Pontiff (A Thriller)

Chapter 1

Robert Coulter sat in the cold and the dark, waiting for the Devil to appear. Wet snow streaked the outside of the windshield; his breathing clouded the inside. His back ached; his fingers were numb. He knew he could turn on the engine and get some heat. But the heat would make him sleepy, and he couldn't afford to lose his concentration for even an instant. The Devil would not appear for long, and he had to be ready.

A car approached, and he slid down in his seat. The car slowed, then stopped, and he tensed. The driver's door opened partway, and then a hand appeared and flung a newspaper onto a snow-covered lawn. The car sped up, and he watched it turn the corner and slow again as another newspaper landed on another lawn.

The Devil read the paper.

Coulter waited. He was so used to waiting by now—in dark hallways and freezing alleyways, hunched over and peering out windows or pacing anonymously along crowded city streets. He had gotten quite good at waiting. It was a kind of sacrifice, after all; you offered the boredom and discomfort up to God, and God sent you the grace and strength to endure even more.

Today was not so bad, because he knew that today it was going to happen. There was excitement and anticipation instead of boredom. He had done his job, and now he was ready for the payoff.

A light went on in the Devil's house—just around the corner and across the street. He leaned forward, his heart pounding. Now? No, too soon. Around the corner was probably okay; across the street was too obvious. The Devil was crafty. If he spotted the car, he would know.

Another light came on, this one downstairs. And then the front door opened, and the Devil appeared. It was impossible to see him clearly through the snow, but it was him all right, tall and thin and radiating evil like a foul smell. Wearing a shirt and tie, no coat. He hurried down the front steps and along the gravel walk, picked up the newspaper, and retreated inside the house.

The Devil's name was Arnold Beekman. Doctor Arnold Beekman.

Soon now. Soon. Can't get over-anxious, though. Coulter breathed deeply and visualized again how it would happen. It was Thursday. The plan would work because it was Thursday. He just needed to be patient.

He stared at the house, waiting. It was an oversized white Colonial with black shutters; a two-car garage was attached to it by a short breezeway. Ornamental bushes were tastefully arranged on the lawn. The house was far grander than any place Coulter had ever lived. The Devil was well rewarded for his evil.

He shivered, thinking of his mother wearily crushing cockroaches in their tiny kitchen, the sound of mice scurrying inside their bedroom walls, the battered furniture from Goodwill, the Christmas toys scrounged from a local charity. He thought of his father's bellowing rage at the unfairness of his life. Why me, why me?

Coulter shook his head and said a quick prayer. This wasn't about envy. The Devil was the Devil, whether he lived in a mansion or a slum, just as babies were babies, whether they were inside or outside their mother's womb.

Coulter imagined Doctor Beekman sitting in his warm kitchen, sipping gourmet coffee and reading the newspaper. Enjoying the quiet, away from the screaming protesters. Thinking about the day to come, perhaps. The money he would make. The babies he would kill.

But there would be the edge of fear, always the edge of fear, even in the quiet of his home. Because the Devil would know better than anyone that God's will could not be mocked forever.

Robert Coulter was the instrument of God's will. Abortionists across America trembled when they heard his name. He was their scourge, their private nightmare. They could no longer sleep soundly in their mansions, knowing that he was out there somewhere, waiting.

It was Thursday. Beekman would remember at last that it was Thursday. He puts down the paper, finishes his coffee, rinses the cup and leaves it in the sink. Looks around at his beautiful possessions. Admires his life. Enjoys the silence for one last moment. Perhaps he goes upstairs to kiss his sleeping children. Even the Devil has affection for his spawn.

Coulter looked down at the dregs of his own coffee, bought hours ago at a Dunkin' Donuts. He saw yesterday's newspaper, spread out over the passenger-side seat. He thought of his own life with something approaching wonder. He had nothing, but he had far more than the Devil who was about to emerge. Because God was with him, God had blessed him in countless ways.

He said an Our Father and Hail Mary, and as he finished a light went on in the garage.

He quickly turned the key in the ignition. The starter whirred futilely, and he had an instant of panic. It had to start now! God couldn't let him down!

At last the engine came to life.

The garage door slowly rolled up. Inside, he could see the exhaust coming out of the Mercedes's tailpipe, Beekman's shape behind the wheel. Another instant of panic: He couldn't be leaving! Today was Thursday!

Then he saw Beekman get out of the car. Of course. He was merely warming it up for the trip into the city. No sense driving in a cold car. A moment later Coulter saw what he had been waiting for: the abortionist rolling a trash barrel down his long driveway to the curb.

