of this story too, you know. People are going to want to hear your side of it.”
He cocked his head at her with a pleased look on his face and said, “Good.”
“Why?”
“I thought I might get me a ghostwriter,” he mused. “Knock out a book about it. Something punchy. Like something that guy who wrote
“Yeah, well, get in line, bub,” she countered.
He let out a slight chuckle. Turned to look at her. It suddenly occurred to him that she was a great-looking girl. Great-looking and, with all the rest of it, everything any man could ask for. And much as he wanted to put the whole nightmare of the last week behind him, the thought of it keeping them involved in each other’s lives for a while longer had taken over as the preferred option.
But they had to get through the tough part first.
“When are you going to hit the button?” he asked her.
Her face tightened at the uncomfortable thought. “I don’t know. How about we let everyone out there enjoy a few more hours of peace. Christmas was only yesterday . . .”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” she nodded.
They dunked their empty cans in the trash and trudged back to their rooms. They were outside Father Jerome’s door when it cracked open. The old priest was standing there, holding it open, a knot of concentration etched across his forehead.
“I’m sorry, did we wake you?” Gracie said.
“No,” he said. He didn’t look like he’d slept at all, and seemed deeply consumed by his thoughts. He studied them for a beat, then said, “Can you get everyone together? I’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened, and . . . We need to talk.”
Chapter 82
Houston, Texas
The sky was still as balmy and clear as it had been on the big day itself. A relative calm had reasserted itself over the city, even though the air was still heavy with expectation. There hadn’t been any fresh news about Father Jerome in over twenty-four hours, and the city was trying to carry on with life while awaiting the next moment of revelation.
The first people to see the ball of light pulsating over the reflecting pool were the families and couples and joggers who were out enjoying a day in the park. It was small and spherical, maybe twenty feet across, and was hovering innocuously around a couple of hundred feet up over the south end of the long, rectangular ceremonial pool, by the Pioneer Memorial obelisk, at the northern tip of Hermann Park. Curious onlookers gravitated toward it, scanning the grounds around them with wary eyes. They soon spotted the man underneath it, the one in the black cassock and the richly embroidered hood. The light was hovering over him as he walked slowly away from the obelisk.
The onlookers converged on him, calling others over, pointing him out. The park was hugely popular and was surrounded by some of Houston’s most beloved attractions: the zoo, the Garden Center, the Museum of Natural Science with its cylindrical butterfly greenhouse, and the iconic Miller Outdoor Theatre. Given the weather and the holiday, there were a lot of people out there, and it didn’t take long for most of them to swarm in on the frail old man who was walking innocently along the edge of the tranquil body of water. They spoke to him, greeted him, and threw hesitant questions at him, but he didn’t answer or meet their eyes. He just nodded enigmatically and kept ambling quietly, seemingly lost in his thoughts. They kept a respectful distance, staying back a few yards from him. Those who breeched that private zone were told off by others and made to pull back. Throughout, Father Jerome kept moving, slowly, until he made his way up the ceremonial steps to the platform that looked down over the pond.
He stopped there and turned, looking out onto the wide open area before him, framed against the statue of Sam Houston and its monumental arch. The park police were quick to get involved; they reeled in as much backup as they could muster and soon set up a protective cordon around the platform. The news vans rushed over too. Before long, hundreds of people were spread across the grounds of the park, their eyes locked on the tiny figure with the sphere of shimmering light floating above him who just stood there and looked down on them in silence.
Once everything was in place—the crowd, the coverage, the protection—he took a step forward and raised his hands to a wide, welcoming stance. A ripple of sh-sh-sh’s rolled over the crowd, and the entire park was shrouded in silence. Even the birds and the branches of the trees seemed to fall into line as any trace of noise seeped away from the ceremonial plaza and was replaced by an ominous stillness.
Father Jerome’s eyes traveled slowly across the field of onlookers and back. He then tilted his head up to look at the sphere of light floating over him, nodded thoughtfully, clenched his fists with resolve, and addressed the crowd.
“Friends,” he began, “something wonderful has been happening these past few days. Something amazing, something breathtaking and strange and surprising and . . . something I don’t quite understand,” he confessed. A murmur of surprise coursed through the crowd. “Because the honest truth is . . . I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what this is,” he said, pointing upward at the hovering ball of light. “I don’t know why it’s here. I don’t know why it chose me. What I do know, though, is that its meaning hasn’t been properly understood. Not by others. Certainly not by me. Not until last night. And now I think I do understand. I understand what it’s trying to tell us. And I’m here to share that with you.”
KEENAN DRUCKER STOOD in his hotel room, openmouthed, staring at the TV screen, wondering what the hell was going on.
He’d been on edge since he’d gotten news of Father Jerome’s disappearance from Reverend Darby’s mansion, and he’d been worriedly anticipating a quick press blowout from Rydell and his new friends. The fact that it hadn’t happened threw him. He’d wondered why they hadn’t gone public, what Rydell was up to. And the sight on the screen before him, of Father Jerome walking through a park with a growing horde of followers congregating around him, wasn’t making things any clearer.
He heard his suite’s doorbell ring, and crossed to see who was there, his mind still in thrall to the events taking place less than a mile away. He checked the peephole and stiffened at the sight that greeted him, then he composed himself and unlocked the door.
“Jesus,” he said when he saw Maddox’s heavily bandaged arm and his sweaty face. “You didn’t tell me it was that bad.”
Maddox pushed into the suite, ignoring the comment. “There’s a lot of commotion in the lobby. Have you seen what’s happening?” He’d barely said it when he saw the live coverage on the TV. He stepped closer to the screen, then turned to Drucker with a suspicious frown. “What are you doing?”
“It’s not me,” Drucker protested. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Maddox studied him dubiously. “It’s not you?”
“I’m telling you this has nothing to do with me,” Drucker insisted. “It’s got to be Rydell. He’s running things now. They got the priest out last night.”
“The sign,” Maddox realized, filling in the gaps mentally. “I thought it was something you’d planned. Then I tried Dario’s phone and got some cop, and that didn’t add up.”
“Dario’s dead,” Drucker confirmed.
