Sunday, July 30, 11:00 a.m.
The beating of my heart seemed louder than the ticking of the small mantle clock on the bookcase. The emerald banner and its metal stand were nowhere in sight. I crossed the room and opened the closet. The folding chairs that Marek reserved for unwelcome guests were there, but no banner. I rummaged through the closet and discovered two fifths of Grey Goose hidden under blankets on an upper shelf. Vodka, the beverage of choice for covert drinkers. And apparently, the full collection basket allowed Marek to buy the very best.
I closed the closet door and inspected the bookcase. Religious tomes and history books rested on either side of the mantle clock. The upper shelf held a selection of mystery and true crime novels. Two sliding doors in the base of the bookcase concealed an old boom box and several photo albums.
The choir’s joyous crescendo echoed from the nave, sending me into a panic. I removed a few random books from the shelves, found nothing, replaced them, and examined Marek’s desk.
An old-fashioned, paper calendar on the desktop indicated that Marek had very few activities outside of church functions, except for the days that he volunteered at the Free Clinic. Three telephone number were scribbled along the top of the calendar. I recognized two of them. One was for Bishop Lucci’s office, the other for the Sacred Heart rectory. Could Marek have made the threatening call that I’d found on my answering machine? The third number was unfamiliar and I jotted it on my hand with a pen.
Rifling through the desk drawers revealed office supplies, a dictionary, and a Bible. The top drawer was locked and when I yanked it, the bulky computer on the desk sensed my movement, awakened from its slumber, and requested a password.
Although unlikely to reveal anything relevant, I considered trying a few of the obvious computer passwords, but the organist launched into the Kyrie and Gloria with a great flourish. An army of voices from the church joined in, indicating that Mass was progressing quickly, so I moved on.
If I couldn’t locate the banner, maybe I could find Marek’s peephole. Logic dictated that there had to be one somewhere, since the miracle only happened when someone was looking directly at Mary’s statue. His office abutted the left side of the church, so I turned my attention to the shared wall where three paintings hung.
St. Wenceslaus’s portrait was the largest and located between the other two. It was reminiscent of the famous statue in Prague, the bearded Duke of Bohemia wearing a suit of armor hours before his martyrdom.
I lifted the picture from a hook on the wall, found nothing, and replaced it. Wenceslaus was flanked by John Paul I, the Italian pope who died after just thirty three days in the Papal Palace, and John Paul II, the first Polish pontiff. Both of these portraits merely concealed small areas of water damage and chipped paint.
The Alleluia filled the church. Marek would begin his homily soon. Hopefully, he would be longwinded. If he opted for brevity, I had little time left.
The two large metal filing cabinets near the portraits were locked. I had no card trick for that problem. If Bishop Lucci wanted a cat burglar with lock picking skills, he’d sent the wrong guy. The cabinets were also too heavy to move. I pulled a small Maglite from my pocket and used its beam to peer behind each one, but saw only dust bunnies on the floor. No peepholes were visible in the wall.
An unlocked leather briefcase leaned against the wall. I thumbed through a half dozen church-related file folders, flyers for the Free Clinic, and a couple of magazines.
The Offertory Hymn rang out. Marek’s sermon had been brief. Hopefully, the communion line would be long and slow. I rummaged through several wooden cupboards near his desk. One contained boxes of prayer candles, the rest the usual odds and ends. A small refrigerator hummed away beneath the cupboards. A cursory examination of its contents revealed snack food, a bottle of cranberry juice, and a few cans of Coke and Sprite, probably mixers for Marek’s vodka.
Out of ideas and frantic, I began lifting couch cushions, unearthing loose change, cookie crumbs, and a paperclip. Feeling ridiculous, I made sure that everything in the room was as I had found it, stepped into the hallway, and locked the door as Marek recited the prayer after communion. Time was running out.
I refocused on what I’d seen in the church—a drop of blood materializing from nowhere. A drop. Maybe I’d find the emerald banner or something significant in the attic above the statue.
Doors were located on either side of the restrooms in the church foyer. The nearest was locked. It gave off the faint aroma of ammonia, suggesting a janitor’s closet. I tried the card trick again. No matter how I jiggled it or how hard I pushed, the door wouldn’t budge.
The organ erupted into the exit hymn, and my heart up-shifted.
Damn it!
As I turned toward the other door, worshippers surged from the nave like a raging river, streaming out of the main church entrance or into the restrooms. I tried crossing against the current to reach the second door, but parishioners hurrying to lunch or in need of a toilet can be an aggressive lot.
I was halfway through the crowd when I heard Emily’s voice.
“Father Marek, would you help me, please?”
Emily stood in the doorway connecting the church to the foyer, wielding her red and white cane in a wide arc, parting the flow of humanity. Her voice was loud, a warning.
Marek froze. “Why are you here again, Miss? I don’t want any more trouble from the two of you.”
I squeezed between a fat man and elderly woman.
“Oh no, Father, I’m alone. A friend dropped me off for Mass.”
“By a friend, I assume you mean Father Jake.”
“Ah … no. A girlfriend. I came like everyone else,” Emily said tapping her sunglasses, “hoping for a cure.”
“Girlfriend, huh?”