Thursday. Trash pickup day.

Beekman stopped at the curb. Coulter could see him better now. He was hatless and wore a gray overcoat with a scarf tucked into the collar. His features were sharp; his hair was thin, with long strands combed over a bald spot. Did he notice the car idling around the corner? He was always suspicious, always on edge. The name Robert Coulter would flit through his thoughts, and he would feel a momentary rush of terror. But he couldn't see everything. He would be lulled by the familiar ritual. Trash day. Bring the barrels to the curb while the car warms up. Surely there was nothing to fear while doing this? The fear was at the clinic, with the waving signs and the security guards and the death threats.

He trudged back to the garage. If he returned, then he hadn't noticed the car.

Coulter put his foot on the brake and slid the car into drive. He slowly lowered the window, felt the cold breeze, the snowflakes hitting his cheek. Without taking his eyes off the garage he reached out and groped beneath the newspaper on the passenger-side seat. His hand closed on the nine-millimeter automatic. He placed it on his lap.

Beekman reappeared with another barrel.

Coulter knew he should wait until Beekman's back was turned, until he was walking once more up the driveway, oblivious to the sentence about to be carried out upon him. But he couldn't. He needed to see. He needed to know that the abortionist knew.

When Beekman was halfway down the driveway, Coulter depressed the accelerator and turned the corner. Beekman hesitated, noticing the car, then continued toward the curb.

Aim high, Coulter reminded himself. Beekman wasn't so stupid that he would forget to wear his Kevlar vest. Coulter slowed down, then stopped.

Beekman saw the open window, and his eyes widened with understanding and fear, but it was too late. Coulter picked up the gun with his right hand, leaned out the window, and fired. Once, twice, three times.

The second one hit, the abortionist's face exploded and his body crumpled, and Coulter could almost feel the searing wind as his soul plunged down to hell.

No time to savor the triumph of God's justice, however. Human justice had its own rules, despicable though they were. Coulter put the gun back under the newspaper and sped away in the cold, snowy dawn, his spirit aflame but still unsatisfied.

For there were many Devils, and his work had just begun.

Chapter 2

Eligo in summum pontificem...

Cardinal Antonio Riccielli stared at the Latin phrase printed at the top of the small rectangular card. I choose for Supreme Pontiff...

He took his pen and scrawled a name on the bottom of the card. He was supposed to disguise his handwriting to preserve the secrecy of the ballot, but that hardly seemed worth the effort. Everyone knew whom he supported, whom he would support to the bitter end.

Marcello Valli.

He looked at the name, and then at the man, seated across from him in the Sistine Chapel. The hawk nose, the high forehead, the piercing eyes that betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Another ballot, another chance. But the chance was slipping away—had already slipped away, many of his original supporters thought, and there seemed to be nothing they could do about it.

One maneuver was left, perhaps. If no one got a two-thirds majority in the next day, the rules of the conclave allowed the cardinals to vote that election was to be by simple majority, thereby totally changing the dynamics of the conclave. Would it help Valli? It couldn't hurt. Valli clearly wasn't going to get the Third-World bloc, but if they could keep the Curial cardinals in line, plus the Europeans and most of the North Americans...

He could perhaps put together a majority. But that required them to make it through the next few ballots, with the cardinals weary and eager for a resolution. The conclave had lasted far too long already. They were tired of each other's company day and night, while the world waited. And meanwhile Valli's vote count had steadily slipped, as the cardinals cast about for other candidates who might attract sufficiently widespread support to claim the throne of Saint Peter. One after another, candidates had surfaced, only to fade without reaching the two-thirds majority, none able to receive enough support from the various blocs fighting for the soul of the Church.

On this ballot Riccielli was worried about Carpentier, the genial Canadian. The man was a moron, but he was hard to dislike, and Riccielli knew what others might be thinking: wouldn't it be good to have someone as pope who was less, well, high-powered than they were used to? Someone who could stay away from controversy and simply make Catholics feel good about their religion again. If we can't get our man, maybe this guy would do. And he's old enough that we won't have to put up with him for long. Carpentier had received an astounding twenty votes on the ballot before lunch. Was there a movement afoot? Would people suddenly decide that he was the solution to their problem?

If there was a movement, Riccielli hadn't been asked to be a part of it. So he could only guess, and fret.

