The Grinnell Science Building was the pride of All Saints College—the physical embodiment of the Jesuits’ claim to have married faith and reason. It had begun life as a squat, square structure that could well have been a Victorian gaol, with its inmates sentenced to making sketches of the flora and fauna in the college’s collection instead of picking oakum. Those long-gone students still graced the hall of the building, in sepia-toned poster presentations that showed them at tall dissection tables or wearing floppy hats as they ventured out into the field to collect specimens. The least moth-eaten of the taxidermy animals they once hunted were displayed in refurbished glass cabinets next to the posters. The rest of the building, however, had been ruthlessly updated by the descendants of Erastus Grinnell. The architectural bones remained, but the flesh was now a state of the art facility dedicated to the man’s memory—as well as, Clare was certain, writing off the research that created the enormous profits for the pharmaceutical giant that still bore the family name.
For obvious reasons, Lukas Croswell’s campus office was on the first floor, sharing an access ramp with the Campus Health Services he ran. Unlike the clinic at the Outreach Center, this campus clinic showed every sign of the Grinnell dollars that underwrote it. The waiting room looked more like a lounge, and the whole place was preternaturally clean, with a serenity fountain tumbling along one wall, and a counter full of herbal teas and bottles of spring water readily available to students awaiting medical attention for their hangovers.
Clare had only caught a glimpse of Lukas Croswell in the flurry of activity that had surrounded the resurrection of his son, but she had no difficulty remembering him. It wasn’t the fact that the man was confined to a wheelchair. It was that he occupied it like a throne.
“I’m Clare Malley,” she said, feeling obscurely like she was describing an embarrassing rash. “I believe Father Gregory’s secretary called and set up an appointment?”
“Lukas Croswell,” he said, and held out his hand. Clare assumed he meant for her to shake it, but there was something about the gesture that made her wonder whether he expected her to kneel and kiss some kind of ring instead. “Yes, I was expecting you. Unfortunately, Father Gregory’s office neglected to specify what exactly this was about. I assume it’s not a probe into the wait times at Health Services? Or an emergency appendectomy?”
Oh, Lord. He wasn’t about to make this easy, was he? She should have known as much after having watched him take over the chaotic scene at the Outreach Center like Cosimo Medici returning to seize control of Florence from the enemies who had exiled him.
“It’s about ...” Clare paused to choose her words. It didn’t take a leap of the imagination to guess that actually speaking the word ‘miracle’ would get her ushered out more quickly than a drunken student cursing out the receptionist.
“What happened at the Outreach Center.”
Lukas’s gaze never wavered. “And what exactly is Father Gregory’s interest in that?”
“There was a shooting.”
“I am well aware of that fact.”
“I assume you’re also aware that some of the people who were there claim to have witnessed...” His green eyes sharpened and she hesitated before measuring her words once more. “...an apparition. A ghostly priest who might have saved ...”
Your son. As Lukas Croswell damned well knew.
He drew a deep breath, his nostrils flaring with distaste. “In other words, the Church is resurrecting that old nonsense about the Cause of Father Enoch again?”
“No one’s done anything yet. Father Gregory is still trying to make up his mind. That’s why he wanted me to talk to you.”
“And what does he think that will accomplish? Does he seriously expect me to investigate my own son as dispassionately as ... the fish bone that St. Blaise miraculously dislodged from the choking boy’s throat?”
“Of course not. You’re scarcely a disinterested observer. That’s why he sent me—” Clare broke off, unable to help herself. “You’ve seen St. Blaise’s miraculous fish bone?”
“I’ve seen at least seven. And given the liturgical symmetry of the number, I feel comfortable in saying I’d be happy if I never saw another one.” Lukas studied her in a way that suggested he felt pretty much the same about her. “Are you a student of miracles, Dr. Malley?”
“It kind of comes with the territory. I’m a medievalist.”
Lukas cocked his head, as if deciding whether that might be some obscure symptom of some dreaded disease, possibly the plague. “Then it’s a pity we don’t have more time. I seem to recall having a finger of St. Jude somewhere. Somewhat tellingly, it seems to have been the middle one— rather appropriate for the patron saint of lost causes. Unfortunately, the foreskin with which Christ solemnized his mystical union with St. Catherine of Siena seems to be a fake. Not a fake foreskin, mind you. But nineteenth-century at best—”
“I’m sorry if I got carried away by professional curiosity,” Clare interrupted him hastily. Clearly the man was prepared to go on all night if she let him. “Really, that’s not at all why I’m here. Father Gregory just asked me to step in because I was there when it happened.”
Lukas’s eyes sharpened with as much clinical interest as if Clare herself were laid out beside his collection of nineteenth-century foreskins and miraculous fish bones. “You saw what happened?”
“Not exactly. I heard the shots. And then I saw your son lying on the ground.”
