised by their presence, and yet the sight of them made his pulse quicken. As a former member of the Spanish armed forces, he knew full well what GR signified. These two security escorts would be armed and as well trained as any bodyguards on earth.
If they are present, I must take every precaution, Ávila told himself.
“Hey!” a man’s voice barked, directly behind him.
Ávila spun around.
A paunchy man in a tuxedo and a black cowboy hat was smiling broadly at him. “Great costume!” the man said, pointing to Ávila’s military uniform. “Where does someone get something like that?”
Ávila stared, fists clenching reflexively. Through a lifetime of service and sacrifice, he thought. “No hablo inglés,” Ávila replied with a shrug, and continued up the stairs.
On the second floor, Ávila found a long hallway and followed signs to a remote restroom at the far end. He was about to enter when the lights throughout the museum faded off and on—the first gentle nudge urging guests to start heading upstairs for the presentation.
Ávila entered the deserted restroom, chose the last stall, and locked himself inside. Alone now, he felt the familiar demons trying to surface within him, threatening to drag him back into the abyss.
Five years, and the memories still haunt me.
Angrily, Ávila pushed the horrors from his mind and retrieved the rosary beads from his pocket. Gently, he looped them over the coat hook on the door. As the beads and crucifix swung peacefully before him, he admired his handiwork. The devout might be horrified that anyone could defile the rosary by creating an object like this. Even so, Ávila had been assured by the Regent that desperate times afforded a certain flexibility in the rules of absolution.