The voting was beginning. Riccielli folded his ballot and awaited his turn to approach the altar. The ceremony and rituals attached to every aspect of the conclave had inspired awe in him at first, but at this point he found them merely irritating. Couldn't they just vote and get on with it? Nothing to be done, though. The Church lived by its rules.

He watched Carpentier walk past on his way to the altar, plump and red-faced. What was he thinking? Was his mind frothing with excitement about what might happen to him in a few minutes? Or was he utterly terrified at the prospect confronting him? Impossible to tell from the appropriately solemn look on his face. One learns that look, of course. You can be thinking about yesterday's football match or the bottle of expensive wine chilling for tonight's dinner, and still appear as if you are meditating about Christ's Passion. They had all been priests far too long not to have mastered that skill.

Finally Riccielli's turn arrived. He walked slowly down the long aisle, between the ranks of red-robed cardinals arrayed along the walls of the chapel. He undoubtedly looked every bit as solemn and prayerful as Carpentier. At the altar he knelt and held up his ballot. I call as my witness Christ the Lord who will be my judge, he intoned, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected. Then he stood and went up to the large chalice on the altar. He put the ballot on the paten that covered the top of the chalice, then picked up the paten and slid the ballot into the chalice, where it nestled in among the others. There, it was done, yet again. He returned to his seat, and the next cardinal went up to repeat the ritual.

Nothing to do but wait now. The infirmarii returned with the votes of the cardinals too ill to attend the session. As the last cardinals went up to the altar, Riccielli could hear the rustling in the ancient chapel, could feel the anticipation growing. Would this be the ballot when the election ended, when the new era began? Or would the black smoke rise from the chimney once more, forcing them to keep trying?

The rituals after the balloting were especially excruciating. The cardinals chosen by lot this afternoon to be the scrutineers now had to do their duty. The first scrutineer picked up the chalice and shook it to mix up the ballots. Then he brought the chalice to the table in front of the altar, where he took out the ballots and counted them to make sure that the number matched the number of elector cardinals in the conclave. When Carpentier had been scrutineer the previous morning he had miscounted, causing considerable consternation until his fellow scrutineers straightened things out. The pope should at least be able to count, Riccielli thought blackly.

After counting the ballots the three scrutineers sat at the table and began the job of tallying the votes. The first scrutineer unfolded a ballot, wrote down the name printed on it, then passed it to the second scrutineer, who did likewise. Then the third scrutineer read the name out loud. Fortunately the third scrutineer this afternoon was Cardinal Heffernan, who had given more than his share of hellraising sermons and had a loud, clear voice. Cardinal Valli, he announced.

Riccielli started counting mentally. It was not considered proper to keep score on paper.

"Cardinal Carpentier.

"Cardinal Gurdani.

"Cardinal Valli.

"Cardinal Gurdani.

"Cardinal Carpentier.

"Cardinal Lopez.

Cardinal Gurdani...

It was only after fifteen or twenty votes had been announced that Riccielli realized he hadn't been counting Gurdani's votes, yet the African seemed to be attracting a lot of support. Riccielli looked down to where he was sitting, on Riccielli's side of the aisle. Couldn't tell much from his distant profile, but then, one never could tell much about Gurdani. He could scarcely remember hearing the man speak. More of a cipher than Carpentier.

"Cardinal Gurdani.

"Cardinal Carpentier.

Cardinal Gurdani...

But surely Gurdani couldn't be elected, Riccielli thought nervously. Everyone said so. Few connections within the Curia. His country was too small; he'd been named a cardinal only to protect him from that insane dictator who'd thrown him into prison. And he was unacceptable to the Americans—too critical of the country and its policies in Africa. There weren't enough American cardinals to block him, obviously, but no one could ignore the power of the American Church.

Besides, Riccielli had heard his Italian was terrible. Maybe you could elect a non-Italian to be Bishop of Rome, but how could you elect someone who couldn't even speak the language?

"Cardinal Valli.

"Cardinal Gurdani.

Cardinal Gurdani...

After he called out each name, Heffernan took the ballot and pierced it with a threaded needle through the word Eligo. The stack of ballots on the thread was growing, as was the rustling and murmuring among the cardinals. Riccielli glanced over at Valli, still sitting motionless and, apparently, emotionless, his eyes on the scrutineers. Then he looked at Carpentier. Was his red face a little paler than it had been? Did he sense that his moment had slipped away? Had his short-lived movement been overtaken by yet another?

"Cardinal Gurdani.

"Cardinal Gurdani.

"Cardinal Lopez.

Cardinal Gurdani...

