Chapter 30

Stefanos assigned more patrol cars to the safe house, and alarms were added. When Conley left for St. Amby’s, Kendricks and Mazzarelli were testing the motion detectors. There’d be no more unexpected visitors.

Conley slowed as he drove past the church and watched hundreds of people march in a long, lazy oblong on the sidewalk. He parked at the end of the street and walked back. The smoky smell of peppers and onions grilling on a sausage vendor’s pushcart sweetened the air. A woman with a paisley scarf over her hair scurried by him toward the marchers.

Captain Stefanos’ prophecy had come true. News of the crying statue had turned the church into a circus. Summer Street was a carnival of cars, trucks, protestors, street vendors.

As he neared the crowd and saw familiar faces, he thought about how the myth of the crying Madonna had given renewed life to the old church. The flock were convinced magic had suddenly happened at St. Ambrose’s, that something supernatural had stepped right out of the Bible and decided to pay a visit to Ocean Park.

Not that the pious parishioners had ever needed miracles to affirm their faith.

A Virgin gave birth—I believe.

Water became wine—I believe.

Christ rose from the dead—Dear God, I believe.

Or did they?

The older people stepped lively. The marchers wore heavy clothes—the dark, rumpled garments still needed in March in New England. But the crowd didn’t look drab, maybe because they were wearing more than just clothes today. They were wearing vindication and redemption.

Over bovine blood.

They carried pictures of the crying statue blown up into grainy posters. One walker wore Mary on front and back like an old-fashioned sandwich board, connected with nylon straps over shoulders. Another had nailed her to a two-by-four that he carried upright, sides curling back like wings. A busty brunette wore a white T-shirt that read “Save Saint Ambrose”, but mostly seniors dominated the throng, white-haired heads swaying like a wind-blown field of cotton.

He looked for Father McCarrick, but found Father Spinelli instead.

“Matt,” he said. “This is insanity.”

“I know.”

“Talk some sense into Father McCarrick.”

“I’m going to try.”

“Tell him the parishioners have a new home, but they’re still his flock. The pastor at St. Margaret’s has offered them their old chapel.”

“I’ll do my best, Father.”

Conley climbed the stairs to St. Amby’s. The steps looked cleaner than he remembered, fresher, the grime suddenly gone. Maybe Mrs. Blodgett had scrubbed them in preparation for the news cameras, or maybe the shuffling footsteps of this new army of St. Ambrose’s faithful had simply scraped them clean.

The door was open, propped by a bucket of rock salt, and candlelight flickered inside. The pews near Mary were full, people praying and talking, rosary beads clutched hard, as if they were scurrilous things that might fly away. Children wailed and fidgeted, and their parents stared intently at the pink and blue statue.

The Communion kneeler was crowded, a row of heads and backs in all shapes and sizes. Signs of the cross flew like spastic salutes, always followed by a glance at the side altar that held the miraculous piece of plaster. Hundreds of votive candles burned, an army of wax soldiers. Their light cast an eerie glow over the altar and yellowed the linen curtain on the tabernacle. They shined on the ceiling like stars, moving and pulsing.

Mrs. Blodgett had placed an aluminum folding tray near the Madonna, loaded with her homemade cookies and croissants. She was nearby, kneeling at the altar rail, in the precious space available. But prayer wasn’t her mission. Her elbow pistoned as she polished the wooden rail with a wet rag. The strong pine-tree scent of furniture oil masked the mustiness of St. Ambrose’s. And the altar rail shone like a mirror, as did the front pews. She’d polished the old seats to such a high gloss they looked wet.

Father McCarrick bent over a table and placed fresh candles in empty spaces. He retrieved the collection box, a square wooden job with a narrow slit wide enough for a dollar, and carried it to the sacristy. He walked with a spring in his step, and displayed uncharacteristic grace when he pirouetted, shouldered the door open, and hustled through the doorway.

Conley followed, and by the time he stepped inside, Father had unlocked the box. A pile of cash lay on the counter over the vestments cabinet. Ones, fives, and tens—wrinkled, folded, and curled, sat in a heap. Father reached into the box and drew out more.

“Matt, my boy. What brings you here on this fine, busy afternoon?”

“Quite a crowd, Father. I saw the O’Neils outside.”

“I can’t control who marches for salvation. Simon O’Neil hasn’t stepped foot in the church, though. Probably still guilty for all that crap he pulled years ago.”

“Too bad the word’s out on the miracle.”

“Maybe not, maybe not. Funny thing happened. Suddenly everyone wants St. Amby’s to stay open.” He licked the end of his thumb and counted bills into a neat stack. “Can’t very well close a church when the Blessed Mother is crying about it, can they?”

“The Archdiocese, you mean?”

“Of course the Archdiocese. Those fine servants of the Lord have had a change of heart,” he whispered. “The decision to close St. Ambrose has been suspended for further review. I feel bad for St. Margaret’s. Collections will be a little light from now on. Our parishioners are starting to come back, Matt.”

“That doesn’t mean the Archdiocese will change their mind.”

“Matt, my boy, you’ve got to understand what Church bureaucrats mean when they suspend things for review. Millenia have passed during the Catholic Church’s reviews. Empires have risen and fallen. We’re good for another hundred years, easy.”

“It’s Sunday, Father.”

McCarrick looked at him and frowned. “Thanks for the reminder. I did three Masses this morning—by myself. Not an empty seat in the house for any of them. Those Boston yahoos are recalling Father Frank after seeing all this publicity, and the hard cash too, I might add. Probably put Frank to work destroying some other unlucky parish.”

“Mrs. Blodgett is cooking a roast, I bet.”

The priest held up a fistful of bills. “I’m not taking that bet. But since you asked, yes, just like she does every Sunday. Buys it down at the Shop-Rite on Saturday. Fresh, fat trimmed, bloody.” He shrugged. “What are you, hungry? I’ll have her make you a plate. There’s always plenty.”

“Just like she did the day the statue cried.”

“Is there a reason behind this reverie or are you just trying to make my stomach rumble?”

“Father, the blood on the statue was bovine. Cow.”

“Really? Interesting. God works in mysterious ways.”

“But people don’t.”

“Meaning?”

“You used the blood from Saturday’s roast to paint the statue—or Mrs. Blodgett did. I’d guess it was a team effort.”

“Your imagination is vivid, Matt. I blame all those comic books you read as a youngster.”

“You told me once, Father, a long time ago, that lies always mushroom. Remember?”

McCarrick packed the bills in a large canvas pouch and ran the zipper on its top. He laid the latch back down on the wooden box and hooked the padlock.

“Something happened the night Victor died, Father.”

“I already told you, Matt. I know nothing about poor Victor’s murder.”

“I believe you, Father. But don’t miss an opportunity to clear the air about the statue. Like you said, lies always mushroom—damp, ugly, and unclean.”

“You missed your calling, Matt. You’re a better priest than cop. Shouldn’t you be out chasing poor Victor’s killer?”

“I am. Pulling a thread. Seeing what unravels.”

McCarrick hoisted the canvas satchel under his arm and walked to the door. “The truth is always complicated, isn’t it?”

“No. The truth is usually pretty simple. People are complicated.”

Father pointed to the wooden box still on the counter.

“Mind returning the money box, Matt? Give you a chance to do some good for St. Ambrose’s.”

Conley blocked the door. “When you’re ready, Father, we’ll talk.”

“Of course. Always room at the table for one more sinner.”