The Dead Saint Read online

  He gazed down again at the cars stalled in D. C. gridlock, drivers honking to no avail. No mental gridlock for him. Let those with less at stake practice the Golden Rule. He would live by the Platinum Rule: Zero tolerance. So . . . Darwish was dead. He shrugged, turned away from the window, and locked the door on remorse.

  4

  Lynn got off the streetcar that ran down the median of St. Charles Avenue. The late afternoon sun cut long shadows on sidewalk and soul. She climbed the steps of her episcopal residence, a Victorian home renovated after Katrina's assault. The house suited her: a white-railed veranda with friendly white rockers and hanging baskets of fuchsia bougainvillea, a welcoming door with a brass knocker, and large windows that filled the rooms with light. But this inviting image couldn't erase the big-screen view of Elias Darwish prone on the pavement.

  The security alarm hummed as she entered. She punched in the code: Twelve-ten. December tenth. Precious Lyndie's birthday. A familiar bolt of pain stung her heart. We can guard against molesters and kidnappers but not car wrecks. Lyndie's death would always gash her soul. And Galen's too. Parents are supposed to die first.

  She closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, almost paralyzed. The crystal vase on the table caught the sunlight, and the mirror doubled the dozen red roses that perfumed the entry hall. But it was the image of Elie that she saw.

  Habit claimed her, and she shuffled through the letters and catalogues that lay in a heap below the mail slot. An American Express bill, a letter to Galen Peterson, Ph.D., and three for Bishop Lynn Prejean Peterson. The return address of one caught her eye: THE WHITE HOUSE. She held it like a treasured piece of Tiffany glass. President Helena Benedict was steering admirably through her bumpy first year, adroitly dodging stones cast by her opponents. Lynn had written her a note of appreciation and had asked the President's former pastor to send it to her directly. She hadn't expected a reply. She read President Benedict's letter through twice, astonished that it was not a computerized mass-produced reply but dealt directly with her comments.

  Evidently she employs an excellent correspondence staff, Lynn.

  She resented this annoying Inner Voice. I.V. Ivy, she'd dubbed it. The nickname gave her a sense of power and control over the voice. She liked the feeling and continued to bask in the illusion that the President herself had written the letter.

  Again the image of Elie invaded her mind. Again habit prevailed. The same routine every afternoon: first the mail, then the voice messages. She stepped into the library to check the phone. She'd been careful not to convert the spacious room into a cluttered museum of relics and riches and egocentric evidence of honors. To a large extent the decorative aspects changed with the seasons. She took turns with some objects and rearranged the ones with special meaning or beauty. These changes prompted a fresh view, better than giving in to her expedient get-it-right-and-that's-done nature. The one exception was Lyndie's portrait in its prominent place on the mantle.

  One message was from Fay Foster, her assistant, a talkative and loyal woman she'd grown to love:

  "Bishop Peterson, Fay here. I know this call isn't needed, but I want to do my duty and remind you of the banquet tonight at Windsor Court. It's unnecessary, I know—what with the Vice President speaking and you giving the invocation and all. You've probably known for weeks not only what you're going to say in your prayer but also what you're going to wear. I bet you're at the hairdresser's right now. Have fun tonight."

  In the chaos Lynn had forgotten all about the banquet. Quickly she showered and washed her hair, savoring the scent of coconut shampoo—one of life's small pleasures before the machete falls. She put on makeup, conscious of the mess she'd made of her skin by being in the sun so much. Her friends had those beautiful southern complexions of smooth ivory or dark satin. Friends. Elie was dead. The tears came.

  5

  Galen arrived as the clock chimed six. Lynn's consecration as a bishop had changed their lives. Some of the changes good. Others not so good. She was grateful that with their move had come Tulane's invitation for Galen to fill its most prestigious chair in the area of history. He often traveled with her across the pond, taking advantage of opportunities to participate in different cultures and do research in libraries all around the world. The years had grayed the temples of his sandy hair, but he retained a remarkable semblance of his USC quarterback physique. Intense brown eyes that pierced façades dominated his handsome face. Though he was fastidious about his appearance, she noted tonight that he could have been leaving for work instead of returning.

  "Hi, Love." She zipped up the back of her black dress, realizing she'd eaten too much bread pudding since the last time she'd worn it.

  A foot taller than she, he bent to kiss her. "What a day!"

  What a day! she echoed mentally.

  He tossed the Times-Picayune on the bed. "Faculty meeting. Translation: forum for pompous professors to exercise their predilection for pugnacity."

  A scholar, she thought fondly, who enjoys alliteration and speaks English from an unabridged vocabulary.

  He turned on TV and looked at her, his eyes sad. "Did you hear about Elie?"

  She nodded. The dam that held back her feelings threatened to break.

  The murder scene flashed on the news. "Lynn! That's you!"

  She stuck her thumb in the dike, desperate to distance herself from reality. She had managed to hold herself together through the long aftermath of panic and police and reporters. She willed herself back into control.

  "Did you go to the Quarter alone?" Her profession was hard on his Gentleman-of-the-South upbringing.