Carpentier would have been all right, Riccielli realized. He would have had his photo taken with nuns and told jokes at papal audiences and said comforting things after natural disasters. He would have been called the people's pope, or some such nonsense. He would have waffled enough on the controversial issues to give some comfort to the liberals, without having the nerve to do anything that would annoy the conservatives. And he would have left all of them alone to do their business. Perhaps they should have all backed Carpentier from the beginning. In retrospect Valli was too holy, too intellectual, too distant. Certainly too identified with the Curia. He scared people. He never had a chance.

And what of Gurdani? An unknown, and therefore by definition frightening. The black pope. They used to apply that phrase to the head of the Society of Jesus; perhaps they'd have to come up with a new, less confusing sobriquet for the Jesuit. Gurdani had an inspiring story, what with standing up to the dictator and saving people from the famine and all. And there were those rumors about his healing powers... Choosing him would make people feel good about themselves and their religion. Look how universal the Church is, how modern, how enlightened! But the pope had to be more than a symbol. He had to rule, he had to lead, he had to make hard decisions.

Riccielli glanced up at Michelangelo's magnificent ceiling, at God's finger reaching out to give life to Adam. Were the cardinals reaching out to give life to a black pope? If so, what kind of creature were they creating?

And then the counting was finished. The first two scrutineers started adding up their totals. Cardinal Heffernan tied the ends of the thread and placed the stack of ballots into a box. Soon the right chemicals would be added—for black smoke or white, depending on the outcome; they would then be burned in the tiny stove in the corner, and in this primitive fashion the waiting world would learn the results of the ballot. When the scrutineers were done, the three revisers came over to check their work. All had to be in agreement. There could be no possibility of mistake or subterfuge, no claims of unfairness or error.

Cardinal Magee leaned over to Riccielli. The witch doctor's got it, he murmured. Quite a surprise, eh?

Oh, I knew it would be him all along, Riccielli joked lamely.

Magee laughed. You and the Holy Spirit.

The scrutineers and revisers called up Agnello, the dean of the College of Cardinals. He conferred with them for a moment, and the chapel grew quiet. Then Agnello looked up and smiled. Habemus papam, he said with a smile, and the conclave erupted in cheers.

Riccielli looked across at Valli. His expression hadn't changed.

Cardinal Agnello approached Gurdani.

* * *

Joseph Gurdani watched Agnello approach as if in a dream. Absurdly, he thought of one of his prison guards walking toward him. He had the same leaden sense of dread in his stomach. It is starting again, he would think as the guard approached. The one he was thinking of always had a smile on his face, much as the cardinal was smiling now. One of his front teeth was gold, so the prisoners called him Goldy. Goldy's boots always gleamed, and he never went anywhere without his rifle. And whenever he approached you, you could be sure that the butt of that rifle would end up in your stomach, the dread turning into a hard ball of pain.

It is starting again.

Giuseppe Agnello was a wizened but spry old man. He seemed to have difficulty being as solemn as his role demanded. He stopped in front of Gurdani and gazed at him, his gray eyes sparkling. Hello, Joseph, he whispered in badly accented English, bending close.

Ciao, Giuseppe, Gurdani replied, speaking the same words in badly accented Italian.

Then Agnello straightened and said aloud, Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?

You can turn them down, of course. It is not like going to prison—though in fact Gurdani had had a choice then, as well. It had been an easy one for him, though not for many others. Prison or freedom. Pain or pleasure. Good or evil. So many choices through a lifetime, leading to this moment, this ultimate decision.

He had no desire for the burden they wanted to place on him. But his decisions had always been made on a simple basis: What does God want of me? If God wanted him to take the rifle butt in the stomach with a smile and a prayer for his torturer, he would do so. Sometimes, of course, it is not easy to discern God's wishes; sometimes it is the height of pride and folly to assume you know them.

But not now, he realized. Not with the princes of the Church gazing at you, asking you to lead them. God had not brought him this far, only to see him turn into a coward.

With deepest humility, Gurdani said in a clear voice, with the realization that I am the least worthy among us, but with complete trust in God's wisdom and help, I accept.

There was loud applause. Agnello nodded cheerily. It was the correct answer. By what name do you wish to be called? he asked.

His first decision, Gurdani realized. The world would interpret it however it chose. He thought of his mother. Would she have been astonished, proud, overwhelmed at this moment? No, even this would not have caused her to bend. Of course you can do it, Joseph, he could hear her say, her eyes blazing with determination. You can be better than anyone. You just have to try harder. Think of your father. Think of what he would have wanted.

