The Angel

“I was afraid you’d tell me yes.”

Søren slowly nodded.

“I love you,” she said, standing up straight. “And I’ll leave you this summer, but only because you’re making me go. But if they pick you to be bishop, I’m going to move to L.A. and convert to Scientology. Fair warning.”

Relief washed through her at the sight of Søren’s smile. But she knew they weren’t done talking about Wesley.

“Michael’s waiting for you outside. I think he would appreciate an explanation and a ride home.”

“I can do both,” she said and started for the door. She paused before leaving and turned around. “Can’t believe I have to spend the whole summer without you just because of this stupid promotion.”

Søren said nothing but Nora saw something flicker across his eyes.

“It’s just the promotion, right?” she asked. “There isn’t anything else, is there?” A sudden fear gripped Nora, a fear that Søren didn’t want her around for some other reason.

“Kingsley called. Last night, someone broke into his town house.”

Nora’s eyes widened.

“Is he okay? Was Juliette there? What happened?” Her heart raced; Nora’s mind immediately flew to the worst-case scenario—that Kingsley and his beautiful Haitian secretary were hurt.

“He and Juliette are both fine. They were … distracted last night. Someone drugged the dogs and stole a file from Kingsley’s private office.”

Nora collapsed into a chair. Whoever the thief was must have balls of steel. Kingsley’s name alone usually scared off anyone who lusted after a piece of the reams of blackmail material he had on nearly every cop, judge, politician and lawyer in the tristate area. If his name didn’t scare off thieves, then his well-trained rottweiler pack usually did.

“Just one file? That’s good at least.”

“Eleanor—it was your file.”

“Mine? Why mine? I’m not even a dominatrix anymore.” The words hurt coming out, more than she expected. While she’d been a dominatrix in Kingsley’s employ, she bitched about it constantly. Now that she’d quit, she found she sort of missed it. Just another thing to add to her “miss every day” list, a list that was growing dangerously long.

“I wish I knew, little one. Kingsley believes an old client might be attempting to dispose of any evidence concerning him.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” Back in her dominatrix days, Nora’s client roster read like a Who’s Who of the rich, famous and kinky; Fortune 500 CEOs, high-level politicians and rock stars had paid through the nose to kiss the toe of her boot. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Whoever he is won’t be able to read what’s in the file.”

Kingsley and Juliette were the perfect team. Kingsley’s files were notorious for two reasons—first, they contained the secrets of an entire city, and second, they were utterly unintelligible to anyone but Kingsley and Juliette. Only they could read the pages written in encoded Haitian Creole.

“It’s the motivation, not the crime, that concerns me,” Søren said. “Still, simply one more reason why you should spend some time away from the city while Kingsley and I sort this out.”

“I could help sort things out if you’d let me. I’m not fifteen anymore, remember?”

Søren stood up and came to her. He held out his hand and she took it. Gently he pulled her to her feet and stared down into her eyes.

“You are my heart,” he said. He’d said those very words to her that morning. But that morning they’d sounded affectionate and playful. Now he said them as if he were stating a fact of anatomy. “I will not lose you. I’m sending you away to keep you safe. Do you understand that? Say ‘Yes, sir.’”

Nora nodded and swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.

“Yes, sir.”

Søren bent his head and kissed her long and slow before pulling back. Relaxing against him she put her ear to his chest. She loved hearing the steady beat of his heart. She’d called Søren dangerous, and to those who crossed him, he certainly was. Whoever it was who stole her file … she didn’t envy him. But Søren was not evil. He had the best heart of any man she’d ever known. A strong and good heart.

“My heart,” she whispered and gazed up at Søren.

“Rest assured, little one,” Søren said as he ran his hands possessively from her neck down her back, “I may send you away, but I will give you a goodbye that will hold you all summer.”

Michael waited outside of Father S’s office hoping that was what he was supposed to be doing. He sat on the bench with his skateboard under his feet and rolled it mindlessly back and forth while recalling every word Nora and Father S had said. The priest who was going to be the next bishop was being transferred. Father S was on the short list of candidates to be the next bishop. Father S wanted him and Nora to go away for the summer. He was supposed to spend the entire summer away with Nora Sutherlin.

