leaving the computer screen.
As the rite proceeded, the Pope instantly recognized some of its elements, even though he’d never actually witnessed them before. As soon as the clip was over, he played it again, this time concentrating on the priest who was performing the rite.
The man worked with confidence.
He knew what he was doing.
He’d done it before.
When the video ended, the Pope tented his fingers, resting his chin on them, then straightened in his chair. “This is very interesting, Guillermo. You were right to bring it to me.” The Cardinal visibly relaxed. “Tell me, who is behind this?”
“His name is Father Sebastian Sloane,” Morisco replied, and the Pope felt his pulse quicken. “Until recently, he was a professor at Notre Dame.”
“I know of him,” the Pope said. “His doctoral dissertation was a study of our rites in the Dark Ages.”
“Which, of course, you’ve read,” Morisco dryly observed. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“After the results of the last conclave, I should think nothing would ever surprise you again, Guillermo,” the Pope replied, a small grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “And don’t pretend you didn’t assume I’d read Sloane’s dissertation — I believe I remember talking to you about it a year ago.” He smiled wistfully. “At Gianni’s, as I recall.” His smile faded. “Where is Sloane now?”
“A small school in Boston.”
“Boston?” the Pope echoed. “This took place in Boston?”
Morisco nodded, but said nothing.
“I want you to reply to Boston, Guillermo. Tell them that if Father Sloane can duplicate what I’ve seen here tonight, I will rearrange my post-Easter trip to include a visit to Boston.”
“A visit?” Cardinal Morisco repeated, visibly shaken by the specter of rearranging at this late date what was already a complex schedule. “Your Holiness,” he said, unconsciously retreating from the easy familiarity he’d shared with his old friend for so many years. “The agenda is set. We leave in a couple of weeks! To add another stop at this late—”
“Come now, Guillermo,” the Pope said, holding up his hand so that the ring of St. Peter glittered in the light of the chandelier. “No plan of man’s is ever set in stone. We must keep in mind that Boston is a failing Archdiocese, and that a visit from us might resuscitate its spirit.” His deliberate use of the Papal “we,” combined with his equally deliberate display of the golden symbol of his authority had exactly the effect the Pontiff had intended, and he could see Morisco beginning to calculate the logistics of effecting a change in the schedule. “If Father Sloane can re- create this, have him send us the proof. What we have seen could be illusory — a mere fluke. But if he can do it twice, then we will go to Boston and witness this ourselves.”
“As you wish,” Morisco said, though his expression clearly belied the calmness of his words.
“I am certain he will be able to do what we ask,” the Pope said, rising to his feet. “So please plan accordingly.”
Morisco rose as well. “I am your humble servant.”
“We are all God’s humble servants,” the Pope observed. As they moved toward the door, he laid a hand on Morisco’s shoulder. “Some of us, of course, are more humble than others.” As they approached the door, it once again opened as if by magic, and his secretary appeared, ready to escort the Cardinal out of the apartment. As he watched Morisco go, Pope Innocent XIV found himself reflecting on the power of his new position, which allowed him to change even such a vast undertaking as a Papal tour simply by uttering a few words.
He must be very careful with such power; he must pray tonight for divine guidance so that he could use that power more wisely than certain of his predecessors.
And if Father Sloane had truly done what the Pope thought he had done, then far more power was about to come into his hands than any pope had even dreamed of for at least five hundred years.
CHAPTER 30
THE LAST PLACE Sofia Capelli wanted to be was exactly where she was. But she had no choice; Sister Mary David had made that very clear when Sofia had made the mistake of telling the nun that she wasn’t going to Kip Adamson’s funeral. So now she stood in the foyer as the entire student body and faculty of St. Isaac’s filed into the chapel, and despite what Sister Mary David had told her, Sofia still did not want to go, and was planning to slip out the door unnoticed as soon as everyone was in the sanctuary.
The moment came, and Sofia turned to make her escape. But even before she could take the first step, Sister Mary David emerged from the dark shadows of the corner to the left of the door, her eyes boring into Sofia. Sofia felt a flash of cold fury and for just an instant imagined blood gushing from the nun’s neck as if Kip Adamson had slashed her rather than the woman he’d actually killed. But the vision faded as quickly as it had come, and, accepting defeat at least for now, Sofia turned to follow the crowd into the chapel, the nun close behind her.
Then, just as she crossed the threshold, it hit her. A wave of nausea that twisted her gut and threatened to overwhelm her before she could even fight it. She sank onto the end of the back pew, barely inside the door, then closed her eyes and tried to quell a growing sickness, but it only increased as the doors were closed and the mass began.
She was trapped.
She felt an overwhelming urge to bolt from the pew and burst through the door to suck in the fresh air outside, but Sister Mary David was standing sentry, her only apparent purpose being to make certain Sofia stayed for the funeral.
As Father Laughlin stood in the pulpit above Kip’s flowered casket and began to pray, Sofia bowed her head like everyone else, but instead of praying for Kip’s soul, she prayed that she’d be able to endure the service to the end without either becoming ill or fainting.
Or both.
† † †
Melody Hunt sat in the fourth pew with Clay Matthews on one side of her and Ryan McIntyre on the other. Darren Bender was at the end nearest the aisle, and still trying to save enough space so that Sofia could sit next to him if she showed up. As the organ played softly, Melody leaned across Ryan and touched Darren’s shirtsleeve. “Why isn’t Sofia with us? Did something happen at lunch that you didn’t tell us about?”
Darren shook his head and shrugged helplessly. “You saw what happened, for God’s sake,” he whispered a little too loudly, earning a dark glare from someone in the pew behind him. “She just freaked out. I don’t know what’s going on — I couldn’t talk to her!”
Melody sat still in her seat trying not to look like she was searching the rows of students and faculty for Sofia. Kip’s parents were sitting with Father Sebastian in the front row, along with some people she thought must be his grandparents, and she recognized practically everyone else she knew scattered all over the packed chapel. But there was no sign of Sofia at all.
Finally she twisted around and scanned the crowd behind her, and there was Sofia, her face ashen, sitting in the very last pew with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “There she is,” she whispered as loudly as she dared.
The three boys all turned to look. “Where?”
“Back row by the door.” She nudged Ryan. “Let me out. I’m going to go talk to her.”
Ryan put his hand on her arm. “You can’t go talk to her now — the mass is starting!”
Melody reluctantly turned back to face the front and slipped her hand into Ryan’s.
Ryan squeezed it quickly, then spoke, his eyes on the casket, his voice barely audible. “The last funeral I went to was my dad’s.”
Melody searched her mind for something to say, then settled on just holding his hand even tighter. As if