His father, dead of cholera when Gurdani was only two. Nothing more than a shadow in his memory—and possibly a false one at that, woven from his mother's stories and his own longings. Such a great man, Joseph. He loved learning. He loved Our Lord. He expected great things from you. You must not let him down.

Who, next to his mother, was more important in his life? Whom did he want more to honor?

His father, John Gurdani.

I take the name John.

Agnello beamed, as if this were the very name he himself would have chosen. And then he led Gurdani down to the altar. The scrutineers' table had been removed and an ornate carved wooden chair put in its place. Now it's time for us to pledge our obedience to you, Agnello explained, seating him in the chair. I will be honored to be the first.

The old man got down on his knees. Your Holiness, he began...

This won't do, Gurdani thought. He arose from the chair and helped the cardinal to his feet. Please, Giuseppe, there is no need, he said.

Not from me, perhaps, Agnello murmured, but from some of these fellows, you'll want to get all the promises you can.

Gurdani laughed and embraced him. If they're as bad as you suggest, no amount of promises will help, he pointed out.

And then the other cardinals approached, one by one. Many of them Gurdani scarcely knew—just a name, a reputation. Others, like Agnello, were his friends and allies. And he knew that Agnello was right: some of the men who were greeting him and promising their loyalty and obedience were his enemies, though he could only guess who. The Curial cardinals, presumably; some of the Americans. Perhaps the defeated candidates and their backers. One in particular was important to him.

Cardinal Valli, he said when the man was in front of him, you would have been a far worthier choice than I.

Valli inclined his head. Your Holiness is very kind.

Valli had been the old pope's cardinal secretary of state. He knew everyone and everything. Eminently papabile. In other times, perhaps, he would have been the natural successor to the papal throne. Now they were looking for someone new and different, apparently, and Gurdani had been the man who fit the bill. This is a very heavy burden that has been placed on me, he went on. I will need your help.

All I have, all I am, is at your disposal, Valli responded, with another small bow.

Gurdani reached out and shook the Italian cardinal's hand warmly. That is very good news, he said. We will talk.

I look forward to it, Your Holiness.

When the new pope had finished with the cardinals, it was time to meet the world. But first he had to dress for the part.

He was escorted to the small scarlet-walled sacristy off the chapel. This is called the Room of Tears, Agnello said. I can't imagine why.

Perhaps one can guess, Gurdani replied.

In it were three simple white cassocks—small, medium, and large. A tailor stood by with safety pins, ready to fit him. The small cassock would do, of course. He removed his elaborate red and white cardinal's robes and stared down at his scrawny body. Such a frail vessel. He put on the cassock. The tailor fussed with it until he apparently deemed it sufficiently papal, and then retired. Gurdani doubted that he ever would look papal, to some at least. A small black man with grey hair and a squint. A head that habitually bent to one side, like a bird's. A back that was no longer quite straight, due to events he did not wish to dwell on just now. To some he would look quite ridiculous, he was sure. Worse, an insult to the Church, a disgrace to the throne of Saint Peter.

Abruptly he sat down on a small bench. Was he supposed to cry now, in the Room of Tears? Well, he wouldn't, he decided after a moment. He wasn't worthy, but then, no one was, no one could be.

He slid from the bench and knelt stiffly on the tiled floor. He was certain that many of his predecessors had knelt here like this, praying for the strength to do the impossible. It was all you could do—ask for some of God's strength, so that you could carry out His will.

After a while he got to his feet and left the room. Again he was escorted, this time outside, to the loggia overlooking Saint Peter's Square, filled now with a writhing, jostling, banner-waving throng. Agnello presented him to the multitudes waiting there in the twilight, clearly delighted at the opportunity to shock them. And Gurdani could hear—no, he could feel—the gasp as people caught their first glimpse of the small black figure who was now the leader of the Roman Catholic Church.

He approached the microphone and paused, waiting for silence. I don't speak Italian well, he began finally. But I promise I will learn. There is so much I need to learn. I need your help—I need the world's help—to do this job. But most of all I need God's help. I ask you to pray for me, and for our Holy Mother the Church. And in return I will give every ounce of my strength to this role that has been thrust upon me.

And then he sketched a blessing in the chilly air while the crowd cheered.