The entire summer … with Nora Sutherlin …

Michael had dreams like that. Just last night he’d had a dream like that.

Nora emerged from Father S’s office and smiled at him.

“Good, I’m glad you waited. Want a ride home?”

Michael shrugged and stood up. He couldn’t believe this—over a year without saying a word to each other and now she was offering to drive him home?

“Sure. Thanks.”

The parking lot sat deserted but for a shiny two-seater silver convertible.

“Like it?” Nora clicked the button on her keys to unlock the car.

“Yeah. Awesome,” Michael said, walking around the car. He bit his lip with suppressed laughter when he saw Nora’s vanity license plate: it read NC-17.

Nora stood in front of her car and studied it.

“Decided to treat myself last month. Not as nice as my Aston Martin, but a BMW Z4 Roadster is nothing to sneeze at. I’m a fan of fine German engineering.”

Michael looked her trim but curvaceous body up and down—talk about fine German engineering. He started to say that out loud, knowing she’d laugh at the compliment and the reference to her German background. But as usual he couldn’t get the words out.

“Here, you drive.” She tossed him the keys.

Michael reached out and caught the keys with his fingertips.

“You want me to drive your brand-new BMW?”

“You’re old enough to drive, right?” She opened the passenger-side door and looked over the top of the car at him. “And considering I’ve let you inside my body, it’s not that big of a stretch to let you drive my car, right?”

She dropped into the seat and closed the door.

Michael’s knees buckled at her words. Taking a deep breath, he opened the driver-side door. He slid his skateboard behind the seat and sat down slowly behind the wheel.

“Let’s talk,” Nora began as he started the ignition and started to drive. “Well, you don’t talk so you can listen while I talk.”

“Just, please don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say stuff like that again or I’ll get us into a wreck.”

Nora laughed and squeezed his knee.

“All right, Angel. I promise I won’t talk about the night I tied you down and took your virginity. If you insist.”

“Nora, please,” he begged. He loved that she still called him Angel. No one ever called him that except for Nora.

“Fine, I’ll behave. For now. Anyway, here’s the deal. Søren wants us gone for the summer so he can handle things in his own way. I think he knows that if someone started sniffing around me, I’d probably kick their ass, which, admittedly, might not help the situation.”

“Probably not.”

“And considering I sort of kind of committed statutory rape the night you and I were together, well, I think he’s trying to keep me out of this whole mess as much as possible. And you too.”

Michael put on the turn signal at a four-way stop. No cars were coming from any direction. As nervous as he was, he hoped they didn’t encounter another car the entire trip home.

“You didn’t rape me, Nora. I wanted it. I was fifteen, almost sixteen, not five.”

He couldn’t believe he was finally getting to talk to her about that night. He knew Nora and Father S were upset about this whole thing. But today might be the best day of his life.

“The courts have a funny way of not caring about the legal age of consent when underage boys and famous writers are involved. But hey, you aren’t jailbait anymore.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Michael sent up a quick prayer that he hadn’t been hallucinating when Father S had said he and Nora needed to get out of town together.

“I have a friend named Griffin Fiske. He’s got a farm in upstate New York. I think we should go wait this catastrophe out with him this summer.”

“Griffin Fiske?”

“Yeah. He’s the son of John Fiske, Chairman of the Stock Exchange. Wall Street type. Griffin’s a trust fund baby. But he’s a sweetheart. Søren can’t stand him, but Søren has terrible taste obviously,” she said, pointing at herself.

“Is he—” Michael paused and tried to force the words out. “You know, one of us?”

Nora grinned. “Let’s just say that in the Underground, his nickname is Griffin Fist.”

Michael’s stomach clenched.

“Oh, God.”

“Tell me about it.” Nora patted his knee again. She really needed to stop touching his knee. “So the plan—we’ll go hide out at Griffin’s place for the summer.”

“Hide and do what?”

Michael pulled into the driveway of the small bungalow he lived in with his mother. Thank God his mom didn’t seem to be home.

“This is where you live?” Nora asked with nothing but curiosity in her voice.

