Gapinski and Torres had ended up with a whole lot of nothingburger nearly twenty-four hours after the scourging post was stolen from the Basilica of Saint Praxedes.
Zoe had been combing through CCTV footage in coordination with the Vatican and Rome police, searching for the black-panel van with the description Gapinski had given her.
Vesta and creepy-looking chick holding a bowl of fire.
She had discovered that the creepy-looking chick holding a bowl of fire was the Roman goddess Vesta, one of two ancient household deities. Vesta was a company that provided a range of household services, from cleaning to dry cleaning to food preparation. But that was as far as she was able to get.
When it came to tracking the van's location, she had come up empty. One win was that she had been able to get a clear shot of the vehicle and its license plate from a street cam, and discovered the van had been stolen a few days prior. The problem was that it was one in a fleet of Vesta service vehicles. The chance of finding the right one among a sea of other cars was impossible enough. But the prospect of finding the right car in a city the size of Rome, with all of the tourist traffic on top of the residential traffic was worse than nil.
Yet Gapinski drove onward, believing he could somehow stumble upon the rainbow-colored unicorn.
“So, Torres,” he said, merging onto a major thoroughfare through the city. “What’s your story? How’d you find yourself in our little outfit, anyway?”
Torres looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "That's not forward at all."
“Oh, come on. We’re practically blood siblings by now after what we went through at the basilica. And besides, you got anything better to do while we drive around like crazy people?”
She shrugged.
“Come on. Spill it.”
She rubbed her chin, then looked out her window at the passing traffic. How much should she share?
“Well, I’m sort of an ecclesial mutt. On top of being an ethnic mutt. My dad was Mexican, raised a strict Catholic. Mom was Jewish.”
“Wow! How’d that happen?”
She chuckled. “They met in college. Fell in love. You know how that goes.”
“So you were raised, what, like, a Catholic Jew? A Jewish Catholic, or something?”
“Mom was from Israel, so she was ethnically Jewish. But she was Messianic. She had believed Jesus was the long-awaited Messiah prophesied from the Hebrew Scriptures, and she put her faith in his death and resurrection. So she was a Christian like Dad was.”
“Got it. But wait. Did you say, was?”
She smiled weakly, staring out at the passing cars. “Yeah. Mom and Dad died when I was young.”
Gapinski whistled softly. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to dredge up an old memory."
“It’s fine.”
“When was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She continued staring at the quaint world slowly passing outside, a part of her longing for such a simple life again. She sighed, and said, “I was sixteen. Moved in with my uncle, who was an oil mogul in Mexico and Venezuela.”
“Like the cartel?”
She shot him a look. “No. Not like the cartel. The cartel peddles in drugs. And violence and mayhem.”
“Sorry,” he quickly said.
“Anyway, so I lived with him a few years in Venezuela. Mostly on my own, since he had his hands tied up with his business. He’d never married, so I had the run of the place. It was nice.”
She smiled, the memory of her uncle both sweet and sour, his generosity overshadowed by her betrayal.
“Sounds like it. So you had the run of some kick-ass mansion in the mountains of Venezuela. Then what?”
“Then, when I was eighteen, I joined the Israeli Defense Force. Wanted to discover my roots and all that. Served three years, then got out and moved to America.”
“Wait. IDF? So are you, like, some Krav Maga ninja chick?”
She smiled and shook her head at the thought. “I wouldn’t say that. But I’ve got some moves.”
“Can’t wait to see those!” He stopped short, blushing. “You know, in some confrontation with Nous or something.”
She laughed. “I’ll be sure to bring it next time we meet Farhad.”
“So IDF to America.”
“IDF to America. I enrolled in an accelerated program at UCLA studying Mesoamerican and pre-Columbian cultures.”
“Meso-what?”
She smiled. “Mesoamerican. It was a region and cultural area in the Americas, extending from central Mexico down to northern Costa Rica.
“Like the Mayas and Aztecs?”
"Exactly. Basically, they were people groups who flourished before Columbus came and jacked everything up and the Spanish colonized the Americas in the 15th and 16th centuries."
“Ahh. Got it. So you were following the ancestor's trail, as you did with IDF?”
Torres furrowed her brow in thought. “You know, I hadn’t really thought of it like that before. But…I guess I was sort of trying to connect with two parts of my family history.”
She was taken aback by the man’s insight. And she didn’t like that he could put a finger on her psyche like that. She sank slightly in her seat at the thought. She was far too guarded to let someone figure her out.
“Alright, hoss,” she quickly said. “Your turn. How’d you end up with this ecclesiastical street gang.”
He snorted, then smiled. “Ecclesiastical street gang. Good one.”
“Let’s have it. What’s your story with SEPIO? What’s your interest in all of this?”
He gripped the steering wheel and took a breath. “You said you were an ecclesial and ethnic mutt. I’m the farthest thing from. Born and raised in the Deep South.”
“Oh, yeah? How deep?”
“Like, Georgia deep. And my grandpappy was a Southern Baptist Minister.”
“Ahh, that deep.”
He chuckled. “Yep. I’m as American as apple pie and Johnny Cash.”
“And I bet your church was, too.”
“Pretty much. July Fourth had its own Sunday service alongside Christmas and Easter.”
“But never Epiphany, Day of Ascension, or Feast of the Immaculate Conception.”
“Hell no!”
They both laughed at the incredibly different ways they had been raised in the faith.
“But you’re an operative within a Catholic Order,” Torres pressed. “Well, I guess not Catholic anymore, since it’s gone all ecumenical, from what I understand.”