Domine, non sum dignus, Gurdani thought as he gazed out at the sea of faces. Lord, I am not worthy. You just have to try harder, his mother's voice echoed in his mind. There would be no tears. What would his father have said? He thought of Goldy—dead of AIDS, he had heard. He thought of all who had shaped him, for good or ill. And his blessing was for them, as well as for this crowd filled with the curious and the devout, and the billion Catholics whose leader he had just become.

God is in us all, he thought. The evil and the good. The torturer and the tortured. Let us come together in His spirit, to do His will.

And thus began the reign of Pope John the Twenty-Fourth.

Chapter 3

It started with Tiffany O'Doul's acne.

Tiffany looked after Erin McKee when Erin's mother had to do errands, or just get out of the house for a while when everything got to be too much for her. Tiffany was a good kid. She had babysat Erin before the accident, and would have looked after her now for free, but Sandra McKee insisted on paying her. Sandra didn't want favors; she felt guilty enough leaving her daughter with someone else, even when she had to.

Tiffany was a sophomore in high school, and she had beautiful long brown hair and a nice figure that Sandra would have killed for, but her complexion was a mess. It made Sandra cringe a little whenever she saw her. She wanted to tell the teenager to wash more often, to lay off fried foods, to wear less of the hideous makeup she used to try to hide her problem. But Sandra knew what it was like to be a sensitive teenage girl. Tiffany didn't need advice; she just needed to grow up.

The day that it began, Tiffany came over after school so Sandra could do the grocery shopping. Sometimes Erin minded when her mother left, and that ripped Sandra's heart out, but she usually didn't fuss much when Tiffany was there. Don't worry, Mrs. McKee, Tiffany said, we'll be fine.

Sandra leaned over to kiss Erin in her wheelchair. Erin smiled a gap-toothed smile, and for a moment she looked like any other seven-year-old girl. But seven-year-olds know how to say good-bye, and all that came out of Erin's lips was a kind of high-pitched grunt. Sandra left quickly, grateful that there were no tears.

She went to the Stop 'n' Shop. She wore a pager whenever she left the house in case anything went wrong, but nothing ever did while Tiffany was with Erin. So she let herself dawdle, leafing through magazines and studying unit prices. It wasn't right, but killing time in the supermarket made her feel less guilty than driving around aimlessly and smoking cigarettes, which is what she sometimes did when things started getting to her. But eventually Sandra was done, and it was time to return. When she got home, she announced her arrival and lugged the bags in from the Caravan. Tiffany came out into the kitchen as she was putting the groceries away.

How was she? Sandra asked as she searched for room in the refrigerator.

Oh, fine. We watched cartoons and played patty-cake. I don't think she got the idea exactly, but we had fun.

Sandra smiled and searched in her wallet for the money to pay Tiffany. It was when she went to hand the money to her that she finally noticed the babysitter's face. If she had thought about it she might not have said anything, but she was so surprised that she didn't think; she just blurted out, Tiffany, your complexion!

The teenager blushed, and her hand went reflexively to her face.

No, Tiffany—it looks great! Funny I didn't notice before. Have you been using a new medication or something?

Without removing her hand, Tiffany shook her head, looking miserable.

Come on, Sandra said, leading her into the downstairs bathroom. Take a look.

They stood together in the tiny bathroom as Tiffany stared into the mirror above the sink. And Sandra watched as Tiffany's hand dropped away from her cheek and her mouth opened wide. Oh my God, she whispered, and then she just stared at herself, at the smooth healthy skin that a few hours ago had been covered with craters and whiteheads and angry red blotches. Then her eyes filled, and tears streaked the glowing skin.

Nothing, Tiffany said, as if finally answering Sandra's question. I haven't—I didn't— And then she stopped, put her hand on her cheek once more, and walked quickly out of the bathroom.

Sandra followed her into the family room, where Erin was still watching TV, her scruffy teddy bear under her arm. Her eyes followed the cartoon figures with pleasure but, Sandra knew, with precious little understanding. Tiffany was staring down at the child. Erin, hon? she said.

Erin looked up at her.

You touched me, right? On the cheeks. We were playin' patty-cake, and you suddenly reached out and put your hands on my cheeks. Tiffany reached down, grasped Erin's hands, and brought them up to her face. And there was this look on your face—right, hon? It was so beautiful, like—like you knew something wonderful that you wanted to tell me. Do you remember?

Erin smiled at her.

Tiffany looked over at Sandra. It was then, she said. I know it happened then.

Don't be silly, Sandra replied, shaking her head violently. It hadn't happened. It couldn't happen.