“I know it’s not great. But it’s a nice neighborhood.”

“It’s a palace compared to the house I grew up in. Do you like it here?”

Michael shrugged. “Things aren’t great with Mom,” he said. “She’ll probably be glad when I start college.”

“Where are you going?”

“Yorke. Got a full ride. Faxed in my scholarship acceptance letter this morning.”

“Yorke? Good school. My old roommate used to go there. Anyway,” she said and seemed to brush off a sudden sadness, “Søren said this summer might be our last chance to help you. Help you—what did he mean by that?”

Michael didn’t answer at first. But everything within him told him Nora could be trusted. That not only could he trust her but he should trust her.

He leaned back in the seat and shut the car off.

“Two weeks ago … I almost hooked up with someone I met on the web.”

“A dominatrix?” Nora asked.

Michael nodded and said nothing.

“Michael, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

“I know, I know. Father S gave me hell for it too. I was just …”

“What, Angel?”

“Lonely. For you.”

Nora reached out and touched his face. His heart fluttered in his chest as her gentle fingers traced the line of his lips, the curve of his jaw.

“Now you don’t have to be lonely anymore. You’ll get me the whole summer. Søren thinks you’re ready to be trained. I think so too.”

“Trained?”

“To be a submissive.” Nora let her hand drop from his face. She got out of the car and Michael followed suit.

“I thought I was …” Michael glanced around to make sure none of his neighbors were out. He’d die if anybody found out what he was. “I thought I was a submissive.”

Nora leaned back against her car and crossed her shapely legs at the ankles.

“Søren trained me for two years before he ever hit me or fucked me the first time, kid. Subs have to be as well trained as dominants if you’re going to do it right and not get hurt.”

“I want to get hurt.”

“Different kind of hurt.”

Michael hazarded a smile.

“Michael,” Nora began and all the mirth had left her voice, “being a sub is hard. Being a male sub is even harder. A woman says she wants to be tied up, everybody thinks it’s sexy. A man says that and everybody thinks—”

“He’s a fag,” Michael finished for her. “At least that’s what my dad thinks. Says I need therapy for my fetish.”

“Forget what your dad thinks. I’ll teach you how to be the best damn sub in the Underground. And to quote the wise and powerful Kingsley on the subject of fetishes,” Nora began and then slipped into an exaggerated but sexy French accent, “‘Fetishes … they’re the pet you feed or the beast that eats you. We’ll feed your beast until it’s tamed. Oui?’”

Michael laughed. Feeding that beast sounded like a great idea to him.

“Oui.”

“Good. So you’re in?”

“I’ve been dreaming about this for … ever. If you and Father S think I’m ready—”

“That doesn’t matter. Do you think you’re ready?”

Was he ready? God, for Nora Sutherlin he’d been born ready. Michael nodded. “I’m in.”

“Great. Now how do we get you out of Dodge without your mom calling the cops?”

Michael scoffed. “You don’t know my mom. She’ll be relieved if I disappeared for a few months. Or forever.”

Nora pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. Empathy shone in her green eyes.

“I’m sure she loves you, Angel. If she doesn’t come around, you’ve always got us. I got in trouble when I was fifteen—big trouble. My mom totally washed her hands of me. Our priest practically raised me after that. How do you think I turned out?”

“Amazing,” he said, and Nora curtsied.

“Your mom will come around, maybe. Hell, maybe my mom will eventually come around.”

Michael hoped it was true. He missed his mom. They lived under the same roof but they existed in two different worlds.

“I’ll just tell her I got a summer job upstate. I was gone most of last summer working as a camp counselor.”

Nora mulled it over.

“When’s graduation?” she asked. “You have to be there if you’re valedictorian, right?”

“It’s Wednesday night. I can skip though. I’m not valedictorian. I flunked AP physics.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Michael.”

“I’m not. I flunked it on purpose.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t want to give the speech.”

He expected Nora to chew him out for his willful stupidity. Instead she just laughed.

“I like your style. Look, don’t skip graduation. Even I went to mine. I’ll send a car for you Thursday morning.” She pulled a pen and notebook from her purse. “Here. This is my email address. Keep in touch, okay? Ask me anything.”