  "I had to. No one called to hire me for a bodyguard."

  He didn't laugh. "You were present when it happened!"

  "But it was OK. The mime wasn't aiming at me."

  "The mime?"

  "There wasn't a butler." She fought the tears that would flood if the dam broke—and she would give the invocation with red, swollen eyes.

  Vanity again, Lynn!

  "Be serious. This is not a time for badinage."

  "I was perfectly safe, Love."

  "A sniper assassinated my friend in the proximity of my wife! I don't call that perfectly safe."

  Her defenses nearly collapsed and she saw the scene again. Crawfish crawled through her stomach. She willed herself to focus on Galen.

  "I see our speaker has arrived," he said as the local news switched to the Vice President's landing half an hour ago.

  Lynn watched him wave at the cameras, armed with his propensity for appearing sincere. "We're sitting at the head table with him tonight."

  "You'd have an enviable office if the stress didn't accompany the symbol."

  "True," she agreed. "Isn't that John Adams in the background, Love?" He was a distinguished-looking man and a frequent guest on TV talk shows. Lynn had often heard him express pride that BarLothiun was a private company, allowing him the advantage of looking ahead long-term instead of having to satisfy investors quarterly.

  "A man almost as well-known as the original John Adams."

  "What an honor to be invited to ride with the Vice President!"

  "I read somewhere that they're good friends." Galen turned from the TV and looked her over. "You are stunning tonight, as always. Bishop or no, you're still my raven-haired beauty with aquamarine eyes."

  Raving-haired was more accurate in Louisiana humidity. Yet it felt good to hear that fond phrase from dating days. She wondered if today would widen the gray streak in her widow's peak.

  That trait portends early widowhood, Lynn.

  Ignoring obtrusive Ivy, she reminded herself that she didn't believe in superstitions. But the machete came to mind. "I love you, Galen."

  He put his arms around her. "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

  "It won't. Life with you is too interesting to miss." She nestled against him, savoring his protective embrace, which kept the world's chaos at bay. The phone broke the precious moment. />
  He answered with his customary, "Petersons' residence. Galen speaking." . . . "Yes." . . . He listened, looking puzzled, and finally replied, "We would be honored." He hung up, still staring at the phone.

  "Who was it?"

  "Vice President Parker's staffer. She said he would like for us to ride with him to the airport after the banquet. He wants an opportunity to speak with us."

  6

  The evening at Windsor Court began with paying the taxi driver, followed by Galen's refusal to walk up to the twenty-third floor as Lynn wished. She wondered how anyone as logical as Dr. Peterson could trust little cords to hold crowded elevators and ski lifts! He was wrong. She didn't have a phobia, merely sound judgment.

  The chef stood proud in his spotless whites and announced the five-course menu like a diva offering an aria dedicated to the Vice President. The feast raised the bar even by New Orleans standards, placing the after-dinner speaker in the awkward position of being anticlimactic. A drizzle of rain pattered against the windows during the mayor's long, egotistical introduction. When he finally released the dais, Vice President Parker thanked him and asked for the personal privilege of inviting John Adams to stand. "You who suffered so much from Katrina know firsthand that many contracts to rebuild the infrastructure of New Orleans were a fiasco. You also know that those given to BarLothiun, under the leadership of John Adams, always met the timelines and there was not a single accusation of wasting taxpayer dollars." Spontaneous applause resounded. "We all know that BarLothiun steers clear of lobbies. Every government contract it has received is because it offered the lowest bid. I invited John to come with me tonight because of all he did for New Orleans after Katrina." When the second round of applause ended, the Vice President told a joke and began his address.

  Galen pulled out his BlackBerry and took abbreviated notes, a habitual custom. The speech concluded with an expected standing ovation for the Vice President and an unexpected text message for Galen. It was from Tulane's president, Thomas Turner, via Fay Foster, who, though Lynn's assistant, congenially helped Galen also when needed: You are needed immediately at Tulane University Hospital. It is an emergency regarding one of your students.

  He told Lynn about it while texting Fay his thanks for helping him.

  "You're leaving now, Love?" Even as she asked, she knew the answer. His students always took precedence. No exceptions. Not even an invitation from the Vice President.

  "I trust Tom's judgment," said Galen. He offered his apologies to Vice President Parker, who said something Lynn couldn't hear. Galen nodded and turned back to her. "He'll have a car take you home from the airport."

  7

  As Lynn hurried out with a Secret Service agent, she felt party to intrigue in a surreal world. The agent rushed her through back halls to the alleyway off Tchoupitoulas and provided an umbrella as she scooted into the black limousine. She waited in the dim light to the soft sound of Mozart and the smell of leather. Thunder rumbled its anger over Elie's murder, and the sky rained tears of mourning upon the city.

  As soon as Vice President Parker arrived, the motorcade pulled out. Escort sirens blared, adding shrieking soprano to thunderous bass. He campaign-poster smiled in the dimmed interior lights invisible to the outside world. "Thank you for riding to the airport with me, Bishop Peterson."

  "I am honored, Mr. Vice President. Galen regretted being called away."