"Mrs. McKee, there's something very special inside Erin. Don't you feel it sometimes? When she looks at you with that way she has—like, she really knows, even if she can't say anything?"

Sandra gazed at her daughter: snub nose, blue eyes, golden hair. No. Beautiful, sweet, wonderful. But not special. Sandra didn't just think it: she willed it.

But there was Tiffany with her glowing skin, smiling tearfully at Erin.

She's just a little girl, Sandra insisted. Just a little girl.

But Tiffany wasn't paying attention. She was on her knees now next to Erin, holding her hand. Thank you, sweetie, she said. Thank you so much. You knew, didn't you? You knew this was all I wanted. And you gave it to me. You sweet, sweet girl.

Erin, clutching her teddy, just smiled her gap-toothed smile at her babysitter.

Just a little girl, her mother kept repeating, now weeping like Tiffany. My little girl.

* * *

And of course the word got out. How could Tiffany keep it secret, when everyone who knew her could simply look at her face and realize that something amazing had happened? Looking back, Sandra realized she should have sworn Tiffany to secrecy, should have paid her money to lie, should have done anything to keep the babysitter from spreading her story. But she had been too upset. And even if she had thought of something, would it have made a difference? Even in those first moments, Sandra had somehow intuited the inevitability of what was to come and her utter powerlessness in the face of it. She was a skier trying to outrace an avalanche. She was doomed.

First it was Mary Beth Halloran on the phone. Mary Beth was in Tiffany's homeroom. I'm so sorry to bother you, Mrs. McKee, but, like, I was talking to Tiffany O'Doul? And she said, you know, Erin, like, cleared up her complexion? And I was wondering, I know this is kind of weird, but, I've got this really bad case of acne too? So if I could just see Erin for a minute? It's just that Tiffany looks so great and, you know, who knows?

And then there was Tiffany's mom, Nancy O'Doul, gushing over what had happened and what a special child Erin was. Not special, Sandra fumed to herself. Not special at all. And Nancy was saying, Sandra, I know what an imposition this is, but I have this cousin Patty—I don't think you've met her? She lives in New Hampshire with her husband Al and well, anyway, she's always had this problem with eczema, and I was wondering...

When Mike got home, Sandra had to unload on him—who else did she have? As usual, he got his can of Coors out of the refrigerator, seated Erin on his lap, and listened, stolidly taking it all in.

It's crazy, was his opinion when she finished. A coincidence. Or some kind of mind-body thing with Tiffany. Teenage hormones.

"Okay, but people aren't going to believe that, Mike. They're going to believe it's Erin. And they're going to want to... get at her. Make her touch them. Like she's some kind of freak."

Sandra could feel herself losing control. When Mike was home, she gave herself permission to do that. He didn't deserve it, but she couldn't help herself. She just couldn't.

He sat there at the kitchen table with Erin on his lap, wearing that long-suffering expression of his that seemed to say, Hit me again. I can take it. She wanted sympathy, love, understanding, but she knew that it was beyond Mike's capacity to give her all she needed. We don't have to let anyone get at Erin that we don't want to, he pointed out, holding their daughter more tightly.

"Then you answer the phone. You take the blame when everyone in Waltham thinks you're keeping them from curing their acne or their cousin's eczema or whatever. Let them call you selfish and heartless and—"

No one's going to—

Wanna bet?

The phone rang. Mike winced, as if he had received another blow. He sighed, transferred Erin to Sandra's lap, then went over and picked up the receiver. Hello? Oh hi, wait a sec. Your mom, he told Sandra, not bothering to hide his relief. He passed her the receiver, then went to take the tuna casserole out of the oven.

Hi mom, Sandra said, tension already knotting her stomach.

Oh hi, dear. Why did she always have to sound surprised, as if she hadn't really expected her daughter to talk to her? How are you? How was your day?

Great. Fine. Her mother always took the long way round to her point, like a sadist toying with her victim.

And how's my darling Erin?

Erin's fine too, mom.

Mike ladled out the casserole, then poured her a Diet Coke. She closed her eyes with gratitude when he kissed the top of her head. Sometimes he knew absolutely the right thing to do.

Oh, that's wonderful. She's such a sweet girl.

I know. Erin's the best. She tried the casserole to make sure it wasn't too hot, then fed Erin a bite.

Yes, she certainly is. Now, the thing is—do you know Claire Kenneally? She's in the Ladies Sodality with me, and it turns out she's Nancy O'Doul's mother. Do you know Nancy O'Doul, Sandra?

