Virgin (27 page)

There were
crossing a one-car bridge over a gushing stream. As Vincenzo squinted ahead,
his first impulse was to ask, Where's the rest of it? But he held his tongue.
Two hundred yards down the road lay a cluster of neat little one-and two-story
buildings, fewer than a dozen in number, set on either side of the road. One of
them was a pub--
blaney's,
the
gold-on-black sign said. As they coasted through the village, Vincenzo spotted
a number of local men and women setting up picnic tables on the narrow sward
next to the pub.

Up ahead, at
the far end of the street, a crowd of people waited before a neat, two-story,
stucco-walled house.

"And that
would be Seamus O'Halloran's house, I imagine," Vincenzo said.

"That it
would, Monsignor. That it would."

There were
hands to shake and Father Sullivan to greet, and introductions crowded one on
top of the other until the names ran together like watercolors in the rain. The
warmest reception he'd ever had, an excited party spirit running through the
villagers. The priest from Rome was going to certify the Weeping Virgin as an
inexplicable phenomenon of Divine origin, an act of God made manifest to the
faithful, a true miracle, a sign that Cashelbanagh had been singled out to be
touched by God. There was even a reporter from a Dublin paper to record it. And
what a celebration there'd be afterward.

And then
Vincenzo was led around to the side of the house to stare at the famous Weeping
Virgin of Cashelbanagh on Seamus O'Halloran's wall.

Nothing special
about the painting. Rather crude, actually. A very stiff-looking profile of the
Blessed
Mother in the traditional blue robe and wimple with a halo behind her head.

And yes, there
was indeed a gleaming track of moisture running from the painting's eye.

"The tears
appear every day, Monsignor," O'Halloran
said,
twisting his cloth cap in his bony hands as if there was moisture to be wrung
from it.

"I can
confirm that," Father Sullivan said, his ample red cheeks aglow.
"I've been watching the
wall for weeks now."

As Vincenzo
continued staring at the wall, noting the fine meshwork of cracks in the stucco
finish, the chips here and there that revealed the stonework beneath, the crowd
grew silent around him.

He stepped
closer and touched his finger to the trickle, then touched the finger to his
tongue. Water. A mineral flavor, but not salty. Not tears.

"Would
someone bring me a ladder, please," he said. "One long enough to
reach the roof."

Three men ran off immediately, and five minutes later he was
climbing to the top of the gable over the Weeping Virgin's wall. He found wet
and rotted roof wood at the point. At his request a pry bar was brought and,
with O'Halloran's permission, he knocked away some of the soft wood.

Vincenzo's heart sank when he saw it. A cuplike depression in the
stones near the top of the gable, half filled with clear liquid. It didn't take
a rocket scientist to deduce that water collected there on rainy days--rarely
was there a week, even in the summer, without at least one or two rainy
days--and percolated through the stones and grout of the wall to emerge as a
trickle by the painting's eye.

The folk of
Cashelbanagh were anything but receptive to this rational explanation of their
miracle.

"There may
be water up there," O'Halloran said, his huge Adam's apple bobbing
angrily, "but who's to say that's where the tears come from? You've no
proof. Prove it, Monsignor. Prove those aren't the tears of the Blessed
Virgin."

He'd hoped it
wouldn't turn out like this, but so often it did. He'd hoped discovery of the
puddle would be enough, but obviously it wasn't. And he couldn't leave these
people to go on making a shrine out of a leaky wall.

"
Can someone
get me a bottle of red wine?" Vincenzo said.

"This may be Ireland, Monsignor," Father
Sullivan said, "but I hardly think this is time for a drink."

Amid the
laughter Vincenzo said, "I'll use it to prove my theory. But it must be
red."

While someone
ran to Blaney's pub for a bottle, Vincenzo climbed the ladder again and
splashed all the water out of the depression. Then he refilled it with the
wine.

By evening,
when the Virgin's tears turned red, Vincenzo felt no sense of victory. His heart
went out to these crestfallen people. He saw his driver standing nearby,
looking as dejected as the rest of them.

"Shall I
call a taxi, Michael?"

"No,
Monsignor." Michael sighed. "That's all right. I'll be taking you
back to Shannon whenever you want."

But the airport
was not where Vincenzo needed to go. He hadn't figured on this quick a
resolution to the question of the Weeping Virgin of Cashelbanagh. His flight
out wasn't scheduled until tomorrow night.

"Can you
find me a hotel?"

"Sure,
Monsignor. There's a lot of good ones in Cork City."

They passed
Blaney's pub again on the way out of town. The picnic tables were set and waiting.
Empty. The fading sunlight glinted off the polished flatware, the white linen
tablecloths flapped gently in the breeze.

If only he
could have told them how he shared their disappointment, how deeply he longed
for one of these "miracles" he investigated to pan out, how much he
needed a miracle for himself.

Cork Harbor, Ireland

Carrie's heart
leapt as she recognized the crate on the pallet being lifted from the aft hold
of the freighter.

"There it
is, Dan!" she whispered, pointing.

"You
sure?" he said, squinting through the dusky light. "Looks like any of
a couple of dozen other crates that've come out already."

She wondered
how Dan could have any doubt. She'd known it the instant it cleared the hold.

"That's
the one," she said. "No question about it."