Michael took the sheet of paper with subtly trembling fingers.

She traded the sheet of paper for her keys.

“Nora?” Michael said as she opened her car door.

“What, Angel?”

Michael looked down at the paper in his hands.

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

“Father S … it’s going to be okay with him? He’s going to fix it, right?”

“He has his ways of getting anyone to bend to his will. If he doesn’t want to be bishop, he’ll find a way out of it.”

Michael nodded, wanting to believe her. He hated the thought that Nora and Father S would get in trouble just for being in love with each other.

“You really think he’s going to have to deal with the press?”

“The media is all over sex scandals in the Church these days. Probably so.”

“What’s he going to do?” Michael’s stomach formed a tight knot of worry. But Nora only smiled at him.

“He’ll probably do what I do when I talk to reporters—charm the pants off of them.”

“Anything?” Suzanne asked and stretched out her aching arms.

“Not much. Every time I click on a link to a Marcus Stearns, all I get is an essay on the expulsion of the French Huguenots.”

“Me too,” Suzanne said and closed her laptop. She looked down at her notes. In four hours of searching online she and Patrick had found out nothing about Father Stearns. Nothing useful anyway. The anonymous fax she’d received hadn’t merely been a list of names. At the bottom of the page the asterisk had been explained within four ominous words—”possible conflict of interest.” That list of names told her two vital truths—Father Marcus Stearns was on the short list to be the next bishop of the diocese, and Father Marcus Stearns had something to hide.

“Dug around on Facebook, et cetera. A few parishioners mention him,” Patrick said, flipping through his notes. “‘Father Stearns performed a wonderful wedding homily from the Book of Sirach,’” Patrick quoted. “‘I can’t believe Matthew didn’t howl when Father Stearns poured the water on his head.’ Nothing exciting. Going from all this, we’re looking at a perfect priest who’s adored by his church.”

“I don’t buy it. Nobody’s that perfect. And I’ve got an asterisk that says differently,” Suzanne said, holding up the fax again. All day she’d been picking up the fax again and staring at the asterisk by Father Stearns’s name.

“Suzanne,” Patrick said, giving her a level stare, “the phrase conflict of interest could mean anything. You know that, right? He might have donated money to some political candidate the church doesn’t like. It doesn’t automatically mean he’s a child molester.”

Suzanne shook her head. “If it were that innocuous, no one would have gone to the trouble to send me the fax. We’ve got to keep digging.”

“Fine. So what now?” Patrick asked, dragging Suzanne into his lap. She knew he hoped the answer would be Give up and get over it. But she’d only just begun to fight.

“You’re the investigative reporter. What would you do?” she asked.

“Start making phone calls. Get the gossip from the locals.”

Suzanne pulled away from Patrick and found her cell phone.

“You’re the pro,” she said, giving her phone to Patrick. “I’m just a war correspondent. Show me how it’s done.”

Patrick sighed heavily and flipped his laptop back open. Peering over his shoulder, Suzanne watched as he looked up the phone number for the chief editor of the Wakefield newspaper. Patrick dialed the number and talked his way past a few peons.

“Patrick Thompson for the Evening Sun,” he said, and Suzanne was impressed he was using his own name and newspaper. “I’m looking into an incident that happened at Sacred Heart Catholic Church a few years ago. I’m sure you know what I’m referring to.”

Suzanne covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. What a bullshitter. She and Patrick knew absolutely nothing about anything that happened at Sacred Heart in its entire history.

Patrick had been smiling when he called but the smile faded as he listened to whatever the voice on the other end was saying.

“Two years ago,” Patrick repeated and scribbled something down on the notepad next to his knee. As she read the words, the blood drained from her face and hands.

Patrick hung up and looked at Suzanne. Suzanne tore her eyes from the page and looked back at Patrick.

“Now you know why I’m going after this,” she said, and Patrick nodded. “It’s not just about Adam. Not anymore.” She gazed down at the words again.

Michael Dimir, age fourteen, attempted suicide in Sacred Heart sanctuary.

One witness—Father Marcus Stearns.