Sandra closed her eyes. Mom, she said, of course I do. And I know about her cousin in New Hampshire with the eczema.

Oh, darling, I know about that, but I wanted to talk about the daughter—Tiffany. Is it true? Claire says you were there, that you saw it. Did Erin really cure her?

Sandra hadn't had time to consider this aspect of her doom, but now it seemed as inevitable as all the others. Her mother prayed to Saint Jude when she lost an earring, had a photo of the Shroud of Turin hanging in her bedroom, was saving up for a trip to Lourdes. Miracles were an everyday part of her life. Sandra wiped Erin's chin and fed her another bite. I didn't see anything, she said. Tiffany's acne is gone. She thinks Erin had something to do with it. That's nonsense, of course.

But why, dear? You know there's something special about Erin, and I'm not saying that just because she's my granddaughter. I've felt it. Everyone's felt it.

Mom, she's a little girl with brain damage, with extremely limited cognitive functioning. She's a little girl who can't speak complete sentences, who can barely control her bowel movements. She doesn't cure skin diseases. And don't go telling your friends in the Sodality that she does.

Her mother was silent. Shit, thought Sandra. It'll be on the six o'clock news by tomorrow. You don't have to be a genius to be touched by God, her mother said softly.

And why does God have to be part of this picture? Sandra shot back.

Darling, miracles don't just happen, her mother replied.

It wasn't a miracle. I don't want anything to do with miracles—or with God, Sandra said.

But dear, God might not give you anything to say about it.

Sandra hung up, passed Erin back to Mike, grabbed her cigarettes, and went out into the backyard. It was freezing outside, but she didn't care. She sat on the edge of the deck, stared at the outline of the swing set, and lit up, feeling the smoke fill her lungs, willing herself to calm down. Didn't she have enough in her life without this? She heard the phone ring again, and Mike answering it. Mike never blew up, never raged at the unfairness of it all. But he felt it. He had to feel it, when he changed Erin's diaper or wiped the food off her perfect face or read her a bedtime story that she didn't understand. So where did those feelings go?

After a while he came outside, sat down next to her, and put his arm around her. Sandra looked inside. She's watching TV, Mike said. She'll be okay for a few minutes.

Sandra stubbed out her cigarette and leaned her head against his chest.

Let's look at the big picture, he said. First of all, either it was a miracle or it wasn't.

It wasn't a—

Okay, okay. Just hear me out. Let's assume it wasn't anything—just a coincidence or whatever. What we have to do is convince the world this is true, so we can get your mother and Nancy O'Doul's cousin and everyone off our backs.

But how can we do that?

Well, we can't do anything about Tiffany. But if we let everyone else come and try to get themselves cured, and none of them—

Wait a minute. If you think I'm going to let—

Hear me out, honey. What if we just do it all in one day—a weekend afternoon, maybe? You don't even have to be here. We can let your mother run everything; she'd be thrilled. We march the people through here—say, ten or fifteen, we can cut it off if it starts looking like a circus. Erin won't mind meeting the people, she enjoys company. They hold Erin's hand, your mother says a prayer, but nothing happens. And guess what? Our problem is solved. Sure, we'll still get calls, but we won't hear from every kid with acne at Waltham High. And to the people who do call we can just say —no, I'm sorry, we let people meet Erin and it didn't work. We don't know what was up with Tiffany, but it didn't have anything to do with our child.

Sandra shook her head. I don't see why we have to do any of this. We've got enough to deal with, without having to have an open house for people with skin diseases.

Well, I think we'll have a lot more to deal with if we don't stop this before it gets out of hand.

Sandra abruptly got up and went inside. She was cold. Mike worked in technical support at a computer company, and it was hard to argue with him when he got into his troubleshooting mode; it was male logic carried to an impossible extreme. The phone rang; she ignored it.

Erin was still watching TV in the family room. When she saw Sandra, she made her vague, cheerful noise that Sandra interpreted as Mommy. Sandra smiled at her and kissed the top of her head. Bedtime, Sugarplum, she said.

Mike came in behind her.

This stinks, she said.

Can't argue with you.

How do you stand it? How do you make it through a single day?

I love you guys. How else could I do it?

She grimaced. You and my mother have to handle everything, she said. Anyone calls from now on, I'm gonna sic 'em on you. And one afternoon for the thing, that's all. I'm not going to let my baby be pawed over by strangers for the rest of her life. Got it?

Mike nodded. I'm not happy about this either, he said. But I think it'll work.

It better. She picked Erin up and held her in her