The Angel
Page 49
She put the Bible back on the shelf and turned her attention to the desk. Something seemed off about it, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Then she realized—no computer. Well, maybe he had a laptop. Although she didn’t see any computer accessories anywhere, either—no printer, no power cords, no internet router. She only saw Montblanc pens and high-quality writing paper on his desk. Father Stearns might be something of a Luddite. That would explain his lack of internet presence.
Slowly she opened the desk drawer and felt a distinct sense of disappointment as she found nothing but more pens and paper inside. A few file folders held nothing of interest—only schedules and lists of Bible verses in impeccable male handwriting. The other desk drawers produced no shocking revelations, either. In the bottom drawer she found dozens more Montblanc pens still in boxes. Briefly she wondered if Father Stearns had some sort of ink pen fetish. Then she noticed many of the boxes still had tags on them—gift tags from parishioners bearing messages of affection and appreciation. It reminded Suzanne of her friend Emily, a kindergarten teacher at a private school. Every Christmas her students’ parents inundated her with every conceivable sort of Teacher’s Apple product in existence. Apparently the people of Sacred Heart had learned of their priest’s fondness for high-quality writing instruments and showered him with them every year.
You bless us year after year, Father. Love in Christ, the Harpers, read one tag.
Thank you for saving our marriage, Father. Bless you, Alex and Rachel, read another.
Is it a sin to combine a priest’s birthday and Christmas presents? We’ll talk about it in Confession if it is. Merry Birthday, Dr. and Mrs. Dr. Keighley, read a tag on a box that held a Montblanc pen and pencil set.
Combine Christmas and birthday? With that sentence, Suzanne realized she’d been right. Father Marcus Lennox Stearns, born December 21st, 1965, was indeed the son of Marcus Augustus Stearns, the English baron who’d moved to New Hampshire and married money. Amazing. So her target had actually given up a title in the British peerage for the Catholic Church? Unbelievable. Not only did he give up his mother’s wealth and his father’s title, he’d given up women for the Church. Most priests she’d met in her day seemed of the “doomed to die a virgin” variety. Humorless, unattractive, socially awkward…the opposite of Father Stearns in every way.
Shaking her head, Suzanne pulled out one last box, this one red, and flipped open the card.
Meine andere Geschenk wird nicht in einer Box passen. AABYE
Good God, how many languages would she have to deal with tonight? Rolling her eyes in frustration, Suzanne pulled out her notebook and copied the words down. At least this language she could recognize—German. And for some reason the last word, AABYE, rang some kind of bell with her. She searched her memory for whatever it was that seemed so familiar about it but came up empty. Stuffing her notebook in her purse, she scanned the top of the desk once more with her flashlight.
On the desk Suzanne found one item of interest—a photograph. She stared at the picture for a long time. A young woman of only about seventeen or eighteen years old, she looked remarkably like Father Stearns—pale blond hair, gray eyes, strikingly attractive. Suzanne eased the photo out of the frame and flipped the picture over. Jeg elsker dig, Onkel Søren. Kom og besøg snart, Laila, it read. Again with the Scandinavian inscriptions. Suzanne opened her notebook again and copied every word. Briefly she wondered if she was staring at Father Stearns’s daughter. Had he fathered a child at some point during his years as a priest? Could that be the reason for the anonymous fax and its mysterious “Possible conflict of interest” footnote?
Seemed unlikely. After all, if he did have a love child, she doubted someone as obviously intelligent and well educated as Father Stearns would simply keep a photo of his teenage daughter on his desk. She shook her head in frustration. She’d hoped for answers. All she had now were more questions.
As quietly as she could, Suzanne abandoned Father Stearns’s office and returned to the hallway. For some reason she felt drawn to return to the sanctuary instead of her car. Patrick’s information from the Wakefield sheriff indicated that Michael Dimir had made his suicide attempt in the actual Sacred Heart sanctuary. Trying to kill oneself was the ultimate cry for help. Whatever had inspired it, something in Suzanne wanted Michael Dimir to know she heard it.
Suzanne found the doors that lead from the narthex and into the sanctuary. Easing the heavy wooden door open, she slipped inside. Upon entering the sanctuary Suzanne discovered someone had left candles burning on the altar and scattered about the sanctuary. She froze as her eyes took in the candle nearest her. The burning wick had only begun to turn black. From behind her she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
She wasn’t alone.
* * *
Michael cast one last look back at Griffin before leaving the bedroom. Griffin gave Michael a little wink on his way out the door and a tiny part of him wanted to stay and keep talking. But he knew he wanted to spend the night submitting to Nora, needed it even. He just sort of wished Griffin could be there too.
For some reason, Michael had assumed he’d spend the night with Nora in her room. But Griffin’s butler led him instead upstairs to the third floor and all the way to a room at the end of the hallway.