“Yeah, no more Popery, as the Reformers would say.”
She scoffed at the mention of the Reformation.
Gapinski turned to her. “What, you’re not down with the Reformation?”
She shrugged. “I’m agnostic about it.”
“Nice.”
“Anyway. Enough with my story. Back to you. Can’t imagine your Southern Baptist grandpappy, as you said, was all that thrilled about his grandson working for a former Catholic order.”
“Well…” Gapinski started, “he thinks I’m working for some super-secret government-like agency.”
Torres turned in her seat to face him, feigning shock. “You lied to your Southern Baptist pastor grandpappy?”
“I didn't lie per se. I didn't say government agency. I said government-like. SEPIO is an agency. And it’s super-secret. He just didn’t need to know what kind of super-secret agency.” He turned to her and grinned. “And actually, maybe you didn’t get the memo, but that’s the party line if any of your family asks.”
“Yeah, I gathered from my orientation that the Order of Thaddeus wasn’t too keen on the rest of the world knowing about our little side project.”
“Not really. What’s important is the memory we’re protecting and preserving. Not how we go about doing it.”
“Got it,” she said. “But wait a minute. You never said how you came to be working for the Order and SEPIO.”
Gapinski gave a deep, hearty laugh. “Now, that’s a story.” He turned down another street that was stopped with traffic. “For the love!”
“Stay calm, and spill the beans.”
“Actually, I blame my Southern Baptist grandpappy.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I love the man. And he’s taught me more about God and his love and his ways than anyone else on the planet. But growing up in the Baptist world that was drained of liturgy and a real, tangible connection to our collective spiritual past began to weigh on me.”
“Interesting, but I don’t follow. What do you mean?”
“Well, take Communion. Or what you Catholics call the Eucharist. You are Catholic, right? I guess I made a big assumption there, with you being from Mexico and all.”
She paused and smiled. “You could say that.”
“So growing up I used to help Grandpappy prep communion, cutting up the Wonder Bread and filling tiny plastic cups with grape juice.”
“How cute.”
“Oh, it was! But then we started using these little vacuum-sealed, grape-juice-filled cups with a stale, cardboard-tasting cracker thingy on top. Think Stouffer's TV dinners. Same fake, unfulfilling experience.”
“Gosh. That seems sacrilegious to me.”
“Tell me about it. No meaning, no communal connection. The farthest thing our Christian ancestors practiced when it came to following Jesus' command to remember his crucifixion. How does a pre-packaged, plastic cup of grape juice and vacuum-sealed, stale cracker serve as a remembrance of the slaughtered, broken, bloody body of our Savior? Might as well serve Kool-Aid and Twinkies!”
“So you’re a Protestant-turned-Catholic, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But I got super-burned by the shallowness of my childhood faith experience. Never lost sight of Jesus and the faith. But wanted more. Long story, but got connected to Radcliffe and he offered me a vision for fighting for what I’d been searching for. Figured why not become the change I wanted to see, as the saying goes.”
He went silent and continued driving in search of the white-whale mystery van.
“Hey, look!” Gapinski exclaimed.
Torres searched outside through the windshield. “What? You see the van?”
“No a KFC. Guess American cuisine has colonized even the Eternal City.”
Torres slugged her partner.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“I thought you were pointing out something important,” she said.
He pulled into the parking lot, finding a spot near the entrance. “KFC is important. I’m starved. Let’s get some grub.”
Torres rolled her eyes. “I guess I could use a bucket of Extra Crispy.”
“Now you’re talking!”
Gapinski held the door for Torres as they walked inside. She smiled at his chivalry.
“Was that your stomach?”
“You heard that?" he said as they got in line. "I'm way past due for a fill-up. And a whiff of that All-American goodness has got the gut fired up.”
“I’d say.”
They made their way to the front registered, far too slowly for the liking of Gapinski’s stomach. When a register opened up, Gapinski took the lead.
“Howdy, partner. We’ll take a bucket of Extra Crispy for the lady.”
“I can’t eat a whole bucket!” she exclaimed.
He smirked. "Lightweight. Alright, we'll share the bucket, but add some Extra Crispy tenders on the side. Then we'll have a tub of mashed potatoes and a couple sides of gravy. Might as well add a tub of green beans to balance it all out."
He turned to Torres. “You like mac and cheese?”
She tilted her head in thought. “I could go for mac and cheese.”
“A tub of that, then. And…a box of biscuits. And make sure you add a handful of honey packets. Nothing like biscuits and honey.”
“Goodness! It’s just the two of us, man.”
"What? Gotta take what you can get and fill up when you can. First rule of the stakeout. Never know when you'll get to eat again."
He handed the cashier his credit card. After paying, they stepped to the left side of the counter to wait for their food. It was taking longer than Gapinski’s stomach could handle. He looked outside the drive-thru window to see a black van pulling away. It slowly moved past a large picture window on the other side of the restaurant and stopped, its driver stopping to inspect the contents of the bag.
On the side panel were the words “Vesta.”
And the creepy lady holding the bowl of fire.
“What the…”
Gapinski ran to the final window panel as the van was pulling away to get a look at the driver. He startled.
He turned toward Torres, and yelled, “It’s Mr. Mustache!”
All heads turned to her standing next to their newly arrived bags of food. She ran to the window to confirm as it stopped at the driveway exit just beyond the window.
Sunglasses and a mustache.
Had to be Farhad.
“Let’s go,” she said turning toward the exit.
"First things first," Gapinski said. He ran to the counter and grabbed their tub of fried chicken and bags of sides. "Now we're ready to roll."