Marcus was back at the hotel when Mickey called to find out about Celeste’s experience at the villa. He gave him a just-the-facts debriefing.
“I don’t know what to say about that,” Mickey said.
“Neither do I.”
Mickey asked what he thought about her.
“You really want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“I think she’s a bullshitter.”
“A bullshitter,” Mickey repeated. “I’m an engineer. I’m a businessman. I deal in facts. Here’s a fact: she was right about the girls’ version of what happened to them. Here’s another: I know your history. Years ago, I checked you out before I hired you. She was right about you.”
Marcus felt like hitting him for that. “My opinion stands.”
“She was right about the things the girls described.”
“I’ll give her an asterisk for that.”
“An asterisk?”
“It’s a footnote that says: Marcus Handler doesn’t understand something but he damn well is going to figure it out.”
“Where is she?” Mickey asked.
“At the hotel having a rest. These visions are tiring, apparently.”
“I’ve got another assignment that’s going to piss you off. Elena’s parents tell me that the Bishop of Catanzaro wants to see them. He’s got some theories about the girls. I want you to go with them. In case he’s also not a bullshitter.”
*
They traveled in Armando’s large Audi. Catanzaro was almost a two-hour drive from Reggio Calabria. The Cutrìs had heard about Celeste from Mickey and now, Armando demanded to know what she had to say about their daughter. Leonora cried in the back seat when he told them about her vision, then she closed her eyes for the rest of the journey. Marcus and Armando had little else in common, so they traveled in silence.
The bishop’s palazzo was in the city center, adjacent to the Santa Maria Assunta Cathedral. They were shown into the reception room where they waited for an uncomfortably long interval until Archbishop Taricco arrived, looking heavenwards and apologizing for the delay. He was elderly, a towering mountain of lard with a damp handkerchief in his hand to mop his sweaty forehead and bushy eyebrows. It seemed that the bishop and the Cutrìs knew each other because they exchanged lengthy pleasantries before Armando asked if they might switch to English for Mr. Handler’s benefit.
“And who is Mr. Handler?” the archbishop asked.
“An American investigator.”
“Italian is fine,” Marcus said.
“Good, because my English is weak. Welcome to Catanzaro,” Taricco said, shaking his hand. “Please, sit, sit. I am glad you made the journey.”
Marcus detected a whiff of alcohol on the cleric’s breath. He knew the syndrome.
A nun entered with a tray of orange juice and biscuits and the archbishop slid several onto his plate.
“Tell me,” he said, “how are the dear girls?”
“They are quite weak,” Armando said, “but the blood transfusions have improved their strength. Tomorrow, they go to Rome for specialist treatment at the Bambino Gesù Hospital.”
“Ah, good, good. I will make a call to the Vatican to make sure they have the very best care.”
“Thank you, Eminence,” Leonora said.
“Now, let me tell you why I wanted to see you. It involves the profound mystery of the appearance of the girls, the fact that they have not aged since their disappearance.”
Marcus was fully aware that leaks abounded, but he was determined that the family not be a conduit. He said, “Somebody told a journalist something about their appearance. We’re not confirming or denying anything at this stage. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the sensitivity.”
“Of course, of course, Mr. Handler. However, my information comes not from a journalist, but from the family priest who visited them at their hospital in Reggio Calabria.”
Marcus turned to Armando. “You let a priest in?”
“It was Father Leuti,” Armando said apologetically. “He’s known my family forever.”
Marcus could only shake his head at the casual way his no visitors rule had been ignored.
“Don’t worry,” Taricco said. “My discretion is absolute. The fact remains that we have a significant mystery on our hands and I can tell you that high officials at the Vatican have already reached out to me, seeking my opinion.”
“Did you confirm the lack of aging to these officials?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, but you shouldn’t have any concerns. Their discretion is also absolute.”
“I’m certain it is,” Marcus said, his face showing nothing of the sort.
“Their interest can only be helpful,” the archbishop said. “The Vatican has many resources.”
Leonora said, “We would be grateful for anything the Vatican can do to help find our daughter and her husband.”
“Certainly, certainly, Signora. They have opened a file on the matter. It is not a strong concern at this time, but proper contemporaneous documentation would be quite useful if, in the future, far in the future, an investigation is made concerning the possible beatification of the dear girls.”
Leonora silently crossed herself and Marcus wondered if anyone noticed his disgust.
Taricco continued, “I wanted to share with you some of my thoughts on this matter. I understand that the police are correctly focused on the earthly explanations involving kidnapping and the like, but I believe there are spiritual considerations that deserve a place at the table.”
“Please, go on,” Armando said earnestly.
Marcus thought: is Armando just an ass-kisser or is he prepared to believe the nonsense that was bound to be spewed? If it’s the latter, remind me never to use him as a lawyer.