The butler paused at the door, nodded politely to Michael and walked away. Michael took a deep breath, turned the doorknob and stepped into the room and into another time.
Slowly she opened the desk drawer and felt a distinct sense of disappointment as she found nothing but more pens and paper inside. A few file folders held nothing of interest—only schedules and lists of Bible verses in impeccable male handwriting. The other desk drawers produced no shocking revelations, either. In the bottom drawer she found dozens more Montblanc pens still in boxes. Briefly she wondered if Father Stearns had some sort of ink pen fetish. Then she noticed many of the boxes still had tags on them—gift tags from parishioners bearing messages of affection and appreciation. It reminded Suzanne of her friend Emily, a kindergarten teacher at a private school. Every Christmas her students’ parents inundated her with every conceivable sort of Teacher’s Apple product in existence. Apparently the people of Sacred Heart had learned of their priest’s fondness for high-quality writing instruments and showered him with them every year.
You bless us year after year, Father. Love in Christ, the Harpers, read one tag.
Thank you for saving our marriage, Father. Bless you, Alex and Rachel, read another.
Is it a sin to combine a priest’s birthday and Christmas presents? We’ll talk about it in Confession if it is. Merry Birthday, Dr. and Mrs. Dr. Keighley, read a tag on a box that held a Montblanc pen and pencil set.
Combine Christmas and birthday? With that sentence, Suzanne realized she’d been right. Father Marcus Lennox Stearns, born December 21st, 1965, was indeed the son of Marcus Augustus Stearns, the English baron who’d moved to New Hampshire and married money. Amazing. So her target had actually given up a title in the British peerage for the Catholic Church? Unbelievable. Not only did he give up his mother’s wealth and his father’s title, he’d given up women for the Church. Most priests she’d met in her day seemed of the “doomed to die a virgin” variety. Humorless, unattractive, socially awkward…the opposite of Father Stearns in every way.
Shaking her head, Suzanne pulled out one last box, this one red, and flipped open the card.
Meine andere Geschenk wird nicht in einer Box passen. AABYE
Good God, how many languages would she have to deal with tonight? Rolling her eyes in frustration, Suzanne pulled out her notebook and copied the words down. At least this language she could recognize—German. And for some reason the last word, AABYE, rang some kind of bell with her. She searched her memory for whatever it was that seemed so familiar about it but came up empty. Stuffing her notebook in her purse, she scanned the top of the desk once more with her flashlight.
On the desk Suzanne found one item of interest—a photograph. She stared at the picture for a long time. A young woman of only about seventeen or eighteen years old, she looked remarkably like Father Stearns—pale blond hair, gray eyes, strikingly attractive. Suzanne eased the photo out of the frame and flipped the picture over. Jeg elsker dig, Onkel Søren. Kom og besøg snart, Laila, it read. Again with the Scandinavian inscriptions. Suzanne opened her notebook again and copied every word. Briefly she wondered if she was staring at Father Stearns’s daughter. Had he fathered a child at some point during his years as a priest? Could that be the reason for the anonymous fax and its mysterious “Possible conflict of interest” footnote?
Seemed unlikely. After all, if he did have a love child, she doubted someone as obviously intelligent and well educated as Father Stearns would simply keep a photo of his teenage daughter on his desk. She shook her head in frustration. She’d hoped for answers. All she had now were more questions.
As quietly as she could, Suzanne abandoned Father Stearns’s office and returned to the hallway. For some reason she felt drawn to return to the sanctuary instead of her car. Patrick’s information from the Wakefield sheriff indicated that Michael Dimir had made his suicide attempt in the actual Sacred Heart sanctuary. Trying to kill oneself was the ultimate cry for help. Whatever had inspired it, something in Suzanne wanted Michael Dimir to know she heard it.
Suzanne found the doors that lead from the narthex and into the sanctuary. Easing the heavy wooden door open, she slipped inside. Upon entering the sanctuary Suzanne discovered someone had left candles burning on the altar and scattered about the sanctuary. She froze as her eyes took in the candle nearest her. The burning wick had only begun to turn black. From behind her she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
She wasn’t alone.
* * *
Michael cast one last look back at Griffin before leaving the bedroom. Griffin gave Michael a little wink on his way out the door and a tiny part of him wanted to stay and keep talking. But he knew he wanted to spend the night submitting to Nora, needed it even. He just sort of wished Griffin could be there too.
For some reason, Michael had assumed he’d spend the night with Nora in her room. But Griffin’s butler led him instead upstairs to the third floor and all the way to a room at the end of the hallway.
The butler paused at the door, nodded politely to Michael and walked away. Michael took a deep breath, turned the doorknob and stepped into the room and into another time.