She hesitated, wondering whether that was too graphic a description, but Lukas barely seemed to notice. Suddenly, he was all scientist. “And did you see this ghostly priest?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s something to be said for that, at least,” Lukas managed to sound both surprised and approving—as if she had been called to the board to solve some particularly knotty problem and had come up with the correct answer against all odds. “Then, if you’ll pardon me asking, what exactly do you hope to accomplish by coming here?”
Feeling vaguely like a bishop at Confirmation, she said, “I suppose I need to ask you formally, whether, in your informed opinion, there’s any chance that what happened to your son was a miracle?”
“What happened to my son was not a miracle in anything but the most figurative sense of the word,” Lukas said. “Thank God.”
“Why thank God?”
“My son has been restored to me and all that,” Lukas said. “I believe it’s the done thing.”
“I meant, do you have something against miracles per se?”
Lukas stared at her for so long that she began to wonder whether he was going to answer. “Yes,” he said,“I do. Particularly when they pertain to my adolescent son.”
“Why?”
“Because, clinically speaking, most of the examples that come to mind bear all the hallmarks of mental illness,” he said, the careful disinterest in his voice a clear signal that they had finally reached the crux of the matter. “Granted, I’m only diagnosing at second hand, but if you asked me for my informed opinion, I would say Bernadette of Lourdes exhibited symptoms of acute hypochondriasis. Joan of Arc seemed to be suffering from incipient schizophrenia. Nicholas of Cologne leading an army of children across the Alps to Genoa, where the Lord had promised to part the Mediterranean so that they could pass safely to the Holy Land, I can only describe as deranged—although I have to confess a certain self interest in that case. When slavers seized the children as they held vigil at the water’s edge, waiting for the waves to recede, their angry parents hanged Nicholas’s father. I would prefer not to see the villagers massing with pitchforks outside my own residence, if you know what I mean.”
He paused, drawing a deep breath to fight down the tide of his rising emotion, before he concluded, “In short, although I’m hardly a sentimentalist when it comes to children—in fact, I’ve been reliably informed that I lack the paternal touch altogether—you will forgive me if that is not an experience I would wish upon my son. Or any other man’s son for that matter.”
Any other man’s son. Would that include a man who, if Father Gregory was to be believed, had been willing to move heaven and hell to cure his son—arguably quite literally?
“And what about the one you did diagnose first hand?” Clare asked.
Lukas’s face set. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“The first boy. Father Enoch’s other miracle.”
“There’s no question of another miracle, if only for the fact that there has never been a first miracle.”
A piece of logic only a Jesuit could follow. “Was that your official determination then or now?” Clare asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Was that your official opinion when you first examined Michael Grinnell?” Clare repeated. “Or is that only in light of the current situation?”
“There is no current situation. My son has nothing in common with that”—his lips pursed in distaste—“case.”
“Well, yes, he does—if only with Father Enoch. Am I not correct in saying you were asked to examine Michael Grinnell on behalf of the Promoter of the Faith?”
Lukas shut his eyes. “Whatever I did, it’s all water under the bridge now.”
“Well, no. Unfortunately, it really isn’t,” Clare said. “If Father Enoch’s Cause is resurrected, then people are going to want to re-examine his first miracle, along with any new ones. It takes two miracles for canonization, you know.”
“Unless, of course, you die a martyr. Killed in odium fidei. Out of hatred for the faith. Then it only takes one; for the grace of martyrdom is considered the first miracle,” Lukas said with a tight smile. “I’ve read the handbook. As a matter of fact, I could probably recite it.”
And shoot down every last sentence in it as casually as he dismissed Jesus’ disputed foreskin. Clare shook her head. You couldn’t teach at a Jesuit school and remain completely unacquainted with terms like ‘loss of faith’ and ‘dark night of the soul’, but what must it be like to have been born with them as congenital conditions?
“And what would the handbook tell you about Michael Grinnell?”
“That he was a prime candidate for the odium, if nothing else.”
“What does that mean?”
Drawing a deep breath, Lukas shook his head. “Nothing but a very feeble attempt at a witticism. I apologize.”
Clare bit back a surge of guilt when she saw the weariness that slackened his face. Miracle or no miracle, faith or none, the man had nearly lost his son. Was it fair to expect him to face down the Inquisition as well?
“Look, why not just tell me what you know, and we don’t ever have to bring you into this again?” Clare asked. “And just for the record, I understand that even that is a pretty big request. But according to Father Gregory, you’re the only one left who had any firsthand experience with the boy.”
Lukas’s face flattened. “Maybe there’s a reason for that.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
For a moment, Lukas just sat there. Then, making up his mind, he wheeled over to a file cabinet and pulled out a thin, battered folder. Folding it open, he studied it for a moment.
