“I’m off surprises for the day. Be gentle.”
“There’s an NYPD helicopter on its way to Penikese to help the feds with a thorough crime-scene evaluation.”
“Excellent.”
“And I guess Keith Scully still has a soft spot for you. He’s letting them drop Luc off on the Vineyard.”
“That’s amazing, Mercer. Do I have you to thank for this?”
Luc had been due in from France on Friday evening for a quiet weekend with me. Now we could spend it in front of the fireplace, far away from the madman who had carved such a murderous path up the coastline.
“Nan and I were in cahoots on this.”
“Well, then. You and your spouses need to keep my reservation at Patroon tonight. You can have their perfect steak and mashed potatoes, and we’ll have oysters and lobster and a bucket of champagne on this end. I might even have a date for Mike.”
“A blind date?”
“Nope. I think he’s hooked on a sea captain,” I said. “How is Faith taking all this?”
“She’s on her way to Boston. We haven’t told her yet that she was Zukov’s intended target. I don’t think she’ll be able to cope with that until she sees that Chat’s going to be fine.”
“And Zukov? Have they given you an update on him?”
“He’ll live. He’s in surgery right now. They’re sure they can put his hand back together again. And the docs in Bellevue can start treatment while he’s incarcerated,” Mercer said. “I’m not so sure he deserves it, but I’ll keep that thought to myself.”
“Remember that when you’re in church tomorrow.”
“I don’t think there’s a disease that’s still as wrapped in ignorance as leprosy.”
“You’re right.”
“The nurse at Bellevue told me that they can’t even put a sign outside the clinic that says Hansen’s disease.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause there are still people — most people — who won’t even put their hands on the door handle if they think there are lepers inside.”
It was an appalling image, and a disease with such a stigma that had attached itself to almost every society and culture, every religious faith, since ancient times.
“Do you mind if I take a few days up here?” I asked.
“Don’t you come back till you’re good and ready. Let your man take care of you for a change. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can. Have you checked with Reverend Portland?” I asked. There were endless lists of things to be done in cases like this. “Is she all right?”
“Safe and sound in Hyannis. Probably on her way home right now.”
“That’s good news.”
“You better get yourself to the airport, Alex. That package I’m sending your way should be there within the hour.”
“Thanks, Mercer. Thanks for everything.”
Mike came down the stairs and flopped onto one of the livingroom sofas.
“Want me to make some coffee?”
“Are you kidding, Coop? I don’t want to smell any java for a month. I’m just going to stretch out right here and sleep for the next twenty-four. Will I be in your way?”
“No more than usual.”
“All copacetic with Mercer?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s on top of everything,” I said. “So I’m going to shut off the phone, if that’s okay with you. Luc’s flying up from the city. I thought I’d go down to Larsen’s Fish Market and pick up some lobster for the three of us. Put my Iron Chef to the test.”
“Luc? Coming here?” Mike asked. “I almost forgot about your romantic weekend plans. Sorry to let something like murder almost interfere.”
“How about if I put something on your cheek so it doesn’t swell? Or get a doc up here to check your leg?”
“How about you just get on with it and let me sleep? Stop yammering.”
He rolled over on his side and closed his eyes.
“Want anything special with dinner?”
“Just shut-eye. Do what you gotta do, Coop.”
I took the SUV to the airport, and was waiting at the gate when Luc came down the steps of the blue-and-white helicopter, ducking beneath the rotors and waving to me.
We kissed and embraced and kissed again. I was safe on my own island sanctuary, where my personal peace and happiness were always so richly and easily restored.
On the way to Menemsha to pick up dinner that came fresh out of local waters, I started to tell Luc the awful story. By the time we got back to the house, I was still only halfway through the week’s events.
We set the groceries down on the kitchen table and I went in to check on Mike.
The living room was empty. I ran upstairs but the guest rooms were deserted too. I came down to tell Luc, who had found Mike’s handwritten note on my bed.
“Don’t worry, Coop. Commissioner Scully called. Wants me back immediately to give the whole story to Public Info. Called a cab to take me to the ferry. Car rental to the city. You know how I hate those little planes,” I read aloud.
Beneath his signature was a PS: “Have a good time with Luc. Chow down some of that lobster for me too. You might be the best partner I’ve ever had. Ever. But don’t push your luck. I’ll probably forget I ever said that by Monday.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NEW York’s history, like most other cities, can be explored through its architecture, as well as through the stories of its residents. From the original settlement of New Amsterdam on the southern “toe” of Manhattan, up to the northern border at Spuyten Duyvil — where the Hudson and Harlem Rivers meet to separate the island from America — the narrow streets and grand avenues are generously dotted with a vast array of religious institutions. Houses of worship of every denomination, some of them centuries old, speak to the freedoms for which many immigrants sought passage to America.
I have always loved to visit these sanctuaries of the spirit, to study their differences, and just as often to discover the profound similarities among so many of the beliefs of their flocks. Many of those buildings with simple exteriors have jewel-like interior space. Some constructed more than a century ago to inspire awe still cause the soul to soar today.
As always, great friends led me to many of the more hidden treasures of my beloved city. A conversation with Alan Levine opened the door to the Jewish Theological Seminary and a private tutorial with Rabbi Marc Wolf. A delicious dinner at Rao’s with the inimitable Frank Pellegrino enlightened me about the old St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A book signing with a new acquaintance who writes a fine crime novel herself, Hilary Davidson, surprised me with information about a gift to the people of New York from the one-time king of France.
And then there is the unique moment when someone makes an introduction that is as memorable personally as it is useful professionally. A casual lunch with my good friend Susan Reed ended with her insistence that I meet the Rev. Dr. Serene Jones, a brilliant scholar and the first woman appointed to the presidency of the 174-year-old Union Theological Seminary. Let me first assure you that Serene Jones is not a character in this book. The thoughts and words and familial relationships described by my fictional Faith Grant come entirely from my imagination. But I had the pleasure and honor of spending hours with the Rev. Dr. Jones, exploring the treasures (what exquisite libraries both seminaries have!) of Union, and scratching the surface of some of the most fascinating issues in modern theology. I also commend to you her writings, including the books Trauma + Grace: Theology in a Ruptured World and Feminist Theory and Christian Theology. My admiration and respect for Serene Jones is beyond measure.