3

Nora waited until after dark and drove to Sacred Heart. She parked her car in the shade of the densely wooded copse that shielded the rectory on all sides. As she walked the short path from her car to the back door of Søren’s home, she smiled up at the trees. She remembered sneaking out to the rectory one Friday when she was sixteen, when she was still Eleanor Schreiber and Nora Sutherlin didn’t even exist yet. She’d skipped school that day for no reason in particular other than the sunshine called to her, and she’d had a hunch that if she had to sit through chemistry, she’d end up chugging the acetone in the supply closet. Strolling through the woods behind her church, she’d come upon Søren in his backyard. Never before had she seen him wearing anything other than his vestments or clericals. But that day he wore jeans and a white T-shirt. Even in his clericals she could tell he was well muscled but now she could see his sinewy arms, taut biceps and strong neck without his Roman collar for once. His hands were covered in dirt as he dug holes with impressive strength and efficiency and put three- and four-foot saplings into the ground. In his secular clothes and sunglasses, the April sunlight reflecting off his blond hair, her priest appeared a being of ungodly beauty. The deep muscles in her hips tightened just at the sight of him.

“Eleanor, you’re supposed to be in school.” He didn’t even look up at her from his work as he squatted on the ground and covered the roots of the sapling in black earth.

“It was a life-or-death situation. If I stayed in school, I would have killed myself.”

“As suicide is a mortal sin, I’ll absolve you for cutting class. But you know you are also not supposed to be at the rectory.” He didn’t sound at all angry or disappointed, only amused by her as usual.

“I’m outside the fence. I’m not at the rectory—I’m just near it. What are you doing anyway?”

“Planting trees.”

“Obviously, but why? Are the two million trees around us not enough for you?”

“Not quite. You can still see the rectory from the church.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Søren stood up and walked over to the fence. Nora remembered how her heart had hammered at that moment. She thought for certain he could hear it beating through her chest.

Face-to-face with only the fence and a fourteen-year age difference between them, Søren pulled off his sunglasses and met her eyes.

“I like my privacy.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile.

“It’ll take years before you get any.” Søren arched an eyebrow at her, and she’d blushed. “Privacy, I mean. Trees take forever to grow.”

“Not these. Empress trees and this particular species of willow are some of the fastest growing.”

“In a hurry for your privacy?”

“I can wait.”

Something in his eyes and his voice told her that they weren’t talking about the trees anymore. I can wait, he’d said and looked at her with a gaze so intimate she felt as if it was his hand on her face and not just his eyes.

She summoned her courage and returned the gaze.

“So can I.”

Nora shook off the memory and entered the rectory through the back door. In the nighttime quiet, the only sound came from the creaking hardwood. She would miss that sound this summer, miss this house and the priest who presided here. Tonight would be their last night together until the end of summer and the bustle about a replacement for Bishop Leo had died down. Then she and Søren would be able to return to their own unusual version of normal life.

But only if he wasn’t chosen to replace the bishop. Please, God, she prayed, please don’t pick him.

Passing through the kitchen, Nora saw a single candle alight on the center of the table. Next to the candle sat a small white card, and written on it in Søren’s elegant handwriting were instructions: Bathe first. Then come to me.

Holding the card by the corner, she dipped it into the candle flame and let the fire eat Søren’s words. She blew out the flame just as it touched her fingers, and she rinsed the ashes down the sink. Like almost all parish priests, Søren had a housekeeper who handled all his household needs. Nora was grateful for Mrs. Scalera—a woman formidable enough that she could force even Søren to sit down and eat something on occasion—but Nora knew all it would take would be for his housekeeper to find a stray note from him to her, a single long black hair or hairpin, or any other telltale sign that a woman had spent the night to endanger Søren’s career.

Nora started undressing even as she took the narrow stairway to the second floor. She loved the rectory. For seventeen years it had been her secret second home. A small Gothic two-story cottage, Nora knew it was a far cry from the sprawling mansion where Søren had been born and had lived until he was eleven. But that house had never been a home to him. For all its exterior beauty it had been a house of horrors. This place, however, had captured his heart just as she had all those years ago.