“The case of Michael Grinnell began when Michael was attending a Mass in celebration of the Jubilee of the Church of St. Lazarus,” he finally began. “When the Host was elevated, Michael collapsed. Afterward, there was no shortage of witnesses willing to swear they had seen the spirit of Father Enoch scooping up Michael in his arms, then releasing him. Scientifically speaking, however, all we know for sure is that he was taken home with a raging fever. Three days later, the fever broke, he got out of bed, walked downstairs, and asked his mother politely for a cup of orange juice for breakfast, because he hated milk and wished she would stop making him drink it.
“Perhaps not miraculous in another child. But given that Michael had been unable to communicate meaningfully with anyone for nearly fifteen years, it might as well have been the Second Coming. Unfortunately, the stunned rapture with which his cure was received was rapidly abated when he next asked his mother to lace the orange juice with vodka as she did her own.”
And there was her answer, Clare thought numbly. That was what a miracle looked like. No virgins riding in golden globes, no naked St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows, being rescued by a beautiful noblewoman who admired his ... sanctity. A boy who wanted to sneak his mother’s vodka. Another boy staring down at the mess on his shirt and simply sighing “Shit.”
On the other hand, it was at least ... personable, unlike most child saints, who seemed to be auditioning for a role as Little Lord Fauntleroy.
“Simply put,” Lukas went on, “it rapidly became apparent that Michael’s miraculous new ability to communicate came with a taste for communicating ... uncomfortable truths.”
“And you were looking for some kind of medical explanation for that?”
“Theoretically speaking, it’s hardly impossible.”
“But what about practically speaking? How could you do a thing like that?”
An odd expression crossed Lukas’s face. “I did nothing. I merely hypothesized how it might be done.”
“And how is that?”
Lukas glanced up from the folder, studying her as if she was a particularly doltish student. “Think it through logically,” he said. “Michael Grinnell was autistic. If you were trying to cure an autistic child, wouldn’t you be trying to ramp up his empathy? His ability to read people? To communicate with them? Arguably to the point where he could see inside their very souls? And manipulate them at will?”
“That’s your medical explanation?”
“Maybe it would be more accurate to say that there was only one explanation everyone was capable of agreeing upon. Michael Grinnell was ... unholy.”
A scientific term, if ever there was one. “And exactly who is everyone?”
“Priests. Doctors. Scientists. Psychiatrists. Specialists on autism. Literally scores of experts approaching the problem from every conceivable angle. Trust me, when I tell you the case was thoroughly researched. By the best in the land. Ezra Grinnell had the money for that. But despite his money, despite the number of PhD’s left laying on the table, only one clear conclusion emerged. Michael Grinnell had managed to terrorize them all.”
“A fifteen-year-old boy? How?”
“I’m not sure I know. But what I can tell you is that within a year, at least two thirds of those experts were dead. Arguably the rest might have preferred they were.”
“Are you saying he killed them?”
“Not so anyone could prove it.”
“Then ... what? How?”
“Suicides. Overdoses that were more or less the same thing. Mental illness. Self-destructive behaviors.” Lukas clenched his teeth. “The last priest to talk to him retired to a monastery permanently after only one month. And he was the one who lasted the longest.”
She shook her head. “You make him sound like some kind of monster.”
“More accurately, a high-functioning sociopath. With a mean streak a mile wide. The first part is a medical diagnosis. The second part is just an off-the-cuff opinion.”
Clare drew a deep breath as she tried to make sense of the senseless. “And how did you arrive at that diagnosis?” she asked. “What did he say to you?”
Lukas glared at her. “I find that rather an intrusive question.”
“Then let me rephrase it. Was your hypothesis correct?”
“I think that’s something only Michael can answer.” Closing the file, Lukas handed it to her. “Take this if you like. Read it for yourself if you must. But I strongly urge you to burn the damned thing.”
“In other words, just run away like you did?”
Something flashed across Lukas’s face, and she only had a moment to regret her choice of phrasing before he erupted, his voice low and furious. “I did not run away from Michael Grinnell then. And I have done precious little running since—courtesy of a rather a nasty traffic accident on my way to interview him, when my brakes inexplicably gave out on a particularly treacherous curve between Storm King Mountain and West Point. And when I eventually emerged from a medically-induced coma, I was a little too involved in relearning some basic motor skills like feeding myself to be able to devote a lot of mental energy to the Cause of Father Enoch.”
Clare felt the blood drain from her face. For a moment, she just stared at him, stunned. And then she stammered, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he snapped. “I’m sure there are many who’d say it was the least I deserved.”
“No,” she said. “No one deserves—”
He cut her off. “This is why I prefer to deal with relics rather than people. You find yourself in far fewer awkward conversations. Now, if there’s nothing else ...”
It was a clear dismissal, as well as a fairly firm indication that she was not likely to get anything further from him ever again—no matter how many times Father Gregory’s secretary called. And why should he? Talk about awkward conversations. But that made it all the more urgent that she have an answer to one last question, no matter how awkward it might prove.