“It’s in there.”
Jonas took an involuntary step backward. He set his mostly untouched glass of sherry down on the coffee table.
“Reverend, I think maybe I should go.”
Branson walked toward the wooden door, pulling a heavy iron key from his pocket.
“Don’t be foolish, Jonas,” he said.
He unlocked the door and opened it, revealing dimness beyond. He stepped inside, vanishing into the gloom.
“Come in here,” the reverend’s voice floated back. “And bring your sherry. It’s expensive.”
Shaking his head, Jonas picked up his glass and followed Branson into the next room.
It was a study of some kind—a dim, windowless chamber with its illumination generated by a single, small lamp on a table inthe middle of the room. The pool of light was too small to see much—a few glints of metal from the walls.
Branson closed the door, sealing the room with a smooth click as the latch engaged, then flipped up a bank of switches tothe right of the entrance.
A series of spotlights set into recesses along the walls came to life. Below each light sat a niche containing a small, ornateobject of metal and glass. The walls were crimson, and the few pieces of furniture were carved from dark wood, with leatherupholstery. The aesthetic could not have been more opposite to the calculated, milk-bath neutrality of Branson’s office backat headquarters, or even the bland ordinariness of the rest of his home. It was lush, almost sensual.
Branson tapped another switch. A gas fireplace leapt to life, sending warm, dancing reflections off the metal objects in thealcoves arranged around the room.
He walked to a niche containing a glass cylinder about a foot high, chased with silver, standing on four little golden feet.Inside, an unrecognizable yellow-brown lump. He picked it up and turned, showing it to Jonas.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Jonas looked, his face puzzled.
“I’m not sure, Reverend.”
“A reliquary. These are the mortal remains of Saint Gratus of Aosta. He died in AD 470. I believe it’s a vertebrae. Or sothey told me when I bought it.”
Jonas glanced around the room, taking in the many other alcoves, each with its own little chest and container of glass andmetal, holding a lump of flesh and bone nearly indistinguishable from the one Branson was holding.
“Are all the rest of these . . .” Jonas gestured helplessly around the room. “Reverend, these are Catholic saints. I don’tunderstand.”
Branson smiled thinly.
“Don’t worry, Jonas. I’m not a closet Papist. I’m still a good, old-fashioned American Protestant.”
“But then why do you . . .” Jonas began.
Branson stepped closer to the fire, which, to Jonas, seemed like a bizarre choice. The room was much too warm.
“Saintly relics are tourist attractions,” Branson said. “For thousands of years, churches all over the world have used relicsto pull in the faithful, and next to every single one is a donation box.”
Branson stared at the bone inside the reliquary.
“Is this actually a piece of old Gratus’ spine? Or did some church just need its roof fixed, and so they went down to theboneyard out back and dug themselves up a miracle?”
He looked at Jonas, his face calm.
“My secret. It’s simple enough,” he said. “I don’t believe in God.”
Jonas frowned.
“Your faith has lapsed?” he asked. “It happens, Reverend, or so I’ve heard—if you want my help, we can pray together. I’lldo everything I can, and I’m honored that—”
“No,” Branson interrupted. “I’ve never believed in God. I don’t particularly see the point.”
Jonas remained silent.
“Well, that’s not exactly true. I believe in spirituality, and goodness. But the stuff in the Bible? The specifics? No. God’snot real. At least, not the version we sell to our congregation. That’s all pablum. An ad campaign.”
He held up the reliquary again.
“Belief is a commodity. It can be packaged, bought and sold. It’s true of saint’s bones, and it’s true of my ministry.”
Jonas could feel his eye starting to twitch.
“You know our congregation doesn’t believe either, right?” Branson said.
“That’s not true,” Jonas said, heat leaking into his voice.
“Sure it is. If those folks really believed God was up there judging them, they’d be better people. But you see how they are.They lie, they cheat. They’re brazen about it.”
Branson drained his sherry glass and looked at it ruefully.
“Should’ve brought the bottle,” he said.
He set the glass down on a nearby table.
“A long time ago, I spent a while thinking about the good a person might do in their lifetime. The things they might reallydo to help their fellow man. Like a math problem. How much good could one ordinary person accomplish with their life? I figuredit was quite a bit, if they really wanted to go that way.
“But then, I looked at what people actually do, and I realized . . . it’s not a lot, is it? Not very much at all. Folks lookout for their own, and maybe they don’t actively hurt anyone else if they can help it . . . but reaching out a hand to thosein need? Forget it. Most people have a hard-enough time just getting through the day.”
He smiled at Jonas.
“I didn’t like that math. I found it frustrating. So I decided to do better. I decided to do this.”
He gave the reliquary another rattle.
“Now, I don’t want to sugarcoat things. I take money—buckets of it—from many, many people. But I’m not a thief. I give goodvalue. Our congregation . . . our customers . . . want to feel good about themselves, and better than other people, and they’rewilling to pay top dollar.
“That is what our ministry is for. That’s what every ministry is for. That’s all they really want from us. Look me in theeye and deny it.”
Jonas wanted very much to look up, deny the reverend, defy him, but his eyes remained fixed on the reliquary, watching theflames dance across it.
“My flock gives me their energy, their power, their money, and they’re happy to do it. If I was selfish about how I used it,that would be one thing. I’d be a devil. But that’s not what I do, is it? I gather up all those little scrapings of goodwilland put them together, into me. And then