She locked her
gaze on the crate and didn't let it out of her sight until Bernard Kaplan's man
cleared it through Irish customs and wheeled it over to them on a dolly.

"Are you
quite sure you'll be wanting to take it from here yourself?" he said. He
was a plump little fellow with curly brown hair, a handlebar mustache, and a
Barry Fitzgerald brogue.

Dan glanced at
her. "Well . . ."

"Quite
sure, Mr. Cassidy," Carrie said, extending her hand. "Thank you for
your assistance."

"Not at
all, Mrs. Ferris. Just remember, your crate's got to be at Dublin Harbor the
morning after tomorrow, six sharp or, believe me youse, she'll miss the loading
and then God knows when she'll get to New York."

"We'll be
there," Carrie said.

"I hope
so, 'cause I'm washing me hands of it now." He glanced at his watch.
"You've got turty-four hours. Plenty of time. Just don't you be getting
yourself lost along the way."

He waved and
walked off.

"Now that
we've got her," Dan said, tapping the top of the crate, "what do we
do with her? We've got to find a place to store her overnight."

"Store
her?" Carrie said. "We're not sticking her in some smelly old
warehouse full of rats."

"What do
you think crawls around the hold of the
Greenbriar,
my dear?"

There was an
edge to his voice. Not sharp enough to cut, but enough for Carrie to notice.

Things hadn't been quite the same between them since finding the
Virgin. They'd had some moments of closeness on the plane to Heathrow after
outfoxing that Israeli intelligence man, or whoever he was, and some of that
had lingered during the whirl of booking the shuttle to Shannon and finding a
hotel room in Cork City. But once they were settled in, a distance began to
reopen between them.

It's me, she
thought. I know it's me.

She couldn't
help it. All she could think about since they'd set their bags down in the
Drury Hotel was that crate and its precious contents. They'd had days to kill
and Dan wanted to see some of the countryside. Carrie had gone along, but she
hadn't been much company. One day they drove north through the rocky and
forbidding Burren to Galway Bay; on another he took her down to Kinsale, but
the quaint little harbor there only made her think about the
Greenbriar
and
worry about its voyage. She fought visions of rough seas capsizing her, of her
running aground and tearing open her hull, seawater gushing into the cargo hold
and submerging the Virgin's crate, the Mediterranean swallowing the
Greenbriar
and everything aboard. She spent every spare minute hovering over the
radio, dissecting every weather report from the Mediterranean.

Obsessed.

She knew that.
And she knew her obsession was coming between her and Dan. But as much as she
valued their love, it had to take a backseat for now. Just for a while. Until
they got to New York.

After all, what
could be more important than seeing the Blessed Virgin safely to her new
Resting Place--wherever that may be?

They hadn't
made love since finding the Virgin, and she sensed that was what was really
bothering Dan the most. In New York they suffered through much, much longer
intervals without so much as touching hands, but that was different. Here
they'd been sleeping in the same bed every night and Carrie had put him off
again and again. She wasn't sure why.

After they were
resettled in New York, Carrie was sure things would get back to normal. At
least she hoped they would. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she didn't
feel quite the same about Dan. She still loved him fiercely, but she didn't
want
him as she had two weeks ago when they'd left New York for Israel.

Because right
now, it just didn't seem . . . right.

"We're
taking her back to the hotel with us."

"What?"
Dan said. She could see his body
stiffening with tension. "You can't do that."

"Why not?
We're paying for the room and there's nothing that says we can't keep a crate
in it. Besides, it's only for two nights."

"You've
got to be kidding."

She gave him a
long, level look. "I assure you, Dan, I am not kidding."

Dan slipped his
arm around her waist from behind and nuzzled her neck. Carrie felt her whole
left arm break out in gooseflesh.

"Not now,
Dan," she said, pulling free and stepping away from him. She pointed to
the crate.
Her voice lowered to a whisper of its own accord. "Not
with
her
here."

Two bellmen had
lugged the Virgin's crate up to their second-floor room and left it on the
floor by the window. Beyond the window the River Lee made its sluggish way to
the sea.

Dan returned
her whisper, Elmer Fudd style. "We'll be vewy, vewy quiet. She'll never
know."

Carrie had to
laugh. "Oh, Dan. I love you, I do, but please understand. It just wouldn't
be right."

He stared at
her a moment. Was that hurt in his eyes? But he seemed to understand. She
prayed he did.

He sighed.
"All right, then, how about we go down to the lounge and see Hal Roach?
He's only down from Dublin for one night."

"I don't
think so," she said. She wasn't really in the mood for Ireland's answer to
Henry Youngman.

"How about
we just go for a walk?"

Carrie shook
her head. "I think I'd rather just stay here."

Dan's
expression tightened. "Watching over her, I suppose."

She nodded.
"In a way, yes."

"Don't you
think you might be getting just a little carried away with this, Carrie?"

Yes, she
thought. Yes, I might. But the Virgin was here, and so here is where Carrie
wanted to be. Simple. She'd waited all this time on tenter hooks for the
Virgin's arrival from Haifa, and she wasn't about to let her out of her sight
until her crate was safely on board the ship in Dublin Harbor.

"I just
want to stay here with her, Dan. Is that so bad?"

"Bad?"
he said. "No. I can't say it's bad. But I don't think it's healthy."