When Taricco leaned back in his chair, his cassock stretched and accentuated his girth. “Well, the facts point to the conclusion that the girls have been in a state of suspended animation,” he said. “What do the Bible or the compendium of Christian writings have to offer us about their condition? Nothing. Nothing at all. The closest concepts are the states of purgatory and limbo. Of course, these refer to aspects of death.”
“Surely, Eminence,” Leonora cried, “you aren’t suggesting that Victoria and Elizabeth have died.”
“No, no, my dear lady! There has only been one resurrection! Your granddaughters have not died. They have been paused. They have spent these past years within a certain white room and—”
“How do you know about that?” Marcus asked.
“Oh, the girls told Father Leuti about that and also the spacemen. It’s charming what children are led to believe.”
Marcus sputtered, “Again, I must say—”
“Yes, yes,” Taricco said, biscuit crumbs falling onto his cassock. “Absolute discretion. The point I was making is that we might be treading on some new theological ground. Now, I will be the first to admit that as a seminarian, I was not at the top of my class in matters of eschatology, but it is important that I share with you my thoughts on the matter before I propose them to the Vatican. It is only proper that you hear from me what might become an important matter for the Church.”
“We appreciate that,” Armando said.
“I should ask, Mr. Handler, are you Catholic?” the archbishop said.
“Not even close.”
“Very well. Perhaps I should define eschatology.”
“It’s the part of theology that talks about the end times, the ultimate destiny of mankind,” Marcus said.
“Ah, you are aware of this.”
“I get around.” He didn’t really. He hadn’t “gotten around” in years. What he did have, despite the drinking, was a good memory. He’d taken a couple of religious studies courses a lifetime ago as an undergraduate at Georgetown University and the spaghetti was still sticking to the wall.
“What I am proposing,” Taricco said, “is that the girls, and perhaps their parents, entered into a state of Divine suspended animation, a sort of waiting room where ordinary reality was put on hold in a prelude to a reunion with God. In this white room that they perceived, they were neither alive nor dead. The passage of time did not occur and thus, they did not age. We experienced four years. For them, it was, perhaps, the blink of an eye. My proposition is that they were chosen by God as a kind of prelude to what one day, we all will come to experience at the Eschaton, the end time, when Christ will come again and usher us into His Kingdom of glory. Thy Kingdom come! I will raise my interpretation with my superiors. They will be able to put it to greater theological scholars than myself. And then, we shall see.”
The archbishop seemed pleased with himself and reached for the biscuit tray. Marcus looked over at the Cutrìs. Both of them seemed to be interested in their shoes, so Marcus decided to lead the charge.
“What about the gray men?” he asked.
“Ah, them,” Taricco said. “I would suggest that they were angels of some sort. Who are we to know about the appearance of angelic beings?”
“And what about their illnesses?” Marcus said.
“Perhaps this state of suspended animation causes some harm to the body.”
“And why do you think the parents are still missing?”
“This remains a mystery, but we can pray that they too will be returned soon, hopefully in good health.”
Marcus lightly slapped one of his legs and said, “Well, I’m sure I speak for the Cutrìs when I say that we are fascinated by your theory.”
“Certainly,” Armando mumbled. “Your Eminence has honored us with your observations and opinions. We seek your prayers and blessings for the return of our Elena and Jesper.”
As the archbishop rose, crumbs showered the floor. “I will pray for them,” he said.
They were half an hour into their return trip when Marcus said, “That was a complete waste of time.”
Armando raised one hand in a gesture of futility. “We had no choice. He is an influential man who deserves our respect, even if he has become a little absurd in old age.”
“More than a little.”
“Look, Marcus, I understand your contempt, but we live here. This is our community; this is our Church. If it became known that we refused an audience with Taricco, my law practice would suffer even more than it has. There are many other lawyers in Palmi for people to choose.”
“Why is your business down?” Marcus asked.
“Surely you must understand the answer to that. It’s well known that the police investigated me and my clients after the disappearance. To the best of my knowledge, I have represented only a single ’Ndrangheta in all my years, and it was for a civil banking matter. I do not do criminal work. In any event, the theory of the police was weak—what if Cutrì got in trouble with a mob client who exacted some sort of revenge? As it happened, this client of mine was cleared of any involvement to the kidnapping. However, it doesn’t take much to get people talking and to stain a reputation I have spent decades establishing.”
Leonora sobbed. “It’s been a nightmare. At first people were supportive, but then they turned on us and became suspicious. I don’t even like to leave the house anymore. I can’t paint. I can’t do anything. I just want my daughter back.”
“Yes, yes,” Armando said, “and our granddaughters healthy.”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I feel for what you folks are going through.”
“Will you find our Elena and Jesper?” Leonora asked.
“I’ll try my hardest.”
“We’re happy Mickey brought you back,” Armando said. “If you thought the archbishop was a waste of time, what about this French psychic?”
“I’ll tell you what I told Mickey. I think she’s a bullshitter with an asterisk.”
Armando furrowed his brow and said, “By which you mean that you think she’s lying, but you can’t understand how she knows certain things.”
