The Sacred Blood

When the doors smoothly parted for the third time, a man in jeans and a short-sleeve plaid shirt with a white guest badge plastered across its pocket stepped off the elevator looking lost. Even without the black suit and white collar, she immediately recognized him. Rising from her chair, she smiled and waved to him through the glass, then made her way to the door.

“Can I hug a priest?” she asked.

“If you don’t squeeze too hard and make all the confessions come out,”

he said with a wide grin.

“It’s so great to see you,” she said, bending slightly for a quick embrace.

“Quite a surprise.”

“Yes. So sorry, Charlotte. Rather rude, me showing up unannounced

like this.”

His soothing voice delighted her. “Don’t be silly.” Right away she could

sense something was troubling him. “I take it this isn’t a social visit?” Smiling tightly, he said, “We must talk for a few minutes. It’s quite

urgent, I’m afraid.”

Immediately she felt her stomach flutter. “Sure. My office okay?” He looked over her shoulder. All the walls were clear glass and he could

see a young woman who appeared to be Charlotte’s assistant in an adjacent

glass cubicle. He seemed to think it was private enough, because he said,

“Certainly.”

Charlotte led him inside, locked the door to avoid interruptions, and

motioned to the small oval conference table set by the window. She watched

as he sat with hands folded on the table, his posture timid and vulnerable. “Lovely view,” he couldn’t help but comment.

“Scores high in our employee satisfaction surveys,” she replied, taking

the seat across from him. He smiled genuinely for the first time—the

smile she remembered from their strolls in the papal gardens. “Speaking of

which, how are things at the Vatican?”

Donovan contemplated his hands for a moment. “Oh, you know . . . as

long as there are sinners out there, business will be good, I suppose.” “A nd C a rd ina l Sa ntel li ? ”

His eyes met hers for a moment, then went back to his woven hands. “I

take it you haven’t heard.” He told her about the cardinal’s death, which,

for now, he explained simply as unexpected heart failure. Only he and God

were privy to the true nature of Santelli’s demise.

“I’m sorry” was all Charlotte could muster.

“Well, I’m sure he’s in good hands now.” Whether they were God’s or

Satan’s, Donovan wasn’t certain. Before proceeding, he knew he had to

address something else too. “And Dr. Bersei—”

“I read about it,” she said, her voice suddenly choked. “I still can’t believe . . .” Eyes watery, she had to stop herself. “Was it really an accident?”

she managed in a low voice.

The emptiness in Donovan’s chest felt instantly larger. The Vatican

could spin anything. “About that . . . ,” he said, but reconsidered. “Later,

actually. No time now. You see, I left the Vatican . . . after all that had happened. Returned to Ireland. Back to the homeland,” he said. “Temporary leave?”

“Permanent, perhaps. Anyway, it worked out fine . . . got to spend time

with my father before he passed on, God rest his soul.”

She tsked and reached out to touch his hands. “So sorry.” “Lived a full life. He was a good man. God will take him with open

arms.” Unlike me, he thought, and drew a breath before going on. Leaning forward, he looked deep into her eyes. “Something very troublesome

happened to me yesterday. When I couldn’t reach you by phone, I had no

choice but to come find you immediately.”

Luckily, his checkered past in Belfast meant always keeping his Italian

passport (the de facto standard for Vatican citizens) alongside his wallet,