The Angel. Tiffany Reisz
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Patrick said in a warning tone, “don’t do this, please. Let it go.”
Suzanne didn’t answer. Sitting in her swivel chair, she curled her legs to her chest and reached for the framed photograph that sat on the corner of her desk. Her older brother Adam smiled at her from inside the frame. He was twenty-eight in the picture. Now she was twenty-eight and Adam was gone.
“Suzanne,” Patrick said with quiet solemnity. For a moment she heard the echo of her father in Patrick’s concerned tone. “This is the Catholic Church. They are their own country with their own army and that army is mostly lawyers. I know you hate the Church. I would too if I were you. But you need to think about this before you dive in blindly.”
“I’m not blind. I know exactly what I’m looking at. An anonymous tip that says something’s rotten in the state of Wakefield. And I’m going to find what it is.”
Patrick exhaled heavily. “Okay,” he said. “But you’re going to let me help. Right?”
Suzanne rolled her eyes and tried not to smile.
“Right. Fine. If you insist.”
“So where do we start?” he asked her.
Suzanne pointed to the one name on the fax that interested her.
Father Marcus Stearns, Sacred Heart, Wakefield, Connecticut.
“We start with him.”
Patrick grabbed his laptop out of his messenger bag that he’d left on her sofa last night.
“Easy enough,” Patrick said, booting up his Mac. “What do you want to know about him?”
Suzanne stared at the picture of Adam again. Had Adam not died, he would have turned thirty-four this month.
“Everything.”
Nora bit back a grin as Michael, for the first time ever, sat next to her. Poor kid—for a year now she’d been waiting for him to work up the courage to talk to her. As young and fragile as he was, she didn’t want to push him. Michael might be the name of God’s archangel and chief warrior, but the Michael next to her easily qualified as the meekest young man she’d ever encountered. Out of a mix of affection and plain heathen mischief Nora gave Michael a quick, viciously hard pinch on the leg as Owen bestowed another one of his drawings on her—this one a seven-armed amputee octopus. She declared it worthy of George Condo himself as she carefully folded it and slipped it in her purse. A good morning so far—she’d been fucked by her favorite man, hugged by her favorite boy and silently adored by her favorite angel. But her happiness faded when she noticed a priest she’d never seen before taking his seat in the front pew. He glanced back at her with a disapproving glare. That didn’t shock or surprise her. She’d received her fair share of disapproving glares in her day from the clergy, Søren especially. But then the glare passed from her to Michael. The mysterious priest looked at Michael with a mix of pity and disgust. Michael noticed the look and the color drained from his already pale complexion.
Nora’s heart pounded. Did the priest know something about her? About how she and Søren had “helped” Michael recover from his suicide attempt?
Before Nora could descend into a full-blown panic attack, the bells rang, the processional music began and Søren entered behind the crucifer and took his place at the altar.
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” Søren said. The visiting priest remained in his seat. Bad sign. A visiting priest almost always shared Mass duties. That he simply sat and watched meant something. Something bad.
“And also with you,” Nora recited with the rest of the congregation. Søren seemed calm and unperturbed as usual. The visiting priest didn’t bother him at all. Seeing Søren so calm did little to comfort her. Søren could be calm in the middle of a blitzkrieg.
Nora watched as Søren slid his fingers up the side of his podium and tapped the corner three times. To anyone else it would have been a mindless gesture, but Nora knew it was a signal to her. He wanted her to come to his office after the service instead of heading straight for his bed. Something was going on. Barring divine intervention, Søren had said. Nora hated divine intervention.
Nora turned to Michael and she saw her own fear reflected in his strange silver eyes. She looked up at Søren and whispered one terrified word to herself.
“Fuck.”
2
Returning Owen to his bemused parents delayed Nora in the sanctuary a few minutes after Mass. By the time she made it to Søren’s office, Michael already stood outside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“He summoned you too?” she asked, sitting across from him on the bench opposite Søren’s door.
Michael nodded.
“Kind of feels like we’re sitting outside the principal’s office,” Nora said. “I hear you’re valedictorian this year, so you probably never had to sit outside the principal’s office, did you?”
Nora waited and still got no reply from Michael. He smiled but didn’t speak.
“Michael? Pussy got your tongue?”
He laughed … audibly.
“Finally,” Nora breathed, relieved to hear something from him. “You have any idea why we’re here?”
Michael shrugged. “None. I don’t think it’s good though.”
“Michael, you didn’t talk to anyone, you know, about us, did you?”
The look Michael gave her abounded with so much hurt that she realized immediately she’d been an idiot to even consider that Michael would say a word to anyone about her or Søren.
“Nora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “I don’t even talk to myself.”
Now it was her turn to laugh.
“I’m sorry, Angel. I’m just being paranoid.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t say anything, promise. I never talk.”
Nora stood up and walked over to Michael. She sat beside him and stared full-on. He started to look away, but she snapped her fingers in front of his face and pointed right at her eyes. Immediately his silver eyes met her green ones.
“You talked to me that night,” she breathed into his ear.
His pale face flushing, Michael whispered, “That was just a dream.”
Nora blew air over his neck under his ear.
“We had the same dream then.”
Michael’s pupils went wide and she knew he was remembering the night Søren had given him to her—as a gift and a test. She’d enjoyed the gift. She’d failed the test.
“Are you doing okay?” she asked, taking a step back to give him some breathing room.
Michael nervously rubbed his arms.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Did Søren give you that book?”
“Yeah. It helped. Thank you,” Michael said. She’d passed on her old beat-up copy of The Other Secret Garden to him, a classic work on the psychology of sexual submission.
“You’re welcome. Is our priest on the phone?”
Michael nodded.
“What language?”
“French first.” Michael leaned closer to the door. “Now Danish.”
“Hmm … that’s good news