Mickey smiled. This lawyer had gone up a few pegs in his estimation. “Armando, you’re a smart fellow. You should be chasing away new clients with a stick.”
*
Major Lumaga invited Marcus for dinner that night to a small, family-owned restaurant off the beaten trail, not far from the hotel. He was out of uniform, but the owner and waiters treated him with the full respect of his office. Marcus had two glasses going, one whiskey, one wine. Even though the food was delicious, he picked at it. The case was killing his appetite.
Lumaga asked, “So, what are your theories about Celeste Bobier?”
“I’ve been telling everyone she’s full of shit.”
“But is that what you truly believe?”
“Belief is a funny thing, Roberto. I believe in verifiable facts. I only believe in things I can understand.”
“What about religion? What about God? What about Heaven and Hell?”
“I don’t understand them and I don’t believe in them.”
“We differ here,” Lumaga said, spearing some of the restaurant’s specialty, maccheroni col ferretto, with his fork. “I can be a pragmatic policeman, dealing in verifiable facts, but also a person of faith who is able to trust in that which I cannot fully comprehend.”
“More power to you. I’m not putting you down.”
“Look, the fact of the matter is that Victoria and Elizabeth, despite their youth, give credible accounts of their time in detention. They are sober girls. They are intelligent. And then we have this Bobier woman who offers, in a way, a collaborating story, committed to writing years ago.”
Marcus tried to get the waiter’s attention to bring him another Scotch. Failing, Lumaga stepped in and accomplished the task with a subtle gesture.
“Do you want me to start believing in alien abduction?” Marcus asked.
“I think this case forces us to maintain an open mind to every possibility until facts arise that cause them to be excluded. The girls do not seem to have aged. That is a fact. Once someone has provided a plausible explanation that does not involve alien abduction, then I will happily exclude the possibility. Until then, everything is on the table. I presume you analyzed data at your CIA job. I’m sure you utilized the same methodology.”
“There were times I got caught in a web of lies,” he said, christening his new glass. “These days, it takes a lot to convince me of anything.”
Lumaga’s phone played a tune. He excused himself and stepped outside then returned a minute later, looking sour.
“Fabiana Odorico—you remember her, my sub-lieutenant—she’s on her way over here with something to show me.”
“What?”
“I didn’t ask because, from her voice, it’s definitely not good news. I wanted to finish my pasta before my stomach begins to churn. My revenge for her spoiling my dinner will be spoiling her night when she sees that I’m with you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“No one in my department is happy about my cooperation with you. She was undoubtedly the source of the leak about you to the journalist from Naples.”
“It was her? Why didn’t you take her down a few notches?”
“Two reasons. First, she’s good at her job. Excellent, actually. Before the girls returned and sucked all of our resources back into the case, she was making some big ’Ndrangheta arrests up in the mountains. Second, she’s not wrong about you. It’s bad for morale for me to include an outsider in the investigation. Frankly, I don’t have a choice. The shit rolls downhill from the US ambassador to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and from there to the Interior Ministry and the Ministry of Defense and from there to my poor Carabinieri station. Besides, I like you, so Fabiana has to deal with it.”
She arrived during dessert. Lumaga was halfway through a huge portion of pitta di San Martino and Marcus was on his fourth Scotch. As soon as Odorico saw him, Marcus knew that Lumaga was right about her being the leaker. She looked like she was an inch away from tipping him backward out of his chair.
“Have a seat, Fabiana,” Lumaga said. “You want a bite, a coffee?”
“No, thank you. I just need to show you this.”
She tapped a link on her phone and passed it to him.
“Oh, Madonna!” he hissed, as he read on. “Unbelievable. How can we get anything done in this country when everyone leaks!”
When he was done reading, he passed the phone across the table to Marcus.
They Have Not Aged—Before and After Photos Of The Missing Girls
We Were Abducted By Aliens—Kept On A Spaceship By Gray Men
Marcus finished his drink and said to Odorico, “Can you email this to me? I’ve got to let Mr. Andreason know right away.”
“Give me your address,” she said, coolly.
His phone dinged with the email and he said, “This is from a local paper, right? Has this hit the streets yet?”
“In the morning,” she said. “But they’ve already tweeted it.”
“Some piece of shit took their pictures in their hospital beds,” Marcus said. “Where was the security?”
“Right outside their door,” Lumaga said. “I’m quite sure they were taken by someone on the staff of the hospital who had a legitimate reason for being in the room. Everyone with a phone has a camera. Fabiana, we’ll need to at least make a show of investigating the leak, but I don’t want to divert people from critical tasks.”
“I understand,” she said.
Marcus kept looking at Victoria and Elizabeth’s “after” photos. The photographer had asked them to pose and the results were two sad little smiles.
“We’re going to be ass-deep in alligators tomorrow,” he said, and by Odorico’s short, sharp laugh, he wondered if it was the first time she’d heard the expression.