Brother Handle paced in front of the three standing men. As he did, the knotted rope at his waist swayed with each step. "In all my years, all my years, not just as a brother, I have never encountered anything so disgusting, so bizarre, so vile, so disgusting." He stopped, since he was repeating himself.
Brother Handle veered close to out of control, but he still weighed his words.
"It's beyond imagining." Brother Prescott's voice sounded more soothing than usual.
"Things happen for a reason. This is the will of God," Brother Mark stupidly whined.
"This has nothing to do with the will of God, you impertinent young pup. This is an effort on someone's part to destroy our order!" He stopped in front of the slight young man, almost nose to nose. "Destroy our order! First we have a statue bleeding from the eyes. Every half-wit, every fool disappointed in love, every person suffering from illness has dragged themselves up this mountain to pray before the statue. Nordy Elliott, that insufferable reporter, hung around like a blowfly. He's dead and now this!"
"The tears of Our Lady are a sign." Brother Mark's lower lip quivered.
"Oh, they're a sign, all right," Brother Handle glowered. "A sign that your mental wattage is about fifteen. Fifteen-watt Mark." He smacked his hands together. "Weeping icons and statues have been part of Catholic lore for centuries, whether they're found in Carpathia or California!"
The loud clap made Brother Mark jump back and Brother Andrew wince.
"It is possible those tears are—"
Before Brother Prescott could finish, Brother Handle said, "Manufactured? That is what you were going to say, isn't it?"
"No," Brother Prescott responded with some heat, which surprised the others. "No, I wasn't going to say that. They truly might be a sign."
"Oh, bullshit! You're as weak-minded as this idiot." Brother Handle turned, striding toward the large open fireplace in his office, the main source of heat. A small radiator rested under the window, but Brother Handle kept expenses down by utilizing the fireplace. "In Brisbane, Australia, a small statue has been weeping blood and rose-scented oil. In 1992, a six-inch statue of porcelain wept type O blood in Santiago, Chile. All hoaxes, whether proven or not." He pointed his forefinger at Brother Mark. "A true believer does not need physical manifestation of God. And that's the end of it."
Brother Andrew, in his former life, dealt with extreme emotions regularly. One can't be a physician without seeing the best and worst of people. He didn't like seeing Brother Mark browbeaten by the Prior. He didn't fear Brother Handle. "I, too, doubt the miraculous aspect of the tears, Brother Handle. I'm sure if we tore apart the statue we'd find some simple explanation."
"You can't do that!" Brother Mark cried, tears surging down his face. "She weeps out of sympathy for our sins and suffering. She weeps to bring us back to faith. People need signs."
Brother Andrew turned to him. "She'll never run out of things to weep about, the world being what it is." He turned back to Brother Handle. "This event has brought a most welcome boost to our treasury. Brother Frank has been almost jolly of late—for him." Brother Handle turned, his back to the fire, to fully face the doctor as Andrew continued. "It's not just the offerings that visitors have given us; the sales in the shops have skyrocketed. People mail in donations. If anything, we should perhaps be more organized as to how we present this economic—if not truly spiritual— miracle. Tearing apart the statue, even if we could do so without destroying it, serves no useful purpose. Let sleeping dogs lie."
A long silence followed, then the head of the order spoke, voice lower, less emotional. "I take your point. However, if it hasn't occurred to you, it certainly has occurred to me that if these tears are exposed as a fake, a ploy to bring more money into the order, heads will roll. Even though I knew nothing, should this prove a hoax I will be held accountable. The order will be discredited. The buck stops here. I have to take responsibility." He paused again, then spoke, an edge to his voice rarely heard by the others. "I've called you here hoping for an explanation of the desecration of Brother Thomas. I lost my temper. I'm sorry. If any of you removed that body, tell me now. I will forgive you if you tell me the truth." He looked searchingly from face to face. No one responded. "Then I have to conclude that either one or all three of you are lying to me, or that someone in our order has something very big to hide. Big enough to toss away a corpse, big enough to kill."
"Brother Handle," Brother Prescott was scandalized, "what would anyone have to hide? And what would Brother Thomas have to do with it if there were something to hide?"
Brother Handle stepped toward them, silhouetted by the huge fireplace, the glow of the fire enlarging him. "Haven't you asked yourselves what is it that Brother Thomas did?"
"Fixed everything. I miss him already." Brother Andrew sadly smiled.
"He was an example of what we should be." Brother Mark finally found his voice again after being harangued. "He was gentle, forbearing, ready to help. He was patient. He taught me so much. He loved our Blessed Virgin Mother with all his heart and soul."
"Hmm." Brother Handle just wanted to smack this kid. Instead, he all said was "Hmm." He looked to Brother Prescott.
"He knew this place before any of us climbed Afton Mountain. He knew the grounds, the physical plant, the people who went before us," Brother Prescott thoughtfully remarked.
"Exactly." Brother Handle's eyes burned into the three men.
"What do you mean?" Brother Andrew, middle-aged although still younger than both Brother Handle and Brother Prescott, inquired.
"I mean if something had happened before any of us came to this place, Brother Thomas would have known. Secrets. He knew every inch of plumbing, every part of the buildings that had been repaired. It's safe to say, really, he knew every joint and joist."
"But that was his job, his gift." Brother Andrew shrugged.
"Indeed it was. And if Our Lady of the Blue Ridge had been jimmy-rigged to cry bloody tears, I think it's safe to say that Brother Thomas would have figured out how it was done—if he hadn't done it himself."
"No!" Brother Mark cried anew. "He would never do anything like that."
"You're young," Brother Handle acidly replied.
"Why?" Brother Mark sobbed.
"I don't know." Brother Handle's jaw was set hard.
"Well, maybe he thought he could bring in more money, he could lift us out of our struggle." Brother Prescott folded his hands behind his back. "He would create something to provide a steady income, more or less."
"Yes, I've thought of that, too." Brother Handle half-turned toward the fire. "Yet that wasn't really his way." He laughed for a moment. "Now, Brother Frank, yes, I could see that. Not that he would, but as our treasurer he bears a great burden. Brother Thomas belonged to the 'consider the lilies of the field' school of finance."
"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow," Brother Prescott began to quote the famous lines from the Bible, which indicate that the lilies neither toil nor sweat nor fret about the Internal Revenue Service demolishing their gains.
"We know the passage." Brother Andrew allowed himself a flash of anger.
"While we are quoting, allow me to mention Psalm One Hundred Twenty." Brother Handle opened his hand, his fingers together as he pointed at the three men. "Save me, Lord, from liars and deceivers."
"I resent that." Brother Prescott stood up for himself at last. "I have served this order and I have served you for nearly twenty years. I am not a liar. I am not a deceiver. I want to get to the bottom of this as badly as you do."
Unmoved, Brother Handle again clasped his hands together in front of him. "I hope that is so, Brother Prescott, I hope that is so. But you three last touched the body of Brother Thomas. So to you I must look for answers."
"He was in the chapel." Brother Mark's voice rose. "Anyone could have come in if they were careful, pried open the lid, and taken him."