  "It was necessary." Mozart's Symphony in G Minor rose in the background. "The President asked me to convey her greetings to you. She appreciated your kind note."

  Startled that he knew she'd written, Lynn mumbled, "I received a gracious reply."

  "I suppose you know that the President and her husband are members of your denomination?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "She recalls meeting you on a campaign stop here in New Orleans. She is aware of the significant international work you and Dr. Peterson have done, especially in Russia."

  Stunned again, Lynn said nothing.

  He smiled, this time natural and easy, warmer than the poster smile. "You are surprised. She surprises many people."

  The lights around the Superdome reflected in the drizzle as they passed by. "The home of the Saints," he noted. "I was told that one was killed today."

  Lynn remembered vividly. Too vividly.

  "A kicker, I understand."

  "The best. Elias Darwish from Sarajevo."

  "Did you know him?"

  "Yes, sir." The symphony filled the silence that followed. She felt scrutinized.

  "Your note mentioned that you and Dr. Peterson are going to the Balkans on a peace fact-finding mission. Are you afraid?"

  "Somewhat." With a grin she added, "But I have to go to protect Galen."

  No grin from him. "The current trouble there was predictable. Dysfunction perpetuates itself. But you know that—you've done work in Russia."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you wrote a book about the experience."

  "Yes, sir." Is there anything he doesn't know?

  "You and your husband both graduated from Harvard. He has a doctorate in history and you in theology."

  "Yes, sir." She didn't talk about that and certainly hadn't put it in the letter. She'd found that both "Harvard" and "doctorate" could be barriers to building relationships with others.

  "Russia is not the only country where you have met with national leaders. South Korea, China, Israel and Palestine, and Zimbabwe, for example. Is that correct?"

  She nodded, puzzled. He'd probably used plane time to study the brief on prominent people attending the banquet, but she'd only given the invocation. These details were unlikely part of any briefing; none of that was in her letter to President Benedict.

  "You've also met with religious leaders from Judaism and Islam as well as Pope Benedict, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dalai Lama. Also correct?"

  She nodded again and answered her earlier question: No. There is nothing he doesn't know about me.

  "You have participated in peace delegations in the Middle East and the earlier Balkan conflict. You've been in some forty countries and on five continents. Also correct, Bishop Peterson?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He began talking faster, evidently feeling hurried. "When you leave the country Saturday, you will have a stopover in Frankfurt and connect to Vienna for the International Conference of Bishops? I understand that you are the keynote speaker."

  Absolutely nothing he doesn't know. "Yes, sir." The phrase was beginning to sound robotic.

  "President Nausner has invited the delegates to a reception Monday afternoon."

  She didn't understand his obsession with their itinerary, but she wanted to be helpful. "Ambassador Whitcomb has invited some of us to dinner that evening."

  "And you leave the next day for Skopje."

  She nodded, beginning to feel wary about all his information. Maybe she shouldn't be so helpful.

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "Let's speak hypothetically, Bishop Peterson. Suppose a president became concerned about an emerging pattern in which the receipt of confidential information was followed by heightened chaos and conflict in those very areas. Suppose a president, therefore, began to suspect breaches of trust at high levels."

  Lynn sat absolutely still, barely disturbing the air to breathe.

  "Under those circumstances a president might feel compelled to avoid official channels in certain situations and, therefore, desire the aid of an outside volunteer."

  Lynn stared at him.

  "For a safe task, of course," he added quickly. "Say, as a letter courier, for example."

  "The President must be desperate."

  "Remember that I am speaking hypothetically. This volunteer would have to be someone with integrity who travels around the world for nonpolitical and noneconomic reasons. Someone who has no vested interest except the common good. And, above all, someone totally trustworthy."

  "Your hypothetical situation seems to have a hypot
hetical Galen in it."

  He hesitated. "Dr. Peterson does have those characteristics. What if he were asked to assist the President? Do you think he should?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Thank you, Bishop Peterson," he said as they turned in at the terminal. "However, that is not what the President has in mind."

  She felt relieved that Galen wasn't going to be involved, yet even more puzzled by this strange encounter.

  "I want to remind you that the purpose of my visit is to bring you and Dr. Peterson the President's greetings and appreciation. The hypothetical part of this conversation will, I trust, remain confidential."

  "Certainly, sir."

  His eyes held hers in the dim light. "Totally confidential. For your ears only."

  The motorcade stopped, and the Vice President's poster-smile returned. "You see, it isn't the good historian the President has in mind. It's the good bishop. Lynn Prejean Peterson." He thrust an envelope into her hand and stepped out of the car.

  8

  Lynn dashed up the veranda steps in the rain, still stunned. Making out Galen's form in the darkness, she flopped in the rocker beside him. They both liked to sit outside during storms and watch the rain dance with the city lights. "I'm surprised you beat me home, Love."

  "The message was fake."

  "Fake?"

  "Tom didn't leave it. There was no hospital emergency."

  "That's weird."

  "Maybe it was just a sick prank, Lynn."

  "But why?" As lightning streaked, she saw the why. The call kept Galen from riding to the airport. The Vice President's words echoed through the rain: It was necessary.