“Please, Father.” She reached out and took his arm. “Everyone’s in such a hurry, I’m afraid I’ll be knocked down.”
“Okay, I’ll walk you out.”
I was in the thick of the crowd and my progress was slow. Marek and Emily were close enough that I could make out their conversation over the din, so I tried to keep my back to them.
I heard Emily say, “Oh, wait Father, I dropped my cane. Could you get it for me?”
I glanced over as Marek reached down and retrieved it for her. As he stood, Emily swayed unsteadily and grabbed his arm again. “Oh, I’m so dizzy. I should have eaten something before receiving communion. May I sit down somewhere till my friend arrives?”
And the Oscar for most helpless heroine goes to ….
There were no chairs in the foyer. Marek looked back at the church, but the faithful were still pouring out. “Fine. In my office. This way.”
I collided with a young man who was texting, then slipped through the last of the crowd to the second door. It was unlocked. I entered, closed it behind me, took out my Maglite, and followed its beam up a dark, narrow staircase to an unfinished attic. The hot, moist air smelled of mildew. Someone had written DANGER on the top step in red paint.
Without windows, there was no natural light. Plywood boards partially covered the rough-hewn rafters near the stairs. Numerous dusty cardboard boxes were stacked on one side. Some were labeled. Christmas lights. Ceramic Nativity. Hymnals. Pageant costumes. Easter decorations. Choir robes. If evidence was hidden in an unlabeled or intentionally mislabeled box, I had no chance of finding it.
The mobile stand holding the PRAISE HER banner was stored on the other side. Next to it, a metal chain hung from a bare ceiling bulb. I didn’t turn it on, however, fearing that light might show around the door at the bottom of the stairs and give my presence away.
I inspected every inch of the banner and stand using my flashlight. The cloth banner contained no hidden compartment. Disassembling the stand’s metal tubing revealed nothing.
Crap! I was so sure!
My legs felt rubbery. I leaned against an old wooden chair, noticed the telephone number I’d inked on my hand, and dialed it on my cell. A soft female voice responded.
“You’ve reached the office of The Very Reverend Father Stefano Demarco. The office is closed. Office hours are Monday through Friday from nine a.m. until five p.m. If this is an emergency, please call ….”
What? Why would Marek have the number of my Superior General? Did he have powerful allies in the Camillian order? Was he trying to undermine my ministry? Had he already made the call?
That did it! If Marek wanted to fight dirty, I‘d give him a bare-knuckle brawl. The gloves were off.
I had to think. If the banner and stand weren’t the source of the blood, then I needed to examine the area directly over Mary’s statue approximately twenty feet away, beyond where the plywood flooring ended.
Rolled insulation covered the space between the support beams. My only option was to tight-rope along one of these ancient timbers. If I lost my balance and fell onto the insulation, I could end up crashing through the church ceiling.
The attic swelter was oppressive. Perspiration had soaked through my dress shirt, gluing it to my skin. I removed my tie and sport coat, and rolled up my sleeves.
The church ceiling beams were substantial and wide enough to walk on, but I couldn’t tell exactly where the statue was located below me. Unable to decide which to choose, I guided my light down each timber. All were filthy—except for one. Its layer of dust had been disturbed.
As I stepped onto it, the beam creaked loudly. I hesitated for a moment, directed my flashlight into the gloom, and took two steps. My loafer clacked against the wood, the sound echoing throughout the attic. Worse, the leather soles were slick and provided no traction.
I stepped back onto the plywood floor and removed my shoes. With my arms extended to the sides for balance, I started again, carefully making my way in stocking feet to a point on the timber where the grime was undisturbed.
Crouching down, my light found a handprint in the dust on the insulation. I lifted a sheet of pink fiberglass, then another. A thin, red-stained plastic tube lay beneath it, leading to a long needle, the kind used in hospitals for lumbar punctures. Marek had shoved it through the plaster ceiling. From the church far below, it would be nearly impossible to see or would resemble the tip of an errant carpenter’s nail.
Got you, Marek! Miracle my ass.
But why had he left the evidence here? Why hadn’t he removed it? Had he become cocky when Bishop Lucci’s investigators found nothing? Or had he been boozing and simply forgot to remove it? Doubtful.
More likely, Marek intended to perform more miracles in the future. With a twenty foot distance to the statue below, any slight movement of the needle tip would dramatically alter where the drop of blood landed. That explained why the blood had appeared in Mary’s left eye for Milan Cierny, above it for Maude Dvorak, and on the left cheek for me. It must have taken considerable trial and error to get the trajectory right. Once he had, he undoubtedly was afraid to touch it.
One end of the plastic tube was still connected to the needle. The other end was capped, but designed to attach to a syringe. I removed the cap and a thick red drop trickled out. The blood must have contained an anticoagulant to keep it from clotting. I recapped the tube and took photos with my cellphone, then removed the tube and needle, placing them in a plastic bag I’d brought with me.
I hadn’t found the peephole that Marek used to time his miracles so that they occurred when someone was looking at the statue. I was sure one existed somewhere in the attic, but its location no longer mattered. I had all the evidence I needed and couldn’t wait to deliver the knockout punch in our bare-knuckle brawl.